#stays alive wrong stays alive wrong stays alive wrong……

[buckysleftbicep]

off limits 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x widow!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, mirror sex, possessive!bucky, jealous!bucky, rough sex, choking, creampie, bathroom sex

summary: at a high profile mission gala, bucky snaps when he sees another man's hands on you, jealousy boils over and he shows you exactly who you belong to

word count: 3.4k

author's note: hi! so bucky in a suit gave me this amazing idea, and here we are! thank you for reading, love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💓

say it with me, daddy

The mission was clear, infiltrate the gala just as Val had instructed the team to, identify the arms dealer, and intercept the transfer. You had done it all before with Steve way back when the team needed classified HYDRA information, and with Natasha who you had trained in the red room with, she had taught you basically everything you needed to know.

You had slipped into a silk dress like it was your second skin, painting on seduction. Your job was easy, sort of, play the temptress, distract the target. Smile like you were enjoying every excruciating second of their hands on you, while Bucky monitored from the perimeter—dark, silent, and ready to kill if anything went wrong.

But this time, something was different.

From the moment you stepped out of the safehouse that evening, the dress clinging to your curves like a second skin and your lips painted crimson red, he hadn’t spoken a word.

From the moment you stepped out of the safehouse that evening, the dress clinging to your curves like a second skin and your lips painted crimson red, he hadn’t spoken a word.

Jaw tight. Hands flexing at his sides like he was resisting the urge to reach for something—anything. His eyes dragged over you, slow and sharp, like a blade drawn deliberately over bare skin. Heat rolled off him in thick, stifling waves, all of it coiled tight beneath the surface, barely held in check.

He didn’t look at you like a teammate. He looked at you like a threat. Like temptation in its most dangerous form, alive and breathing and standing right in front of him. A trap wrapped in silk and sin. And for a second, you swore he stopped breathing entirely, just standing there, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning.

Like if you moved, if you so much as breathed, he would snap.

And some part of you wanted him to.

You weren’t sure if it was the slit running dangerously high up your thigh or the way the plunging neckline dipped low enough to make any man ache, but something in him shifted the second he looked at you. His gaze caught there, throat bobbing like he’d just swallowed a curse, a growl, a need too sharp to name.

Still, your boyfriend said nothing. Just clenched his fists and looked away.

Now, inside the ballroom that was glittering with chandeliers and crawling with sharp-dressed criminals, his silence followed you like a storm cloud.

You moved through the crowd like smoke, effortless. Laughter light as champagne spilled from your lips as you curled your fingers around the arm of Armand Liska, the smug weapons liaison you were specifically tasked to distract tonight.

He was handsome in that over-polished way men with too much money and too little substance often were. Sculpted jaw, tailored suit, expensive cologne, and a smirk that reeked of entitlement. The kind that believed every woman in the room was already his.

His money made him bold. His arrogance made him sloppy.

Perfect.

You laughed at something he said, some tired line about Geneva and cigars, and leaned in just enough for your perfume to reach him, just enough for Bucky to see. Your hand slipped casually to Armand’s sleeve, fingers resting there like you belonged.

You didn’t have to look. You could feel it.

Bucky’s gaze from across the room, it was cold, hard and burning a hole straight through you. Thirty feet away and you could still taste the tension on your tongue. He was watching. You knew that weight. Knew what it meant.

And maybe, just maybe, you leaned in a little closer.

His voice crackled through the earpiece once—tight, clipped. “You’re getting too close.”

You pressed your fingers to your comm. “He likes it close.”

Behind you, Armand chuckled, utterly oblivious to the tension stretching like wire across the ballroom. His hand slid lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip… then lower still, settling on your ass with the kind of casual entitlement that made your skin crawl.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink. Just kept your smile painted on and tilted your chin, throwing a slow, deliberate glance over your shoulder, straight at Bucky.

And there he was.

Posted like a sentinel at the marble bar, a glass of whiskey cradled between his hands, the leather of his glove creaking against the metal plates of his prosthetic. His jaw clenched. His eyes, steel grey, dark, locked on you burned hotter than the liquor in his glass.

You held his gaze.

And then, as if to twist the knife, you let your smile grow just a fraction wider. Turned back to Armand, letting your fingers drift higher along his arm, nails just grazing fabric.

Across the room, the glass in Bucky’s hand groaned under the pressure of his grip.

One second more and it might’ve shattered.

“Jesus,” came Ava’s voice through the shared comms. “He’s going to explode.”

Yelena added with a smirk in her voice, “You okay over there, Barnes? Want us to send in another drink and a stress ball?”

John chimed in, full of smug amusement. “Or maybe just one of those ‘get well soon’ cards. ‘Sorry your girl had to flirt with some greasy asshole”.

“Back in my day,” Alexei added with a sigh “if man touch my woman, I break his finger and stir drink with it.”

Bucky wasn’t listening. He was too busy watching you run your fingers down the arm of a man who wasn’t him. Watching you laugh, lean in, play your part like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.

Without a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the bar, the movement sharp, deliberate, like peeling back a layer just to keep from snapping.

The second Armand’s hand slid lower, squeezing your ass like he could get away with it, Bucky moved. No hesitation. No warning. He didn’t walk, god, he stalked, every step deliberate, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the weapons dealer like a kill order had just been given.

His eyes locked on you like a predator finally off the leash, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. The suit jacket strained across his shoulders as he pushed through the crowd, focused, seething, every step radiating barely restrained violence.

You saw him coming. And you didn’t flinch. You just stood there, a little breathless, lips parting in the faintest smile—knowing exactly what you done.

Bucky didn’t spare your mark a glance. His metal hand clamped around your wrist—tight enough to make your breath hitch as he yanked you into him, chest to chest. The grip wasn’t gentle and you knew it wasn’t meant to be.

“Let’s go,” he growled, low and rough against your ear, voice edged with something dangerous.

You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering like you hadn’t just been caught. “Excuse me?”

Armand let out a quiet laugh behind you, hand still gripping your ass like he owned it. “Hey man, I’m getting lucky here.”

Bucky stopped.

Slowly, he turned his head, eyes dragging down to where Armand’s hand still sat, bold and possessive. That smug fucking grip. Like you were something he could touch. Keep. Claim.

“You’re touching something that doesn’t belong to you,” Bucky said, voice quiet—too quiet. “Take your hand off her. Or I’ll take it off for you.”

Armand raised a brow, still grinning. “What are you, her boyfriend or something?”

Bucky didn’t blink. “I’m the reason you’re still breathing. Don’t make me change that.”

The smile dropped off Armand’s face.

There was a beat of silence before he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, muttering under his breath. Bucky didn’t look at him again.

“Bucky—” you started.

“Now.”

He moved without hesitation, his arm snapping around your waist as he pulled you into his side, possessive and unyielding. His pace was fast, controlled, but every line of his body screamed tension.

You could feel it in the way his fingers dug into your hip, in the rigid press of his frame against yours as he steered you through the crowd like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

The air around him felt charged—sharp, crackling with restraint barely holding. The team watched in silence, heads turning as you passed, no one daring to speak.

John’s voice finally crackled to life. “I owe Ava twenty bucks.”

“I told you she was pushing his buttons,” Ava said smugly.

“Seven minutes,” Yelena murmured. “They’ll be back. Probably looking freshly fucked.”

Bucky didn’t care.

He should’ve waited. He should’ve remembered protocol. He should’ve played the part of the calm soldier, the cool operative.

But he couldn't, not after watching another man put his hands on you. Not after seeing you lean in, smile, let that bastard touch your waist like he owned a piece of you. Like he had the right to stare at your body, to laugh into your ear, to treat you like something he could keep.

You weren’t his. And Bucky couldn’t stomach that for one more second.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind you, the heavy echo ricocheting off marble and tile like a gunshot. You barely had time to gasp before you felt it—Bucky’s body pressing into yours, pinning you flat against the door with the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

His hands slammed against the door on either side of your head, caging you in. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths, the heat radiating off him in waves. He was too close, too still, like something barely leashed and seconds from snapping.

His scent hit you next, whiskey, leather, and clean sweat and it coiled through your senses like a drug, setting your nerves alight. It made you shiver, made your pulse jump in your throat.

Your eyes locked in the small sliver of space between you. He didn’t speak. Not right away. Just stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or punish you. Maybe both.

Then, low and gravel-rough, his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “You wore that fucking dress on purpose.”

Your lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. The kind that always made him twitch. The kind that always got you in trouble. “Maybe.”

His hand moved fast—fingers gripping your jaw, thumb pressing just below your chin. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it made a point. It claimed. Possessive and unmistakable. And you didn’t resist.

“You let him touch you,” he said, quieter now, the words sharp enough to cut, laced with heat and something darker.

You shrugged, as much as the door behind you would allow. “It was part of the mission,” you said, breathless and sweet.

His mouth dragged along your jaw, rough stubble scraping your skin. He bit down, just enough to make you whimper, then pulled back to snarl against your ear, voice low and dangerous.

“You let him touch your ass.”

Your mouth parted. “It was part of the job—”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you stop him?”

His voice dropped to a growl. Real, rough, and ragged with restraint—like it physically hurt him to keep his hands to himself.

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark and stormy with jealousy and need. And you told him. Soft. Honest.

“Because I knew you were watching.”

That broke the dam.

He groaned, low and feral, and then you were moving—spun around so fast your heels nearly slipped. His hands locked around your waist, gripping tight, shoving you forward until your palms caught the edge of the marble sink.

The counter was cold against your skin, grounding, even as your thighs trembled beneath the press of his body.

Bucky didn’t say a word. Just stared at you in the mirror. And you stared back. Your reflection was already wrecked, flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glassy with lust.

You could feel the wild beat of your heart pounding against his chest behind you, every inch of your body mirroring the tension in his.

“Look at yourself,” he growled, mouth brushing your ear. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me.”

His hands slid over your hips, slow at first, rough palms tracing the dip of your waist as he pushed your dress higher with every pass.

There was no hesitation. No patience. Just raw, hungry need, burning through his touch like fire.

You arched into him with a soft gasp when you felt the hard press of his cock grinding through his slacks, pressed tight against your ass.

“This what you wanted?” he rasped. “Me watching you let some asshole touch what’s mine?”

A quiet moan slipped from your lips as you nodded, eyes fluttering toward the glass.

“Say it,” he snapped, his hand curling around your throat. “Say who you fuckin’ belong to.”

Your voice was breathless. Barely audible. “You.”

He made a low sound—half groan, half curse—and his lips grazed your shoulder, teeth dragging across your skin as he bunched the dress higher and exposed the thin scrap of lace you’d worn beneath. When he saw you weren’t wearing anything else, the breath hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck, princess. You only wore this tiny thing?"

You nodded again, trembling beneath the weight of his touch. His hand clenched on your hip.

“You knew what this would do to me,” he muttered. “Walking in like that. Letting him touch you—like you didn’t fucking know better.”

He didn’t finish the thought. Just yanked your panties aside with one sharp tug, his fingers sliding between your thighs—finding you already soaked.

“Jesus. Drippin’ for me already?”

Your forehead hit the mirror as you exhaled a shaky breath, palms braced against the cold countertop. Your reflection was a mess, cheeks burning, mouth open, eyes dark with arousal. You looked breathless, flushed, completely undone by him—and he hadn’t even taken his time yet.

“Please, Bucky,” you whispered.

He didn’t make you beg for long.

One smooth motion—his zipper down, cock out, the tip teasing through your folds, slick and slow. You pushed your hips back into him, desperate, but he held you firm.

“No,” he said, voice like broken gravel. “You wanted to tease me? Now you’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch of what you did to me.”

And then he pushed in.

Agonisingly slow, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out, stretching you wide. The breath caught in your lungs, and your nails bit into the edge of the countertop.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Watch yourself get fucked.”

You did. You watched the way your body trembled, watched the hunger in his eyes, watched the veins in his arm flex as he started to move.

