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iydiamartinx · 29 days ago

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GOD SAVE THE PROM QUEEN II

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources word count: 2.6k synopsis: Crowned prom queen, she waits for Jason Todd—never knowing he died that night, betrayed by the mother he hoped would love him. a/n: Still angsty but happy-ish ending!

Jason didn’t come here often.

He told himself there was no point. No use in standing over old stones and pretending it meant something. The dead didn’t care for flowers. And he was never very good at pretending.

But sometimes—on quiet, grey evenings when Gotham’s skyline blurred into a jagged scar against the clouds—he found himself here anyway. Standing still. Hands buried in his pockets. Breathing in the damp, earthy petrichor scent of graveyard.

The wind always smelled like rain here, even when the sky held back. Like the world was trying to weep for him, but couldn’t quite bring itself to shed the tears.

It was peaceful, in its own bleak way.

Silent in the way only graveyards could be.

And yet, no matter how long he stood there, staring down at polished stone and his own name carved deep into the granite, he never felt like he belonged on either side of that grave.

Jason Peter Todd.

Beloved son.

Gone too soon.

He scoffed under his breath. The sound was rough. Bitter.

Bullshit.

He was neither beloved nor gone.

What stood here now was just what was left behind of the boy he’d once been. Not alive. Not dead. Just… stuck. Practically, a ghost with blood in his veins.

And yet, here he stood again—staring at the marble that tried to summarize a life in three hollow lines. A stone that meant to mark an end, but never came close to telling the story.

But today… today was different.

There was a bouquet already there.

Fresh. Still wet with morning dew. Peonies, lavender, and black calla lilies—the exact mix he used to see you draw in the margins of your notebooks.

Jason’s breath caught as he knelt down beside them, knees pressing into the wet earth. He reached for the bouquet with a kind of reverence, fingers brushing over the stems before finding the folded note tucked between them.

Still miss you, you pain in the ass.

– Always, Y/N.

And just like that, the air left his lungs.

He didn’t need to see the signature. He knew that handwriting better than his own. The looping curve of your Y. The confident, slanted cross of your T. He’d watched you scrawl it on the back of his hand a hundred times during lectures—hearts when you were happy, flowers when you were feeling soft, and sarcastic jabs when he annoyed you.

You still came.

After everything.

After all this time.

After how he heard how he hurt you.

It hit him harder than the crowbar ever had.

From his place by the grave, half-hidden by shadows and trees, he saw you.

You were walking toward the exit now—coat cinched tight against the late-autumn wind, hair pulled back, shoulders squared the way they always were when you were trying not to feel too much. Your heels clicked lightly on the path, a steady rhythm against the hush of damp leaves and distant city hum.

You looked older. More refined. Sharper around the edges. Like time had carved you into something tougher.

But you were still you.

He could see it in the way you paused before leaving, glancing back at the headstone like it still had the power to hurt you. Like you hadn’t made peace with it—even after all these years.

And in that moment, something inside him began to shift.

You were no longer the girl with the silver crown and crushed corsage.

That girl had died the same night Jason Todd did.

Now you were the woman people called terrifying behind closed doors. The one whose heels echoed through Wayne Tower like a woman on a mission. Bruce Wayne’s right hand, the assistant no one dared to cross. Sharp-eyed. Ice-voiced. Efficient didn’t even begin to cover you. Ruthless might have been closer.

No one handed you crowns anymore. They handed you problems—and you solved them.

“Three board members in the conference room. Two more on video. Coffee’s on the table—black, extra shot, because I know how this morning will start.” You placed the folder in front of Bruce with a flick of your wrist, barely pausing. “Your notes are inside. Don’t ad-lib. Shaw’s already looking for excuses to delay the merger.”

Bruce gave you a long look over the top of his glasses. He didn’t say thank you. He never did. But then, he didn’t need to. You were his best weapon behind the scenes, and you both knew it. There was a reason why the employee called you the Ice Queen, and were more scared of you than they were of Bruce Wayne himself.

You left the room before the door even fully shut behind you.

Later that afternoon, you were back at your desk—one heel slipped loose beneath you, phone cradled between your shoulder and ear—you barely looked up from your screen.

“I’m not moving the board meeting again because Shaw’s having a midlife crisis,” you snapped, scrolling through the projected quarterly. “He’s had three decades to prepare for his hairline receding, and that is not a justifiable excuse to stall the merger—”

A sharp knock on your desk broke your concentration.

Your eye twitched.

You let out a long, irritated sigh. “The final answer is no. Now I need to go.”

You hung up without waiting for a response and finally turned your attention to the source of the interruption, expecting yet another intern who couldn’t read a calendar.

But it wasn’t an intern.

He leaned just slightly on the edge of your desk—not enough to be disrespectful, but enough to suggest he didn’t mind waiting. He wore a leather jacket that had clearly seen better days, paired with worn boots and dark hair tousled by wind and time. A streak of white cut through the strands near his temple—unmistakable, and in need of a trim.

He didn’t look like he belonged in Wayne Tower.

And he sure as hell didn’t look like he was here for a scheduled meeting.

Your eyes narrowed, every instinct flaring to attention. Something about him caught at the edge of your memory—frayed the edge of something you’d tucked away years ago.

He tilted his head, gaze moving over you in a slow, thoughtful sweep. Not lecherous. Not even flirtatious. Just… observant.

Still, your expression didn’t budge. You raised a brow, tone clipped and dry.

“Can I help you?”

He blinked, like shaking off a thought. “Maybe. Not sure yet.”

Your jaw tightened. Cryptic wasn’t a language you spoke anymore. Truth be told, you didn’t have the patience for much these days. Somewhere along the way, you’d adopted Jason’s no-bullshit approach to life—only without the charm and biting humor that had once softened his edges.

“Is there a reason you’re at this desk, or are you just in the mood to get escorted out?”

That almost made him smile. Almost.

“I was just looking around,” he said simply. “Place has changed a lot.”

You didn’t answer, still sizing him up.

He glanced around the room, then back to you. “Didn’t expect the assistant to be running the tower.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, arms crossing. “You’re not the first person to make that mistake. Most of them don’t last long.”

That earned you a small nod. Respectful. Not mocking.

Then his eyes met yours again.

And this time, he looked. Not at the expensive cut of your suit, not at the stack of color-coded schedules or the headset you’d tossed onto the keyboard. And for a second, something in his expression flickered. A flash of something soft. Grieving. Nostalgic.

But it passed.

“You got a name?” you asked, tone even but no longer impersonal.

He hesitated. Just long enough to make you notice.

“Jay,” he finally said.

You nodded once, pushing down the strange knot in your chest. You tried to ignore how that reminded you of another who’s long dead.

“Well, Jay,” you said, gesturing with your pen, “unless you’ve got a meeting or an appointment, you’re done looking around.”

“I figured.” He straightened a little, not pushing back. “Just curious. That’s all.”

He turned, stepping away with a nod.

You watched him go. And long after he was gone, that strange, electric prickle stayed curled at the base of your spine.

You didn’t know it yet.

But the boy you buried four years ago had just walked back into your life.

He left without pushing.

No clever remark. No lingering glance. Just a quiet nod and the soft, fading sound of worn boots tapping over marble tile.

But hours later—long after the last intern had clocked out, after the boardroom lights had dimmed, and the final elevator chimed shut—you were still thinking about him.

Jay.

You didn’t know what unsettled you more—his calm, unassuming presence, or the way his face lingered in your mind like a half-finished memory. Familiar, but off. Like an old photograph left too long in the sun, its edges faded, the details too blurred to fully get a good look.

You tried to forget it.

You had bigger problems to handle than cryptic strangers in weathered leather. Tower politics. Corporate vultures. Logistics. Mergers. Deadlines.

But three days later, he was there again.

In the east corridor outside Bruce’s office, half-shadowed beneath the soft white light of the hanging fixtures. Talking in low tones with Alfred—Alfred, of all people.

You’d only caught the tail end of it as you turned the corner. Alfred’s voice, warm and measured. And Jay’s… quieter than before. Almost cautious.

Your steps slowed. Not by much. Just enough to get another look at him.

Alfred glanced your way first, ever perceptive. He gave you that small, knowing nod he always did—acknowledging everything without needing to say a word.

And Jay only turned away, as if he hadn’t meant to be seen.

But before he gave you his back, your eyes met for the briefest second.

And something in his expression faltered. Hesitation. Maybe even regret.

Then he turned and slipped away.

No words exchanged. No excuses made. No cryptic remarks. But everything about this situation felt off to you, like you were missing an important detail.

You didn’t call after him.

Didn’t confront Alfred.

But the thread tugged.

Subtle. Persistent.

The kind of thread, you didn’t let go of until you unravelled it.

You didn’t mean to go looking.

You told yourself it was just cleaning. Just a lazy Sunday and a little long-overdue organization.

But your fingers hesitated when they brushed the edge of an old box at the back of your closet. One you hadn’t opened in years. Not since you moved into this apartment. Not since before you learned how to build your armor from pressed suits and five a.m. coffee.

The lid creaked.

Inside were fragments of a girl you no longer let yourself remember—

Notes passed under desks.

A half-finished journal.

A dried corsage, fragile and browned at the edges, still curled around a faded ribbon.

And tucked beneath it all… was the photo.

Worn. Creased. The corners soft with time.

Jason Todd. Sixteen. Captured in front of the Gotham Academy library, hoodie unzipped halfway, hair wild from the wind. One hand in his pocket. The other flipping off the camera with that shit-eating grin that had made you laugh even as you rolled your eyes.

Your stomach twisted.

You sat down, slowly, the box on your lap, the apartment suddenly too quiet.

Your eyes stayed on the photo. Then drifted to the memory behind it—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand brushing yours as he walked you to class, the way he’d rest his head back and smirk when he caught you staring.

And then…

That face.

That same smirk.

The man in the lobby.

The one with the jacket.

The one who called himself Jay.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

He was dead.

But your chest was tightening, your pulse loud in your ears.

Because it was.

It was him.

Older and harder but still him.

The boy they buried four years ago.

He wasn’t a memory anymore.

Jason.

Your Jason.

You didn’t knock.

You stormed into the East Wing guest suite at Wayne Manor where you figured out he was staying, bypassing Alfred and Bruce and the rest of the kids with a glare that could level buildings. No one stopped you.

Jason opened the door expecting someone else—Tim, maybe. Or Dick. One of the people he was still learning how to be around again. He hadn’t prepared for you.

You slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

“You son of a bitch,” you hissed, eyes already glassed with unshed tears. “You let me think you were dead. For four goddamn years.”

Jason didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t flinch.

“I was dead.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare use that like an excuse when you’re clearly here.”

You shoved him hard, hands balled into fists against his chest. He didn’t move to stop you.

“I buried you,” you choked out, the words scraping past the lump in your throat. “I visited your grave. I cried over you, Jason. I—” your voice cracked, “I loved you. Do you have any idea what that did to me? What it took to keep going after that?”

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice came quieter, rawer.

“I didn’t know how to come back into your life.”

You laughed—sharp and broken. “But you came back for him, didn’t you?” you snapped. “For Bruce. For the rest of the family. You came back for all of them—just not for me.”

His eyes flinched at that.

“I watched you,” he admitted. “At the grave. The first time I saw you again, you looked… different. Stronger. Harder. Like you didn’t need me anymore.” He swallowed, gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. “And I—I’m not the same. I’m not who I was. I’m broken, and you… you don’t need someone like me in your life.”

You shoved him again. Fiercer this time. “That’s not your call to make,” you hissed. “You think I cared? I didn’t care then, and I sure as hell don’t care now.”

“I know,” he said, softer. “You were always too good for me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and relentless. Years of grief and fury pouring out in streaks you couldn’t stop.

Jason stepped toward you, slow and careful, like a man afraid that one wrong move might send you running.

“I wanted to come back,” he whispered. “A thousand times. But I was angry. And lost. I thought I lost you the second that bomb went off. I didn’t know who I was when I woke up. I didn’t know what was left of my old life—if there was anything left to come back to.”

You shook your head, tears streaking silently down your cheeks. “You were mine. That’s who you were. Just like I was yours.”

The silence that followed stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. Years of grief. Of longing. Of questions that never got to be asked—let alone answered.

Then—tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he still had the right—Jason reached for your hand.

You let him.

And when he pulled you into his arms, you didn’t resist.

You just sank into him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For the crown. For the dance. For everything I never got to give you.”

“I don’t care about that stupid dance,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you might slip away. Like he needed the contact to believe this was real.

And for the first time in four long, fractured years, you let yourself breathe.

Not like someone surviving. Not like someone holding their grief together by sheer force of will.

But like someone who had finally, finally reunited with the other half of their soul.

�� Previous Chapter

Tag list: @swagangelllamawolf, @lou-diaries, @salvatt1

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd one shot #jason todd fic #dc comics #dc universe #dcu #batman #jason todd angst #jason todd killed

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tender-rosiey · 7 months ago

Note

I can’t get thisss out of my head and I wish I didn’t have adhd and could sit and write it correctly but oldest daughter y/n having to marry the brute lord Sukuna (arranged marriage type beat) and the only reason why she agrees is Becuase if she doesn’t marry him one of her sisters will have to and she just cannot bring herself to put her sisters threw that 😣😣😣

a garden among thorns — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: this is longer than most of my works, but i needed to do this idea as much justice as I can

your father’s face is pale as he kneels before the messenger, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his shoulders.

his hands tremble in his lap, and his posture slumps, as if the air has been sucked from the room. the messenger stands tall and unyielding.

“lord sukuna requires one of your daughters to marry him,” the messenger states, his tone sharp and businesslike. “to refuse is…inadvisable.”

your mother gasps, clutching the edge of her robe, and your sisters exchange wide-eyed, horrified looks. aya’s grip tightens on hina’s sleeve, and hina’s mouth trembles, unable to form words.

you remain silent.

sukuna’s name hangs in the air like a curse—the king of curses feared across the land. to be sent to him is to step willingly into the jaws of a predator.

your father stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “p-please…surely, there must be another way…”

the messenger’s gaze hardens, his words sharp and final. “lord sukuna does not make requests twice. you have until the week’s end to decide. one of your daughters will be sent to his estate.”

the messenger leaves, and the room plunges into a suffocating silence. your father collapses forward, burying his face in his hands, his body trembling with despair.

your mother’s sobs start quietly but grow louder, echoing through the room. aya clings to hina, her face pale with fear.

“I won’t let you choose,” you say, your voice cutting through the heavy silence.

all eyes turn to you in shock. your father lifts his head slowly, his expression a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. aya’s small hands clutch your arm. “no, you can’t mean—”

“I do,” you interrupt firmly, despite the turmoil gnawing at your chest. you meet each of their gazes, the weight of the choice pressing down on you.

your mother rises, hands trembling as she reaches for you, her face etched with anguish. “no, y/n. you’re the eldest, yes, but that doesn’t mean this burden should fall on you.”

you step back gently, removing her hands from your face. “do you want it to fall on aya? or hina?” you gesture toward your sisters, who stiffen at your words. “do you think they’ll survive with a man like him?”

aya shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. “you’re just as important as we are! why does it have to be you? please, don’t do this.”

you stand in front of her, brushing the tears from her face. “aya, I don’t want to go either. but if we don’t do this, sukuna will come for us.

he’ll take what he wants, and we won’t be able to stop him. you don’t deserve this life. hina doesn’t deserve it. at least I can try to protect you this way.”

aya sobs harder, her small frame shaking. “I can’t lose you,” she cries, burying her face in your shoulder.

you hold her tight, feeling the pain of this decision settle heavily on your chest. hina steps forward, her face unreadable. “be safe,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“I will,” you promise, though the words feel hollow.

your mother sobs uncontrollably into your father’s chest, and he remains silent, broken. he doesn’t stop you—he can’t. you know he wouldn’t, not in the face of sukuna’s power.

you pull away slowly, aya’s small hands slipping from your arm. “I’ll write,” you murmur, turning toward the door. “I’ll write as often as I can. you’ll be okay. just…take care of each other.”

they nod silently, but the fear in their eyes won’t fade.

your mother’s voice breaks through the quiet. “you’re so brave,” she whispers. “but I wish you didn’t have to be.”

you take a last look at your family, standing together in the doorway. their figures grow smaller as the cart takes you away, the weight of their sorrow heavy in your heart.

the world outside seems darker, colder as you leave them behind. the home you’re leaving is more than just a place; it is everything you know.

and with every step, you feel a piece of yourself slipping away.

the journey to sukuna’s estate feels endless, each passing mile colder than the last. the wind bites at your skin, and the clouds above seem to mirror the heaviness in your heart.

the long ride in the cart gives you ample time to think, but there is no solace to be found.

your family, the warmth of your home, and the lives you knew are fading into the distance, replaced by the looming unknown of sukuna’s estate.

your stomach churns with unease as you approach the gates. they are massive, imposing iron structures that seem to swallow the light, and as the carriage slows to a stop before them, the oppressive silence only amplifies the dread in your chest.

the heavy gates groan open with a reluctance that seems to mirror your own, revealing the vast grounds of sukuna’s estate.

everything about this place screams power—an estate built to intimidate, to assert dominance over all who enter.

the stone paths are harsh and cold beneath your feet as you step out of the carriage. the servants who meet you are stiff, their eyes avoiding yours as they take your belongings.

you are no more than a stranger in their world, a burden that they carry, and you feel the sting of that isolation.

as you make your way inside the grand hall, your footsteps echo in the silence. it’s all so stark, so cold. the air feels thick with tension, and as you round the corner into the heart of the estate, you are met with the full weight of his presence.

sukuna sits at the head of a long table in a massive hall, his eyes fixed on you as you enter. the sight of him is enough to take your breath away—his posture relaxed, yet every inch of him exudes power.

his dark crimson robes shift slightly as he stands, towering over you with an unsettling ease. his gaze is sharp.

“so,” he says, “you’re the one they sent.”

you stand tall, refusing to let the weight of his gaze break you. beneath the surface, your heart races, but you force yourself to keep it steady.

“I came of my own choice,” you reply, your voice firm but betraying a hint of the turmoil churning inside.

his lips curl into a smirk, an expression laced with amusement and something darker. “did you, now? brave. or foolish.”

the words sting, but you bite back the retort that rises to your lips. there’s no point in showing him weakness. “I’m not foolish,” you say, your voice colder than you intended, but it’s enough to get his attention.

he chuckles, a sound rich with disdain and amusement. “well, little wife, you’ll learn soon enough what your choice means.”

his eyes glint with a dangerous promise, and despite your resolve, something tightens in your chest.

after that meeting, his presence lingers, an almost tangible force, but he keeps his distance. it’s not until later that night, when you’re left alone in your new room, that the weight of your decision truly hits.

the walls feel too close, and the silence is suffocating.

life at sukuna’s estate is harsh, far colder than you anticipated. the mansion itself is sprawling and filled with echoing corridors, but it never feels warm.

the servants, though polite, are distant, as if afraid to make eye contact. your days are spent in isolation, wandering the gardens or sitting alone in your chambers, trying to make yourself useful without getting in the way.

you are nothing more than a visitor in this grand, empty place—a prize claimed by a man who has no use for you beyond the title you now bear.

at times, sukuna’s presence seems to vanish entirely, leaving you to grapple with the silence. but on other days, his sharp words cut through the air like blades, his moods as unpredictable as the wind.

he is a storm, sweeping through the halls when he deigns to speak, his eyes always sharp, always calculating.

one afternoon, you are working in the garden, your hands busy with the familiar task of pulling weeds, trying to occupy your mind.

the scent of earth and flowers is the only thing that feels real in this place. a soft breeze stirs the air, and for a fleeting moment, you almost feel like you’re back home.

but then, you hear his voice. it’s low and mocking, a drawl that sends a shiver down your spine.

“do you plan to sulk forever?” sukuna asks, his tone cutting through the air.

you glance up from your task, narrowing your eyes at him. he stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, his robe flowing around him like an aura of danger.

“I’m not sulking,” you reply, your voice clipped, though you know it’s a lie. you are, in fact, sulking—trying to retreat into yourself because it’s the only way to survive this.

“could’ve fooled me,” he retorts, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “you’ve been quieter than a graveyard since you got here.”

you get ticked off by his words but force yourself to stay composed. “what would you have me do? laugh at your jokes?” you don’t know why you say it, but the challenge is there, raw and unfiltered.

he chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that grates on your nerves. “I don’t tell jokes.”

you mutter under your breath, “clearly.”

to your surprise, he doesn’t take offense. instead, he raises an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly as he steps into the garden.

his presence fills the space, as if he owns it. he leans against the stone wall, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and something more.

you feel his hand hold the top of your head for a moment, and he hums, “at least you’ve got a spine. I’d hate to have a wife who folds like paper.”

you don’t know what to make of the compliment—or if it’s even meant as one. but his words, though gruff, are the first acknowledgment he’s given you that isn’t full of disdain or indifference.