His rhythm was rough, relentless and punishing, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure straight through your core, echoing between your thighs like fire.

“You feel that?” he growled against your neck. “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me. All night, hard as a rock, watching you let some asshole touch what’s mine.”

His hand slid up again, fingers wrapping around your throat, not choking, just holding, anchoring. You moaned as he fucked you harder, deeper, angling his hips just right.

Your eyes fluttered shut, but he tugged your chin back to the glass. “No, no. Eyes open princess,” he said, breath hot on your ear. “You wanted the attention? You get it. Watch what I do to you."

And you did.

You watched the way your body bounced with every thrust, his grip bruising into your hips, marking you. Watched the red flush crawl up your chest, watched his expression, jaw tight, lips parted, eyes black with lust as he dragged you toward the edge.

Your moans grew louder. Desperate. He slapped a hand over your mouth, smirking darkly.

“Can’t be too loud, sweetheart. People outside will hear how needy you are for me.”

That only made it hotter.

Your legs started to shake. The pressure builds fast, your orgasm coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asked, his voice fraying at the edges.

You nodded, eyes wild, breath caught.

“Then say it,” he snarled. “Say who this fuckin’ pussy belongs to.”

You gasped against his hand, voice shaking.

“Y-You, Bucky. Fuck—yours.”

He groaned, loud and filthy, and slammed into you one last time just as you shattered around him. Your orgasm hit like a wave, body convulsing, breath gone, thighs trembling from the force of it. You clenched so hard around him he swore through gritted teeth, fucking you through it as he spilled inside with a broken growl.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, voice rough. “That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

Neither of you moved for a moment. Just panting, tangled together, your bodies buzzing from the crash. Outside, the party carried on—music drifting faintly under the door, as if the world hadn’t just come to a standstill inside that room.

Finally, Bucky leaned in and kissed your shoulder—softer now.

“Next time,” he whispered, still catching his breath, “you even smile at another man like that, I’ll bend you over in front of the whole damn party.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile this time. You could still feel him inside you. His voice, his breath, his hands—etched into your body like a promise.

You swallowed hard, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor as you made your way back down the hallway. The air was cooler out here, but it didn’t help the burn still simmering between your thighs. 

Your legs weren’t entirely steady, and you could feel the ache in every step. You didn’t dare look back at him. You didn’t need to. He was watching you. Always.

“Stop fixing your dress,” Bucky murmured low behind you, so close it ghosted against your ear. “Let ‘em see what’s mine.”

You bit your bottom lip, pulse fluttering. You weren’t sure if it was pride or arousal—but either way, you obeyed.

As the ballroom came into view, your stomach twisted. You knew the team would notice. They always did.

Sure enough, Ava was the first to clock you. Her eyes flicked over you once, then to Bucky, and then back again. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a knowing smirk as she lifted her champagne flute like a toast.

“Huh. You two were gone a while,” she drawled, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “What’d you do, fall into the toilet?”

You tried to play it cool, brushing a hand along your necklace like you hadn’t just been fucked against a bathroom mirror by your boyfriend. Bucky said nothing, of course he didn’t, but the smug tilt of his jaw said everything.

John spotted you next and immediately barked out a laugh. “Oh no. Oh no. You didn’t—” He pointed vaguely toward the hall behind you. “You did.”

Yelena let out a long whistle and leaned in, hands clasped in mock prayer. “ Jesus. I thought the walls weren’t soundproof.”

Her gaze flicked to Bucky, and she grinned. “You’ve got lipstick on your jaw, Barnes.”

You blanched, immediately reaching up to fix it, but Bucky caught your wrist, stopping you with a firm grip. He didn’t even glance down. Just leaned into your ear with a quiet, gravelly murmur meant only for you.

“Leave it.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

And damn you, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

“Okay, but really,” John said, his grin practically splitting his face in two. “Bathroom? Bold move.”

“Definitely mirror sex," Yelena added. “That’s his thing, right?”

“Yelena,” you hissed, cheeks burning.

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “What? It’s not a judgment. Just an observation.”

Bucky didn’t offer them the satisfaction of a reaction. His eyes were scanning the crowd again, narrowed and alert, but his grip on your waist told a different story. You weren’t getting away. Not yet.

He pulled you closer with one strong arm, pressing a subtle kiss just below your ear—more threat than affection—and when he spoke, it was quiet, dangerous.

“If that asshole so much as looks at you again, I’ll put him through the goddamn table.”

And that? That was not a threat for public consumption.

But it made your thighs clench all over again.

You let your head tilt toward him just slightly, your voice low, teasing “Jealousy looks good on you, Sergeant.”

His answering smirk sent a shiver down your spine.

And as the team returned to their drinks, pretending not to watch, the heat between you and Bucky crackled just beneath the surface—undeniable, unresolved.

His touch on your waist lingered like a brand, his breath still warm against your skin. You didn’t need words to know what came next.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

[verricherri]

spencer taking care of reader during/ after a miscarriage

Something to Remember Me By

A/N: this one… this one hurts. about grief that no one else sees. about what it means to love someone who never got the chance to stay — and what it does to you when you try to carry that alone. if you’ve ever lost quietly, this is for you. Warnings: miscarriage, mentions alzheimer’s and silent mourning. Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

It wasn’t pain that woke you. It was wetness.

The kind that made you freeze in the middle of rolling over, because somewhere deep in your body — under your ribs, under your pulse — you already knew.

You threw back the blanket. It was everywhere.

Your thighs were slick. The sheets were soaked through. Red. Deep. Alive. Still warm.

And for a second, you just… stared.

Because maybe if you didn’t scream, it wouldn’t be real yet.

Your hand shook so hard it took three tries to reach for Spencer.

He was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, humming under his breath — just a man starting his day.

“Spence,” you called.

You didn’t say it like you were scared.

You said it like you were already broken.

He was there in seconds, toothbrush still foaming in his hand, mouth full of paste. He didn’t see it at first.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice light with sleep.

Then he followed your eyes.

He dropped the toothbrush.

“Okay,” he said, hands already out, already searching. “Okay. Okay. It’s going to be okay. We’re okay.”

But he was pale.

And his hands were shaking harder than yours.

—

They sat you beside a woman with a full belly and a knit blanket draped over her lap. She rubbed it absently while talking about her baby’s kicks. Her mother sat beside her, smiling.

You stared at the floor and dug your nails into your thigh until the pain replaced the nausea.

Spencer sat beside you with his hands folded like a prayer. His lips were moving — not audibly — but you knew he was listing symptoms. Risk percentages. Possible causes. Ways to spin it.

They called your name.

He stood too fast.

—

The exam room was cold.

You were still bleeding. You could feel it sticking to the back of your thighs as you lay on the paper-covered table.

The tech tried to smile. You didn’t try back.

The ultrasound machine flickered to life, screen filled with grey static and ghosts.

Spencer reached for your hand and whispered, “Remember, the fetal heartbeat isn’t always visible early on—” “Spencer,” you said. “Please don’t talk right now.”

The tech pressed the wand harder. Shifted.

You looked away before the screen could tell you anything.

Spencer didn’t.

He watched every frame like he was waiting for it to change.

It didn’t.

“I’ll be right back,” the tech said quietly, and left the room.

You knew what that meant.

You said, “She’s gone, isn’t she?” Spencer closed his eyes. “Don’t—” “Don’t what?” “She could just be—” “She’s not.”

The doctor came in five minutes later. You didn’t catch her name.

She sat beside you like a friend and said the words anyway.

No cardiac activity.

Non-viable pregnancy.

I’m so sorry.

You were still bleeding.

The screen was still on.

No one turned it off.

—

You don’t remember the drive home.

You remember Spencer’s hand on the gearshift, clenched too tight. You remember the way the seatbelt pressed across your stomach, too snug, too late.

You remember the way he kept whispering things under his breath — facts about uterine lining, statistics, blood volume, anything to stop the silence from becoming unbearable.

And then you were home.

He opened the door like the car might shatter if he touched it wrong. Helped you out like you were something holy and broken.

Blood was dried between your legs.

He said nothing about it. Just wrapped his arm around your waist and led you inside like it was the end of the world and he was afraid of stepping on the pieces.

—

In the bathroom, you tried to undress on your own.

You couldn’t.

Your fingers wouldn’t work. Your legs wouldn’t move.

You peeled your shirt over your head and sat on the toilet lid, half-naked and shaking, and whispered, “I can’t.”

That’s when he knelt in front of you.

Still dressed in his work clothes, hands trembling, face pale. He didn’t speak.

He just reached for your leggings, slow and careful, peeled them down your thighs like he was touching something sacred. Your underwear followed. Blood soaked. Heavy.

He folded them once and set them in the trash. Not out of sight — just away.

Then he lifted you — actually lifted you — and guided you into the shower.

You leaned on the tile as the water came down. Warm, then hot.

He stood behind you, fully clothed, shoes and all, arms curled around your waist.

You collapsed against him before you realized you were falling.

And then you cried.

Not pretty. Not quiet.

You howled.

You clutched his shirt and sobbed into his chest like you wanted to tear him open and crawl inside — and he let you. He held you tighter. Buried his face in your neck.

And cried with you.

Loud. Ragged. Ruined.

“Why?” you choked. “I don’t know,” he whispered, voice soaked. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

His tears ran down your collarbone. Yours soaked through his tie.

“I wanted her so much,” you said. “I know,” he breathed. “So did I. So did I. So did I.”

He repeated it like prayer. Like apology.

You both stayed there — soaked in grief and steam — until the water turned cold and your legs stopped holding you.

—

He helped you out.

Toweled you off like he’d never touched anything more fragile. Helped you into clean clothes — loose shorts, an old shirt. Carried you to bed when your knees buckled again.

Then he changed the sheets.

Threw away the towel you bled through.

Sat on the edge of the tub and scrubbed the grout with bleach and shaking hands.

And that night, when he climbed into bed beside you, you didn’t face the wall.

You faced him.

And you cried again.

But this time, you cried together.

—

You hadn’t told anyone.

Not your family. Not the team. Not even your best friend.

You were waiting—just a little longer. Past the risky weeks. Past the doubt.

Just until it felt safe.

But safe never came.

Only blood. Only silence.

You and Spencer made a choice, without ever saying it aloud: To keep it between you. To carry the grief alone.

Because if you spoke it, if you said “We were going to be parents,” someone would ask what she looked like.

And you’d have to say you never got to find out.

So when Penelope texted to say she missed you, you replied with a smiley. And when JJ said gently, “You’d be such a good mom,” you just nodded, smiled, and fought the scream in your throat.

No one knew.

So no one asked why you lost weight.

Why your laughter got quieter.

Why Spencer flinched when someone said the word miracle like it meant anything.

—

He went back to work four days later.

You told him he didn’t have to, but he kissed your temple and said he’d fall apart if he stayed home one more day with the empty crib space and the folder of prenatal emails.

He came home that night and told you about the case in Nebraska. Then cooked your favourite pasta. Folded your clothes.

He didn’t cry.

But every time he passed the hallway closet — the one with the bag of baby things you’d started to collect quietly, shyly, stupidly — he looked like he wanted to open it, then thought better of it.

He touched the handle once. Just once.

You saw it from the kitchen.

And you didn’t say anything.

—

You bled for nine days.

Longer than they said you would.

And when the bleeding stopped, you thought you’d feel… clean. But all it did was leave a terrible emptiness.

You sat on the toilet that tenth morning, looked down at nothing, and cried until your ribs hurt.

Because she was gone.

Not just dying.

Not just maybe.

Gone.

And now your body had caught up to what your heart already knew.

—

You coped by pretending.

By making lists.

By brushing your teeth exactly two minutes.

By hiding the sonogram in a box you couldn’t touch but couldn’t throw away.

Spencer coped by watching you closely. Too closely.

He hovered without hovering. Refilled your water glass. Made your side of the bed.

Put vitamins on your nightstand like the ones you’d stopped taking never mattered.

And you both hid.

From your families. From your friends. From each other, sometimes.

Because naming her would make her real. And real meant gone.

—

It was over something stupid.

Tea, again. Always tea.

He brought you a mug. Your favourite.

You looked at it and said, “I said I wasn’t hungry.” “It’s not food.” “I don’t want anything.”

He set it down too hard. Not enough to shatter the ceramic. Just enough to make your bones flinch.

“You don’t get to do this alone,” he said, voice low. “You don’t get to be the only one grieving.” You stared at him, stunned. “Excuse me?” “I’m sad too,” he snapped. “I’m angry. I’m exhausted. And I’m walking on eggshells like you’re the only one who lost her.” “I was the one carrying her.” “We both were!” he shouted. “Just in different ways.”

You froze.

He looked stunned at his own voice. Like he didn’t mean to say it that loud.

You whispered, “She died inside me.” His chest rose and fell, wild and miserable. “I know,” he said. “I know that. But please… don’t lock me out like I don’t miss her too.” You stepped back. “I didn’t know I was doing that.” He deflated instantly. “I didn’t know I’d yell.”

You were both quiet.

Then you crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around him like you were drowning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “So am I,” he breathed into your shoulder. “I just… I don’t want to pretend I’m okay.” “You don’t have to.” “Then let’s not pretend anymore.”

And for the first time since it happened, you sat on the floor together, legs tangled, heads pressed together — not talking, not fixing — just breaking.

—

It happened on a Tuesday.

You were putting away the box.

The one with the socks. The stuffed elephant. The tiny little dress you couldn’t resist when it went on sale.

You folded each item slowly, like they were fragile, like they could still bruise. You whispered to each one as you set it into the storage bin.

“I’m sorry.” “I love you.” “Thank you.”

When you placed the pregnancy test — double-lined, smudged with tape — on top, you sealed the box shut and pushed it under the bed.

You didn’t cry.

Not that day.

Not until you opened the drawer in the hallway desk, looking for packing tape.

And found the notebook.

Black. Softcover. Moleskine.

You recognized his handwriting immediately.

You knew what it was before you even touched it.

You carried it to the kitchen. Sat on the floor. Crossed your legs.

Opened to the first page.

Star — You don’t exist yet. But I think you might. Your mom looks different this week. She moves different. Her hands hover near her belly like she knows something. I think she does.

Star — She told me today. It felt like being handed the whole universe. I kissed her stomach even though you’re smaller than a raspberry. I don’t care. I’m already in love with you.

Star — We haven’t told anyone. I think I like it that way. You’re our secret. Ours and ours only. You get to belong to us first.

Star — Today she bled. I didn’t know what to do. I held her up in the shower while she sobbed and I whispered science into her skin. Not because it would fix it. Just because I didn’t know what else I had.

The entries kept going. Each one worse than the last.

Then one page — near the end — was just torn at the corner. Half a sentence.

I should’ve known.

The final page was dated one week ago.

It read:

If I forget her, forgive me.If I forget myself, remind me who I was.If I forget you—Please, don’t let me.

You didn’t realize you were sobbing until the ink began to blur where your thumb had pressed too hard.

You held the notebook to your chest like a lifeline.

That’s how Spencer found you.

On the floor. Shaking.

He dropped his bag and dropped to his knees beside you.

“I—” you tried to speak, but no sound came out.

He gathered you into his arms without asking.

“I wanted to remember,” he whispered, voice shredded. “In case it happens to me.” You pulled back, eyes burning. “What?” “My mom,” he said. “You know how it started. You know what it could mean for me. I was scared I’d… lose her all over again, in my head. Lose you. Lose this.” You cupped his face in your hands. “You won’t.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, fingers curling around your wrists.

“I already am,” he whispered. “That’s why I wrote it. To make her real. To make us stay real.”

You kissed him like it was the only language left.

And that night, for the first time, you both whispered her name aloud and didn’t flinch.

—

It happened back when you were still glowing. Before the blood. Before the silence.

You were lying on the couch, curled under his cardigan, a half-empty bowl of grapes on your chest. You had a hand on your stomach already, and he was watching it like it was the most fragile thing he’d ever been trusted with.

You said, “She’s going to need a name.”

He looked up from the book resting on your knees.

You added, “I mean, obviously not yet. But I want to give her something that belongs to us. Just us.”

He hesitated. Tucked a bookmark in and closed the cover slowly.

Then said, “Can I tell you something stupid?” You smiled. “Always.” “When I was a kid,” he started, “I used to sneak these oversized astronomy books under the covers. I'd read them until my eyes burned.” You tilted your head. “Of course you did.” “I didn’t read them for science,” he said. “Not really. I read them because… I thought the stars remembered things.” You blinked. “Like what?” “Everything,” he said. “I thought they recorded the days no one else did. I figured if I could see them, maybe they were watching me too. Keeping track. So if I ever forgot something… or if something ever happened to me…”

He trailed off.

You reached over and touched his hand.

“I thought,” he said quietly, “that maybe the stars would remember the things I couldn’t.”

You didn’t speak. Just felt your throat pull tight.

He looked down at your belly. “That’s why. That’s why I keep calling her Star.”

You felt it then — that slow, quiet naming.

Not in ink. Not on paper.

But real.

Because if she couldn’t live, she could still be remembered.

Because maybe she would be the one to remember you.

[actual-nobody]

Alt text of images under the cut

[Alt text: First image, Zillychu describing what happened after "hopital." "#just in case anyone's been wondering where I've been #uhhh apparently my stomach is in my chest! that's neat #I've heard of 'heart in your stomach' but like. i thought the logistics would be a bit different #it also flipped turnways AND silly style AND started to asexually reproduce #i can't have a child i can't even keep track of my own organs #the Beatles were wrong btw. no shouting was had #'how are you alive' the ER doctor asks. i didn't have the heart to tell him #would have stayed home another 3 months thinking ah yes a terrible but routine suffering for my disabled ass #anyway later losers some cool dudes in pajamas are gonna make my tummy pop an ollie back out my esophagus #zilly squeaks" End Image]

[Alt text: Second image, user thedarkenfeathers asks "What even happened mate??? You ok???" and zillychu responds with "GREAT questions! fantastic questions." End Image] [Alt text: Third image, zillychu's drawing of their abdominal internals. Their stomach is centered above their diagphram, disrupting their esophagus and causing a pinch at the connection between the two. Additionally, an "alien baby" is forming at the esophagus near the pinch. The entire thing is described as "DUMB!!!", "BAD!!", and "SHOULD NOT BE HERE!!" End Image] [Alt text: Fourth image, a tag from a concerned user asking "#tumblr user zillychu. what rhe fuck". End Image] [Alt text: Fifth image, user bloodakoos says "you know how people torture their ocs for no reason? god is doing this to you." End Image] [Alt text: Sixth image, first of the series of tags zillychu peruses. A user says "#op is a final destination character". End Image] [Alt text: Second of the series of tags perused. "#jesus fucking christ we thought half this post was a shitpost #this is insanity #can humans please have a max of one thing going wrong at a time how are we expected to live in these conditions." End Image]

[Alt text: Third of the series of tags. "#fuck man #zillychu is just getting bombarded #the universe said i want that twink obliterated in the worst and most creative ways." End Image]

[Alt text: Fourth of the series of tags. "#next time i'm thinking 'is this too much?' i'll remember this post & know it's actually not enough & the characters can handle more." End Image] [Alt text: Fifth of the series of tags. "i gotta know if OP writes for Ao3 cause this is some authors note shit." End Image] [Alt text: Sixth of the series of tags. "#eg tube cockwarming is not something i ever thought id think of." End Image] [Alt text: Seventh of the series of tags. "#op's writing the best fanfic known to man i just know it." End Image] [Alt text: Eigth of the series of tags. "#how have you not yet perished!!!?!?!??!" End Image] [Alt text: Nineth of the series of tags. "#This has gotta be fake #But even still I respect your storytelling abilities." End Image] [Alt text: Tenth of the series of tags. "#DANNY PHANTOM??!" End Image] [Alt text: Eleventh of the series of tags. "#when life gives you lemons." End Image] [Alt text: Twelfth of the series of tags. "#shit dawg i need to get on zilly's level." End Image] [Alt text: Thirteenth of the series of tags. "#oh my god #i found your isat animatic on youtube and came by to see if i could reblog it here and THIS is the first thing i see :skull: #are you like. okay." End Image]

[Alt text: Fourteenth of the series of tags. A screenshot of the tags "#DODGED ROOLED THE TORNADOS AGAIN #NICE TRY GOD BUT I PLAYED KH2 CRITICAL MODE" with the accompanying comment "Crucial tags." End Image] [Alt text: Fifteenth of the series of tags. "#this is biblical levels of misfortune op." End Image] [Alt text: Sixteenth of the series of tags. "#assuming that organs can't get tied in knots balloon animal style is a rookie mistake." End Image] [Alt text: Seventeenth of the series of tags. "#op i diagnose u with devientart emo oc tragic backstory." End Image] [Alt text: Eighteenth of the series of tags. "#i was like oh wow this is probably some old tumblr post from deep in the trenches of tumblr it def looks very 2015 #i go to check the date #two days ago. #wrow." End Image]

[Alt text: Nineteenth of the series of tags. "#this was a journey." End Image]

hey guys check it out I can do a frontside 180 with my stomach haha

[cakypa120]

Ok Billy keeps coming back au.

Seeing all those people, I just imagine everyone are careful and sad now, so imagine that either this is the first time Billy didn't got killed, or the first time someone who still haven't killed Billy killed him.

I'm don't want to lie I hope he survives, but everything you post says that he won't

Billy sighs. Everyone is tiptoeing around him. Which he expected anyway. Billy doesn't blame them. He just.... He wishes they'd stop being so careful with him.

And then Signal shows up at the Watchtower. Gotham's daytime vigilante. Billy had only seen him three times, since he usually died before Duke joined the Batfamily. Now was the perfect opportunity to meet him.

Marvel: Hello! I'm Captain Marvel! You're Signal, right? Gotham's daytime hero? Nice to meet you!

Signal: Nice to meet you too.

They shake hands. Marvel laughs loudly, although he feels Batman's piercing gaze, as always, watching his brood like a hawk.

Marvel: Are you here on business? Or just annoying your father like your brothers and sisters?

Signal: He is not my father, I don't know where you got that idea from. And I am here to familiarize myself with the internal affairs of the League, since I will be more accessible during the day, unlike Batman.

Marvel: I see. Then let's go, I will show you our cafeteria, where Batdaddy takes coffee as dark as his soul to get energy to suck the strength out of people.

Billy takes Duke to the cafeteria, ignoring the boy's complaints and an irritated Batman. In the end, Billy shows Duke everything, explaining everything in detail, sometimes telling funny stories about Bruce and others from the Bat Clan.

Duke eventually returns to Gotham, and Billy and Bruce see him off. After Duke leaves, Bruce asks the expected question.

Batman: Has he ever...?

Marvel: No. I was dying before he showed up in your family. Well, it's time to go on duty.

Duke doesn't know how to react to this smiling hero.

Duke: Dick, how do you like Captain Marvel?

Dick: A good hero, a wonderful person, has seen too much shit in his entire life.

Duke: He seems too cheerful to me.

Dick: ...... Believe me, if he weren't like that, then... a lot would have gone wrong.

Duke was a breath of fresh air in Billy's life. Ignorance was a blessing. No one wanted to enlighten Duke about what Marvel had to endure. And for that, Billy was grateful. Duke was the only one who talked to him normally, without any guilty looks or awkward silences. Billy liked talking to him. They even got to know each other better.

And then comes the day when the sword of Damocles falls on Billy.

The mission went wrong. Billy and Duke are sealed in an ancient seal that requires a human sacrifice. Billy can't break the seal, because it is too powerful. Created from the suffering of an entire people, created to contain the Gods. Even as the Champion of Magic, he will not be able to break this seal.

Marvel: The seal requires a sacrifice. A human sacrifice.