“I don’t fold,” you reply, try to shake his hand off. you find yourself meeting his gaze, a silent challenge passing between the two of you.

for a long moment, sukuna doesn’t say anything. the tension hangs in the air, thick and unspoken. then, finally, his lips curl into something that might be the start of a smile, though it’s fleeting.

“good,” he says, his voice almost too soft for you to catch. “you’ll need that fire, wife.”

you don’t respond, but as the days pass, his words linger in your mind. slowly, something starts to shift. his unpredictable moods, his sharp words, his occasional moments of unexpected gentleness—they all begin to add up.

it’s not love, not yet, but something else.

you’re not sure if you want to like him, but the more time you spend in his presence, the more you begin to understand him. in return, he seems to start observing you more closely, his interest piqued.

whether you like it or not, you are now bound together in this cold, sprawling estate, and the strange, slow pull between you grows with each passing day.

the first real instance happens during dinner. the grand dining hall is silent, save for the soft clinking of silver against porcelain.

sukuna sits at the head of the table, a looming figure of power, draped in his usual white and black.

his gaze flicks to you once, but he doesn’t speak. it’s a familiar pattern by now—he speaks only when he has something to say, and even then, his words are sparse, deliberate.

but tonight, as you reach for the pitcher of wine, your hand knocks over the glass beside it. the sound of the glass tipping and shattering against the floor startles everyone in the room.

a sharp, echoing crack. the servants freeze, eyes flicking nervously from the broken shards to sukuna.

you stand frozen, the glass at your feet, heart racing. the tension in the room thickens, but no one moves. you glance up at sukuna, half-expecting the usual cold indifference or a sharp rebuke.

but tonight, his dark eyes flicker to the broken glass before meeting yours. there’s something in his gaze—a spark of amusement—before he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his posture lazy but commanding.

“careful, little wife,” he drawls, his voice low and slightly mocking, but there’s no malice in it. “I wouldn’t want to see you spill any more of my wine.”

you nod, instinctively bending down to pick up the shards, but before your fingers even touch the glass, sukuna’s voice cuts through the air.

“stop,” he commands, his tone sharp and unwavering.

you freeze mid-motion, looking up to find his gaze already fixed on you.

“clean this up,” sukuna commands, glancing at the servants, his voice a deep rumble that makes the servants rush to obey without a word.

as they quickly gather the shards, sukuna’s attention returns to you, though his eyes linger a moment longer than necessary.

“you seem eager to be useful,” he observes, his voice tinged with a hint of something almost approving. “but I’d rather not have my wife make herself filthy for something as trivial as this.”

you open your mouth but stop, unsure if you want to argue with him or remain silent.

a week later, you find yourself in the garden again, absentmindedly tending to the flowers that line the stone walls.

the peace of the garden is a brief escape from the heaviness inside the mansion, and you’ve come to cherish the quiet moments there.

this time, however, you hear footsteps approaching behind you. you don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. the weight of his presence is unmistakable.

“I see you’ve found your little sanctuary,” sukuna’s voice comes.

you don’t answer at first, focused on trimming the overgrown vines. his footsteps stop, and for a moment, there’s just the sound of the wind rustling the leaves and the faint scent of flowers in the air.

“are you going to ignore me every time I approach?” he asks, a hint of curiosity and a bit of annoyance lacing his words. “you don’t seem like the type to hide from confrontation.”

you glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze for a brief moment. his eyes are narrowed, but there’s no hostility in them. it’s a rare look for him—almost like he’s testing you, waiting for your response.

“I’m not hiding,” you reply, your voice steady, though there’s an edge to it. “I just prefer peace.”

sukuna steps closer, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you work. “peace? in my estate?” his laugh is low and dark, more of a scoff than an actual laugh. “you won’t find that here, little wife.”

you focus on the flowers in front of you, resisting the urge to let his words unsettle you. but for some reason, you can’t quite brush off the way he’s watching you.

“I didn’t expect to,” you reply, your voice quieter now, softer.

there’s a beat of silence, and then, to your surprise, sukuna crouches beside you. his presence looms close, his eyes scanning the flowers you’re tending to. “they’re not bad,” he says.

you glance up at him, meeting his gaze. for a moment, the weight of the estate, the pressure of being in his presence, fades away.

it’s just the two of you, sitting in this strange, delicate quiet.

“well, they’re not as high-maintenance as you are,” you mutter under your breath, a playful jab that you can’t quite hold back.

he chuckles—a low sound that vibrates through the space between you. it’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh like that—without mockery, without an edge. it’s almost human.

“high-maintenance, huh?” he muses, his tone teasing, but there’s a shift in the air now. “maybe you’ll find that out the hard way.”

the words are playful. you’re not sure what to make of it, but it stirs something in you, something that’s both unsettling and... intriguing.

over the next few weeks, these small moments become more frequent, threading together a fragile tapestry of connection. sukuna’s presence is still overwhelming, but it feels less suffocating now.

he no longer seems entirely distant, nor does he hover with the same oppressive force. instead, he’s there, always watching, always waiting for something unspoken to unfold.

one evening, as you sit alone in the garden again, this time reading a book your family had gifted you, you hear his footsteps before you see him. sukuna doesn’t announce his presence this time.

he simply stands there, watching you with his usual, inscrutable gaze. you feel his eyes on you, and for once, you don’t feel the need to pretend you don’t notice.

“I’m surprised you can read,” he says, his voice a low murmur. there’s no mockery in it, only a genuine comment. “thought you’d be too busy sulking.”

you glance up from your book, meeting his gaze. “I’m not sulking,” you reply, the words more matter-of-fact than before. there’s no need to explain yourself to him anymore.

he steps closer, his presence heavy as always, but this time it doesn’t make you want to shrink away. “what are you reading about?”

“it’s just a story,” you say, closing the book slowly. “something to pass the time.”

“hmm,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to the book. “must be a boring story if it’s keeping you this entertained.”

you chuckle lightly. “maybe I just need a distraction from you.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, but there’s a tension in the air, as if the words have just cracked open something between you.

the turning point comes one evening when you receive a letter from home. you’ve been sitting by the window, when you notice the familiar parchment.

aya’s neat handwriting graces the top, and as soon as you read her name, your heart stutters.

you eagerly unfold it, fingers trembling slightly as you begin to read.

her words spill across the page with such love and longing that they cut deep, each line filled with updates about their daily lives, the little things that no longer seem so insignificant to you.

she tells you about hina’s recent antics and how their mother insists on planting a garden in the courtyard, even though the soil remains stubbornly unyielding.

she writes about how your father has been more quiet than usual, always looking out toward the horizon, waiting for the day when his daughters are reunited.

but more than anything, the letter is a reminder of how deeply you are missed, how the absence of your presence has created a space no one can fill.

you can feel the tears welling in your eyes before you realize it. they sting hotly as you read on. the weight of being apart from them—your sisters, your parents—becomes almost unbearable.

you can’t suppress the sobs that rise in your chest, so you quickly wipe them away, desperate to regain some composure.

but you’re too late. the door opens with a soft creak, and you don’t need to turn to know who’s standing there. sukuna’s presence fills the room as it always does.

he pauses, his sharp eyes narrowing in on you. his gaze flicks over your tear-streaked face then down at your hands.

“what’s that?” he asks, his tone surprisingly less abrasive than usual. it’s subtle, but there’s a shift in the way he speaks.

“a letter,” you reply quietly, your voice thick, the emotion still lingering. “from my sisters.”

his eyes linger on you for a moment longer, studying you with an intensity that seems to reach beyond your tears, deeper into the vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep hidden.

he steps forward, closing the distance between you, and before you can react, he takes the parchment from your hands, his fingers brushing yours just slightly as he does so.

you watch him scan the letter, his expression unreadable, as though the words don’t mean anything to him.

but you notice the slight twitch in his brow when he reads aya’s mention of hina’s mischievous behavior and the mention of your father’s quiet gaze.

he hands the letter back after a moment, his face still impassive, but something lingers in his gaze as he meets your eyes.

“they miss you,” he says simply, though his voice is quieter than usual, less detached.

you swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. you nod, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I miss them too.”

for a long moment, neither of you speaks. the room is thick with the weight of unspoken words, the quiet intimacy of the exchange hanging in the air between you.

you wonder if he understands what it means to miss family—what it means to be torn from them, to feel so distant from the people who raised you, loved you.

you wonder if there’s a part of him that understands loneliness, even though he wears it like a badge of honor.

his expression remains unreadable, and for a moment, you think he’s about to leave, to retreat back into the distance that has characterized most of your interactions.

but then, to your surprise, he speaks again, his words low and deliberate.

“you may go visit them,” he says.

your breath catches in your throat, and you stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief. the words don't seem to register at first, not fully, and you find yourself unable to respond immediately. “what?”

his gaze remains steady, unwavering. “you heard me,” he repeats, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone. “you may visit them. if it’s that important to you.”

the shock slowly fades, replaced by confusion and a strange warmth that spreads in your chest.

you’ve always thought of him as a cold, imposing figure—a man who ruled through fear, who demanded respect through power.

but now, in this moment, you realize that he’s offering you something more than you ever expected. something human.

“I... thank you,” you finally manage to say, your voice barely a whisper.

“don’t make me regret it,” he warns, his voice returning to its usual gravelly tone. “I’m not doing this out of kindness. I simply don’t want you moping around here for the next week.”

you nod, the weight of the gesture sinking in, even as his words remain curt.

you don’t know if sukuna truly cares for you, or if this is just another act of power—his way of testing your limits or asserting control over your emotions.

but for now, you can’t help but feel a flicker of something more, a warmth that feels entirely out of place.

“thank you,” you repeat, your voice firmer now, despite the uncertainty that still lingers in your chest.

he grunts in response, turning to leave, but there’s a moment where his eyes meet yours again. and for the first time since you’ve arrived, you don’t see just the ruthless lord in those dark depths.

the journey back to your family’s home is a blur of emotion. the reunion with aya and hina is everything you imagined and more—warmth, laughter, and the comfort of familiar faces.

for the first time in months, you feel like yourself again, surrounded by the people who’ve always known you.

but even as you relish the joy of your visit, something lingers in the back of your mind. sukuna’s words, his unexpected offer to let you go, echo in your thoughts.

the days with your family fly by too quickly, and you can’t help but feel the ache of leaving them again.

aya hugs you tightly before you leave, her words of encouragement like a balm for the unease building in your chest. “you’ll be okay,” she whispers, her arms tightening around you.

when you return to the estate, everything feels oddly unchanged, yet different. the servants carry on as if your absence was nothing more than a passing breeze, and the cold, vast halls are just as you left them.

but sukuna is nowhere to be found—until you’re alone in the courtyard, unloading your things from the carriage.

the familiar sound of footsteps reaches your ears. the air shifts, heavy with his presence before you even see him. then, his shadow falls over you. you don’t need to look up to know it’s him, but you do anyway.

his gaze fixes on you, unreadable, but his lips are curled in that signature smirk. “back already?” he asks, his voice low.

you stand still, setting down the basket you were holding.

his eyes are sharp, studying you, but there’s an underlying softness you weren’t expecting. you nod, keeping your expression neutral. “I couldn’t stay away forever.”

sukuna doesn’t respond immediately, instead stepping closer. his feet crunch against the gravel.

you can’t help but notice how his gaze lingers on you, assessing, like he’s trying to understand something about you that he hadn’t before.

“do you miss them now?” he asks, his tone surprisingly casual.

you hesitate for a moment, feeling the vulnerability of the question. “of course,” you admit, your voice softer than you intended. “but I missed you, too.”

there’s a brief silence, the words hanging in the air between you. you can see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, something momentarily caught off guard by your honesty.

it’s rare that sukuna is disarmed, but somehow, your admission does just that. his lips quirk, but it’s not the mocking smile you’re used to. this one is different, almost amused in a way that doesn’t feel as patronizing.

“did you now?” he murmurs, taking another step toward you. his hand reaches up, and he places a finger under your chin, lifting your face to meet his gaze.

the touch is intimate, but there’s an unspoken weight to it, like it’s a silent acknowledgment of something neither of you are quite ready to voice. his thumb brushes lightly against your skin, the gesture soft but somehow grounding.

“I didn’t think you’d miss me,” he says quietly, his voice a low rumble, softer than usual.

you’re suddenly acutely aware of the space between you, of the way your heart seems to beat a little faster in your chest, of how his presence pulls you in like gravity.

the tension, always so thick and unyielding before, now feels different—softer, but just as real.

your breath catches. “you’re not as bad as they said you are,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

sukuna’s eyes narrow slightly, and he takes another small step forward, the tension rising again, only this time it feels like a slow burn.

his fingers curl gently under your chin, his thumb stroking your skin as he leans closer, his breath mingling with yours.

“and you,” he murmurs, voice hushed, “are much more than I gave you credit for.”

before you can respond, something shifts between you. the air crackles with an intensity that neither of you can ignore. his lips are so close now, and you don’t think.

you lean in, your mouth brushing against his, tentative at first, like testing the waters of something new, something dangerous.

but then, without warning, sukuna’s hand grips your waist, pulling you into him. the kiss deepens, slow and steady, as though he’s savoring it, taking his time.

his touch is commanding, yet there’s a tenderness to it that surprises you, a carefulness you didn’t expect from someone like him.

when you finally break apart, your breath mingling in the space between you, there’s a quiet understanding in his eyes.

he doesn’t speak immediately. instead, he holds you close, his hand still resting on your back, steady and sure.

“you’re fully mine now, wife.”

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yandere-daydreams · 7 months ago

Text

Screening: Halloween (1978).

Pairing: Yandere!Gojo x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 3.1k.

TW: No Curses!AU, Serial Killer AU, Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Character Death, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Reader is Pregnant, Blood, Age Gap (Reader is 32, Gojo is 18), and No Actual Incest, But The Vibes Are There. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

There was a man in your kitchen.

Which, to be fair, you’d already known. You’d only woken up because you heard something clattering on that side of your house, only gotten out of bed because the noise had gotten too loud to ignore. You figured your husband (as lovable as he was clumsy, unfortunately) had dropped something during a late-night water run and managed to hurt himself while cleaning it up, and knowing him, your pristine house would be in ruins if he tried to handle it himself. You didn’t particularly care about the mess. It could wait until tomorrow – tonight, all you needed him to worry about was keeping your bed warm.

Exhausted and bleary-eyed, you didn’t think to go back to bed when the noises stopped, didn’t notice how eerily silent your home had grown in the absence of your husband’s rustling. No possibility worse than a little broken glass ever crossed your mind, not until you reached the doorway, until your fickle attention caught on the dots of blood splattered across the perfectly white tiles of your floor; not very many and not very big, but still, more than you thought there’d be. Your eyes followed them left until they grew into a trail, then a puddle, and then finally, your husband – lying on his side, crumpled against the nearest cabinet. You couldn’t see where he was hurt. You couldn’t see is he was breathing.

Blankly, you slumped against the doorframe, suddenly feeling both infinitely more awake and infinitely more dazed than you had the second prior. Almost involuntarily, you called out to him, only aware of the sound of your voice after it’d left your mouth. “…Hiromi? Baby?”

“Not quite.” Your eyes shot up and through the unlit space. It seemed unthinkable that there’d be someone else in the room, that there’d be someone responsible for this, and yet, there he was, standing over what used to be your husband – dark stains painted across the material of his black hoodie, a knife still clutched in his right hand. The knife was set delicately onto the nearest countertop, his foot knocking into your husband’s shoulder with a hollow, fleshy sound he stepped over him, and then, the murderer was in front of you, eyes too bright to be completely human prying into you through the darkness. “But, you remember my name too, right?”

You didn’t, but it came to you quickly. His stark white hair should’ve been the first give-away, and yet, it took another second of staring into those horrible blue eyes to fully believe what you were looking at.

“Satoru?”

It couldn’t have been. You knew it couldn’t have been. It’d been a decade since you last saw him – or, rather, since you last saw the starry-eyed eight-year-old who’d cling to your waist and make you promise to teach him how to braid flower frowns after he was done with his daily lessons. This wasn’t your Satoru. This was a grown man, covered in your husband’s blood and holding his hands up in a show of faux-innocence as he approached you, a startlingly familiar smile already contorting his otherwise blank expression. You tried to take a step back, to retreat without turning away from him, but your heel caught on something wet and too terrible to name and you fell, landing with your back against the corridor wall. Your hands shot to your stomach instinctually, but Satoru didn’t seem to notice, dropping to one knee in front of you. “Oh no, did you hurt yourself?” And then, without ever letting his grin falter. “I’m sorry I made such a mess. I was just so happy to see you, and then someone else came to greet me, and I think I might’ve lost my temper. It used to happen a lot after you’d leave, too—”

“Please don’t hurt me,” you cut in, breathless from the very first word. That, at least, got him to stop smiling.

“Hurt you? Why would I…” He spared a glance over his shoulder, then let out a bark of a laugh. “Oh. No, no, I’d never do that to you. It’s just—He was telling me to leave, and I knew you’d be so happy to see me, and I already apologized for the mess. You used to let me off the hook all the time, if I seemed sorry enough.”

He was right, you had. You’d been young and optimistic, and his offenses had been limited to childish temper-tantrums and a few unkind comments made towards his more discipline-focused household staff. But, notably, he’d also been eight, and you’d been fired in less than a year, and he’d never killed anyone in front of you. God, this was bad. This was so, so, so bad. Hiromi was dead, and you were going to die next, and your baby was—

You couldn’t let yourself think about that. It was all you could do to stop yourself from hyperventilating, to drag yourself out of an oncoming panic attack and back to the very real, very present threat in front of you. Satoru had already hurt someone. He could hurt you, too, even if he wasn’t holding a weapon. You needed to call someone. Better yet, you needed to get away from him.

It took everything you had not to let your voice shake, to force your tongue to cooperate. You tried to remember what it’d been like to be an overconfident twenty-something taking care of a kid just a little too eager to soak in your praise, but abandoned the effort before you could make this any worse for yourself. “Does… Does your family know where you are, ‘toru?”

And, just like that, his smile was back in full force. Almost gleefully, he shook his head. “I don’t think they’ve known for a while now, ma’am.”

Fuck. That was right. You hadn’t been fired – there’d been a fire, or an accident, you couldn’t remember the details. You’d heard, months later, that Satoru had been the lone survivor, but you weren’t sure what happened to him after that.

“I’m sorry, Satoru.” It was hard to feign sympathy when the love of your life’s body was still warm, but you managed. “But, you still did something very, very wrong tonight, and I think we should call someone to help.”

“Well, we can’t do that. They’d just take you away from me again.” You bit into the inside of your cheek. So he wasn’t completely delusional, after all. “That’s what my clan wanted to do. They said you were distracting me, and that you’d have to leave. I told them I didn’t want you to, but…” He paused, laughed. “I guess that doesn’t matter, anymore.”

You opened your mouth, but Satoru didn’t give you a chance to speak. Without warning, he surged forward, cupping your face in his hands, his smile taking on a manic lull. “I waited.” He sounded so proud of himself, like he expected you to congratulate him. “I could’ve come to you right away, but I was good, I waited. I knew I had to be a little older. I knew you’d always take care of me, but I had to be able to take care of you, too.”

Something heavy and sharp turned over in the pit of your stomach. “…I really don’t need you to take care of anything, ‘toru.”

“I know.” Impossibly, his eyes seemed to grow even brighter. “I want to, though. Because it’s what you did for me.”

And then, almost breathlessly, “Because I love you.”

You were going to be sick.

You didn’t know what to say. Even if you had, you wouldn’t have been able to spit it out, not with your teeth grit and your throat filled with cotton. Pathetically, you tried to push him away, to stand up, but Satoru only cooed and took your attempts at resistance as a sign to move on, to move forward. You felt his arms snake around your waist only half a second before you felt him straighten against you – pushing himself to his feet and pulling you into a sort-of bridal carry, not unlike something your husband would’ve done when he was feeling sappily romantic, which he almost always was.

Satoru’s embrace was too unwelcome to be romantic, though, too stiff to be comfortable, and worst of all, too tight to fight against as he made his way through your now-barren home. He didn’t ask you for directions or try any doors. Rather, almost too confidently, he found his way to the master bedroom, the door still ajar from when you’d stumbled through it minutes prior. Unceremoniously, eagerly, you were dropped onto the center of your bed and before you had time to get away, Satoru was on top of you; a knee by your hip, a hand by your head, his mouth on yours. His teeth scrapped across your lips and clashed against yours, his tongue forcing its way down your throat as he let out a wavering, pitchy moan against your mouth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought that Satoru wasn’t a very good kisser, then felt repulsed at yourself. That wasn’t something you were supposed to know. Not about Satoru.