Duke: Like blood or hair? An arm? A leg?

Marvel: No. You have to kill a person and put it on this seal. The sacrifice will be accepted, and a portal will open through which you can exit.

Duke: What?

Marvel: Magic based on human suffering always requires a sacrifice. This seal is designed to contain God. And this seal is very ancient. We better follow the rules.

Duke: That means one of us will have to die!

Marvel: Yes. Unfortunately. But better than both of us rotting in this prison.

Duke: Maybe we can get help? Well, on the other side! And we will both stay alive!

Marvel: I understand your hope. But... A sacrifice will still be needed. From this side, from that side... It doesn't matter. Someone has to die.

Duke: No! We can't just give up! We have to fight! You have the wisdom of Solomon!

Marvel: The Seal is poisoning you. You're human. You won't last long.

Duke: I'll hold out. I'll survive. We'll be rescued.

Marvel: Duke, I know you believe, and that's good.

Duke: How do you know my name?

Marvel: I know many things. And I know that only one of us will leave this place. And that one will be you.

Marvel materializes a dagger, the blade of which was made of eternium. Duke flinches when Marvel hands him the dagger.

Marvel: It's one of the few things that can kill me.

Duke: No...

Marvel: I know it's hard, but... It's necessary. Sometimes we have to make difficult decisions.

Duke: No! No! No! What are you talking about?!

Marvel: Signal...

Duke: Why are you giving up on life so easily?! You have a family! Friends!! A city that loves you! Are you really going to leave them because of me!? I'm just a newbie! My death won't matter to anyone.

Marvel: *grabs Duke by the shoulders* Don't talk about yourself like that! You're so talented and kind! You'll become a great hero! And you also have family and friends who are looking for you, hoping that you'll come back alive.

Duke: What about you? What about your family?

Marvel: My family... My parents are dead, and my sister... she knows the risks I take by becoming a hero. She understands. The League will understand, too. They won't be mad at you. Trust me. They won't.

Duke: Are you really just going to give up?

Marvel: Maybe. Better me than you. You have to live, Duke. You have your whole life ahead of you, and I'm an old man.

Marvel places the dagger in Duke's hand. Duke's lips tremble. Billy looks at the seal and stands in the middle. He turns and looks at Duke. Billy spreads his arms out to the sides, a bright smile on his face.

Marvel: One blow will do.

Duke:.....

His hands were shaking, holding the heavy dagger. He looks at Marvel, who smiled brightly and spread his arms out to the sides. As if inviting him for a hug. Duke picks up the dagger. He closes his eyes. He has to do this. He has to. But he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to!

Duke takes a deep breath and runs. The dagger pierces the flesh, and Duke feels the warmth of Marvel's body. He slowly opens his eyes and looks at where it struck. Golden blood flowed from the wound. Slowly, the gold turned red. Duke froze, his body stopped obeying him.

Warm hands take his hands and tug. The dagger leaves the body with some kind of sound that Duke cannot understand. A few moments later, Marvel falls to his knees, and Duke continues to stand and stare blankly into space. Marvel's voice breaks him out of this strange trance.

Marvel: You did well, Duke. Great...work...

Marvel lurches to the side and falls. Blood soaks into the seal. The seal lights up brightly and Duke finds himself in the woods. He blinks. Where is Marvel? Wasn't he supposed to come back with him? He needs to be buried, right? Marvel deserves peace. Maybe if Duke searches, he can find Marvel? He's probably nearby. He wanders through the woods, looking for Marvel's body. He doesn't know how much time has passed.

He hears his name being called. But who is calling him? Someone is hugging him. Suddenly, Duke becomes aware of his surroundings. Bruce is hugging him, and Superman, Damian, and Flash are standing next to him. And their faces are sad.

Duke: I killed him... I killed him... I killed... killed... him...

The dagger falls out of his hand. Why was he even holding that abomination? His legs give way and he falls to the ground. Bruce follows him. Duke continued to whisper, "I killed him." Bruce stroked his back and whispered that it wasn't his fault. Duke feels tears, he screams, hugging himself. Before his eyes, again and again, is Marvel's corpse, with a peaceful smile frozen on his face. Bruce hugs him tighter, as if trying to hide Duke from all the pain, from everything that happened. Duke no longer screams, he cries quietly, burying his face in the man's armor.

Duke: I...

Bruce: It's not your fault.

Duke: He...

Bruce: It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault.

Duke presses himself closer to Bruce. Bruce continues to hug him. Duke just hoped that Marvel had found the peace he deserved.

In another universe, a newborn took his first breath.

[monserelates]

P.S. Do you still love me? ; James Potter

⇨ f! reader x james potter

part ll of P.S. I still love you.

⇨ summary: You find an old letter James wrote to you during fifth year confessing he loved you but never sent. You're now dating someone else. Chaos ensues.

⇨ warnings/notes: use of y/n, angst, lowkey proofread, Emotional cheating themes, heartbreak, tension, crying, James spiraling, reader torn between two people, longing, and one (okay maybe a few) very old love letters.

a/n: this was a bit hard to write because this as you know this is not my usual trope but i hope i did okay!

⇨ word count: 3.5k

You don’t mean to be cold.

It’s just that every time Amos touches you lately, it feels… foreign. Like putting on someone else’s jumper. Warm, yes. Familiar, even. But not yours.

You're sitting beside him on the steps outside the Greenhouses after Herbology, your fingers twisting at the hem of your sleeve, sleeves pulled down past your knuckles. The sun is low, casting golden slants across the grass, and Amos is talking about his upcoming match against Ravenclaw.

He nudges your shoulder with his.

“You’ll be cheering for me, yeah?”

You smile—automatically. You’ve had practice at that. “'Course.”

But your eyes stay fixed on the path ahead, scanning students trickling out of class, your stomach tight with something you won’t name.

Then he leans in and kisses your cheek.

And your whole body tenses. Just barely. Just enough for you to notice it.

You swallow hard. Force yourself to relax. You don’t want to hurt him. He’s done nothing wrong.

Amos pulls back and looks at you with a puzzled sort of affection. “You okay?”

You nod quickly. “Just tired.”

He accepts it. He always does. He rubs your shoulder and talks more about Quidditch while you sit still and quiet and try not to think about that dumb, messy haired boy.

Later, in Charms, he reaches for your hand beneath the desk.

You hesitate.

Just a second.

But it’s enough.

His hand rests, waiting. Yours stays in your lap. You pretend to be too focused on your parchment, biting the inside of your cheek, quill digging a little too hard into the paper.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That it’s just nerves. That the letters don’t mean anything now.

You’re dating Amos. He’s kind. He’s reliable. He makes plans. He picks you flowers sometimes, even if they’re lopsided and smushed from his pockets. He smiles at you like you’re the only person in the castle.

He’s everything you always said you wanted.

So why does it feel like your skin is on wrong?

Why do you feel so far away?

Why do you feel like you belong to someone else?

You can't do that to him, he's done nothing wrong.

But it's eating you alive.

..

Sirius sees it first.

The way you’re quiet in the common room now. How you sit in the corner armchair instead of the couch you used to fight James for. The way you look at the fire like it might spit out the answers you’re too scared to say aloud.

He’s sprawled on the rug, Transfiguration homework untouched, chin resting on his knuckles as he watches you out of the corner of his eye.

You’re trying to read. Trying. But your eyes haven’t moved from the same paragraph in ten minutes.

You're not even blinking properly.

Sirius doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

He just watches.

It’s later—past midnight—when Remus joins him in the boys’ dorm, towel draped over his shoulder, hair damp from the showers.

“She’s off, isn’t she?” he says casually, toweling the back of his neck.

Sirius doesn't look up from where he's lying on his bed, arms folded behind his head. “Y/N?”

Remus nods.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Sirius exhales through his nose.

“She found them.”

Remus freezes. “The letters?”

Sirius just gives him a look. One of those quiet, heavy, yes of course the letters looks.

“Bloody hell,” Remus mutters, sitting slowly on the edge of his bed. “Does Prongs know?”

Sirius shakes his head. “She hasn’t said anything to him. Or to anyone, far as I can tell. Just… pulled away. From Diggory. From everything.”

Remus presses the towel into his lap, staring at the floor. “Do you think she’s—?”

“Confused?” Sirius interrupts. “Wrecked? Realizing she’s got feelings and it’s about five months too late? Yeah. Probably all of it.”

They sit in the quiet for a minute. Then—

“Wait, wait—what are we talking about?” Peter says from behind his bed curtains, poking his head out with an eager blink.

Remus sighs.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Y/N. She found the bloody letters.”

Peter frowns. “You mean those letters? The ones James said he burned?”

“Yeah. Turns out Moony was sentimental and tucked copies into that stupid drawer of his,” Sirius mutters, giving Remus a mock glare.

“I didn’t think she’d find them!” Remus defends. “She was looking for Advanced Transfiguration, not a personal breakdown.”

Peter’s mouth forms a small "o."

“So… does James know?”

Sirius looks away, jaw clenched. “No. And he can’t. Not yet.”

Remus nods slowly. “If she’s trying to figure out what she feels, the last thing she needs is pressure.”

Peter frowns. “But he still loves her, doesn’t he?”

Sirius swallows.

“He never stopped.”

The boys are still huddled in the dorm—Remus on the edge of his bed, Sirius half-lying on his, Peter nervously swinging his legs—when the door creaks open.

James walks in.

Hair damp, tie loose, cheeks a little flushed from racing upstairs. There’s a brightness to him. That usual glow. But it’s… quieter lately. He’s trying, and everyone can see it.

“Alright, what’s going on?”

He pauses mid-step, brows raised as he takes in the room. The energy is tense, tight like a pulled thread.

Remus instantly looks down, pretending to flip a page in his journal.

Peter nearly chokes on his own spit and starts coughing loudly.

Sirius—ever the composed one—leans back and throws a casual arm over the edge of the bed. “Going on? Nothing’s going on. Why would something be going on?”

James stares at him. “Because all three of you look like you just buried a body.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Prongs,” Sirius says, but he’s avoiding James’s eyes now, spinning a quill between his fingers.

Remus clears his throat. “We were just… talking. About that new Astronomy essay. Vector’s is due next week.”

Peter nods. A little too hard. “Yeah. Very important stars. Super… starry.”

James narrows his eyes. “You lot are terrible liars.”

No one answers.

He lets the silence hang for a moment longer. Then he sighs and rakes a hand through his hair.

“Is this about her?” he asks, voice lower now, cautious. “Y/N?”

Everyone goes very still.

Remus closes his journal. Slowly. Peter’s eyes dart to Sirius.

Sirius—cool, unreadable Sirius—shrugs, but his voice is gentler this time. “No one said anything about her.”

James swallows, gaze fixed on the carpet.

Then he nods, like he’s pretending it doesn’t hurt. “Right. Yeah. Just thought maybe…”

But he doesn’t finish. He just forces a smile and walks over to his trunk, rifling through it for something he doesn’t need.

Behind him, Sirius exhales quietly, and Remus shoots him a warning glance like: not yet.

Because James doesn’t know.

And if he did?

He’d never be able to pretend again.

..

The cobbled streets of Hogsmeade shimmer with melted snow, and your fingers are frozen around the paper bag of sweets Amos bought you.

Pumpkin fudge.

You hate pumpkin fudge.

But Amos doesn’t know that.

He’s talking again—some long-winded story about a Ravenclaw Beater and a near-miss Bludger—and you try to nod along, but it’s like your head’s full of fog.

You’re just outside Honeydukes when it happens.

The door to Zonko’s swings open across the street, and James steps out. Sirius and Peter flank him, laughing loudly, the kind of laughter that feels contagious. James is mid-joke, his eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the cold—

—and then he sees you.

Everything goes still.

You swear you hear your heartbeat echo off the snow.

His smile falters. Just a little. The barest hitch in the easy curve of his mouth.

Your eyes lock.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

And then, just like that—he looks away. Turns back to Sirius like you were never there.

Like he hadn’t once carried you to the Hospital Wing. Like he hadn’t once written you letters so full of love they felt like gravity.

“Y/N?”

You blink. Amos is frowning.

“What was that about?” he asks, gesturing with his chin toward James, who’s already vanishing down the lane.

You look down, heart thudding. “Nothing.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

“I said it’s nothing.” Your voice is sharper now. It surprises even you.

Amos crosses his arms. “You’ve been off all day. Actually—longer than that. Since last week, I think. You barely look at me during meals, you always say you're tired, and now you're staring at Potter like he's—like he's—”

He stops himself. But the implication is loud in the silence between you.

“Like he's what?” you ask, quiet.

Amos hesitates. “Do you still fancy him?”

The question hits you like a hex to the chest.

Did you fancy James for a little while after you started talking to Amos? No. Maybe. Probably..

Did you tell anyone? Oh heeeeeelll no.

It's just a small crush. You thought. I'l get over it.

And you did. For a while, sure.

“I—no. I mean—” You look away. “I don’t know.”

His eyebrows lift. “You don’t know?”

You hate this. Hate how you're making him feel. How you feel. Torn in pieces and pulled in directions you can’t make sense of.

“I just… I need time,” you murmur, not even sure what you're asking for.

Amos lets out a bitter laugh. “Right. Time.”

You can’t look at him.

Because he’s good. Kind. He deserves better than someone whose heart skips for a boy who wrote love letters and buried them in drawers.

“Let me walk you back,” he says after a beat, voice tight.

You nod, but you walk in silence. Side by side but oceans apart.

And James’s eyes still haunt you.

..

The corridor is empty except for the soft flicker of torchlight and the weight of everything you’ve been holding in.

Lily doesn’t say anything. She just walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours as you step into the quiet, unused hallway near the Divination staircase—the one that always smells faintly like lavender and dust.

You sit on the windowsill. Hug your knees. Stare out at the fading light like it might offer an answer.

“Y/N,” Lily says gently, “you haven’t smiled properly in days.”

You swallow hard.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Her brow furrows.

“I should be happy. Amos is… he’s kind. And steady. And he likes me. Everything’s easy with him. Safe.”

A pause.

“But it doesn’t feel right anymore.”

You rest your forehead on your knees. “It’s like I’m with him, and all I can think about is someone else. The way someone else used to look at me. The way he knew me. Without ever having to ask.”

Just around the corner, James stops walking.

He hadn’t meant to overhear.

He’d been trailing behind the group after dinner, letting Sirius and Remus wander off ahead, when he heard your voice. Fragile. Real.

And the sound of his name—not said aloud, but written into the cracks of everything you were saying.

He inches closer, just enough to hear.

“I feel awful,” you whisper. “Like I’m lying every time I smile at Amos. Because part of me is somewhere else. With someone else. Someone I never really gave a chance to.”

Lily doesn’t ask who. She doesn’t need to.

But James?

He already knows.

And he backs away, hand trembling slightly as he grips the stone wall beside him.

Because that ache in your voice—it’s the same one in his chest.

And even though he only caught pieces, it’s enough.

It’s enough to make him want to hope again.

Even if it terrifies him.

..

The fire in the common room is low, just embers now. Most students have gone up to bed. It’s only Sirius and James, sprawled out on the worn leather couches like they used to when they were kids sneaking out for stolen Butterbeer and bad jokes.

But there’s no laughter tonight.

James hasn’t said much since dinner.

He’s staring into the flames, absently bouncing a Chocolate Frog card between his fingers. His hair’s still damp from the shower. His shirt’s rumpled. His usual glow is dimmed. Tired around the edges.

Sirius watches him. Quiet. Restless.

“You alright, Prongs?” he finally asks.

James doesn’t look away from the fire. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

James exhales through his nose. “No. But I will be.”

Sirius shifts in his seat. Elbows on his knees now, tapping his fingers together like he’s working up to something.

“You saw her today, didn’t you?” he asks, voice low.

James says nothing.

“She looked at you like she wanted to say something.”

Still nothing.

“And you looked away.”

James finally speaks. “What do you want me to say, Pads?”

Sirius leans back. “That maybe you’re still in love with her.”

The card in James’s hand stills.

Another silence.

He closes his eyes. Rubs his jaw. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this.”

Sirius studies him. “She’s not happy, James. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” James snaps, sharper than intended. “She chose Diggory.”

Sirius scoffs. “You really think this is about choosing?”

“She’s with him, Sirius.” James’s voice cracks at the edge, but he clenches his jaw, hard. “Whatever I felt—whatever I feel—it’s irrelevant now.”

Sirius watches him, eyes softening. “She’s still yours. In the quiet ways. The stuff that counts.”

James stands abruptly. Walks to the fireplace, hands gripping the mantle.

“I’m not talking about this.”

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say she read the letters. She’s falling apart, too. It’s not over, James. Not yet.

But James turns to him, and the look in his eyes is final.

Tired. Guarded. Shattered.

“Just… don’t.”

And Sirius doesn’t.

Because as much as he wants to fight for them—James needs to be ready to fight for himself first.

So he nods once, slowly.

Lets the silence return.

Lets James breathe.

Even if it hurts.

..

You slump onto your bed. The door creaks open and Lily slips inside, followed by Marlene and Dorcas. They don’t say a word, just sit around you like a quiet circle of safety.

Lily’s eyes are soft but serious.

“Talk to us,” she says.

You shrug, avoiding their gaze.

“I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

Marlene leans forward, voice low but direct.

“That’s not an answer, Y/N. You do know.”

“No, I don’t,” you whisper. “I’m just... stuck. I care about him. I want to care about him. But every time I’m with him, I feel like I’m someone else.”

Dorcas nods slowly.

“You’re spinning him around. And yourself. It’s exhausting.”

You bury your face in your hands.

“But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m just scared to be alone?”

Lily shakes her head firmly.

“You’re not alone. And you’re not wrong for wanting more. You deserve to be with someone who sees you. Not a version of you that fits their story.”

Marlene crosses her arms.

“You have to break up with Amos. Don’t keep pretending or spinning this any longer.”

You pull your hands down, eyes glossy with tears.

“But what if I hurt him? What if it’s not fair?”

Dorcas reaches over, squeezing your hand.

“It’s better to be honest now than to stay and lose yourself completely. You deserve to be happy, Y/N.”

Lily smiles softly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

“And we’ll be right here. No matter what.”

You take a shaky breath. For the first time in days, you feel a flicker of clarity.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll figure it out.”

..

You find him sitting on a fallen log near the water, tossing pebbles one by one. The sunset paints the sky in bruised pinks and golds, but you barely notice.

Your heart pounds so loud you think he must hear it.

You swallow hard.

“Amos...” you begin, voice trembling.

He looks up, hopeful but wary.

“I need to be honest,” you say. “I’ve been... distant. And it’s not fair to you.”

He nods slowly, eyes searching yours.

“I don’t think I’m the person you thought I was,” you continue, voice stronger now. “Or maybe I am, but I’m not who I want to be. Not with you.”

His brow furrows.

“I don’t understand.”

“I care about you. I care a lot,” you admit, tears slipping down your cheeks. “But that’s not enough. I’m scared I’m holding you back because I don’t know how to be who I really am when I’m with you.”

He looks crushed.

“So... what does that mean?”

You meet his gaze, steady despite the ache.

“It means we need to stop. Before this becomes something we both regret. You deserve someone who loves you without hesitation. Someone who can be fully there. And right now, that’s not me.”

He swallows, then nods.

“If that’s what you want... I just want you to be happy.”

You blink away your tears.

“Thank you for everything, Amos. You were a good boyfriend, really.”

You stand, the weight lifting even as your chest tightens.

You turn away, leaving behind the ache of what wasn’t meant to be, and stepping toward the truth you’ve been avoiding for too long.

..

The Gryffindor dorm was alive with the usual noise of restless boys — laughter echoing, a stray pillow flying through the air, books shuffled and parchment rustled. Sirius was sprawled on his bed, smirking as he lobbed another pillow at Remus, who was trying, and failing, to focus on a hefty book about magical creatures. Peter sat on the edge of a chair, fiddling nervously with the corner of a parchment, casting quick glances at the others.

Sirius’s sharp eyes caught Peter’s uneasy expression, and he called out with a warning grin, “Wormtail, don’t you even think about it.”

Remus’s voice was low but firm. “Seriously, Pete. Keep your mouth shut.”

Peter swallowed hard, looking like he was trying to keep a secret that weighed heavily on him. His gaze flicked to James, who was lazily cleaning his broomstick but clearly curious about the quiet tension.

James sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Alright, what’s going on? Why the sudden hush? You’re all acting like I’m about to get hexed or something.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and tossed another pillow toward Peter’s head, but this time he caught it mid-air, cheeks flushing. “No, it’s nothing. Just some dumb gossip.”

Remus gave Peter a pleading look — don’t say anything, the look screamed.

Peter hesitated, biting his lip. Then, as if the pressure became too much, he blurted out, “Rememberthelettersyouwrotewelly/nsawthemandsheknowsaboutyourcrush”

The room went silent so quickly it was like the air itself had stopped.

James blinked, caught completely off guard. “What? I didn’t get a single thing.”

Sirius threw a pillow at Peter’s face “Our silly pete is just sayin’ he’s hungry, right Pete?”

Peter’s voice dropped to a nervous whisper,

“Y/N found the letters..”

“Oh for fucks sake” Sirius groaned and Remus buried his face into his pillow.

Time seemed to freeze.

James’s eyes widened in shock. “She did what?!”

Remus grabbed Peter’s arm firmly, shaking his head. “You have no idea how much trouble you just caused.”

James pushed himself off his bed, pacing with his hands tangled in his hair. His voice cracked with disbelief and frustration. “Why didn’t any of you tell me? What the hell were you thinking, keeping that from me?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, exasperated but trying to keep calm. “We thought it was better if you didn’t know right away. We didn’t want to make things worse.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t an easy thing to keep quiet. But Y/N was struggling, and we wanted to protect you both.”

James let out a bitter laugh, voice shaking with anger and hurt. “Protect me? By leaving me in the dark while she carried this alone? She’s been hurting because of me, and you all just sat there, silent?”

Peter looked down, ashamed.

James stopped pacing and faced them, eyes blazing. “You think this was easy? For me? I should’ve known. I needed to know. How can I fix anything if I’m left in the dark?”

Sirius sighed heavily, his usual cocky attitude replaced with something more serious. “Look, mate, we didn’t want to break your heart even more. You didn’t know how bad it was.”

James shook his head slowly, voice low and painful. “I’m not a child. I deserve the truth. And I deserve to know what’s going on with her — with us.”

The room fell quiet again, the weight of James’s words settling like a stone.

Remus stepped forward carefully, trying to ease the tension. “We’ll tell you everything when you’re ready. Just... give Y/N space, too.”

James ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Yeah. Space. Right.”

He looked at each of them, eyes burning with emotion. “Next time you think about keeping something like this from me, remember how it feels to find out like this. From a slip-up.”

Sirius cracked a small smile, trying to lighten the mood, but it was thin. “Point taken, mate.”

Peter gave a small, guilty nod. “Sorry, James. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

After what felt like years of James pacing around the room, he rubbed his face, trying to calm down. “I just... I need to figure out what to do now.”

The Marauders exchanged looks, knowing this was only the beginning.

taglist: @glittervame @strlightfilms @simp-for-fiction @natalia42069 @miapotterismyfav @bellatrixscurls @gulugulukaboom @mgg55lovr @mgg55lovr @hawaii2320 @andrewgarfieldislife @yasministration

part three?