He really had been such a sweet kid. It’d been years since the last time you thought about him, but it would’ve been hard to forget how he’d pouted when you told him homework came before sweets, how his eyes lit up the first time whenever you managed to convince his caretakers that he’d earned a fieldtrip, even if you’d never taken him anywhere more exciting than the local aquarium. You’d never planned to spend the rest of your life filling-in for his perpetually absent parents, but your heart had broken just a little when one of the family’s maids let you know that she’d overheard future plans to let you go. He’d gotten too attached, she’d said. He’s been calling you ‘mom’.

…

Maybe you shouldn’t have been so surprised. It wasn’t like this was ever going to end well for either of you.

When Satoru broke away, it was only to pull his hoodie and shirt over his head with all the grace and all the care of an overeager teenager, too desperate to get back to the act at-hand to think about impressing you. He moved to kiss you, again, but you managed to catch him by the shoulders, to hold him off just long enough to find your voice. “Wait, Satoru.” He didn’t, but he dropped lower, his mouth falling to your neck, then your collarbone. You felt his hand graze over your thigh, and were suddenly aware that you’d gone to bed in an oversized shirt and nothing else. “You don’t really want to do this, you’re just confused. You should take a second to catch your breath, and—” You cut yourself off with a pained hiss as his teeth dug into the upper curve of your breast. You couldn’t bring yourself to wonder whether or not it’d leave a mark. “And— Stop.”

This time, you were forceful enough for him to glance towards your face, his eyes just barely visibly through his disheveled hair. Talking felt like choking down gravel, but you managed. “We can’t,” you said, offering your best attempt at a sympathetic frown. “I’m pregnant, ‘toru.”

It was true, as little as you wanted Satoru to be the first person you told. You weren’t far enough along to be showing, but his gaze immediately fell to your stomach. You counted the seconds as he stared at you, the gears turning in his head. Finally, he pulled away, his expression taking on a dream-like quality.

“You’re so perfect,” he sighed, suddenly dazed. “My mama’s gonna be a real mommy.”

“Mhm.” You didn’t try to smile back. If you pushed your limits any further, the strain may’ve gotten to you before Satoru did. “So, you understand why you have to leave, don’t you?”

“Can’t do that, pretty girl.” He ducked lower, his hands shifting to your waist. You tried to sit up, and he let you, too preoccupied settling into the space between your open legs. “Someone’s gotta be there to watch you extra close, now.”

And yet, watching didn’t seem to be what he had in mind.

The heat of it struck you first; damp and smothering, like steam or humidity or the feeling of water in your lungs, drowning you from the inside out. He ate you out as messily as he’d kissed you; never content to be lapping at your entrance or suckling on your clit when he could be attempting to do both. His broad tongue drew aimless patterns over your cunt, fucking into your pussy with every other stroke while the bridge of his nose ground into your clit, leaving no part of you untainted, unscathed. You tried to ignore him and, when that failed, to pretend that it was Hiromi between your legs, but you couldn’t spin straw into gold. Your husband had always been lovingly playful in bed, prone to pressing open-mouthed kisses into the inside of your thighs, to drawing out the letters of his name into your clit as his long, talented fingers split you open. Satoru’s fingers were too busy groping at your hips to be good for anything else, and he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from pussy for much of anything, let alone something as unimportant as ‘care’ or ‘tenderness’. You could feel his teeth ghost over your skin, his saliva pooling at the apex of your thighs, and worst of all, you could feel yourself growing warmer, your core growing tighter, your self-control waning as you fought against the urge to buck into his mouth.

Your hands balled at the sheets underneath you, your eyes soon clenched shut in an effort to convince yourself that this wasn’t happening, that you weren’t here, that this wouldn’t end with you cumming into the mouth of the man who’d killed your husband, of the overgrown child who you’d once considered yourself responsible for. Tears burnt at the corners of your eyes, but if Satoru noticed your distress, he was determined to play obvious to the bitter end; only whining into your cunt as you clenched around his tongue. It was the reverberation that ultimately sealed your fate; as unintentional on his part as it was unwilling on yours. That was where your commonalities ended, though. While you sobbed and thrashed through your orgasm, Satoru basked in it, curling his tongue against the convulsing walls of your cunt, drinking down every moment of your agony.

By the time he pulled away, you were too spent to be relieved – cold exhaustion flooding into the gaps that reprieve should’ve filled. Even that was stripped away from you, eventually, with only the effort it took him to straighten his back, to spread your legs around his waist, to free his leaking cock from his jeans – a visibly damp spot now staining the dark material. You tried to scramble back, to roll over, but Satoru caught you by the hip with one hand while the other pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, the ghost of contact alone hot enough to burn. “W-Wait,” you tried, before things got as bad as they possibly could. “Satoru, the baby—”

“I know,” he cut in, flashing you a reassuring smile. “I’ll be careful. I promise, nothing’s gonna hurt you or my little brother ever again.”

You wanted to scream. You might’ve, if he hadn’t chosen that moment to push into you, only stopping when his hips pressed into yours and he couldn’t possibly make this any worse.

The physical sensation might’ve been bearable, on its own. You already knew you were never going to recover mentally, but Hiromi was thicker with a more pronounced curve, even if Satoru probably beat him for length by an inch or so. If it’d just been the physicality, the dizziness heat, the nauseating stretch from your cunt to your core, but you might’ve been able to deal with it, but Satoru was so damn loud – disassociating would’ve been too difficult to warrant the effort, if not out-right impossible. He whined as he rutted into you, slotting his just chest against yours and burying his face in your neck, his tongue running mindless over the side of your throat. “I—I thought about practicing,” he muttered, forcing himself to speak between raspy groans and hitched whimpers. “I tried to, because I knew you’d be s—so good at this, but I couldn’t do it, not if it wasn’t for you, or—” You felt him twitch inside of you, and everything seemed to turn to static. When you came back to yourself, he was still ranting, still rambling senseless into your jugular vein. “—I love you. You were always so pretty, and nice, and I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He repeated that same senseless mantra until the words began to slur and crack. You didn’t want to touch him, but his pelvic bone scraped over your clit and you lashed out on instinct – your fingers soon tangled in his hair, your nails biting into his scalp. Satoru’s whimpers were immediately replaced by full-bodied moans only slightly stifled by your skin. Numbly, you were aware that similar (albeit, much more pained) noises were falling past your own lips, that your pussy was soaking in the stimulation your conscious mind rejected, but you could only bring yourself to acknowledge what that meant as your second orgasm crested, as you let what you could only distantly acknowledge as pleasure wash over you. Satoru followed in-suit a few seconds later, making no attempt to pull out as something searing and thick and awful flooded into.

You supposed you should’ve been thankful that he couldn’t get you pregnant. Maybe you’d find the energy for gratitude, later on.

Satoru never really pulled away. He only drew back, allowing for enough distance been you and him to smile, to kiss your forehead – the same way you’d kissed his, when he shared his never-ending supply of candy or scraped his knee. He lingered there, nuzzling against you, one of his hands drifting to your stomach and settling there.

“I missed you,” he muttered, with a shallow sigh. And then, for the hundredth time, “I love you.”

Had you not been able to feel every last inch of his wide, fanged grin biting into you, you might’ve actually believed it was true.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere gojo satoru #gojo satou x reader

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mirrored-muse · 2 months ago

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OMGGG I NEED MORE SHAUNA SHIPMAN FROM YOU YOU DO HER SO RIGHTTTT

can you please do one where shauna sees reader interacting with people and is always following and staring and reader is kind of scared but shauna is just like "please dont be scared 🥺"

And they smooch 😛

ᴛᴏᴜɢʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ | ꜱ.ꜱ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1176

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ꜱʜᴀᴜɴᴀ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ʜᴇʀ.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱʜᴀᴜɴᴀ ꜱʜɪᴘᴍᴀɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴀ/ɴ: ʜɪ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ!!! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ <3 ʟᴏᴡᴋᴇʏ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ᴏᴋᴀʏ. ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ, ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ.

It starts with an unwavering stare.

Not subtle at all. Though Shauna Shipman was never the subtle type. You’d feel her eyes on you in the mornings while you stirred what passed for breakfast that day, or at night when you curled up in your blanket near the edge of camp. You caught her once, standing near the trees with her arms crossed like she was on guard duty, except the only thing she seemed interested in guarding was you.

She never said anything. Just stared at you, jaw tight, eyes hard like she was trying to figure something out.

You assumed you were next on her hit list.

Because everyone knew Shauna was the meanest girl out here. Sharp-tongued, hollow-eyed, always cold and bitter. People didn’t just talk back to her. They barely looked her in the eye. But for some reason, whenever you caught her looking, she didn’t look away.

It made you uneasy. Not because you thought she’d hurt you, if she wanted to, she would’ve done it already. No, it was the intensity of it. The way her gaze felt like it was going straight through you.

You didn’t know her well. She mostly kept to herself unless she was snapping at someone, or trying to make a point about something. You’d seen her laugh exactly once, and it was more of a scoff.

Later she started showing up wherever you were.

If you were collecting water, Shauna would be there, arms crossed, leaning against a tree, just watching you work. If you were with Akilah gathering mushrooms, or berries in the forest, Shauna would “just be out for a walk.” If you were by the fire, she’d sit nearby, silent, always facing you. If you were helping someone else, Natalie, Van, Lottie- she’d be nearby, watching, her mouth a thin line.

No one dared to say anything about it. Not to her face. They weren’t that stupid.

—

It all comes to a head late one afternoon. You’re lugging a bucket of water back to camp, sweat clinging to your skin uncomfortably when Shauna steps out from behind a tree like she was waiting for you there. Like she knew you’d pass by.

You freeze, nearly dropping the bucket.

Her eyes sweep over you, then settle on your face.

“Do you ever stop working?” she mutters, tone flat.

You blink. “I- what?”

“You’re always helping someone. Lottie. Nat. The rest of them.” Her gaze narrows. “Don’t you ever think maybe they don’t deserve it?”

You shift the weight of the bucket. “We all need each other, right?”

Shauna snorts. “That’s cute.”

She takes a step closer and you tense.

Because now she’s right in front of you, closer than she’s ever let herself get, and there’s something in her expression that pins you in place. You don’t move, don’t speak, don’t even breathe.

She notices.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” she says quietly, voice low and surprisingly raw. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”

You stare at her. “You follow me around all day. I don’t even know you.”

“Yeah.” Her jaw works. “I know. That’s the problem.”

There’s a moment of silence and you’re not sure what to do. You swallow hard, looking like you’re working up the courage to ask something.

Shauna shifts, and her fingers flex at her sides like she doesn’t trust herself not to reach out.

You try to ignore the way your heart stutters in your chest.

“I don’t get you,” you say, voice quieter now. “You barely talk to anyone, but you’ve been… watching me. For weeks.”

“I know,” she says. Blunt. Unapologetic.

“Why?”

Her eyes flick down to your lips, then back up again.

And that’s when it hits you, this isn’t about suspicion, control, or even boredom. This is something else entirely.

Shauna exhales through her nose. “Because you’re the only person here who doesn’t make me want to rip my own hair out.”

You stare at her.

She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s not the most fucked-up kind of compliment you’ve ever gotten.

You want to laugh or run, maybe both.

“You’re mean to everyone,” you say.

“I know.”

“You’re mean to me, too.”

Shauna’s jaw clenches. Her voice drops, rough like gravel. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you don’t.

Because maybe you didn’t mind it. Maybe her dry little jabs, her narrowed eyes, the way she watches you like she’s memorizing your every move, maybe it made something good twist in your stomach. Maybe you liked the way she made everything else seem to fade out. Maybe you liked her.

The silence hangs, thick as the humid air around you.

Shauna steps in again, closer this time. You could touch her if you leaned forward half an inch. Her fingers brush against your wrist like she’s testing the weight of the moment.

“I’m not good at this,” she mutters.

“Talking?”

Her lips twitch, almost a smirk. “That too.”

Your chest rises, tight and fast. “What else?”

Her gaze burns.

“This.”

Then she’s kissing you.

It’s not slow, not careful, Shauna kisses like she wants to eat you, sharp, hungry, desperate. Her hands grip your jaw, her fingers digging into your cheeks, as she backs you into the nearest tree before you can think.

Your bucket hits the dirt with a dull thud.

Neither of you notice.

You gasp against her mouth, and she takes advantage of it, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees feel like they might buckle beneath your weight. She crowds into your space, palms flat against the tree on either side of your head now, caging you in like she owns you.

And god, maybe she does.

Her teeth catch your bottom lip just enough to sting, and you whimper into her mouth, clutching at the hem of her jacket like it’s the only thing holding you up.

When she finally pulls back, she’s panting. Her pupils are blown wide, her cheeks are flushed, and she looks at you like she wants to devour you whole.

You’re dazed, lips swollen, breath uneven.

Shauna’s eyes drag over your face, slow and calculating. Like she’s trying to decide what to do with you now that she has you.

You’re the first to speak, voice barely steady. “You… really don’t do subtle, do you?”

Shauna huffs, something like a laugh caught in her throat. “Didn’t think subtle was gonna work on you.”

There’s a flicker of something behind her eyes, uncertainty, maybe. But it’s gone as fast as it came.

“You okay?” she asks, but it doesn’t sound soft. It sounds like a demand. Like you better be.

“I think so,” you breathe.

Shauna’s eyes drag over your face like she’s trying to memorize your features. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not sorry.”

You blink. “I didn’t say you should be.”

She smirks. “Let’s get back to camp before the others come looking for us and ruin it.”

548 notes · View notes

theodorenmyth · 2 months ago

Note

They have to end together🥹🥺🥹 but not without Theo literally begging for Reader's forgiveness and Reader being super mean to him 🥹🥺🥹

A Sky without You

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x M!reader

Summary ; You’re no longer the sweet, shining boy everyone knew. You shut down—silent, cold, and distant. The entire Gryffindor house and even professors worry as you isolate yourself, always disappearing to the Astronomy Tower with no light left in your eyes. Meanwhile, Theodore falls apart. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, and can’t pretend anymore. After a Transfiguration exam, he snaps—confronting his so-called friends for the cruel bet and finally admitting he loved you. To his shock, they feel the guilt too. All of them apologize, deeply, knowing they’ve broken something they can never fully fix.

A/N ; this is OFFICIALLY my longest fic yet.. ENJOY THOUGH :3 (if this flops I'm going back to writing 200 word fics.) I'll upload the continuation of this fic tomorrow because I'm actually so burnt out.

Warnings ; Emotional distress, guilt, lingering heartbreak, depression, isolation, emotional breakdowns, emotional confrontation, unresolved tension, lingering trauma, grief, guilt

Word count ; 7.3k+

It’s been weeks.

And not a single day passes where your name isn’t whispered like a fading ghost through the halls of Hogwarts. Once the boy everyone turned to—bright-eyed, always smiling, the sun in a red and gold tie—you’ve become a haunting. A memory people are too afraid to speak of too loudly.

You were the kind of person who remembered birthdays, even when others forgot their own. The kind who carried extra quills because “someone might need one,” who stayed up helping classmates study, who sat with crying first-years during meals and listened to them like their little fears mattered. You offered kindness like it cost you nothing. Because to you, it didn’t.

Now you walk the same corridors, but it’s like your footsteps don’t make a sound anymore.

You show up. You sit down. You leave.

That’s it.

No greeting.

No grin.

No helping hand when someone drops a quill or trips in the hallway.

You, who once walked slower just to keep a first-year company.

You, who once stayed behind after class to help erase the board for a tired professor.

You, who once twirled around in the snow just to see how many snowflakes you could catch on your lashes.

The portraits have stopped trying to greet you. The ones that used to cheer when you passed now fall quiet as you go by, like even they feel the weight pressing against your shoulders. The ghosts don't float near you anymore—not even the friendly ones. You don’t light up when you see friends. You don’t wave from across the library. You don’t laugh at Neville’s clumsy spills or Ginny’s sarcastic jokes.

You’re a shell. A hollow echo of the boy you used to be.

The castle feels colder.

Students murmur behind their hands, not with gossip but worry. “He hasn’t eaten in days,” someone whispers. “I saw him in the common room at four in the morning—just staring at the fire.”

Your name is now spoken with a frown. With hesitation.

“He used to help me with Herbology every Tuesday...”

“He gave me chocolate frogs once because I was homesick."

“He called the stars his best friends, remember that?”

“He hasn’t even looked at the sky.”

And it’s true. You haven’t.

You don’t go to the Astronomy Tower anymore. You don’t look up when the night sky reveals itself. You draw your curtains early and press your face into the pillow until it stops hurting—until it starts again the next morning.

Every smile you wore was carefully crafted, stitched from sincerity and softness. And it shattered so completely, no one even remembers what it looked like now.

You don’t cry. That’s the part that scares them the most. You don’t scream, don’t lash out, don’t even flinch.

You just exist.

Barely.

And the whole school feels the absence of your warmth like a cold draft no one can shut out.

You showed up to class, yes. Sat in your usual seat. Gave the right answers. Nodded at professors. But there was no life behind your eyes.

No spark.

No joy.

You didn’t greet anyone in the halls.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t wave.

You didn’t exist—not in the way you used to.

Even Peeves, who used to adore pranking you because of how dramatically you’d react, had stopped. He floated quietly past you now, expression unreadable.

Because whatever happened to you,

It silenced even him.

“Have you eaten?” Draco asked, sharp but quiet, sitting on the armrest of the common room sofa.

Theodore didn’t respond.

He sat slumped into the far end of the couch like he was trying to disappear into it. His cheek rested against the back cushion, eyes fixed on the fireplace but unfocused—glassy and hollow, as if he weren’t really there. The room flickered with golden firelight, shadows dancing across his pale face, but he didn’t even blink. His jumper was rumpled and too thin for the cold, sleeves stretched and chewed from anxious fingers. The collar sagged. His hair was a mess. He looked like a memory wearing itself thin.

Draco frowned. “Seriously, Theo, you look like hell.”

No answer.

Blaise groaned, walking behind the couch to toss a blanket over him. “You can’t mope around like this forever—”

“Yes, I can,” Theodore rasped.

That made them all stop.

Pansy looked up from her book. Astoria stilled mid-sip of her tea. Mattheo straightened where he sat by the window.

It was the first thing he’d said in days.

“You—what?” Lorenzo asked, like he hadn’t heard him right.

“Yes,” Theodore repeated, barely above a whisper, “I can.”

His voice cracked on the second word. Not with emotion, not yet—but with disuse. Like it had been tucked away somewhere dark and cold and forgotten.

“I can rot here,” he continued, sinking deeper into the couch. “And I will.”

“Theo,” Blaise said, quieter now, gentler, “this isn’t—come on, you need to eat something. Or sleep. You’re barely human right now—”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ve been missing classes.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ve been skipping meals.”

“I don’t care, Blaise!” Theodore snapped suddenly, sitting upright.

The outburst startled them all.

Pansy jumped. Astoria’s cup clinked against its saucer. Mattheo looked alarmed.

“I don’t care if I’m failing, I don't care if I look like a goddamn zombie, I don’t care if I die in this fucking room,” Theodore snarled, breathing hard. “Because at least if I die here, it won’t be out there, where he can see me.”

His voice cracked for real this time.

The room was silent. No one moved. No one dared.

He dragged a hand down his face. “You don’t get it,” he whispered. “I can’t even walk past the Astronomy Tower anymore without wanting to scream. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face when I—when I said those words. That moment. That exact second he realized…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

“He trusted me,” he said instead, voice shaking, “and I broke him. And for what? Six hundred fucking galleons? A laugh?”

The guilt rolled off him in waves, suffocating and bitter. He curled forward like he couldn’t hold the weight anymore.

“I haven’t seen him smile in weeks,” he croaked. “Not once. Not a flicker. I took the brightest thing in this school and I dimmed it. I killed it.”

Pansy covered her mouth. Astoria looked close to tears. Mattheo dropped his gaze.

“You should’ve seen him,” Theodore whispered. “Before me. Before the bet. He was like—like something out of a fairytale. He helped everyone. He’d stay up until four in the morning studying just so he could help a first-year through a test the next day. He knew the names of every constellation, every planet. He’d talk about the universe like it was magic. Like it was alive. And I…”

He finally broke.

The first tear slipped down his cheek silently.

“I told him I loved him under a sky full of stars and I lied.”

No one spoke.

Not even Draco.