[alisonsfics]

the art of collaboration

pairing: bucky barnes x reader x john walker (winter agent x reader)

summary: bucky and walker couldn’t stand each other, and that was before they both starting competing for your affection. you remind them that there’s much more productive ways to get their energy out.

word count: 4k

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, threesome, oral sex (f recieving), fingering, double penetration sex, anal, bucky reader and bucky have a past as fwb, lots of jealousy, dirty talk, mini praise kink, minors DNI

All of it echoed in your mind. Your friends yelling at you, trying to get your attention. The blade that sliced your arm. And then the detonation. It was all a blur after that.

It was your fault.

You and the rest of the team were sent on a mission— it was all very standard. There was a covert science team running illegal experiments. The team’s task was to bring in the leaders and retrieve all the data from the experiments. The data had crucial details about different buyers and sellers who’d helped keep the experiments running.

Everything was going according to plan— until it wasn’t. The rest of the team got caught in a cage that fell from the ceiling because you accidentally stepped on a pressure plate.

You didn’t even see the lead scientist sneak up behind you until he sliced your arm with a dagger. He snuck away and hit a detonate button on the way out.

It was only because of your friends that you all made it out alive.

They could’ve died. And their blood would be on your hands.

You were now sat towards the back of the jet, away from all the others. They weren’t mad at you, but you felt guilty and embarrassed.

Bucky was the first to come over to try to comfort you. You and Bucky had a long history.

Steve introduced you both after the Sokovia Accords incident, where you were both labeled enemies of the state.

You, Steve, Bucky, and Nat had been on the run together. Long nights with Bucky turned into long conversations which led to a growing bond. You both confided in each other— both of you having dark pasts.

Then, one night that friendship turned into something else. Steve and Nat had gone to fetch resources, leaving you and Bucky alone at the abandoned house you were all staying in.

Bucky accidentally walked in on you changing, but when he turned around to leave, you pulled him back towards you. It was fueled by loneliness. You both wanted to feel wanted by someone— even just for one night.

It became way more than a one night thing.

Neither of you wanted to ruin your friendship, so you suggested being friends with benefits. The last remaining bit of 1940s morals that Bucky had were in shock. After his shock wore off, he agreed.

You both only called things off after the battle against Thanos.

Neither of you had even brought it up since joining the Thunderbolts.

Bucky sat down beside you. “You can’t beat yourself up for what happened.” He told you, softly. You shook your head. “Buck, it was all my fault. I did everything wrong. What if you had gotten hurt or died? That would be on me, nobody else.” You argued.

He hesitantly took your hand in his. He leaned in closer to you, so no one would overhear him. “You once told me that when you looked at me, you didn’t see my mistakes. You said my heart spoke louder than my mistakes. I look at you the same way.” He told you, genuinely.

His words brought tears to your eyes. You leaned your head onto his shoulder. “I don’t know what I would have done if I lost you, Bucky.” You admitted. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. He was one of the few constants in your life.

“I can’t care this much. It put the team at risk. I can’t be so worried about your safety that I put the entire team in jeopardy.” You told him, pulling away from his touch. He went back to join the others, knowing you needed your space.

“Keep it in your pants, Barnes. She’s distraught. Now is not the time to make a move.” John scoffed at him. It wasn’t the first time they’d fought over you. Bucky gave him a quick jab in the ribs before returning to his book.

When you all landed at the tower, you went straight to your bedroom. You wanted to be alone, little did you know that John was hot on your trail.

He caught your bedroom door before you closed it. “Wait up,” he called, closing your door behind him.

You spun around. “What’re you doing here?” You asked, wiping away the tears that had been on your cheeks moments earlier.

“I wanted to check on you.” He said, closing the distance between the two of you. He wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a hug. You felt yourself lean into his touch as you broke down sobbing.

He squeezed you tighter. He hated seeing you upset. He hadn’t known you for very long, but he found himself thinking about you more often.

He softly stroked your hair, trying to bring you any comfort he could. “Let’s get you cleaned up, princess.” He murmured into your hair.

He felt his heart melt when you pulled away and he saw your red eyes. He cupped your cheeks, wiping away your tears.

You sat down onto your bed, while he made his way over to your dresser. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and tshirt for you. It was the first time you’d gotten to see John be this caring. It was easy to imagine him as a romantic partner or a dad.

He kneeled in front of you, taking off your combat boots. He moved onto the zipper of your suit, unzipping it all the way. He pulled down your suit, until you were left in a black bra and panties.

He ignored the part of his brain that had always dreamed of seeing you like this. It wasn’t time for that. And that wasn’t why he was helping you. He was comforting you because he cared about you.

He closely examined the cut on your arm. “It really fucking stings,” you hissed.

“I’ll clean it up.” He said, grabbing the medical supplies he knew were in your bathroom. He cleaned and bandaged your arm with a gentleness that was a direct contrast to his strength as a super soldier.

“There we go, princess. I’ll even kiss it better,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss against the bandage. You surprised yourself when you giggled at the gesture. That laugh was melodic to John’s ears.

He quickly helped you get dressed into the clothes he’d grabbed. “Do you need me to grab you anything else, princess?” He asked stroking some of your hair behind your ear.

“Stay with me?” You asked him, softly. The frailty he heard in your voice could make him give in to every one of your desires.

He nodded, giving you a soft smile. “I’ll go to my room and get changed out of my gear. Then, I’ll be right back. I promise.” He kissed the back of your hand before leaving.

You curled up under the duvet, trying to ignore the flashbacks to the mission that kept popping into your head. You turned a movie on, so you could quiet the voices in your head.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” you replied, softly.

John snuck into your room, wearing a tight black shirt and grey sweatpants. You definitely took notice.

He lifted up the duvet and crawled in beside you. His body was practically radiating heat. You curled into his touch, resting your head on his chest.

“You look so pretty like this.” He said, weaving his fingers through your hair and scratching your scalp. You hummed, contently. “You like that?” He asked you, softly.

You nodded, caressing his chest with your fingers. “Don’t stop. It feels so nice.” You told him.

You both focused on the movie, enjoying the other’s company. You pulled yourself closer to him, throwing one of your legs over his hip. He tried to fight the smirk on his face.

He grasped at the back of your thigh, letting his hand slowly dip down to rest on your ass. He waited to see if you’d pull away. You didn’t. In fact, he thought he saw a smile on your face.

He swore under his breath when his phone dinged beside him.

A text from Yelena popped up: “You need to do your debrief mission report. I don’t make the rules.”

“Ahh fuck, princess. I have to fill out a stupid report really quick, but I’ll come right back. You be okay without me?” He asked.

You nodded. “Go ahead. You know where to find me.” You replied.

A few seconds after he left, there was a quick knock at the door. That was fast, John. “Come in,” you said.

You were surprised to see Bucky standing in your room. You pulled yourself up into a sitting position. “What’re you doing here?” You asked him. Your shock was written all over your face.

It brought back too many memories of Bucky sneaking into your room late at night.

“I didn’t want you to be alone.” He said, gently. He stood still— waiting for any sign from you to proceed. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you hadn’t been alone.

Then, you saw the mischievous glint in his eye. You didn’t know how but you knew he knew you hadn’t been alone.

“I really don’t want to talk about the mission anymore.” You told him, honestly.

“That’s okay, sweets. Whatever you need.” He said, walking around to the other side of the bed. He grabbed two phones and his wallet out of his pocket and set them on the beside table.

“Is that Yelena's phone?” You asked, recognized the sparkly navy blue phone case.

“Maybe,” he winked, shrugging at you. You were left stunned as you realized he sent the message to get John away. He sat down onto the mattress beside you. “Why do you both get on each other’s nerves so much?” You asked him, curiously.

Bucky and John were always butting heads, but it was starting to become more frequent. And most of the time, their arguments were centered around you— who got to sit next to you at dinner, who got to train with you, etc.

“I hate watching him drool over you, sweets.” He almost growled. Just the mental image of how John stared at you when you entered a room was enough to send a chill down Bucky’s spine.

Before you knew it, Bucky’s hands were on your back. His large fingers massaged your muscles the way he knew you loved. Old habits kicked in as he perfectly kneaded the knots in your back.

You whimpered, arching your back. “Still know you better than anyone, sweets,” he whispered into your ear. His breath against the back of your neck made goosebumps appear down your arms.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss against the base of your throat. He slowly moved up, peppering soft kisses on your neck and collarbone.

The kisses turned sloppier. “Bucky, what’re you doing?” Your breath hitched in your throat. He waited a minute before responding. He left wet kisses all over your skin.

“Just trying to make you feel better,” he said simply. He still knew your body like the back of his hand. He started sucking on the skin behind your ear— knowing it would make you squirm and lean into him.

Your breaths came out light and airy. “Missed you,” you mumbled, reminiscing.

The door to your room swung open, revealing John. His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him. Your eyes softly closed as Bucky worked on giving you a hickey.

“Come on, Barnes. This is just desperate.” John scoffed, causing the two of you to jump apart.

“Oh look, Walker here to ruin the day, just on schedule.” Bucky rolled his eyes. Bucky got up from spot next to you, going toe to toe with John.

“Move on, old man. She doesn’t want someone like you.” John taunted. The only reaction he got out of Bucky was a chuckle— a chuckle that let John know he only knew the half of it.

“Really? Cause we have ten years of history that disagree.” Bucky said, winking over at you. John’s hand curled into a ball. He glanced over at you. From the look on your face, he knew Bucky wasn’t bluffing.

“Well you clearly weren’t leaving her satisfied enough if she came to me. Don’t worry, princess. I know how to take care of you.” John responded.

The two were scowling at each other, and you wondered how long you had until one of them chose violence.

“What if I want you both?” Your voice came out small and weak. Their necks both snapped as they quickly looked over at you. They looked like their eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. “What do you mean, sweets?” Bucky asked.

He wanted to make sure that this was really what you wanted before he went any further. “I’m so tired of being the logical one all the time. I just want to be selfish for once and do something that feels good.” You explained, pulling your hair into a ponytail.

Bucky and John both looked at each other— there was an unspoken agreement. Their feud? Didn’t matter right now. You needed them, and that was all they cared about.

“You want the two of us to take care of you, princess?” John asked, slotting himself behind you on the bed. He raked his hands down your sides, playfully squeezing your hips.

His fingers found the hem of your tshirt and started to tug it over your head. Bucky grabbed the waistband of your sweatpants, slowly pulling them down your legs. They both didn’t waste any time stripping down to their boxers, letting the rest of their clothes land in the pile on the floor.

Bucky kneeled on the mattress in front of you. He noticed the way your thighs clenched together as you looked at him. “You gonna let me see how wet you are?” He asked you. You quickly nodded your head, biting down on your lip.

It was all too natural for Bucky to jump back into this setting. There was something familiar but also new about it.

He hooked his fingers in your panties and tore them off your legs. “Oh, fuck. You’re dripping, sweets. All this from the thought of two super soldiers fucking you.” Bucky groaned.

“I can smell you from here. You smell so sweet, princess. You gonna give Bucky a taste?” John whispered in your ear.

“Please, Bucky,” you begged him.

John sat down with his back against the headboard, slowing spreading his legs and pulling you to sit with your back against his chest. Bucky crawled up between your legs.

There was a popping sound as John unclasped your bra and threw it onto the floor. His hands roughly reached forward and grabbed your breasts. You whined, letting your eyes flutter shut.

You felt Bucky throw your legs over his shoulders as he licked a thick stripe through your folds. You squirmed against Bucky's tongue, high-pitched moans leaving your lips.

John softly pinched your nipples, making a jolt run through your body. “Right there, Buck, please,” you whimpered as Bucky’s nose rubbed against your clit.

Your hands flew down to John’s bare thighs, sinking your fingers into the meaty flesh. Your nails left little crescent indents. “Look so pretty squirming like this,” John praised you in your ear. Bucky shared a similar sentiment, so he sped up his pace.

John loved feeling the way your back arched against him. There was no space between the two of you.

Bucky drew figure eights on your clit with his tongue. Every time you squirmed, he tightened his grip your thighs.

Every inch of your skin was on fire. Every touch from the men seared into your skin and your memory.