Not even Mattheo, who was usually the first to crack a joke when things got too heavy.

“I haven’t been able to sleep since,” Theodore whispered, tears streaming down his face now. “Not when I know he probably cries alone every night and I—I did that. With my words. My mouth. My heartless—”

His voice choked off, and he slammed a fist into the arm of the sofa.

“I wish I’d never taken that fucking bet.”

Mattheo shifted uncomfortably, guilt etched into every line of his face. “We didn’t think it would… go this far. We thought you’d laugh it off. That he’d figure it out.”

“He loved me,” Theodore said, voice flat. “He loved me more than I’ve ever been loved in my life. And I crushed him. For all of you.”

None of them had anything to say to that.

Because he was right.

And they were just starting to realize how much it cost.

Across the castle, in Gryffindor Tower, things were just as broken—if not more.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows that danced across the stone walls like memories refusing to fade. The chairs around the common room were half-occupied—students whispering quietly, watching you from the corners of their eyes but saying nothing. Not anymore.

You sat curled into your usual spot by the window, the one with the draft you used to complain about but secretly liked because it made the stars feel closer. You didn’t complain anymore. You didn’t speak. You barely moved. A blanket was draped around your shoulders, though you hadn’t pulled it there yourself. It was always there, every night—someone’s silent attempt to bring you comfort you couldn’t ask for.

“Please,” Hermione’s voice cracked. She knelt beside you, her hand hovering, not quite touching your knee. “Just one spoonful, love. Just one. You have to eat something. You haven’t even touched breakfast, and it’s nearly dinner.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t blink.

You hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of toast in days. And even those were forced down, dry and tasteless, with shaking hands and an empty stomach that didn’t growl anymore. It was as if even your body had stopped trying.

Ron sat on the floor behind Hermione, his brows drawn together, lips pressed in a tight line. “He’s not gonna answer, Hermione. He hasn’t said anything in days.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped, and then immediately softened, her gaze flickering back to you. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

No one did.

Harry stood further back, near the stairs, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He hadn’t said much since that day. He was angry—but not at you. Never at you. Just at the situation. At the pain carved into your face. At himself, maybe, for not stopping it. For not being able to fix it. For not noticing that you were falling in love with someone who had only ever meant to break you.

You didn’t look at them.

You couldn’t.

Because if you did, you’d see the way their eyes shimmered. You’d see the way they looked at you like you were something fragile, something precious and cracked, and it would all become too real again.

So you kept your gaze on the sky, even though you didn’t see it anymore. Not really.

The stars—once your solace, your home, your peace—now felt like strangers. Cold and distant and cruel. You used to sit here for hours, naming constellations, tracing galaxies with your fingertip on the glass, yapping on about black holes and nebulae and planetary alignments until someone dragged you away.

Now your fingers were still.

Your mouth silent.

Your soul, lost.

It wasn’t just the heartbreak. It wasn’t just the betrayal. It was the humiliation. The cruelty of it all. The laughter that had echoed through the Great Hall still haunted your ears. The way his voice, the same voice that once whispered “I love you” under starlit skies, had gone sharp, cold, hollow as he dumped you in front of everyone like you were some failed potion.

A joke.

A bet.

Just a name on a list.

And somehow, despite all of that, you still missed him.

You missed him.

Not the version that had laughed with Mattheo and Draco while you fell apart.

Not the version that walked away without even flinching.

But the version that had held you close under blankets in the Astronomy Tower. The one who whispered stories about the stars with you. The one who let you talk for hours and never told you to stop. The one who kissed you like he meant it.

You missed the Theodore who ran his fingers through your hair just to watch you fall asleep in his lap.

You missed the feeling of his arms around you, strong and warm and protective in ways you didn’t know you needed. You missed the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles when you were anxious. The way he’d press his lips to your temple like a promise, so soft and lingering it felt like he was memorizing you.

You missed his touch.

But you never said it out loud.

Not even to yourself.

You couldn’t.

Because that would mean admitting you still wanted him.

That you still loved him.

And after everything, how could you?

You hated yourself for it. For the way your skin still itched with phantom memories. For the way your body leaned just slightly to the left sometimes, as if expecting him to be there. For the way you still dreamed about him, still woke up with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks.

And yet, every night, without fail, you curled into that windowsill. You watched the sky. You waited for something—anything—to bring you peace.

But it never came.

Your dorm mates stopped asking if you were okay. Seamus had tried to make you laugh with one of his awful impressions of Snape, but when you didn’t even blink, he sat down and said nothing else. Dean left a chocolate frog on your bed one morning. You didn’t touch it.

Neville looked like he was going to cry every time you passed him.

Even Lavender, who usually only cared about gossip, had stopped talking about boys and started leaving little notes of encouragement near your books. You read them. You appreciated them. But they didn’t help.

Nothing did.

You moved through the castle like a ghost—quiet, present, but not alive.

The professors noticed too. McGonagall, strict as she was, gave you extra time on essays. Flitwick excused you from practicals. Even Snape, of all people, narrowed his eyes when you walked into Potions late one morning and just stared at you before silently returning to the board without his usual cruel remarks.

They all knew.

Because you weren’t you anymore.

You were the boy who used to light up when someone mentioned a meteor shower. The boy who believed in soulmates and kissed like love was the only thing keeping the world spinning. The boy who gave everything—and got nothing back.

Now you were the boy who sat in silence.

The boy who flinched when someone got too close.

The boy who hadn’t smiled in twenty-nine days.

The boy who whispered names of stars under his breath at night, not because he wanted to share them, but because he was afraid he’d forget.

Because the only time you still felt anything at all,

Was when you closed your eyes and pretended his hand was still wrapped in yours.

Professor McGonagall nearly lost her composure in the middle of the staff meeting.

“He’s failing Astronomy,” she whispered to Flitwick, her voice thin and frayed at the edges. “He adored that subject. He breathed it. He stayed after every class, even when he didn’t have to, just to help clean up the telescopes or talk about star formations no one else remembered. He used to smile so brightly when he pointed at the constellations—smile, Filius.”

Flitwick’s ears drooped slightly as he folded his hands in front of him. “I know,” he murmured. “He used to come to my classroom during breaks and ask questions about star-related charms. Said he wanted to see if stardust could be replicated magically. His curiosity was… infectious.”

Professor Sinistra, normally so composed, rubbed her arms and shook her head. “He was the only student who’d ask to stay after class just to keep looking at the sky. He told me once that the stars made him feel safe. That no matter what happened, the sky stayed the same, and that gave him hope.” Her voice broke slightly. “Now he doesn’t even look up.”

“I tried to give him an extension on the recent charting project,” she added, voice quieter. “He just left the parchment blank. When I asked if he needed help, he told me, ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’ Then he walked out.”

McGonagall’s hands trembled on the table. “That boy has never—never—spoken to a professor like that before. Not even during his worst days. He apologized once for being late when he was ill. And now he’s failing?”

There was silence for a moment—thick, heavy silence.

Then Slughorn spoke, eyes sad behind his spectacles. “I had him in third year for Potions Club,” he said quietly. “Brilliant young man. Polite, thoughtful. He used to make these beautiful little memory vials with constellations etched into them—gave one to me after a particularly long week. Said it reminded him of his mother. Always thinking of others. And now…” His voice cracked. “He didn’t even show up for the last two club meetings.”

Snape sat across the table, arms crossed, face blank. But his eyes were hard and sharp. “He’s late to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Every day. I don’t deduct points anymore,” he said coolly, but the slightest furrow in his brow betrayed more than his tone. “He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t raise his hand. He simply exists.”

“You said he gave the correct counter-curse last week,” Flitwick offered gently, as if trying to find something good.

“Yes,” Snape replied slowly, “but he didn’t look at me once. Didn’t even react when the others applauded. It was like… it meant nothing.”

McGonagall leaned forward. “He doesn’t sit with anyone anymore. Not at meals, not in the common room. I found him asleep on a bench near the astronomy tower two nights ago. It was freezing. He’d been out there for hours.”

“That poor boy,” Professor Sprout murmured, dabbing her eyes. “He always helped my Hufflepuffs with Herbology, even when they didn’t ask. Always smiling, always kind.”

“I saw him in the corridor yesterday,” Hagrid added softly, his massive hands folded tightly on the table. “He didn’t even notice me. Just walked by like a ghost. I said his name—twice. Not even a flinch.”

Dumbledore had been silent this entire time, his hands steepled beneath his chin, expression unreadable.

Finally, he spoke, voice low but heavy with weight. “I spoke with Harry last evening. He’s tried everything. So has Miss Granger. So has Mr. Weasley. They said he doesn’t respond anymore. That he simply nods and walks away.”

There was a pause.

“Do you think… we should intervene more directly?” McGonagall asked, hesitant, as though even saying it was invasive.

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted toward the high window, where stars were just beginning to appear in the dusky sky. “There is a grief that burrows itself so deep into a person that no spell, no potion, and no lecture can reach it,” he said gently. “This is not just heartbreak. This is… loss of self.”

The staff exchanged solemn glances.

“Do we know what caused it?” Slughorn asked finally.

Snape’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Theodore Nott,” he said plainly. “It was him.”

“He broke up with Y/N in the Great Hall,” McGonagall said bitterly. “In front of everyone.”

“And it was part of a bet,” Snape added coldly. “Made by him and the other Slytherins.”

The room erupted in quiet gasps and soft curses.

Hagrid’s face turned red with anger. “A bet?! That poor lad gave that boy his heart—he was over the moon for him!”

“I believe,” Dumbledore said gently, “he still is.”

That silence came again—heavier this time. More suffocating.

“I should speak with Mr. Nott,” McGonagall said finally, standing.

Dumbledore raised a hand.

“No,” he said, voice grave. “He already knows what he’s done. He’s suffering in his own way.”

“So we just wait?” Flitwick asked softly.

“We wait,” Dumbledore said, “and hope the stars he once trusted so deeply… guide him back.”

Theodore stood outside the Astronomy Tower again that night.

Just like every night since the day he broke your heart.

Same hour. Same silence. Same ache that never dulled. He didn’t go inside—not anymore. He stood just outside the archway, where the wind howled through the corridor and the shadows swallowed him whole. The tower didn’t feel like his place anymore. It never truly had.

It was yours.

Yours, with your star charts and wide eyes. Yours, with your laughter that echoed like music between stone walls. Yours, with the way you’d twirl in the moonlight, pointing at constellations like you were introducing him to friends. The tower had felt warm once, enchanted even. Now it felt hollow. Like a tomb.

And yet, he came back.

Every. Damn. Night.

Maybe it was punishment. Maybe it was hope. Maybe he was chasing ghosts.

Maybe he just wanted to be close to you, even if only in memory.

The chill wind bit at his skin as he pulled your old star chart from his pocket. It was frayed at the edges, creased from his constant unfolding, but it still smelled faintly of you—like ink, old parchment, and peppermint. He clutched it like it was sacred.

He unfolded it slowly, fingers trembling.

The little doodles you'd drawn along the corners still made his heart twist. Tiny constellations with smiley faces, a stick figure labeled “Y/N,” one beside it labeled “Theo,” both lying under a cartoon sky filled with glittery stars. Your annotations were messy in places, but charming.

Beside the comet sketch, you had written:

“We’ll see this one together next winter. Promise me you’ll be there.”

He hadn’t even remembered the comet until now. It was due to pass overhead in December.

He wasn’t sure if he’d live to see it.

Not like this.

Every night he stayed in this spot, cold and hollow, his thoughts looping back to the same image:

Your face in the Great Hall.

When he’d said it. When he’d laughed. When he told you it was all a joke.

He saw it in every nightmare now—

Your bright smile faltering.

Your eyes going glassy.

The color draining from your face.

The way you didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue.

You just… looked at him like he’d killed something inside you.

Because he had.

And the others? His so-called friends? Mattheo, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Astoria, Lorenzo… They’d laughed like it was nothing. Tossed their galleons on the table. Cheered like it was a victory.

But even they had stopped laughing now.

Because it was affecting him, too.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t joke. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t feel like himself.

He wasn’t.

He was just a shell—full of regret, sick with guilt, and haunted by the sound of your voice whispering star facts to him in the dark.

And even they were starting to see it.

Even Snape had given him a strange look in class, as if recognizing something deeper—something broken.

But Theodore didn’t care what they saw anymore.

He only cared about the one person who no longer looked at him at all.

He held the chart tighter to his chest, his breath shaky as he glanced up at the stars above the tower. They sparkled like they always had—but somehow felt dimmer. Distant. Cold.

You used to make them feel close. Like they could be touched.

Now, they were just reminders.

Of what he had.

And what he lost.

His lips parted as he whispered into the night, voice raw, shaking.

“I miss you.”

It cracked through the silence like thunder.

“I miss your voice… I miss how you talked about Mars like it was your best friend. I miss how you held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. I miss how you looked at me like I mattered. Like I was someone worth loving.”

He stared down at the parchment again, eyes burning.

“You loved me like I was the stars, Y/N. And I loved you too. I was just too much of a coward to say it.”

A beat.

The wind whistled through the corridor.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold wall, letting his head fall against the stone.

“I ruined everything.”

His voice cracked.

“You gave me the universe… and I shattered it like it meant nothing.”

He paused—waiting. Hoping. Begging for a sign.

But there was nothing.

No sound.

No footsteps.

No familiar giggle from the stairway.

Just the cold, and the empty ache that he feared might never go away.

And the knowledge that he’d broken the only thing in his life that had ever truly been beautiful.

The Astronomy Tower stood the same, and that hurt more than anything.

Because everything else had changed.

You walked slowly, your hand brushing the familiar stone wall. You could feel the ghosts of what had once been—his hand clasping yours, your laughter echoing into the sky, the way the stars looked brighter just because he was beside you.

And now?

Now it felt like a tomb.

Your chest ached with every step. You hadn’t been back since that night. Since the night everything inside you died and turned to something quiet, cold, and bitter. It had taken every ounce of your remaining will to drag yourself up here again.

But something called to you.

Maybe it was foolish hope. Maybe it was grief.

Maybe it was the part of you that still whispered his name in the dark.

When you pushed open the heavy door, the wind hit you first—chilly, but familiar—and then the stars, blinking quietly, as if waiting for you to return.

You took a deep breath, stepping onto the balcony. The stone railing was cold under your fingertips, but grounding.

It was just you and the sky again.

You closed your eyes, lifting your face to the stars.

“Cassiopeia’s crooked again,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You always hated that.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I told you the stars didn’t care about symmetry. You told me I talked too much. But you never stopped listening.”

Your voice cracked. “Why didn’t you stop listening when it mattered?”

Silence answered you.

At least for a moment.

Because then—footsteps.

Soft. Careful. Familiar.

Your heart sank, and you didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.

He always walked like that around you—like he was trying not to wake you from a dream.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“…Y/N?”

His voice hadn’t changed.

But you had.

You turned, slowly.

Your eyes met his—and for a moment, the world stopped spinning.

He looked…

“God,” you whispered without meaning to, “you look…”

You couldn’t finish.

Because he looked awful.

Theodore Nott had always been pale, sharp, elegant—but now he looked fragile. Like a single gust of wind would knock him over. His cheekbones were sharper, his eyes rimmed red. There were dark circles under them, the kind that didn’t come from lack of sleep alone. His robes hung looser on him. His hands were shaking, even though he tried to hide it.

And his eyes—those haunting, sea-glass eyes you used to love so much—looked empty.

“I didn’t think you’d come back here,” he said, voice rough.

“I didn’t mean to,” you replied softly, still shocked. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

He took a step closer, cautious.

You didn’t move away—but you didn’t get closer, either.

You couldn’t.

“Why do you look like that?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “What happened to you?”

He swallowed, eyes flicking away. “You.”

You flinched.

“Don’t say that,” you said harshly.

But it was too late.

You both knew it was true.

“You haven’t been eating,” you murmured, eyeing him. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

You stared at him for a long time. “Why?”

“Because I miss you,” he admitted, barely a whisper. “Because I hate myself. Because I keep hearing your voice in my head and it hurts more than anything else ever has.”

He took another step closer.

You let him. Barely.

The wind swirled around you both, tugging at your robes.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t be looking at you. I shouldn’t care.”

“But you do,” he said quietly.

And gods help you—you did.

“Why are you here, Theodore?” you asked, voice shaking. “Why now?”

He blinked slowly, as if every word he was about to say was a struggle.

“Because I’m sorry.”

Your hands curled into fists.

“Too late.”

“I know.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I never got to say it before,” he whispered. “Not when it mattered. Not when you were breaking. Not when I should’ve thrown the bet away and fallen to my knees in front of you.”

You stared at him, lips trembling.

“You want to say sorry now?” you asked, voice brittle. “After you made me a joke? After you humiliated me in front of the whole school? After you laughed with them like I was a fucking—toy?”

“I didn’t laugh,” he said, voice cracking. “I never laughed.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t stop them.”

“I should have,” he admitted. “I should’ve grabbed your hand and told them all to go to hell.”

“Then why didn’t you?!”

“Because I was stupid. And scared. And weak. I cared more about what they thought of me than I did about how I was hurting you.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to steady yourself.

“I told you about my parents,” you said, voice soft. “I told you about being alone. I told you how scared I was of being someone’s pity project. And you—you used that against me.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.”

The silence between you grew sharp.

You took another step forward, now inches away.

“You killed something inside me, Theodore.”

He looked ready to break.

“And you know what’s worse?” you whispered. “I still love you. Even now. Even after everything. Even when I don’t want to.”

His lips parted, eyes wide.

You laughed bitterly. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

“No,” he said, voice urgent. “It’s not. It’s not pathetic, Y/N. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. And I—I ruined you.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “You did.”

He reached for you—slowly.

But you stepped back.

“I can’t forgive you,” you said, choking on the words. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

He froze.

“I need you to understand something, Theo,” you said, voice breaking. “I would have given you everything. I did. I would’ve walked through fire for you.”

You looked up, eyes glassy.

“But you set the fire yourself.”

Then, quietly, “And you watched me burn.”

His breath hitched.

You stepped past him.

He didn’t stop you.

But this time, he turned too. He watched you walk away.

And when you looked back—just once—you saw it.

Tears. Real ones.

He collapsed against the balcony the second you disappeared down the stairs, shoulders trembling.

The stars above both of you blinked down in sorrow.

And neither of you noticed that the brightest one flickered out.

Theodore Nott was a haunted boy now.

There were nights he couldn’t sleep, so he just laid on his back in the cold green haze of the Slytherin dorms, watching the shadows from the Black Lake dance along the stone ceiling. His hands trembled. His thoughts did not.

Because every single thought was you.

Your voice. Your laugh. The way your eyes shimmered when you looked up at the sky and started yapping about Sirius or Mars or that little cluster of stars that supposedly looked like a cat you always insisted that one existed.

He would’ve laughed at you once. Thought you were ridiculous. Too bright for your own good.

But then you had kissed him.

And suddenly, stars had felt real.

────────────────

You weren’t laughing anymore.

You weren’t talking about constellations.

You weren’t… you.

Everyone noticed.

Gryffindor tower had turned somber. The usual energy was gone. No more jokes. No more harmless explosions from Fred and George. No more friendly morning bickering with Ron, or walking with Hermione to breakfast, or teasing Harry for being the “chosen one” with a crooked grin that made people smile just watching it.

Now?

Now you barely left your bed.

You stopped eating unless someone forced you to.

You didn’t go to Astronomy class anymore—your favorite class. Professor Sinistra even visited McGonagall personally to let her feelings out of her chest.

And she wasn’t the only one worried.

Even Snape asked.

He called on you once during Potions, something he rarely did, and when you didn’t respond—just stared blankly at the board with bloodshot eyes—he paused for a moment.

His voice wasn’t sharp. Not like usual.

“Mr. Y/L/N,” he said, quieter. “You’re excused for today. Leave your things. Go back to your common room.”

You didn’t argue. You just left.

The whole class went silent.

Because everyone had heard the rumors by now.

The whole school knew what Theodore had done. The bet. The humiliation. The way your face had cracked in front of every house like a mirror shattering in slow motion. You hadn’t said a single word to Theodore since that day.

But he hadn’t stopped looking for you.

────────────────

“Where is he? I haven't seen him all fucking day.” Theodore snapped, slamming his hands on the table in the Slytherin common room.

The others flinched.

Blaise glanced up from his book. “Still being dramatic in Gryffindor tower, I imagine.”

“Don’t,” Theodore warned. His tone was darker than they’d heard in weeks. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that.”

Mattheo exchanged a glance with Draco. “Mate,” he said slowly, “we didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” Theodore snarled. “You didn’t think. None of us did.”

The common room went quiet again.

Theodore raked a hand through his hair, pacing.

“I—I thought he’d bounce back,” Lorenzo offered weakly. “He’s Gryffindor’s golden boy. Always so… cheerful.”

“He’s not,” Theodore said, voice hollow. “Not anymore.”

Astoria finally spoke, soft but sharp. “We did this.”

No one argued.

Because it was true.

And the worst part? It wasn’t just you that had changed.

Theodore was unraveling right alongside you.

He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. He skipped more classes than he attended. He carried your astronomy notebook around like a damn talisman, flipping through it every night like it would summon you back.

There were notes in the margins about him. Tiny doodles. Scribbled hearts. One page even had his name next to a constellation you made up—Theodon, the “prickly lion star.”

He had laughed when he saw that. Now it made his eyes burn.

He missed you so much it hurt to breathe.

────────────────

Back in Gryffindor tower, you sat curled in a blanket on the windowsill, journal unopened in your lap.

Harry watched you from across the room, arms folded.

“Talk to me,” he tried again. “Just a word. Anything.”

You blinked slowly, like you were underwater.

“Y/N,” Hermione whispered from behind you. “You’re scaring us.”

And you were.

Your hands didn’t tremble anymore.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t throw things.

You just… stared.

And that silence was worse.

Because you had never been silent.

You had always been the one to talk through your feelings, ramble about them. Even when things were hard, you lit up the room with useless facts about constellations or reminded people to breathe, smile, take care of themselves. You were light.

Now you were fading.

Hermione knelt beside your seat, placing a wrapped chocolate frog on your lap. “I saved this for you.”

You didn’t take it.

Ron shifted uncomfortably near the fireplace, staring at the floor. “He doesn’t deserve you, you know,” he mumbled. “Not after what he did.”

You flinched.

“He doesn’t,” Harry agreed.

“I know,” you finally whispered.

The three of them froze.

It was the first time you had spoken in two days.

You set the chocolate frog aside gently.

“Then why does it still hurt?” you asked, voice hollow. “Why does it feel like the stars stopped shining?”

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears.

Harry reached for your hand and squeezed. “Because you loved him.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing thickly. “Yeah,” you rasped. “I really did.”

────────────────

That night, you returned to the Astronomy Tower for the first time in weeks.

You didn’t tell anyone. You just climbed the steps quietly, hands shaking, heart aching. The door creaked open. The wind whispered like a ghost, cold and biting.

You stepped out into the night.

The stars greeted you like old friends.

You stood there for a long moment, just breathing, letting the wind whip through your robes. You remembered where you’d sat with him. Where he kissed you. Where he looked at you like you were the only thing he could see.

You knelt down and opened your journal.

Your quill trembled.

But you wrote.

You drew every star you could see. Every one you remembered. Every one he made you forget.

And for the first time in weeks…

You cried.

Not from heartbreak, but from relief.

You were still here.

The stars hadn’t gone anywhere.

And maybe—just maybe—you could find your way back to them.

────────────────

Far below, Theodore sat in the courtyard, your notebook pressed to his chest like a shield.

He stared up at the tower window, wondering if you were there. Wondering if the stars had taken you back.

Wondering if he’d ever be enough to stand beside you again.

And for the first time in his life, Theodore Nott felt like the loneliest boy in the universe.

The halls had grown quieter when you passed.

Not out of awkwardness. Out of worry.

Professors had stopped asking you questions directly. Neville tried to sit next to you in Herbology, but you barely acknowledged him. Even Lavender and Parvati, who once couldn’t stop teasing you about “your moody Slytherin boyfriend,” had learned to keep their distance. You were polite. Distant. Untouchable.

But slowly, you were reclaiming little pieces of yourself.

You returned to Astronomy class regularly, always sitting near the back. You still never spoke, but you were there. Present. Listening.

And you were writing again.

A few Gryffindors had noticed. Hermione peeked at your parchment once and saw it—pages and pages of stars, sky maps, invented constellations. She cried about it later in the common room, but didn’t let you see.

Even Professor Sinistra took notice.

She left you small things after class. A note. A paper star folded from map pages. A diagram of lunar phases that included your birthday marked with a tiny, golden moon. Her way of saying, I see you. You’re still here.

────────────────

Theodore had grown pale.

He still walked the halls with that same cool expression, that perfect posture, that quiet air—but he was hollow now. Glass-eyed. Slower. The shadows under his eyes had turned permanent.

He avoided his friends, the Slytherin common room, the Quidditch pitch.

He was grieving, even if he couldn’t admit it at first.

But guilt was a loud, living thing.

And it clawed at him every day.

────────────────

It all happened after a Transfiguration exam.

Theodore was the last to leave the classroom, trailing behind with his hands buried in his pockets and his head low. He hadn’t slept. Again. He was lingering behind while others rushed out into the corridor, buzzing about how hard the written section was or how McGonagall’s stern gaze could petrify you harder than any spell.

His footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, the usual hum of students long since faded. But then he heard them. Laughter. Familiar voices that made his stomach twist with guilt.

Mattheo. Draco. Blaise. Pansy. Astoria. Lorenzo.

They were leaning casually against the wall near the staircase, like nothing had changed, like they hadn’t shattered something unfixable. The laughter stopped when they noticed him. Mattheo's grin faltered and pushed off the wall.

“Theodore,” he called, catching his sleeve. “Oi—what’s got you in a mood? We haven’t seen you in weeks. Did the Gryffindor go all dramatic on you again?”

Theodore yanked his arm away, eyes flashing with something colder than anger.

And for once, he didn’t walk away.

He turned on his heel, slow and deliberate.

His voice was razor-sharp when it came. “What the fuck do you want?”

They stared at him.

Draco raised a brow, amused. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Theodore snapped. “Or has all that hair gel finally seeped into your ears?”

Mattheo laughed again, but it sounded forced this time. “Holy shit, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Theodore took a step forward, his voice a bitter cocktail of fury and heartbreak. “You’re all what’s wrong with me. You, this stupid bet, and every single time I let you make fun of him.”

Pansy blinked. “It was just a joke—”

“No, it wasn’t.” His voice cracked. “It was him. It was someone who trusted me. Someone who smiled like sunlight and helped every person he met—including you. And I let you turn him into a fucking punchline.”

The silence was crushing.

He was shaking now—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, hands curled into trembling fists.

“I loved him,” Theodore whispered, barely holding himself together. “And I destroyed him because I was too much of a coward to say no. You think I’m upset because the bet ended? No. I’m upset because I wake up every night wishing I’d never taken it. Because now he won’t even look at me. And he shouldn’t.”

His voice dropped even lower. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

None of them spoke.

And for the first time since the bet started, Theodore saw it—guilt. Real guilt. The kind that sinks into bone and never lets go.

“I can’t sleep,” Theodore said hoarsely. “I can’t breathe in our dorm because I hear him laugh. I walk through this school, and I can’t go ten fucking feet without remembering him. And you think this is funny?”

Mattheo’s smirk wavered. His usual bravado slipped away, bit by bit, as Theodore’s words hung in the air like poison.

No one had ever seen him like this. Broken. Raw. Honest.

Draco shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his shoes. Blaise’s arms were crossed over his chest, but his expression had gone pale. Pansy’s lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Finally, Astoria stepped forward.

“Theodore…” Her voice was soft. Guilty. “We didn’t think it would end like this.”

He scoffed bitterly. “What? That I’d actually care? That I’d fall in love with him?”

“We thought it was a crush,” Blaise muttered. “A laugh. A way to get under the Gryffindors’ skin.”

“You used him.”

Silence again.

Pansy cleared her throat, voice shaking now. “He used to help me in Potions. Every week, even when he had his own homework. He brought me Pepper-Up Potion when I was sick last winter.”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. “And you still watched me break him.”

“We didn’t know,” Mattheo said, quieter than he’d ever spoken before. “We didn’t know you were serious.”

“I wasn’t at first!” Theodore shouted. “That’s the worst part. I wasn’t. I was just like you. Laughing. Lying. Pretending it meant nothing. But then… then he started showing me stars. Telling me about the universe like it was a love letter. And I—” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I started seeing myself in the sky.”

No one spoke.

Until Pansy stepped forward, tears prickling at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “We’re all sorry. We didn’t just hurt him. We hurt you. We made you into someone you're not.”

Lorenzo nodded, voice hoarse. “We were cruel. And we deserve whatever comes from it.”

Draco’s lips pressed together tightly. He gave a single, solemn nod. “We were wrong, Theodore.”

Theodore stared at them, throat tight, chest aching.

“You don’t deserve forgiveness,” he said coldly. “But you can start by never mocking his name again. Ever. And if you really want to make it right… start by remembering the kind of person he is. Not the one we turned him into.”

Mattheo ran a hand down his face and let out a shaky breath. “You’re right.”

“We’re sorry,” Astoria repeated, voice almost too soft to hear.

Theodore didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because the damage was already done.

But at least now, they knew it.

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owastie · 15 days ago

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peanut butter knife robert/bob reynolds x fem!reader (fluff) synopsis: bob finds himself sleepwalking around the tower, and you're usually the only one awake m.list \ wc: 1k

a butter knife rests between your lips, your hands pull at a peanut butter jar's lid, the ridges digging into your fingertips. the soft hum of the watchtower's system is the only noise filling the room, occasionally overshadowed by the sound of alexei's snores in the floor above. it feels rhythmic, peaceful, as it does every early morning. the familiar sounds aiding in your routine, making it a less lonely time.

most of the team members tend to stay awake until mid-three, punching bags thumping to the ground, chats echoing through the vents. while bucky and john tend to set their alarms for the first fifteen minutes of five in the morning, both keeping to themselves, but moving around enough to generate noise. it creates a harmonic system for the team.

however, those sixty minutes sandwiched between tend to be when the building creaks the most, when the wind whistles loudly past the windows. and it becomes just dark enough that you can't see outside, only the room's reflection bouncing off the window. yet you will always bring out a jar of peanut butter to fill the silence, turn on a show that yelena has been begging you to watch.

smearing peanut butter onto one side, you hold the knife within your pinkie and ring finger, using your thumb and first two fingers to turn the lid closed. setting down the jar, it rattles against the countertop. bringing the knife up to your lips, you lick the peanut butter off. for a moment, the watchtower feels like any other time of the day, filled with life.

until something falls over near the elevator. you hadn't heard the elevator, but you certainly heard a piece of decor clattering on the floor. your eyebrows furrow, jaw clenching. absentmindedly, the knife shifts in your hand so it's in a better position, feet moving quietly through the kitchen as you grab a sharper knife to exchange it with.

the watchtower’s air is cold, sharp against your skin. your breathe slows down until it’s silent, heart beating quickly. standing against a kitchen counter, your body crouches down, pressed against the wooden cabinets. another thing falls to the ground, only about ten feet out from you. it sounded hollow, like a refillable plastic water bottle, something the team had plenty of lying around.

footsteps begin to grow close enough that you can hear them, soft and slow. biting the inside of your cheek, you stand up quickly. without seeing who it is, you grab their outreached wrist, bringing the knife up to their neck. as your adrenaline only rises, you look up towards your intruder. only to be met with the open and wide eyed view of bob.

his chest is rising rapidly, blinking slowly as he realizes it’s you, heart beating still racing as the knife rests by his neck. “bob, holy shit!” you let go of his wrist, moving back from him, setting down the sharpened knife on the kitchen counter.

he finally lets out a deep breath as the knife touches the countertops. “god, what are you doing?” your eyes catch his, closing your eyes for a moment to realign yourself.

“i- i’m not sure. i fell asleep in my room, uh and woke up to a knife to my throat,” bob’s nostrils flare, lips parting.

“i’m sorry, no one is every awake at this time, and you were knocking things over. if i had known it was you, i wouldn’t have done that.”

he gives a short nod, still feeling cloudy from the early morning wake up, “i would hope not.”

nodding back at him, you begin to realize that neither of you had ever really been alone together. he was always awake when others were, never quite having a moment alone with you. and it’s entirely more awkward than you would’ve hoped it would be. “but, what are you doing up?” bob questions, hands picking at his shirt’s hem.

“i don’t sleep, it’s part of my… schtick,” you walk back into the kitchen, grabbing the peanut butter and jelly sandwich you had started to make, “that’s why i was grabbing your wrist, to send you to sleep. but i guess since you were already asleep it had quite the opposite effect.”

bob looks away, lips turning into a questionable frown. “oh, right. so it’s normally this quiet at this time? it’s peaceful,” he tries to make conversation, unsure what to say to someone who just held him at knife point.

grabbing a plate from one of the counters, you set the sandwich on top of it, looking back at him. “yeah, or stress inducing. it’s too quiet sometimes, but you’re free to hang around if you’re awake at this time. i’ve just created a simple routine that saves me from fighting anyone for the tv,” you shrug your shoulders, opening another cabinet to grab out a glass, reaching over for the fridge.

“thanks, but next time you won’t grab a knife or anything right?” his eyebrows raise, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“just make sure i know it’s you and we won’t have any issues,” you nod, picking up the plate, feeling your own smile rise to the surface, “i can split this if you’re feeling up for a snack. i’d assume your adrenaline has risen enough to wake you up for a while now.”

bob opens his mouth for a second, just barely parting his lips as he tries to decide what he wants to do. he notices the eager look in your eyes that rises to the surface for a second, remembering you mentioning how stifling four in the morning can be for you. “sure, i’m up for the show, not quite sure on the snack yet.”

“well if you don’t give me an answer soon the offer will expire,” you shrug, a little bit happy that someone else is finally awake for those minor sixty minutes. someone to drown out the silence with.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts*#⺌ fics

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amyzworldds · 2 months ago

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hello!! Can i request for a 14th member svt au (each member reactions if possible!) where the 14th member (u) got so much hate point she left the group and became a solo artist, she won her award and did a speech and then she saw each svt’s members reactions!

Title: Thirteen Cheers for Fourteen

Masterlist | Part 2

In a whirlwind of hate and heartbreak, Y/N, the lone female maknae of Seventeen, faces relentless backlash from fans, pushing her to leave the group and vanish abroad. After a year of silence, she returns to Korea, forging a solo path with a powerful comeback, while the thirteen boys grapple with her absence. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Heavy angst

The apartment was suffocatingly silent, save for the faint drip of a leaking faucet in the kitchen. Y/N sat on the cold hardwood floor, her back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were swollen, the skin around them raw from weeks—maybe months—of crying. She couldn’t tell anymore. Time had blurred into an endless haze of pain. A half-empty water bottle sat beside her, untouched for hours. She hadn’t eaten today. Or yesterday. She didn’t care.

The hate had been there since the beginning. Nine years ago, when Seventeen debuted with her as the only girl, the Korean fans had erupted. “She’s a disgrace.” “A spoiled princess who bought her way in.” “Seventeen doesn’t need her.” She’d been fourteen then, a wide-eyed maknae with dreams bigger than the world. She’d fought tooth and nail to prove herself—begged her father, PLEDIS’s founder, to judge her fairly, trained until her body gave out, poured her soul into every performance. But none of it mattered. To them, she was nothing but a stain.

Now, at twenty-three, the hate had metastasized. Flower wreaths piled up outside HYBE, their ribbons screaming, “Leave Seventeen, Y/N. You’re a curse.” Online, the threats were worse—boycotts, petitions, vile words she couldn’t unsee. They called her names that cut deeper than knives, accused her of things that made her stomach churn. The company had forced her into a hiatus, a “break” to “think things over.” But all it did was leave her alone with her thoughts—and they were merciless.

The boys had tried. God, they’d tried. Seungcheol had held her when she’d broken down after a concert, whispering, “You’re enough, Y/N. You’ve always been enough.” Vernon had sat with her in silence, his presence a quiet anchor. Dino, her fellow maknae, had sobbed into her shoulder, begging, “Don’t let them win, Y/N. Please.” But she’d pushed them away. “I’m fine,” she’d lied, her voice hollow. “I just need space.” They’d stopped coming after she’d screamed at Minghao to leave her alone, her words a jagged sob: “Stop pretending I’m worth saving!”

She wasn’t. Not anymore.

Her phone buzzed on the floor, its screen lighting up with a new message. She didn’t look. It was probably Joshua again, or maybe Wonwoo—soft words she didn’t deserve. She’d shut them all out, locked the door, turned off the lights. Her family had called too, her mother’s voice trembling through the line: “Come home, Y/N. Let us help you.” But she’d hung up, muttering, “I’m okay,” before curling into herself and crying until her throat burned.

She wasn’t okay. She was drowning.

The silence pressed in, heavy and unbearable. Her eyes drifted to a framed photo on the shelf—Seventeen’s first win, all fourteen of them beaming, her tiny figure squeezed between Jun and Hoshi. She’d been so happy then, so naive. Now, that memory felt like a lie. A sob clawed its way up her chest, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle it. But it broke free, loud and ragged, echoing in the empty room.

“Why me?” she whispered to no one, her voice cracking. “I gave everything… everything… and it’s still not enough.”

Her gaze fell to her phone again. Against her better judgment, she reached for it, hands trembling. The lock screen showed a flood of unread messages—“Y/N, please talk to us.” “We miss you.” “You’re our maknae, don’t forget that.” She swiped them away, her breath hitching. She didn’t want their kindness. She didn’t deserve it.

Instead, she opened Twitter. Her name was trending again, a festering wound laid bare for the world to see. She scrolled, each comment a fresh stab to her heart.

“Y/N’s the reason Seventeen’s losing fans. She’s a talentless leech.”

“Imagine training for years just to be a slut who rides her daddy’s coattails. Leave already.”

“Those wreaths aren’t enough. She should just disappear for good.”

“Seventeen was perfect without her. She’s a parasite ruining thirteen good men.”

“No one wants you, Y/N. Do us all a favor and quit.”

Her vision blurred as tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting. She clutched the phone tighter, her knuckles white, her sobs growing louder. “I tried,” she choked out, her voice barely audible. “I tried so hard… why do you hate me?”

Another comment loaded: “She’s probably crying right now, playing the victim. Pathetic.”

The phone slipped from her hands, clattering to the floor. She buried her face in her knees, her body shaking with the force of her cries. “I’m not pathetic,” she whimpered, but the words felt empty. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was nothing—a burden, a mistake, a girl who’d dared to dream and paid the price.

She didn’t hear the rain anymore, didn’t feel the cold seeping into her bones. All she felt was the weight of their words, crushing her until there was nothing left. She’d fought for years, but now… now she was tired. So tired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the darkness, to the boys, to herself, to the dream she’d once held so tight. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The phone screen glowed beside her, still open to the endless stream of hate, each word a nail in the coffin of the girl she used to be.

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

The fluorescent lights of the PLEDIS office buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on Y/N’s pale face. She sat across from her father, the man who’d built this empire, her hands trembling as she clutched a pen. The contract termination papers lay between them, a stark white wound on the polished desk. Her manager, Minseo, stood by the window, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“I’m leaving,” Y/N said, her voice flat, drained of the fire it once held. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Her father’s jaw tightened, his eyes searching her face—those same eyes that had once sparkled with pride when she debuted. Now, they were clouded with something heavier: guilt, maybe, or regret. “Y/N, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” she cut him off, her tone sharp but brittle, like glass about to shatter. “I’m not just losing the boys, Dad. I’m losing me. Every day, I wake up and I don’t know who I am anymore. My name—it’s just… it’s just Seventeen’s punching bag. I can’t breathe.”

He leaned forward, hands clasped, voice low and pleading. “We can fight this. We’ll release a statement, hire more security, sue the worst of them—”

“No!” Her shout echoed in the small room, startling her father. Y/N’s chest heaved, tears brimming but refusing to fall. “It won’t stop. It’s been nine years, Dad. Nine years of wreaths, of threats, of people telling me I’m a parasite. I’m done dragging them down. I’m done doubting myself because of it.”

Her father stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. “Y/N, the boys—they’d want to know. They’d fight for you.”

Y/N shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “That’s why you can’t tell them. They’d stop me. Seungcheol would lock me in a room until I changed my mind. Jeonghan would talk me to death. Seokmin—he’d cry until I couldn’t stand it. I know them too well.” She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But I can’t hold on anymore. I’m choosing them… and I’m choosing me.”

Her father’s hands trembled as he slid the papers closer. “Where will you go?”

“Away,” she said simply, signing her name with a shaky hand. “Mom think abroad is best. I need… I need to disappear for a while. To think. To stop drowning.”

Her father’s eyes softened, but she nodded. “We’ll keep it quiet. No leaks to the members. But Y/N… are you sure?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She pushed the signed papers back, stood, and walked out without looking back. The door clicked shut behind her, a final, hollow sound.