Your stomach felt tight as Bucky swirled his tongue around your clit. You called out his name, one of your hands flying down to grab onto Bucky’s hair. You held his head still, grinding down against him.

A mix of a groan and moan left his lips— the soft vibration made your belly tingle. Bucky always loved when you manhandled him when he was going down on you.

You clenched your thighs around Bucky’s head, feeling the room start to spin. “Gotta keep these wide open,” John said, grabbing onto your thighs and pulling them apart as far as he could.

The feeling of Bucky’s mouth on you was too much for you to handle. You kept one hand wrapped up in Bucky’s hair, while your other hand snuck back and cupped the back of John’s head. You were clinging to them both like you needed them to live.

“Go ahead, princess. You can do it, cum for us.” John coaxed you, placing kisses along your shoulder blades.

John’s touch was soft and gentle— pulling you back down to earth. While Bucky’s touch was hungry and electric, and made you soar.

Your breathing quickened, tightening your grip on both the men. “I’m gonna, oh— fuck, baby,” you screamed.

Your high hit you all at once. John kept your thighs spread for Bucky, allowing him to press kisses against your clit while you gasped for air. You threw your head back against John’s shoulder.

“So fucking beautiful,” Bucky swore when he finally came up for air.

He leaned towards you, kissing you gently as you recovered from your orgasm. You tasted yourself on his lips. It made you hungry for more.

You reached backwards, grasping for John’s shoulders. “You want to have John fuck you now? Want him to fill you up really good?” Bucky teased you.

The wind was knocked out of you— and your body was exhausted. Both from the long mission earlier in the day and from Bucky’s mouth.

“So tired, but I need you so bad, John.” You guided his fingers towards the slickness between your legs.

He swore under his breath when he felt your arousal soak his fingers. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll do all the work— gonna fill up this pretty cunt.” He told you.

Bucky moved to the end of the bed, slipping his hand into his boxers as he watched you both. Watching you with someone else meant Bucky didn’t miss a second of seeing you come undone.

John laid you down on your side and then laid himself down in front of you. He saw the fatigue in your eyes, but also saw the neediness.

He roughly grabbed your top leg and hooked it over his hips. “You need my cock so bad, you’re gonna let me fuck you sideways, princess?” He asked.

You eagerly nodded your head. “Please, John. Fill me up,” you were begging him.

“Fill you up with what, honey? You want my fingers?” He teased you. He knew damn well exactly what you needed. He pushed two fingers into you, softly pumping them in and out of you.

You whimpered as he curled his fingers inside of you. “It’s not enough, John. I need your cock, please. Need to feel you,” you said, reaching down and palming him through his boxers.

“Fuck, princess,” he groaned. The sight of you begging for him was too much. He rutted his hips against your hand.

Quickly shedding his boxers, John lined his cock up with your leaking entrance. He practically groaned just imagining how easily he’d be able to slip into you.

“Oh, wait a minute. You have any condoms in here?” John asked you. Every second he waited without being inside you was painful. “Second drawer, right side,” Bucky mumbled, gesturing towards the bedside table.

Bucky groaned as John rummaged through the drawer. Bucky tightened his grip on his cock, letting his eyes linger on the arousal that was coating the inside of your thighs.

“How do you know…?” John’s brain started to fill in the rest.

“Old habits, remember,” Bucky teased.

“Grab two,” you mumbled, breathlessly. They both froze. You grabbed Bucky’s hand and pulled him towards you. “You gonna take us both, sweets? You need two super soldiers to feel full?” Bucky asked. His shock was written all over his face.

He nestled himself behind you, grabbing your hips greedily. They both quickly slipped on the condoms, not wanting to wait any longer. “Don’t worry, we’ll start gentle.” Bucky whispered into your ear.

John hooked your leg around his hip again, prodding your entrance with his cock. You sunk your teeth into his shoulder as he pushed through your folds slowly. “Fuck, you feel so tight, princess.” He groaned.

He only pushed half his cock inside of you, letting you adjust to his size. Then, you felt Bucky’s hand on your hip, possessively. He pushed you towards John. It felt like you were splitting you open as John bottomed out, his hips rubbing flush against yours.

John let out a choked moan. You couldn’t even adjust to the feeling before you felt Bucky’s cock plunging into you. You swore under your breath.

You felt such a fullness that you couldn’t even move. “Just a second, oh god,” you moaned, clinging to John’s shoulders.

Your skin was on fire. You were sandwiched between the two men that towered over you. John pressed up against your chest and Bucky shoved against your back.

The heat radiating off their skin made it hard to focus. Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist, holding his hand against your stomach. The cold sting of the metal provided a perfect relief.

“Can feel how full you are, sweets,” Bucky said, feeling the pressure in your abdomen with his hand.

Bucky wished you could see how good you looked being stuffed full by both men. He pressed kisses down your throat and onto your shoulder. “You’re takin’ us so well, princess. You ready for us to move?” John asked gently.

John started thrusting into you first, with Bucky not far behind him. “Shit, princess. Keep squeezing my cock like this, and I’m not gonna last very long.” John swore.

Then, they found a rhythm, both of them snapping their hips into you at the same time. “You wanna make her cum, Walker? Talk dirty to her,” Bucky instructed, remembering the trick he’d learned a long time ago.

John noticed the way your eyes shot open, questioning if you heard him right. That assured him that Bucky was telling the truth. “Wouldn’t expect that from a sweet little thing like you, princess? Is Bucky telling the truth?” John asked, tightened his grip on you as he kept pounding into you.

“Uh huh,” you tried to respond as your mouth hung open. Your brain couldn’t focus on anything besides the way they were thrusting into you with super soldier pace.

The noises coming from where their bodies met yours were pornographic. “Look at that, princess. You’re coating my cock so well. Feels like your tight little cunt is made for me— squeezing me so perfect.” He moaned, rocking his hips against yours.

“Didn’t know you liked it so dirty, sweets. It’s not even enough for you to have one of us. You need to have all your holes filled?” Bucky coaxed. Bucky knew you were close from the way you were panting.

A wave of pleasure washed over you as the base of John’s cock brushed up against his clit. When he did it again, you knew it wasn’t accidental.

“I want to cum,” you begged them.

“Go ahead, princess. Cum for us.” John instructed. The room started spinning. You were too full— too full to handle. Deep grunts came from both the men.

Your orgasm hit you. “Oh shit… I’m—” you gasped.

“Me too, sweets,” Bucky panted in your ear, shooting hot ropes into the condom.

Bucky's thrusts slowed down as John continued pounding into you, chasing his own high. “Come on, John, sweetie. Cum for me,” you praised him.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunted, his thrusts faltering as he came.

They both coaxed you down from your high. Bucky’s cold metal fingers tracing down your back, following your spine. John caressed your thigh, which was still haphazardly thrown over his hip.

“So pretty when you cum, princess,” John whispered, kissing your cheek.

“I agree, sweets. You did such a good job takin’ us so well.” Bucky praised you as well.

Their sweaty bodies clung to yours. “Fuck, I need a shower.” You panted.

“Would you like some company? Room for two maybe?” Bucky whispered in your ear. You knew you were in for a long night.

taglist: @laurakirsten0502 @miraclesoflove @nathaliabakes @millipop18 @lillyssh-tposts @shyinadarkplace @vanteguccir @missroro @guiltandguitarstrings @sw33t-cupid @ice-dtae @leyannrae @sia2raw @nyx2021 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @shyconversationalbookworm @shadowhuntyi @iamavailablesstuff @superdeath @wandaswifeyforlifey @spookyqueen @mcuswhore  @astheskycries @n3ssm0nique @peakascum @cjand10 @namsey1987 @supernaturalstilinski @stephv213 @warriormirkwood @one-sweet-gubler @narliesstuff @bibissparkles @stupiidfrogs @navs-bhat @marvelcasey05 @velyssaraptor @amanda08319 @sunwardsss @studentville-struggles @impossibleapricotlampbat @infjwinchester44 @weirdfishy @lickmymelaninn @eternally-timeless @andreasworlsboring101 @glassesandthunderthighs @spiderstyles04 @mostly-marvel-musings @madisondelstan @spookyparadisesheep @beyondthesefourwalls @basicfangirlx @rivirox

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for all my fics or for a specific character/fandom!!

[mariacallous]

You can oppose war and still condemn terror.

You can grieve for Gaza and innocent life and still say that burning Jews alive is wrong.

You can challenge Israeli policy and still know that Jews everywhere are not responsible for it.

If you care about justice, say something. Stand for what is right. Do not let hate go unanswered.

Why? Because there is no liberation in setting people on fire. There is no justice in chasing Jews from public spaces. There is no righteousness in staying silent. And you should know that hatred that is allowed to grow never stays contained. It always spreads. It always finds new victims and the people peddling in it will always create new grievances to justify more violence.

Say something. Silence is not love. Silence feels like abandonment. And silence will certainly not protect us. We need you to speak up. We have marched beside you. We have prayed with you. We have stood together for justice. Please do not disappear. We are still here. We need to know that you are too.

The antisemitic attacks are painful. The silence from our trusted partners is excruciating.

[kuncitizen]

If I say your name

Synopsis: You never say his name. Not when you kiss him, not when he’s inside you, not even when you fall apart in his arms. But he keeps coming back, like he’s trying to fuck the ghost of someone else out of your mouth. And you let him pretend.

Pairing: Gojo satoru x reader, Getou suguru x reader

W.c. 2.1k

Content. MDNI fem!reader, friends with benefits, oral (fem rec.), desperate longing, first aid as foreplay, deeply intimate and charged, teasing, slow domination, possibly unrequited feelings, heavy feelings, whispered dirty talk, breath control, abandonment, tangled bodies, body worship, finger lickin' good (literally), very slight hand fetish, P in V, raw want, penetration, lingering touches, god i cried while writing this, I don't fuck around with the angst people

A/N This might be my mangum opus

The water runs red at your feet.

It’s not the first time, and it definitely won’t be the last. You stare down at the stream as if it might speak back. As if it might carry the parts of you that feel loose, wrong, splintered, down the drain with it.

It’s not enough.

Not hot enough, not loud enough, not clean enough.

The steam chokes the air, curls around your head like a noose. Your ribs throb where the cursed spirit’s claws tore through you, angry, precise, almost tender in that cruel, intimate way pain sometimes is.

You don’t flinch. Not when the sting cuts across broken skin, not when your fingers shake while washing dried blood off your neck. Not even when your own reflection in the fogged-up mirror looks like a stranger.

You lean your forehead against the tile. It’s cool and solid, something to anchor to.

Don’t cry. You tell yourself. You haven’t in years, and you won’t start now. Not over this. Not over what it means to come back alive but still feel like you’ve left something behind.

You don’t have to look. You can feel him through the door.

He’s there—waiting, like he always is. Like he was made to wait for you, even if you were never coming back.

Not because you called, not because there’s anything left to say. Only because that’s what he always does.

Gojo stays quietly, without asking why. As if this is a part of his routine. Just another night.

When you walked in earlier—limping, silent, dried blood streaked down your arm—he didn’t ask questions.

The way his eyes lingered, though, said more than enough.

He didn’t ask what happened, didn’t pry or crack a joke to lighten the air. He just opened the door, nodded once, and offered the shower. Left clean clothes and a towel folded neatly on the sink.

Gojo now sat outside the bathroom, legs stretched across the cold marble, the chill seeping through the fabric of his pants. His back rested against the wall, shoulders tense, hands slack in his lap. Like a sentry at a gate, guarding something fragile.

Guarding you.

Like he’s not drowning in worst-case scenarios behind that white, blindfolded smile he saves for everyone but you.

Like he’s not trapped in an endless loop of guilt, whispering blame into the cracks of his own mind for not being there when you needed him.

Like his chest didn’t tighten, sharply and unbearably, when you walked in looking like that.

Gojo doesn’t need to see to know.

You pull the shower knob, and twist it off, the rush of water dying along with it. You’re left in silence, wet hair clinging to your cheeks. Blood is still smeared faintly on your thigh. You dry off with slow, mechanical movements, like you're not really there.