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

Weeks later, Incheon International Airport was a blur of noise and motion, but Y/N moved through it like a ghost. Her hoodie was pulled low over her face, a baseball cap shielding her eyes. A single suitcase trailed behind her—everything she’d chosen to take from a life she was leaving behind. Her parents had arranged it all: a flight to somewhere far, somewhere quiet, somewhere she could vanish. They’d promised to handle the boys after the announcement, to soften the blow. But Y/N knew there’d be no softening this.

She hadn’t said goodbye. Her phone, now off and buried in her bag, had been silent for days—no replies to the boys’ texts, no answers to their calls. She’d stopped opening her door when they knocked, their voices muffled through the wood: “Y/N, please, just talk to us.” She’d sat against it once, listening to Mingyu beg, his voice cracking, until he gave up and left. It had broken her heart all over again, but she couldn’t face them. Not when she’d already decided.

The boarding call crackled over the speakers, and she handed her ticket to the agent with numb fingers. As she stepped onto the plane, the weight of it hit her—she was leaving them. Her brothers. Her family. The only people who’d ever truly seen her. A sob caught in her throat, but she swallowed it down, sinking into her seat by the window. The runway blurred outside as the plane taxied, and she pressed her forehead to the glass, whispering, “I’m sorry,” to no one but herself.

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

The Seventeen practice room was alive with its usual chaos—Hoshi sprawled on the floor, panting after a run-through; Vernon scrolling through his phone; Seungkwan bickering with DK over a water bottle. It was break time, a rare moment of calm amidst their grueling schedule. The mirrors reflected thirteen tired but familiar faces, a unit unbroken—until now.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzed on the bench, and he glanced at it, frowning. “What the hell…?” His voice trailed off, and the room stilled as his expression darkened.

“What’s up, hyung?” Dino asked, sitting up from where he’d been stretching.

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He held up his phone, the screen displaying a news alert from HYBE: “Official Statement: Y/N to Depart SEVENTEEN Effective Immediately.”

The air sucked out of the room. Vernon dropped his phone, the clatter deafening in the silence. “What?” he breathed, scrambling to his feet.

“No way,” Mingyu said, voice shaking as he grabbed Seungcheol’s phone. “This is fake. It’s gotta be fake.”

Jeonghan snatched it from him, his eyes scanning the words, growing wider with every line. “Due to personal reasons… mutual agreement… effective immediately…” His voice faltered, and he looked up, pale. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” Hoshi shot up, his laugh disbelieving. “She can’t be gone. She’s on hiatus, not—she wouldn’t just leave us!”

Seungkwan’s hands shook as he pulled out his own phone, opening the statement. “It’s real,” he whispered, tears already welling up. “It’s on the official site. She… she left.”

The door burst open, and their manager, Joonho, stepped in, his face grim. The boys turned to him, a chorus of desperate voices erupting.

“Is it true?” Joshua demanded, his usual calm shattered. “Did she leave?”

Joonho nodded slowly, avoiding their eyes. “It’s true. She made the decision weeks ago. Signed the papers and everything.”

“Weeks?!” Wonwoo’s voice cracked, raw and furious. “And you didn’t tell us? She didn’t tell us?”

“She asked us not to,” Joonho said, his tone heavy. “She didn’t want you to know until it was done. Said you’d stop her.”

“Of course we’d stop her!” Seungcheol roared, slamming his fist against the wall. The sound reverberated, and the others flinched. “She’s our maknae! She’s family! You don’t just—how could you let her do this?”

“She was breaking, Cheol,” Joonho said quietly. “She didn’t want you to see her like that.”

DK sank to the floor, hands in his hair. “We could’ve helped her. We were helping her. Why didn’t she trust us?”

“She didn’t want to burden you,” Joonho replied, but the words only fueled their anguish.

“Burden us?” Mingyu’s voice broke into a sob. “She was never a burden! She was ours—our Y/N!”

Vernon paced, tears streaming down his face. “We should’ve known. We should’ve gone to her more, forced her to talk—”

“We tried!” Jun snapped, his voice hoarse. “She wouldn’t let us in! She kept saying she was fine, and now she’s just… gone?”

Seungkwan dialed her number, hands trembling. It didn’t ring—just dead silence. “Her phone’s off,” he choked out, dropping it. “She’s really gone.”

“Let’s go to her place,” Dino said suddenly, standing. “She’s gotta be there. She wouldn’t leave without saying anything.”

They piled into vans, a frantic, tear-streaked mess, ignoring Joonho’s protests. The drive to her apartment was suffocating, the silence broken only by muffled sobs and the occasional, “She wouldn’t do this.” But when they arrived, the door was locked, the lights off. Mingyu pounded on it anyway, shouting, “Y/N! Open the door! Please!”

No answer. A neighbor poked her head out, frowning. “She’s not there. Moved out days ago.”

“Days?” Jeonghan echoed, his voice hollow. “She’s been gone for days, and we didn’t know?”

They drove to her parents’ house next, a last desperate hope. Her mother answered, her face etched with sorrow. “She’s not here,” she said softly, tears in her eyes. “She left the country. She needed to get away.”

“Away?” Seungcheol’s voice was barely audible, broken. “She left us?”

“She didn’t want to hurt you,” her mother whispered. “She thought this was the only way. She’ll come back when she’s ready… when she’s okay.”

“When she’s okay?” Hoshi laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “She left us, and we didn’t even get to say goodbye! How are we supposed to be okay?”

Her mother flinched, but she had no answer. The boys stood there, thirteen shattered pieces of a whole that no longer existed.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Joshua murmured, staring at the ground as tears mixed with the rain on his face. “Nine years… and she’s just gone.”

Seungkwan sank to his knees on the wet pavement, sobbing. “We were supposed to be fourteen forever.”

But they weren’t. Y/N was gone, and the silence she left behind was louder than any hate she’d ever faced.

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

The air in London had been crisp and unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the humid chaos of Seoul. For nearly a year, Y/N had lived there, tucked away in a small flat with a view of the Thames. No one knew where she was except her parents—not the boys, not the company, not the fans who’d once hounded her every move. Her social media accounts sat dormant, frozen in time since that last post: a blurry photo of her hand holding a coffee cup, captioned “Taking a breath.” She hadn’t touched her phone for anything beyond calls to her family. The hate comments, the wreaths, the venom—they were a distant memory she refused to revisit.

She’d seen the boys once, though—on a grainy livestream of an award show, months after she’d left. Seventeen had won Album of the Year, and Seungcheol had taken the mic, his voice steady but thick with something unspoken. “We didn’t fall because of anyone,” he’d said, eyes glistening. “We’re still standing because of love—because of family. We miss… that chaos, you know? And we’re not mad. Never will be.” Jeonghan had added, softer, “We hope you’re smiling, wherever you are.” They hadn’t said her name, but she’d known. It was for her. Her chest had tightened, tears spilling silently down her cheeks as she’d turned off the screen. But she didn’t call. She didn’t text. She just sat there, alone, letting the silence swallow her.

Now, after eleven months abroad, she could breathe again. The weight that had crushed her in Korea had lifted, bit by bit. She could smile—not the forced grins of survival, but the real ones, the ones that crinkled her eyes like they used to. She’d called her father last week, her voice steady for the first time in years. “I’m ready to come back,” she’d said. “But not to Seventeen. To me. I want to try… solo.”

He’d paused, then sighed—a sound of relief, not disappointment. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We’ll make it happen.”

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

She’d been back in Korea for three months now, living in a quiet apartment on the outskirts of Seoul. The HYBE building hummed with activity, but she rarely crossed paths with anyone she knew. Seventeen was on their world tour, their schedules a whirlwind of planes and stages halfway across the globe. She’d heard their new album through the walls of a practice room once—Hoshi’s laughter in the background of a track, Mingyu’s warm vocals weaving through the melody. It had stopped her cold, her hand trembling on the doorknob. But she’d walked away.

Her days were full now. She spent hours in the recording booth, her voice finding its footing again—stronger, clearer, hers. The studio smelled of coffee and warm electronics, a sanctuary where she could be Y/N, not “the founder’s daughter” or “Seventeen’s mistake.” She practiced choreography until her legs shook, the mirrors reflecting a woman reclaiming herself. The music video shoot had been grueling—twelve hours under blinding lights, her hair streaked with silver dye, her eyes fierce in a way they hadn’t been before. The photoshoot proofs sat on her desk now: Y/N in a leather jacket, staring down the lens, unapologetic. She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was building something new.

“I’m not here because of anyone else,” she’d told her producer, a steely edge to her voice as they reviewed tracks. “I’m here because I can do this. I will do this.”

He’d nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I believe you.”

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

The tour bus rumbled through a foreign city—Chicago, maybe, or Toronto; the boys had lost track. The air inside was thick with exhaustion, the kind that settled into your bones after months on the road. Seventeen sprawled across the seats, a tangle of limbs and quiet murmurs. A year ago, this bus would’ve been louder—Y/N’s voice cutting through the chaos, teasing DK about his snoring or roping Vernon into a prank on Woozi. Now, it was just thirteen.

Seungcheol stared out the window, his reflection pale against the night. “It’s almost a year,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost lost in the hum of the engine.

The others looked up, the weight of his words sinking in. Mingyu rubbed his eyes, his usual brightness dimmed. “Yeah. Anniversary’s next month. Supposed to be ten years with her.”

“Ten years,” Jeonghan echoed, leaning his head back against the seat. His fingers toyed with a bracelet Y/N had made him once—beads spelling out “Hannie” in her messy handwriting. “Feels wrong without her.”

Hoshi shifted, pulling his knees up. “I keep thinking she’ll just… show up. Like, burst through the door with that stupid grin, saying, ‘Miss me?’” He laughed, but it broke into a shaky breath. “She doesn’t even know how much we miss her.”

“She knows,” Joshua said quietly, his voice steady but his eyes distant. “She saw that speech. She’s gotta know.”

“Then why hasn’t she called?” Dino asked, his voice small, almost childlike. He’d been the closest to her age, her partner in maknae mischief. “Not once. Not a text. Nothing.”

Minghao sighed, pushing his cap down over his eyes. “Because she’s healing. We can’t force her back.”

“But we’re her family,” Seungkwan said, his voice cracking. He clutched a photo on his phone—a blurry shot of Y/N laughing at him during a concert, her hair a mess. “She’s our only sister. Our maknae. Even if she’s not here, she always will be.”

Vernon nodded, his jaw tight. “I get why she left. I do. That hate… it was eating her alive. But it still hurts, you know? Like there’s this hole now.”

DK wiped at his eyes, trying to smile. “I miss her complaining. She’d whine about my singing being too loud, then hug me five seconds later. I’d take all her pranks again if it meant she’d just… talk to us.”

Seungcheol turned from the window, his expression hard but his eyes soft with unshed tears. “We can’t change it. It’s done. She’s gone, and we’ve gotta live with that. But if she ever comes back—solo, whatever—I’ll be the first in line to support her. Always.”

They all murmured agreement, a quiet pact forged in the ache of her absence. They’d accepted it, as much as they could—understood the hell she’d endured, the choice she’d made. But acceptance didn’t fill the void. They missed her chaos, her laugh, the way she’d flop onto the couch after practice and demand they order food. They missed her. And they didn’t know if they’d ever get her back.

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

Y/N stood in the recording booth, headphones snug over her ears, the mic a lifeline. The track played—a slow, haunting ballad she’d written herself, every note dripping with the pain she’d carried and the strength she’d found. She closed her eyes, letting her voice spill out, raw and unbroken.

Somewhere across the world, Seventeen took the stage, thirteen voices rising together, a harmony that still felt incomplete. They didn’t know she was back. She didn’t know they still left a space for her in their hearts. And for now, the silence between them stretched on—a fragile thread, waiting to snap or mend.

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

an: Hi! Sorry this was late, but I hope you like it, anon, and I hope I got what you requested, hehehe🫶

#⋆˚࿔ 14th member 𝜗𝜚˚⋆#seventeen 14th member #seventeen x reader #seventeen x oc #seventeen x y/n #seventeen imagines #seventeen x you #seventeen scenario #seventeen x carat #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen scenarios #svt imagines #svt fluff #svt x reader #seventeen

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monicfever · 2 months ago

Text

you pulled away for a second and now they’re spiraling 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher cast hcs

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / micro

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

gives you space but feels every inch of it like a bruise. overthinks it for hours. you don’t kiss him goodbye one morning and he stands there in the kitchen, frozen, one hand still half-raised like he’s reaching for something that isn’t there.

he’ll say, “i’m fine,” but his tie’s too tight, his smile’s too sharp.

plays your voice messages on loop with his headphones in, forehead pressed to the wall like it’ll stop the ache in his chest.

goes on patrol more. harder. rougher. comes back bloody. says “it’s nothing.” — it’s not nothing.

listens for you even when you’re not around. heartbeat. breath. laugh. when he can’t find it, he panics.

folds your sweater on his bed like it’s sacred. doesn’t wear it. doesn’t touch it. just leaves it there — a ghost of warmth he’s trying not to need.

says “i understand” when you say you’re just tired, but inside? he’s drowning.

you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like peace, and now you’re slipping through his fingers like smoke.

when you finally touch him again, soft and slow, he exhales like he’s been underwater. fists your shirt in his hands like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

mumbles “i thought i lost you” into the hollow of your throat like a confession. like he’s ashamed for needing you this much.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask. just watches you. jaw tight, eyes dark, breathing slow — like he’s reading the air for signs of danger. distance feels like a threat to him, and he doesn’t do well with threats.

your laugh is quieter. you sit on the far end of the couch. your fingers slip from his too soon. that’s all it takes. he spirals silently.

doesn’t confront you — doesn’t want to make it worse — but suddenly he’s fixing everything. the cabinet you mentioned once. the heater that clicks. your favourite snack stocked up.

you didn’t ask. he just needs to do something. needs to prove he’s still useful.

sleeps on the edge of the bed. doesn’t touch you unless you move first. still watches you while you sleep. still memorizes the sound of your breath like it’s the only music that matters.

sharpens his knives at 2 a.m. in the kitchen with the lights off. doesn’t need them. needs control. needs the rhythm. the quiet. the pain in his palm when he grips too tight. anything but thinking about what he did wrong.

you touch his shoulder — finally — and he flinches. not from fear. from relief. like touch has become foreign. his voice cracks when he says, “you okay?” like he’s asking please tell me it’s not me. please tell me you’re still mine.

finds something you left at his place — a mug, a hoodie, a single bobby pin — and stares at it like it’s a lifeline. like proof you were close, even if you’re not now.

listens for your footsteps around the apartment. doesn’t realize he holds his breath until you walk into the room. exhales like a man back from war. like you’re the safe house.

won’t say “i miss you.” won’t beg.

when you finally come to him — kiss his temple, press your hand to his chest — he grips you like a lifeline. like someone pulled him out of the ocean.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

notices instantly that something’s off, but second-guesses himself. “nah, don’t be dramatic,” he mumbles to himself. “they’re probably just tired.”

but then you don’t text back. and don’t laugh at his joke. and don’t say “i love you” before bed. suddenly he’s wide-eyed and spiraling in the dark, whispering “what did i do?”

starts overcompensating hard.

you say one sentence and he’s doing the most — buying coffee, making playlists, texting you memes with “this reminded me of you” — because if he makes you smile, maybe you won’t leave.

hyperfixates on one small thing he said that maybe sounded wrong, and now it’s on repeat in his head like a guilt-ridden soundtrack.

“was that too much? did i come on too strong? should i have not made that joke about their mom—OH GOD.”

says “we’re good, right?” with a soft laugh, casual like he’s joking, but he’s not. he’s checking. he’s scared. when you hesitate, even for a second? he feels like the floor just disappeared under him.

stays up refreshing your messages, rereading your last text like it’s in code. thinks “they said ‘okay’ with a period. that’s bad. that’s really bad, right?”

doesn’t want to guilt you, so he says things like “i know you’ve got a lot going on” and “i’m here when you’re ready” — but his voice cracks a little at the end. because he’s ready now. always is.

starts making you food. baking. cleaning your apartment while you’re at work. not to impress you — to feel useful. to remind himself that he can still take care of you in some way.

calls matt just to talk about anything, but ends up saying “hey, if i messed something up, you think they’d tell me?” matt sighs. foggy just stares out the window like he’s watching a romcom in reverse. practices what he’s going to say in the shower. out loud.

“hey, you’ve been a little quiet, and i totally get it, but—” cuts the water off. “no, that sounds clingy.” starts again.

when you finally touch his face or call him “sweetheart” again like nothing happened, he laughs too hard. kisses you too long. holds your waist like it’s breakable. murmurs, “god, you scared the hell out of me.”

doesn’t even need an apology. just needs you to look at him like you still want him. and he’ll forgive everything.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

tries so hard to pretend she’s unbothered. gives you space, keeps her smile in place, says “you okay?” like it’s a casual check-in — but underneath? she’s spinning.

the thing is, she knows what distance looks like. she knows what it means, and she’s terrified.

starts triple-checking her texts before she sends them. deletes the “hey, i miss you” message. adds “haha” at the end of a sentence she didn’t think was funny. she doesn’t want to seem like she cares too much.

but she does. she always does.

pulls back first sometimes just to protect herself. makes herself busy. says she’s working late. but she’s not. she��s sitting in the newsroom after hours with a cold coffee and your last conversation echoing in her head.

reads too far into everything. you cancel plans once? she assumes you’re over it. you don’t kiss her goodbye? she’s already thinking of all the ways she could’ve ruined it. she hates that she thinks like this. but she can’t help it.

plays your voicemail and closes her eyes like it’ll fix something. rubs her thumb over your contact name in her phone like it’s a talisman.

doesn’t say “are we okay?” she says “you’ve been quiet lately.” and makes it sound like she’s just making conversation — but her voice is too careful. her eyes don’t meet yours. she’s bracing for the worst.

keeps it together in front of people, but the second she’s alone? it hits her like a wave. leans against the door. breath catches in her throat.“don’t fall apart,” she whispers to herself. “don’t fall apart.”

still brings you coffee. still remembers how you like it. slides it across the table and shrugs, “thought you’d need it.” won’t say she’s scared. won’t say she misses you. but she’ll show you. in every tiny, aching way.

she’ll spiral quietly. but when you finally touch her, when you say “hey, i’m here” — she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for days. leans into your hand. closes her eyes. “don’t scare me like that again.” soft. raw. real.

the thing about karen? she’s tough. she’s been through hell. but love? yours? it’s the one thing that makes her feel safe — and the second she thinks she’s losing it? it’s like the floor disappears.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

acts completely unbothered. borderline amused. you pull away during a kiss and she just smirks, says “losing your nerve?” like she’s not already rewriting every interaction in her head, desperate for a clue.

still calls you darling with a sweet, sharp smile. still walks into the room like nothing in the world could touch her.

but her hands shake when she pours her drink. her voice falters for half a second. you’d never notice unless you know her like you do.

says things like “you don’t want this anymore, do you?” low. soft. not quite a question. like she’s testing you. like she’s preparing herself to survive the answer — but she’s not.

doesn't beg. doesn't plead.

but suddenly, she’s showing up everywhere. your favourite café. the gala you mentioned once in passing. leans against the wall like a poem, eyes dark, voice smooth: “fancy seeing you here.”

she missed you so loud and dressed it up in silk and shadow.

deletes a text draft five times before sending “thinking of you.” then throws her phone across the bed and walks away like it didn’t matter at all. (she checks back 43 seconds later.)

if you ignore her? she goes deadly quiet. no jokes. no jabs. just this sharp stillness — a storm with no wind.

when you finally speak she exhales like you just pulled her out of the fire.

says “i’m not good at this” in a way that sounds like a threat — but it’s not. it’s a confession. because love, for her, is war. she’s terrified she’s losing.

kisses you like an apology. like an argument. like she needs to know you still want her. grips the back of your neck with trembling fingers, breath ragged: “you’re still mine, aren’t you?” and it’s not a power move — it’s panic, dressed in velvet.

makes it a game — disappears for a day, waits for you to call.

but when you don’t? she shows up at your door at midnight, mascara smudged, voice rough: “say you didn’t mean to pull away. say it and I’ll believe you.”

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he won’t admit it, but you pulled away for just a second and now he's analyzing every interaction. every word, every touch — it lingers in his mind. he overthinks it, replays every moment until he can’t breathe.

why didn’t you kiss him back just now? did he do something wrong? did you... see something in him that made you - -

his first instinct is to shut down, retreat into his head, calculating. he’ll give you space, too much space, because that’s what he thinks you want. but his heart is shattering with every passing second you’re not right there beside him.

when he catches you looking at someone else, just for a second, his eyes narrow. his chest tightens. he doesn’t say anything, but his hands curl into fists. the thought of you being out of his control — out of his orbit — it makes his stomach churn like razor blades.

he might smile like everything’s fine when you’re around, but when you leave? he’s running a fever in his mind. why didn’t you call? why didn’t you text back? what did he do wrong?

it only gets worse the longer he goes without hearing from you.

ben’s spirals are silent. his chest tightens. his face stays neutral, but his eyes never leave you when you’re in the same room. he studies the lines of your expression like he’s trying to understand you — decipher you.

the more you pull away, the more he pulls you into his mind, tighter, darker.

he needs reassurance, but he won’t ask for it. he’s the type to turn to you and say, “you’re still mine, right?” but in a voice that’s quiet and almost too calm, like he’s asking for confirmation. like it’s a question that could break him if you don’t answer.

at first, his love is a quiet obsession, a soft kind of pressure. but the more you pull away, the more he becomes a storm. his possessiveness becomes almost gentle at first: "come here." "don't leave me alone."

when the silence stretches too long he becomes frantic. "tell me what’s wrong.” he’ll demand, but it’s almost a plea.

his most terrifying moment is when you make him feel like he doesn’t matter to you. he doesn’t handle rejection. he can’t. when that happens? a switch flips, and he becomes a monster wrapped in a shell of politeness. he won’t beg — he doesn’t need to — but there’s a coldness in his eyes when he says, “you won’t walk away from me.”

when you apologize, even just a little, it’s like the air clears — his chest unclenches — and his fixation on you grows stronger.

you own him in ways that he can’t explain. the thought of losing you — even for a moment — sends him spiraling into his own darkness, desperately clutching at the only thing that feels real.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

if you’re even slightly quieter than usual, he immediately goes “you good?” but not in a gentle way — more like a challenge. defensive, like he’s already bracing for the worst.

you say “i’m fine” and he nods like he believes you — but spends the next two hours replaying every word he’s said to you in the last 48 hours like he’s running a forensic investigation.

texts you “you mad at me?” with zero punctuation. follows up five minutes later with “you’d tell me if you were, right?” and then doesn’t text again, just waits in silence, suffering.

convinces himself you’re over him for a full 30 minutes before you even notice anything’s wrong.

starts doing extra. suddenly he’s picking you up with coffee in hand, ordering your favourite takeout, saying things like “thought you could use a break” when really he’s like please validate me before i implode.

tries to stay casual when you touch him again, but he melts like butter. smirks and says “missed me?” even though he was internally planning his own funeral five seconds ago.

says “you’ve been weird lately” like you’re the problem, just so you’ll explain yourself and he can stop spiraling.

brings up an old fight just to gauge where your head’s at. “you’re not still pissed about that thing from last week, right?” (he’s still pissed about it.)

he’s petty but panicking. like, “no no, it’s cool, you do your thing” and then watches your location like a psycho.

lowkey considers showing up wherever you are just to “bump into you” and make sure you still look at him like he’s the sun.

if you apologize or say something sweet, he tries to brush it off but crumbles. looks away, swallows hard, and mumbles “you scared the shit out of me.” like he wasn’t ready to fake his death five hours ago.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

tries to play it cool, but inside? she’s freaking out. a second of distance from you and suddenly, everything is uncertain. her mind starts racing: did I do something? did I push too hard? did I scare them off? she’ll push the panic down, but it’s still there — like a constant undercurrent, gnawing at her.

dinah is fiercely independent, but her love for you runs deeper than she’s willing to admit. she won’t beg for reassurance.

but when she notices the little things — like you don’t text her back as quickly or you’re distant during dinner — the anxiety starts to creep in.

you’re her safe place. she’s terrified of losing it. when you’re not paying attention to her, or when she notices someone else might be your main focus, it drives her insane.

she she doesn’t show it. she’ll make her presence known in subtle ways. a brush of her hand on your back, a low chuckle as she leans in close to whisper something only for you to hear. she’s claiming you, but she does it quietly — like she’s trying to reassure herself, more than anything.

if you don’t kiss her goodbye, or you’re acting a little cold, she’ll pretend it’s no big deal. but when you’re not looking, she’s watching the clock, wondering why you haven’t reached out. she won’t let herself seem weak, but the knot in her stomach grows tighter every time she checks her phone, waiting for your name to appear.

she’s a doer, so if you’ve pulled away, she’s going to fix it — even if it’s in her own quiet, controlled way.

she won’t bombard you with texts or try to push you into talking. Instead, she’ll do something thoughtful — get your favourite snack, take care of something you mentioned needing. she’s showing you she’s here, without asking for anything in return.

when she’s alone is when the doubts start eating at her. she won’t cry, she won’t let herself be vulnerable, but there’s a moment when she sits on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through her hair, staring at her phone screen, paralyzed by the fear of losing you.

she’ll tell herself she’s being silly. that she’s tough. but when she finally reaches for her phone to text you, her hands are shaking just a little.

when she finally speaks to you about it, it’s a fight that doesn’t feel like a fight. more like a need. “are you shutting me out? or am I just imagining it?” she’ll ask, voice a little too low, a little too careful. she just wants to know if you’re still there.

she’ll do everything she can to keep things normal when you’re together. when you’re apart, she becomes a storm. she’ll distract herself with work, throw herself into her cases, pretend she’s okay, but the second she comes back home to an empty apartment?

the silence is deafening. she can’t help but spiral. she can’t stop the thoughts: what if they’ve found someone else? what if they don’t want me anymore?

but when you come back to her, when you reassure her with a simple touch or a kind word, she’s putty in your hands. like she’s been holding her breath for days, waiting for you to remind her that she’s not alone, that you’re still hers, still with her. she’ll melt into your arms, exhaling with a soft sigh, almost embarrassed by how desperately she needed it. she won’t ask for reassurance, but when you give it to her? the whole world softens.

her jaw relaxes. her shoulders drop. she’ll lean in for that kiss, slow and deep, and you’ll feel the tension melt away, the part of her that was holding back, trying not to be too much, finally giving in to the love she so desperately craves.

⏜︵ MICRO. 𐂯

he’s probably the last person to realize that he's spiraling. when you pull away he doesn’t immediately process it. he’ll joke about it. the second you’re out of the room, he’s replaying every little thing — every conversation, every joke, every time you didn’t quite laugh at his bad puns, wondering what he did wrong.

his default is to distract himself. he’ll throw himself into a project, into his work. he’s gotta keep his hands busy. but he knows it’s only because he’s avoiding the obvious: he misses you. and that anxiety? It’s just simmering under the surface. every time he glances at his phone, waiting for a text, his stomach twists a little more.

when you pull back, he won’t call you out on it directly. instead you’ll notice him being a little more quiet than usual.

he’s usually a chatterbox, always tossing out jokes or asking you about random tech stuff, but now? he’s just... waiting. for you to come back. for you to want him again. this is different, and it’s making him self-conscious in ways he’s not ready to admit.

when he gets worried he starts showing up where you are — without meaning to, of course. he doesn’t even realize how much he’s checking up on you, but it’s a pattern. he’ll show up at your go-to diner, at the coffee shop you mentioned offhand once. “I, uh, just needed to grab a burger,” he’ll say, and you’ll know he’s lying. he was there to make sure you’re okay.

he’s incredibly self-aware of his own quirks, so when he realizes he’s spiraling, he tries to cover it up. “hey, I haven’t been bugging you too much, right?” he’ll laugh, but it’s strained, a little too quick. his eyes are wide with real concern, though, like he’s afraid you’ll say something that’ll shatter him. please don’t say you need space... please.

he’ll try to hide his anxiety with humor. “oh, yeah, I guess I could just hack into your phone and figure out what you’re doing... but I’d never do that. totally not my style. not in a million years. definitely not.” he laughs it off, but the undertone? It’s an ask for reassurance.

he’ll convince himself you don’t need him. he doesn’t want to admit it, but his mind starts doing the worst mental gymnastics: what if I’ve already lost them?

when you do check in, when you give him a little attention or even just a smile, the world stops spinning. his whole face lights up, and you can see the relief wash over him. the second he feels like you’ve come back, like you’re okay again, he’s all in.

he’ll go out of his way to do something nice for you, like fixing something you didn’t even know was broken. his way of saying, I’m here. I’m still yours. I won’t mess this up again.

“you know,” he’ll say, voice a little hesitant, “if you ever need, uh, anything fixed or... I don’t know, just someone to talk to, you’ve got me.“

doesn’t always know how to show how much he needs you — but you’ll see it in the way he lingers, in the way his eyes track you when you’re not looking. he’s scared of being too much, so he pulls back when you do, and it’s like a tug-of-war.

started 4.20.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist )

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kunareads · 4 months ago

Text

heavy angst not a lot of comfort!! + wc: 0.7k

masterlist

choso hasn’t breathed right in months.

he tries sometimes. draws in a deep breath, holds it, waits for his ribs to expand the way they used to when you were curled up beside him, murmuring something soft in your sleep.

but every inhale is shallow, every exhale unfinished. he can’t get enough air in his lungs without you.

he thinks about the phone call often. shoko’s trembling voice on the other end. the way his blood turned to ice when she said they found a body.

they never let him see it. too much damage, they said. better to remember you as you were. so he had nothing to hold, nothing to bury. just a handful of ashes and the suffocating knowledge that you were gone.

he never got rid of your things. your shoes are still by the door. your toothbrush still sits next to his. your clothes still take up too much space in the closet. your blanket—your favorite, the one you used to throw over him when you thought he looked cold—still rests on the couch, untouched. he picked it up once, buried his face in it to see if it still smelled like you. it didn’t. it just smelled like dust.

and now—

now you’re standing in front of him.

but it can’t be you.

his body locks up, frozen in place, because this can’t be real. it’s another cruel trick of his exhausted mind, another dream that will end the moment he dares to reach for you.

he should know. he’s had so many of those dreams, where you’re warm in his arms again, where he gets to say all the things he never did. sometimes, you forget your keys at home and come back for them. sometimes, you whisper his name from the other side of the bed, voice so soft he almost believes it. sometimes, you just look at him, silent and hollow-eyed, before fading into nothing. he wakes up gasping every time, drenched in sweat, grief choking him like a curse he can’t break.

this is just another dream. another hallucination.

but you take a step forward, and he sees the way you move—slow, hesitant, your hands shaking. there’s an old cut on your cheek, bruises along your jaw, faint lines on your wrists like you were bound. your clothes are torn, dirt and dried blood staining the fabric. your lips are cracked, your eyes hollowed by exhaustion.

you look like you fought your way back to him.

“…choso.” your voice is hoarse. he barely hears you, but it devastates him.

he doesn’t realize he’s moving until his legs give out beneath him. his knees hit the floor hard, but he barely feels it. his breath stutters out in a sharp, broken sound, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.

you walk forward, kneeling in front of him, hands ghosting over his shoulders, his face, his hair. “i’m here,” you whisper. “i—i tried—“ your voice cracks, and something snaps.

“where the fuck were you?”

it rips out of him, raw and jagged. his hands clutch at your arms, desperate, terrified, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip through them again.

“do you have any idea—“ his voice breaks, and his grip moves to cup your face like he needs proof. “i scattered your ashes. i mourned you. i—i—“ his breath falters, his forehead pressing against yours, a sob rattling through his chest. “i thought i lost you.”

your hands slide up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “i know,” you whisper. “i know, i—“

a short inhale, your fingers curling against his skin. “i thought i was gonna die there.”

choso swallows hard, his throat thick with grief and relief and something darker, something furious. his fingers hover, barely grazing your bruises, as he presses his palm to your ribs to physically confirm you’re real.

who did this to you?

the question burns in his mind, but he can’t bring himself to ask you that yet. not when you’re here, not when he’s barely holding himself together.

he pulls you in, arms locking so tightly around you that you gasp. but you don’t pull away. you clutch at his back, holding him just as desperately, needing this just as much.

his breaths are uneven, shaky, but for the first time in months, he actually breathes.

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rafessecret · 2 months ago

Note

Okay adding on to the rafe stepsis thing months later kelce or topper walk in on something (them fucking her giving him head or him touching her) and them being like I knew it! What the fuck but I knew it and rafe flipping out on them

⋆˚࿔ step¡sister reader && rafe cameron

YOU SAW NOTHING.

It’d been months since Topper and Kelce first got suspicious. The way Rafe hovered too close, the way your skirts seemed even shorter when he was around, and the bruises on your neck you never quite explained. But no one dared confirm it, not after Rafe had a few quiet words — more like a fist to Topper’s face and a threat that made Kelce piss himself.

They’d backed off. For a while.

Now, they’re back. Loud and smug, clambering onto Rafe’s pristine boat with beers and big mouths, laughter echoing across the marina. The sun’s low, the water shimmering like gold, but all you feel is panic — because you’re on your knees, lips wrapped around Rafe’s cock while he lounges like sin itself on a plush leather bench, head tilted back, fingers tangled in your hair.

❝Fuck, baby… just like that,❞ he groans, hips jerking up. ❝Sloppy little mouth’s so good.❞

You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your cunt pulses around the little pink Lovense toy nestled inside you, slick dripping down the backs of your thighs. The boat rocks gently with the water, but your world only tilts when you hear the clatter of shoes on deck.

❝We fucking knew it,❞ Topper shouts.

Your eyes go wide. Rafe stills. You’re frozen, lips still parted around him, panic blooming in your chest. You scramble up, shame crashing over you, trying to cover your face, your thighs, your everything. But it’s too late. Topper and Kelce are just standing there — wide-eyed and horrified, but smug. Because they were right. ❝Get downstairs,❞ Rafe growls.

You nod, tears already spilling, and you flee below deck, heart hammering. You curl up on the bed, sobbing, still wearing nothing but a ruined shirt and the now-silent vibrator. Every sound above feels like thunder in your ears. Upstairs, Rafe pulls on his shorts, slow and furious.

❝You want to die today?❞ he snarls.

❝Man—❞

His fist cracks against Topper’s jaw, sending him reeling. Kelce raises a hand, stumbling back, but it’s no use. Rafe's a storm now, all rage and violence and snarled threats. ❝You think this is a game? You think you can fucking laugh? I’ll put you in the ground if you ever open your mouth about her.❞

Kelce tries to reason with him — badly. Something about being friends, about not meaning it. But Rafe is beyond words. He drives Topper into the deck again, blood already staining the pale wood. ❝She’s mine. You don’t look at her. You don’t talk about her. You forget you ever fucking saw her.❞

His voice is low now, terrifying in its calm. ❝You’ll keep your mouths shut. Or I’ll shut them for you.❞ By the time he’s done, they’re coughing, stumbling, bruised and bloodied, dragging themselves off the boat with no more jokes.

Then it’s quiet again.

Rafe moves below deck, breathing hard. The second he sees you, curled up and still trembling, his entire demeanour shifts. He kneels beside the bed, gently brushing your hair back.

❝Hey… look at me, angel.❞ You blink up at him, tear-streaked and shaking. ❝It’s okay. They’re not going to say anything,' he murmurs, voice soft now, hands so gentle on your face. ❝I handled it.❞

You sniffle. ❝But… they saw…❞

❝Doesn’t matter,❞ he interrupts. ❝None of it matters.❞ He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like armour. ❝We’re fine. It’s still okay. ‘Because I said it is.❞

And you believe him. Because you always do.

And because no one crosses Rafe Cameron — and walks away the same.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : this one had me in a chokehold angels — not gonna lie, i struggled a bit with making it feel realistic while still capturing the vibe. wasn’t sure if you even wanted a whole scene out of it, but once i got started… well. you know how rafe gets. anyway, hope it hits <3

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf

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artficlly · 4 months ago

Text

smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, smut, p n v, unprotected sex, table sex, light fingering, hair pulling, begging, past wounds, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: hi!! i spent all of jan doing my 50k word challenge on the daughter of rotsál first draft, but i thought i'd take these first few days of feb to update this fic! i also released a smutty/fluffy oneshot called sweatpea you should check out! my birthday and uni is coming up soon so i'm gonna try squeeze in some more work on the daughter of rotsál draft before that and maybe one more update / another one-shot but i'll see how i go! anyway, enjoy this is a spicy one! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The shipment warehouse was a vast, hollowed-out space. Shadows stretched long beneath the dim, hanging bulbs. The scent of aged wood, alcohol, and rust lingered in the air, the faint remnants of the whiskey that passed through here on its way to buyers. Though mostly empty, clusters of wooden crates were stacked against the far walls, some sealed, others pried open to reveal their glass cargo, bottles of dark amber liquid reflecting the weak light. Scattered metal production tables dotted the floor, their surfaces scratched and stained from years of work. These were the stations where workers packed the shipments, but now, the tables sat abandoned, save for one.

At the centre of the warehouse, in front of one of the tables, three men sat bound to chairs. Rope bit into their flesh, tight enough that their fingers were already turning an ugly shade of blue. The table before them had been repurposed for something far crueller than packaging liquor. A collection of weapons lay across its surface—blades, hammers, pliers, each one arranged with careful deliberation.

By the main entrance, Steve and Sam stood guard, their figures solid and unmoving, you eyed them cautiously as you passed through the threshold. They didn’t quite meet your eye, and you wondered if they could hear the deafening pulse that roared in your ears. The cold night air filtered in through the open doors behind them, a scattering of ash decorating the stone floor.

Bucky entered beside you, his steps slow and deliberate. But you could feel the unspoken tension rolling off him in waves. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders squared rigidly, his jaw tight. The walk over from the Sootline had been silent, even if you could practically feel the heat of rage radiating off him. He didn’t seem eager to talk to you, even if his gaze would occasionally flicker to you to make sure you still followed along behind him. Maybe he feared he would find judgment in your eyes because he never held them for long.

“Bucky—” You called out softly, but the gangster shied away from your touch, the fabric of his sleeve slipping through your fingers.

He strode forward, each step heavy, his boots striking against the stone with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound echoed through the warehouse, filling it like a countdown ticking. You knew him. You had to remind yourself of that. You knew this man—the sharp edges of his cruelty, the weight of his fury, the way violence coiled beneath his skin like a second nature. You knew him intimately; you had felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and the steel of his will.

And yet, in this moment, he felt distant. Unreachable.

Even if he was angry, even if he had been cold and dismissive, his rage was not aimed at you. This was because of you. Because of what happened. The thought should have been comforting, a reassurance that you were not in his path and that his wrath had a different target. And yet, the knowledge did little to ease the weight pressing against your bruised ribs; it didn’t stop the breath from hitching in your throat as you took in the scene before you.

You were safe. You knew that.

But safety did nothing to silence the unease creeping through your veins.

The Iron Rats reacted the moment Bucky neared them. Two of them shrank back, their chairs creaking as they futilely tried to recoil from him. Their eyes darted between Bucky and the weapons on the table, their breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. One of them had already begun to tremble, his lips forming silent prayers, his body betraying him as he shook against the restraints.

But the third man—the one at the end—was different. He didn’t cower, didn’t flinch. He simply stared ahead, eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. It was as if he had already accepted whatever was coming and made peace with the inevitable.

“Barnes.” You snapped louder this time, voice clipped. The gangster paused his movements, not even turning to look back as he raised his hand, silencing you with a raise of his index finger.

“I was considerin’ if the bird needed to see this.” He finally broke his silence, voice low with a dangerous edge. “But I think she needs’a understand, don’t ya think?”

His hand struck forward, grasping one of the cowering men’s chins, forcing his head to look in your direction. You could tell his grip was bruising, even from a distance, the skin around his thumb growing white at the pressure. “She needs’a understand what happens to dirty fuckin’ rats that come crawling into my territory.”

Bucky released the man with a sharp shove, and the Iron Rat nearly sobbed in relief, his chair rocking back violently from the force. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Bucky barely spared him a glance. Instead, he dragged his fingers down the front of his suit jacket in one broad stroke as if ridding himself of the filth he had just touched.

Then, without looking, he reached for the table, his fingers curling around the worn handle of a butcher’s knife. The blade was thick and heavy, meant to cleave through bone as quickly as meat. As he lifted it, it scraped against the metal tabletop, the sound sharp and grating—final.

Bucky turned to you, his fingers curling around the handle, weighing it in his grip like an executioner deliberating his next stroke. His gaze pinned you in place.

“Left or right, doll?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You stammered back in response.

“Left or right?” His voice was eerily steady, too casual for the brutality hanging in the air. It was as if he were asking you to pick a wine for dinner, not deciding which limb would be lost. Your throat tightened. The Iron Rats were barely breathing, one whimpering, his chair creaking under his tremors.

You forced your voice to work. “Barnes, don’t you think we’ve caused enough damage?”

You knew you'd made a mistake the second the words left your lips.

Bucky’s head snapped towards you, his jaw ticking, something dark and dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The shift in him was immediate, electric. He abandoned the bound man without hesitation, closing the space between you in a few sharp strides. Your pulse stuttered.

He was on you in seconds, looming, his presence suffocating. You turned your head instinctively as his breath fanned hot across your cheek, but there was no escaping him.

“No.”

The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.

“We ‘aven’t caused nearly enough damage after what they did.” His voice, low and venomous, left no room for argument. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers twitching with barely contained rage. “You think I’m gonna let these filthy fuckin’ rats walk away after puttin’ their hands on you? Huh? After hurtin’ you right under my fuckin’ nose?”

Your breath caught, your ribs tightening under the weight of his fury. He leant in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear. His words were a vow, a sentence carved in stone when he spoke next. “You’re under my protection. Mine. You’re mine. So fuckin’ choose, doll. Left or right?”

Your stomach twisted. The Iron Rats were silent, frozen, waiting for your answer as if it were their final prayer. You swallowed.

“…Right.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a razor-sharp thing, all teeth and no kindness. His eyes gleamed with something feverish, something manic.

“Good girl,” he purred. The praise was smooth, almost sweet, but his grip on the knife tightened, knuckles whitening around the handle. And then he turned. The Iron Rat barely had time to process what was happening before Bucky moved.

The butcher’s knife came down in a single, brutal arc.

A sickening crack filled the warehouse as steel met flesh and bone, followed by a scream so raw, so agonised, it turned your stomach. The man convulsed against his restraints, his bound arms jerking wildly, but there was nowhere to go.

Blood splattered across the metal tabletop, dark and glistening. It pooled. Dripped and painted the concrete floor beneath him. His severed hand tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, fingers twitching uselessly in the growing puddle of red.

Bucky barely spared the carnage a glance. “You touched her,” he said coldly, voice devoid of sympathy.

“So I took your fuckin’ hand.” He tilted his head, considering the sobbing, writhing man before him. “Consider it generous that I ain’t takin’ both.”

The Iron Rat howled, his body convulsing. Tears streamed down his face, his cries dissolving into choked, incoherent pleas for mercy. Bucky wasn’t listening. He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, smearing crimson across the dark fabric like a war trophy. Then, slowly, he turned to the second man, pointing the stained blade at him.

“Your turn.”

The second Iron Rat thrashed in his chair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes, wild with terror, darted between Bucky and the ruined stump of the first man. Blood still poured from the wound, pooling beneath the chair, seeping into the cracks of the warehouse floor. The stench of it—sharp, metallic, raw—hung thick in the air.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, I—I didn’t even—”

Bucky slammed a heavy hand down on his shoulder, silencing him with a violent jolt. The Iron Rat flinched, chest heaving, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Bucky turned to you again, the knife glinting under the dim warehouse lights.

“Left or right?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent moons in your skin, but the sting barely registered. Your mind screamed at you, an urgent, panicked voice clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Stop this. Say something. Tell him it’s enough.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew the truth now, Bucky wouldn’t listen. Any sense of cold calculation had snapped within him, as if his father himself had possessed his body. His blood was up, his fury ran red-hot and unchecked. Reason was a foreign concept to him in this moments, swallowed whole by vengeance and violence.

Your breath felt thin as you watched him, as you remembered what was left of Varlan Crey. The Rat King, so smug, so untouchable, had been brought to his knees. Felled not by magic or blades, but by the sheer, unrelenting wrath of Bucky Barnes. He had survived, maybe by the hand of a small mercy. Or maybe just dumb luck. Because you had seen it—the flicker of real, unguarded fear in Crey’s eyes. The raw understanding that, for the first time, he had stood at the very edge of death and only barely stepped back in time.

You swallowed, throat dry as dust. “Left.”

A shuddering breath left the Iron Rat, some final, pitiful sound before—

Bucky moved.

The blade came down hard.

The crack of severed bone and the wet, visceral tear of flesh split through the warehouse. The man’s scream ripped through the air, raw and broken, his body jerking violently against the chair. Blood sprayed across the table, warm and thick, dripping onto the floor. His severed hand landed with a sickening slap, fingers twitching before they went still.

Bucky tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, keeping him from toppling the chair over as he convulsed in agony. He wiped the blade again, slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking to the last Iron Rat—the one who hadn’t made a sound.

The man met Bucky’s eyes with an eerie, empty calm.

No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.

A slight, bitter smile played at the edges of his lips as he tilted his head, gesturing to his left hand, which was secured against the arm of the chair. A soldier offering himself to the executioner.

Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”

And then he brought the knife down.

The man grunted as the blade severed flesh and bone in one clean stroke, but he didn’t scream. His body twitched, stiffening against the pain, but he bit it down. His severed hand dropped onto the table this time, fingers curling inward, as if gripping something unseen. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady stream.

Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.

Then, satisfied, he tossed the knife onto the table with a dull clang. The first two Iron Rats were still crying, writhing, staring at their stumps like they could somehow undo what had been done. The third just slumped in his chair, pale and shaking, but silent.

“I think I should take an eye next, for even lookin’ at you. What’d you think, doll?” Exhaustion lay heavy in your bones as your eyes fluttered shut briefly. Bucky was upon you again, his gaze softer now, the fury still burning beneath the surface but tempered. He reached for you, his bloodied fingers grazing your arm in a touch that was meant to be comforting. “Eye for an eye, after all.”

“I don’t…” You stammered but leant into his touch by default. Steve and Sam had adverted their eyes, their expressions unreadable as they pressed their lips into a line.

“I’ll choose for ya, how’s that sound, doll?” He rubbed a bloodied thumb across your cheek. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping something in your eyes could pull him away. But his eyes settled on the faded split in your lip, and his gaze hardened. “They have to pay.”

Bucky stalked off towards the array of weapons displayed along the table once more. The knife he chose gleamed under the dim light, and Bucky tested the edge against his thumb. A single bead of red welled up but he paid it no mind. His attention was elsewhere—on the trembling man before him, the one still staring at his bleeding stump, breath hitching in raw, animalistic terror.

“Please,” the Iron Rat sobbed, voice wet, desperate. “Please, Barnes, I can’t—I—”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like the weight of their begging was nothing more than an inconvenience. His hand was steady, practiced, as he tapped the knife tip against the man’s chin, tilting his face up.

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask for pleas,” he murmured, voice eerily even. “Left or right?”

The man shuddered violently. He turned slightly, eyes flicking to you as though you could save him as if you had any say. You swallowed, your tongue thick and useless, pinned in place by the weight of Bucky’s presence and the inevitability of what came next.

When no answer came, Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Left it is.” The knife sank into the man’s left eye in a swift, brutal motion. A high and raw shriek tore through the room, sending a shudder through your bones.

You flinched, but only slightly. The movement barely registered.

You had seen Bucky covered in blood before, had seen him like this before—violent, efficient, merciless. Yet you had also seen him in moments far removed from this carnage.

You had watched him bleed and had pressed your hands to his wounds to keep him from slipping away. You had felt his warmth seeping between your fingers, his breath shallow but steady as he let you take care of him. He had trusted you then, let you see him vulnerable when he could have just as easily pushed you away.

He had defended you against the Rat King, standing between you and the man who had wanted to carve you apart. If it hadn’t been for him, would you have been at the mercy of the Iron Rats? Tied to a chair like the three men before you? There had been no hesitation in him then, just like there was none now. And it was all for you.

The thought made your stomach tighten, but not in fear. Not entirely.

Bucky wiped the knife clean on the Iron Rat’s pant leg, a simple, thoughtless movement, and turned to the last man. The final Iron Rat had been silent the entire time, watching the carnage with eerie detachment. Even now, as the scent of blood thickened the air and his fallen comrades moaned and sobbed, his expression barely shifted. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, as Bucky approached.

“Ya know what I’m gonna ask,” Bucky said, voice quieter this time.

A pause.

Then, a small sigh.

“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.

Something flickered in Bucky’s expression—curiosity, maybe. Approval. He didn’t make him wait. The blade sank deep, and though the Iron Rat tensed, his breath hitching sharply, he made no sound. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his cheek, but he simply slumped against the restraints, his ruined eye weeping crimson.

Bucky lingered, staring at him, head tilted slightly. Considering. Perhaps even disappointed.

Bucky only clicked his tongue before turning back to you. The shift was subtle but immediate. The hardness in his expression softened, his eyes no longer carrying the cold fury he had wielded so effortlessly moments before. His hand, still warm despite the blood smeared across his fingers, reached for you, grazing your waist.

“See, doll?” he murmured. “Now they know.”

Your breath caught.

You should have felt horror. Revulsion. But instead, as you looked at him—his jaw speckled with blood, his chest rising and falling evenly, the fire still smouldering behind his eyes—you felt something else entirely. Something that made your fingers twitch, something that made your chest tighten.

Maybe, just maybe, this was more than just lust.

You weren’t sure whether that should’ve terrified you.

But at that moment, staring up at him, your heart still pounding, you weren’t sure you cared.

—

Bucky quickly issued his orders: everyone was to leave but you. Sam and Steve moved without hesitation, grabbing a bloodied, barely conscious Iron Rat by the scruff of their necks and dragging them towards the exit. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the cold warehouse air, thick and rich, settling into your lungs with each breath.

Bucky didn’t watch them leave.

He stood with his back turned, broad shoulders taut, tension coiling through his body like a predator still primed for the kill. His suit jacket lay discarded on the blood-splattered table. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, the fabric marred with streaks of red. His hands—still wet with it—hung at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if the violence hadn’t yet left his system.

You hesitated before moving, carefully stepping past the grotesque remnants of severed hands littering the floor. You focused on him instead, on the way his body seemed stretched too tight like he was waiting for another enemy to appear from the shadows.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, smoothing a hand over his forearm. The muscles beneath your fingers were rigid but warm, his pulse steady despite the chaos he’d unleashed.

“You showed them your hand,” you murmured, your voice soft and testing. “What will you do now?”

Your fingers traced a slow path up his arm, featherlight over the muscle, following the curve of his shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, you grew bolder, stepping around him until you stood before him. His face was speckled with blood; the scarlet splattered across his jaw and streaked along the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes, cold and unreadable just moments ago, stirred—just barely—as they settled on you.

“They needed to be taught a lesson,” he said simply, his voice still edged with the lingering embers of rage. A repetition of the words he’d spoken before.

You sighed through your nose, your hands splaying across his chest. His shirt was warm beneath your touch, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you. You pressed yourself flush against him, seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? An answer you weren’t sure you wanted?

“Yes,” you conceded, your voice quieter now, steadier. “But you’ve shown ‘em your hand.”

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric, gripping him, holding him there with you. “You’ve told ‘em another woman is close to you—other than your sister. One that commands enough of your attention for you to do this.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Ya scared, doll?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, instinctive—but the certainty of it wavered, even in your own mind. Was that really the truth? “I just want to understand why you’d expose a weakness like that.”

He snorted softly, his bloodstained hands coiling around your waist, holding you there. His grip was firm and possessive but not forceful. There was no threat in his touch, only something else, something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe he would finally say something—something real. Something sweet. He always left you with vague declarations of ownership and lust.

Because he cared, he had to—right? No man would do what he had done tonight if he didn’t care. No man would make a spectacle of his violence, an open display of his wrath for the sake of a woman if she meant nothing? He had carved his rage into flesh and blood for you and left a message in the ruined bodies of those men. You mattered to him.

Didn’t you?

But when he finally spoke, his words weren’t what you wanted.

“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”

A flicker of disappointment bloomed in your gut. You could have pulled away. Should have, maybe. But you didn’t because you needed something from him: reassurance, protection. Proof that he would stand between you and whatever enemies would inevitably come for you now that he had placed you in the centre of this war.

Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.

Conflict and confusion pressed heavily in your chest, warring with the heat between you.

Fuck Becca’s warnings.

There was something here, wasn’t there?

Your hand slid up, fingers ghosting over the rough stubble of his jaw. You cradled his face, pulling him closer. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey and blood, and for a moment, you hesitated—just a moment—before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky responded instantly, like a man starved, his eager hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity as if grounding himself in your presence. A sharp wince pricked at your ribs, but the hunger in his kiss quickly drowned it out. His lips moved against yours with fervour, rough and consuming, parting only to let his tongue sweep into your mouth, claiming and demanding. You melted into him, your body yielding beneath his, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch ignited something primal in you.

He moved with purpose, guiding you backwards. His hands were restless, roaming up your spine, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse, searching, craving skin. The cool air kissed your exposed flesh as he fumbled with your buttons, the urgency in his touch making his movements clumsy. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as your own hands wandered lower, gliding down the firm planes of his chest. The taut muscle beneath his white collared shirt flexed beneath your palms, solid and unyielding.

His breath hitched slightly as you dragged your nails over the crisp fabric, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath. You felt the shudder in his body as your fingers found the buttons of his vest, slipping them free with deliberate ease. Bucky’s hands found your breasts, moulding the soft flesh through your brassiere with a rough, needy grip, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks in slow, teasing circles. Your head tipped back, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as heat coursed through you.

The vest was discarded in a swift motion, tossed aside without care, and before you could fully react, Bucky’s strong hands lifted you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the cold metal of the production table. The chill of it sent a shiver through your body. Still, the heat between you and him was overwhelming, obliterating any thought. His body pressed between your legs, the hard line of him nestling against you through the fabric of your skirts.

His mouth devoured yours again, possessive and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, fleeting bite before his tongue soothed the sting. You whimpered quietly into his mouth. Clinging to him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from deep within his chest. His thumb grazed over your nipple, teasing through the lace, and your breath hitched.

The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only Bucky—his touch, his breath, his desire pressed into your skin like a brand. And you welcomed it. Welcomed him.

You could already feel the hard length of him, pressing insistently against your inner thigh through the layers of fabric. His heat was unmistakable, searing even through the barrier of clothing, and a shiver rolled through you. The anticipation was unbearable. You reached for his belt, fingers nimble and eager—

But Bucky chuckled, low and deep, knocking your hands away with an easy flick of his wrist. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of hunger that drank you in as you leant back on your elbows, your body sprawled out before him. His lips were swollen, slick with the mingled taste of you both, his breath warm against your skin. Your chest heaved, one breast exposed where he had tugged it free from your brassiere, the cool air sending a shiver through you.

“Greedy, ain’t ya?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, but his touch was anything but teasing. His hand slid beneath the heavy fabric of your skirt, fingers dragging up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You barely had time to process the sensation before he grabbed the delicate waistband of your tap pants and tore them down your legs, the lace rasping against your skin as he wrenched them past your ankles and boots.

The discarded scrap of fabric landed somewhere on the warehouse floor, forgotten. His hands were already on you again, possessive, insatiable. You let out a low groan, head falling back as he trailed a digit through your wet slit, humming in delight as he found you already dripping with desire. “Don’t need an arousal potion for this, do we?”

You ignored his quip, instead wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckled at you, rewarding your eagerness by pressing one of his digits into your cunt. You clenched around him with a whimper, hips rocking as you internally begged for more friction.

“Let me hear your noises, doll.” Bucky commanded, his spare hand trailing up your thigh. You whined softly, bucking your hips once more in a silent plea. The gangster smirked down at you, pressing a second digit into you as you squirmed beneath him.

“Please, Bucky.” You mewled, pulling him closer with the legs hooked around his back. He obliged, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. You could hear the squelching of your wetness, your body shuddering with impatience at the leisurely pace.

“You want more?” He purred, teasing you with a quick flick of your clit with his thumb. You clenched around him involuntarily, a breathy gasp leaving your mouth as pleasure rocked up your spine, a new wave of electricity flooding your gut.

You pushed yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his shirt as you pulled your bodies flush. The heat of him seeped into you, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your mouth found the column of his throat, breath hitching as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his exposed skin. His pulse thrummed beneath your lips, quick and heavy, and you traced it with your tongue, savouring the salt of his skin.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale as you dragged your mouth along his adam’s apple, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before sucking a bruise into his neck. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted him to brand himself into your skin the way he had branded himself into your mind.

“Please,” you breathed against his ear, voice hushed, desperate. Your tongue flicked along the shell, teasing, before you nipped at his earlobe, letting your teeth catch just enough to make him groan. “I need you inside me.”

The words sent a shudder through him, a growl vibrating deep in his chest. “Turn around, bend over the table. Now.”

Your head tilted, temple resting against the firm plane of his shoulder as you gazed up at him, your breath uneven. His fingers twitched inside you, a steady rhythm still building, each pump igniting a slow, unbearable heat in your core. A sharp gasp left your lips as pleasure twisted through you, your body tensing in response.

“My ribs—” you managed to gasp, wincing as the dull ache reminded you of your bruises.

Bucky stilled for a moment, a flicker of something soft crossing his face, a rare moment of tenderness blooming between the two of you. His breath was warm against your cheek as he considered your words, his free hand smoothing over your hip as though grounding you.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, low and reassuring, though the husk of his voice betrayed his restraint. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.

Then, just as quickly as he had stilled, he withdrew. A wet heat lingered in the absence of his fingers, and you shuddered, your walls clenching around nothing. A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body betraying the ache of emptiness. You unhooked your legs from around his waist, knees wobbling as you moved, turning yourself around atop the table.

The cold metal kissed your stomach as you laid your front flat against it, one breast still bare from where he had pulled the fabric away. A shuddering breath left you, anticipation thick in your veins as you braced yourself against the surface, your hips lining up with the edge.

Behind you, you heard the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle, followed by the slow rasp of leather sliding free. The head of his cock pressed against your slick opening, teasing but not quite entering. You whined into the table as his large hands stroked up the back of your thighs, gripping the flesh.

“So wet,” he muttered. His voice was thick with hunger as he pushed your skirts up, bunching the fabric around your waist, leaving you utterly exposed to him. His hands trailed down, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass before he spread you open, admiring the slick evidence of your need. “So good for me, huh, doll?”

A desperate whimper left you, your body shivering under his touch. You pressed your folded forearms beneath your chest, arching your back in an attempt to save your bruised ribs from the unforgiving metal table.

Then, at last, he pressed into you.

A gasp tore from your throat, your body instinctively tensing as he stretched you open. The intrusion was thick and slow, overwhelming at first, your cunt clenching down against the pressure of him. Your teeth sank into the flesh of your thumb, muffling the choked moan that threatened to spill free. Bucky cursed under his breath, withdrawing just enough before easing back in, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Ya like this, don’t ya?” His voice was low and strained, his grip tightening on your hips as he pinned you in place. The firm drag of him inside you sent sparks of heat flooding through your veins. “Like me claimin’ you? Like knowin’ I’d fuckin’ tear through them bastards just to keep ya safe?”

A broken moan left you, your body trembling against the metal. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust pressing you further against the table. The slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together filled the empty warehouse, the echo of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged breaths.

Bucky groaned, his hands wrapping around your hips as he rocked into you harder, deeper, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. Your mind swam, the bruising grip of his fingers the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Tell me, doll.” His voice was rough, a demand wrapped in silk and sin. His hips snapped forward, driving into you so deep it left you gasping. “Tell me how much you want this.”

“Please—” The word came out in a small, needy sob, your voice trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

Bucky growled, a deep, guttural sound. One of his hands abandoned your waist, sliding up the length of your back before tangling in your hair. His fingers twisted into the strands, yanking your head back with a sharp tug. A strangled moan burst from your lips, your back arching instinctively. Your nails scraped against the metal table, searching for purchase as he fucked into you harder, faster.

The steady, brutal rhythm of his hips grew relentless. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. A filthy symphony of desperate moans, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you echoed. Bucky groaned, the sound low and primal as he chased his release. His grip on your hip was vice-like, anchoring you in place as he pounded into you without mercy. You could only hope Sam and Steve weren’t lingering nearby to hear the sinful chorus of your pleasure.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body tensed, pleasure spiking hot and fast through your veins. Your legs trembled beneath you, knees nearly buckling as your orgasm coiled, threatening to snap.

Then he tugged your hair again, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a dizzying rush, and you came undone.

Your cunt clenched around his cock, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your body spasmed beneath him. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure flooding through you in rolling waves. Wetness dripped down your inner thighs, evidence of your release slicking his length as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

Bucky let out a deep, shuddering moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you into bliss. His grip on you tightened, his cock pulsing as he spilt inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, his movements growing erratic, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he wrung out every drop of ecstasy.

His fingers slowly uncurled from your hair, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. You collapsed against the table, breathless and spent. You lay motionless beneath him, allowing him to use you as he rode out the final waves of his release, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.

Gods, you were going to need to take an anti-pregnancy potion after this.

PART EIGHT

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