You pull on the shirt he left behind—soft cotton, loose and multiple sizes too big, falling past your thighs. It smells like him. Citrusy, woody, and something quieter beneath it, something warm and sweet. Almost safe.

You hate that it makes your chest tighten.

You open the door. Steam spills into the hallway like breath, curling around your figure.

Gojo finally lifts his head.

He’s sitting against the wall, long legs stretched out, hands clasped in his lap. He’s not smiling, but his features soften when he sees you. That’s worse somehow.

“Sorry,” you say, voice rough. “Used your shampoo.”

His lips twitch. A small sound escapes him, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Scandalous. You’ll smell better than me.”

You shrug,

And even the small movement stings. You pretend it doesn’t. But his gaze drops to the way you flinch and stays there too long.

“Sit,” he says, voice quiet now. “Let me see.”

You don’t move.

He doesn’t say it again, just waits. That’s the thing with Gojo. He never forces, never demands. Just offers—like someone who knows what it’s like to have everything taken.

And you trust him.

So you sit at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping gently beneath your weight.

The towel sits on your shoulders, the only thing between you and everything he might see. His shirt clutched in your hand but not on yet. Vulnerability like this should feel cold, but with him, it never does.

Gojo kneels in front of you, eyes drawn to the fading red mark where the blood used to pool.

Ocean eyes track every inch of your skin, slow and careful, as he snaps open the first aid kit with a tenderness that doesn’t belong in moments like these—like touching you is sacred somehow, even when you're wounded up.

You wonder if he’s always like this when something feels like it might fall apart.

He peels back the gauze, and your breath stutters in your throat, not from the pain, but from how gentle he is. Like you’re not someone who killed tonight. Like you’re not someone who nearly didn’t come back.

"Sorry,” he murmurs when you wince, but doesn’t pull away, just slows down. His fingers brush your skin like they’re afraid to stay, but afraid to let go.

You bite your tongue.

The silence stretches. Not awkward—just heavy.

He wraps you carefully, methodically, as if each turn of the bandage is a promise:

I’m here. You’re here. Let’s start from that.

You don’t realize your hand is shaking until Gojo's slender hand covers it, warm and grounding.

“You should’ve called,” he says softly. “I would’ve come.”

You stare at the floor. The floor is easy. The floor doesn’t ask questions.

“You were busy.”

“Doing what?” His voice is sharper now, but only just. “Organizing my sock drawer?”

That wasn’t what he actually wanted to say. But the words he did mean to say hung there anyway,

the absurd idea that anything else could ever matter more than you.

A laugh tries to claw its way out of your throat, but it dies halfway. Your lips twitch anyway.

He finishes wrapping your side, his hand lingering for a second longer than it needs to.

He looks up to meet your eyes.

“You okay?”

You nod automatically. “Yeah.”

He holds your gaze, but doesn’t blink.

“Liar.”

And for a brief second, you want to tell him everything.

The screams. The split-second decision. The moment your cursed technique didn’t activate fast enough and you thought you would never make it out alive.

But instead, you say, “Thanks.”

Like he’s a stranger who held a door open. Like he didn’t always hold the fragments of yourself that you gave him together in the dark.

And he lets you.

Because he knows pushing would make you fold in on yourself like a dying star. And he’d rather sit in the orbit of your silence, than risk you disappearing altogether.

But when you stand, the towel slipping from your shoulders as you reach for the shirt, his fingers twitch with restraint.

But he looks away, as if his hands haven’t already memorized every inch of you.

You dress in silence.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

His shirt slips off your body as easily as it was put on, crumpling to the floor like it never mattered.

You don’t say his name when you pull him in by the collar, mouths a breath apart.

You don’t need to. He’s already leaning in like he’s starved for something only you can give.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt like a habit, not a want. You pull, and he lets you. You never ask, he never makes you.

His shirt slid off with ease, the soft linen tracing his skin as it dropped, revealing the contours of his well-built torso.

The lights are low, pooling soft shadows across the sheets. The air between you hums with warmth, thick with the scent of soap, shampoo, and the faint iron of blood that lingers even after a shower.

Gojo doesn’t speak—not with words. Just steps into your space, his palm skimming up your side, tracing heat into your skin. One hand cradles the base of your neck, the other settles at your waist, fingers flexing like he’s holding back something ravenous.

He walks you back slowly, until the your knees bump the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving yours.

He dips his head to your level, lips grazing the shell of your ear in a ghost of a kiss.

“Lie back," Gojo murmurs, voice low and sinful.

You fall back, the mattress dipping beneath you with a soft, yielding hush.

He follows slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, hovering over your figure close enough for his breath to fan your skin. His eyes trail over you in a slow drag of mischief.

You shift, hips tilting just enough to invite him closer. But he doesn’t take the bait.

Not yet.

Instead, his gaze lingers, lazy and hungry. One hand trails up the side of your thigh, fingers barely grazing the soft flesh. Not enough to satisfy, just enough to tease.

He presses a kiss to your palm—soft, reverent—then slowly takes your fingers between his lips. His tongue moves deliberately, swirling around each digit in slow, wet passes, before sucking them in deeper, like he’s imagining something far filthier.

You feel the pull of it low in your stomach, heat coiling, breath catching in your throat. The obscene sound of it echoes softly in the quiet room.

Gojo's eyes are locked to yours, heavy-lidded and dark with intent, like he’s reading every reaction on your face and filing it away just to use it against you later.

He doesn’t stop until your fingers glisten, slick with his attention. He releases your fingers with a soft, wet pop— lips slightly parted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur.

Gojo smirks, feigning innocence “Like what?”

Like you’re already undressed. Like he’s savoring the wait.

His hands finally settle on your hips, achingly languid. He maps the expanse of your skin with his fingers like it’s something sacred.

His lips ghost down your jaw, to the edge of your throat in quiet presses of heat.

Gojo drags his mouth along your collarbone, leaving open-mouthed kisses that linger and bruise. His breath stutters against your skin, starved, desperate to memorize the taste of you.

His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt—fingers spreading across your stomach, rough yet painfully gentle. The shirt is pushed up inch by inch, baring more of you to the cool air, to his gaze that burns hotter than anything else.

His touch turns firmer. Hands framing your waist, thumbs dipping into the sensitive curve of your hips.

“You’re not shaking,” he says, eyes flicking up to yours. “That’s new.”

“I’m not scared.”

Gojo grins, “You should be.”

He presses a kiss just below your navel, slow and open-mouthed, eyes filled to the brim with lust.

Then another, now much lower.

You gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over your skin, a teasing drag that sends a sharp, electric jolt up your spine. He smirks against you, as if he felt it too.

“Still not scared?” he murmurs, breath hot where his mouth lingers.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because his hands are already slipping lower, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear, dragging the fabric down with agonizing slowness, like he’s unwrapping something precious. Like he wants to watch you come undone one breath at a time.

His gaze doesn’t leave your face as he drops to his elbows between your thighs, spreading them with a touch that’s patient and hungry all at once.

"Look at you," Gojo breathes. "So fucking pretty like this."

His tongue drags a hot, deliberate line up your inner thigh, and your whole body shivers in response.

And when he finally leans in, when his mouth replaces his hands and he groans like he’s the one unraveling, it’s not soft anymore.

You sigh—tired, soft, worn down to your bones—and he hears it like a plea.

Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. You never tell him, and he never asks. All the pieces of him you won’t name.

His tongue drags in slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried, like he’s tracing his name into your skin. Like he’s whispering I’m here, I’ve got you, again and again, until the ache in your chest begins to loosen its grip.

He groans against you, the sound guttural and low, like your taste ruins him.

Gojo makes you feel good because it’s the only way he knows how to be close to you. The only way he can believe, for just a second, that you might need him like he needs you.

His hands press firmly into your hips, holding you steady. But his thumbs stroke gently across your skin, coaxing softness where there’s only been sharp edges.

You’re trembling by the time he pulls back, lips slick, eyes solely on you. He licks your release off of the corner of his lips with a flick of his tongue.

His thumbs draw lazy circles into your thighs, but there’s nothing lazy in the way he’s looking at you now.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice rough, almost hoarse.

You nod, barely in control of yourself from the ecstasy.

Gojo's mouth curves smugly. But before you can collect yourself, he’s crawling up your body again, kissing his way up your stomach, over the bandages he’d wrapped so carefully just hours ago.

He’s already at his belt, fingers working the buckle without urgency—like he’s got all the time in the world.

His fingers trail between your legs, not teasing anymore, just grounding, pressing into the slick heat like he owns it. Like he’s staking a claim.

You writhe underneath him at the sensation. Gojo catches your hips with both hands, pinning you down with maddening restraint.

“Patience,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, the tip of him nudging right where you need him most. “Gonna take my time with you.”

He sinks in slow—inch by aching inch—until you’re full of him, until you can’t breathe around the stretch and the way his breath shudders out against your neck.

Gojo moves finally, deliberate and devastating.

Every thrust drawing out soft, broken sounds you didn’t know you could make. Every drag of his hips angled to ruin you. To memorize you all over again, but deeper this time, deeper than just skin against skin.

Like he doesn’t just want your body, he wants the parts of you no one’s ever seen, the parts no one's ever dared to touch.

You don’t even know when your fingers found his hair, only that you’re fisting it now, pulling him closer like your body knows you’ll fall apart if he puts even an inch of distance between you.

His breath is ragged against your jaw. You feel it more than you hear it, those quiet, shattered sounds he only ever makes with you, like he’s coming undone piece by piece and wants you to see it.

You arch beneath him, the air catching in your throat when he finds the spot you don’t guard as tightly. The way you move—like it’s a release, like he’s something you can finally feel—makes his heart stutter.

And when you gasp in a haze of pleasure, “Don’t stop,”

It sounds close enough to stay.

So he does.

He fucks you like he’s trying to make you forget every man before him.

Like he's trying to carve himself into you.

Like if he gets it right, you’ll stop thinking about ghosts of the past and see the body pressed to yours, trembling with want and something far more painful.

He buries his face into the crook of your neck, cursing softly, your name wrapped around every gasp like it’s a prayer and a promise both.

"Fuck—" it slips out against your throat, raw and low. "You feel like—"

But he doesn’t finish. Maybe he can’t.

Maybe the way your hips meet his, the way your nails drag down his back, is enough to steal the words from his tongue.

You shift beneath him, legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder.

He groans like it breaks him. His pace stutters, his control frays, and his hand finds yours—interlacing your fingers above your head, pinning them to the mattress as he drives into you like he’s trying to brand the feeling of you into his bones.

He learns your breathing. The shape of your pleasure. The things you murmur when you forget to hold back. You fall apart in his hands like he’s the only one who’s ever tried to put you back together gently.

And still, you don’t say his name.

Not his.

Not Gojo.

Not Satoru.

No matter how hard he tries to make you feel like he's the best you've ever had, you never say his name. Not even when your bodies are pressed so close they almost become one.

But just before you tip over the edge, his hand cradles your face like you’re something breakable, like this is holy—and he watches every flicker of you coming apart beneath him like he never wants to forget a second of it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Later, when it’s over and your breath is soft and steady, your body a warm, perfect weight draped across his like you were always meant to fit there, he lies still.

Gojo's eyes are on the ceiling, searching for an answer he already knows. But he still looks, like maybe if he stares long enough, the truth might change.

You sleep like it meant nothing.

Like he didn’t just pour every unspoken confession into your skin, hoping you’d feel what he can never bring himself to say. Like he isn’t still wide awake, waiting for something you’ll never give. Like he didn’t break a little more when you exhaled against his throat and didn’t say his name.

Because when you do speak, half-asleep, voice slurred with dreams, it’s not his name that tumbles out.

“…Suguru…”

Soft, barely there, whispered like a secret.

You say it like it’s a chant, like it's home.

It guts him. Not all at once, but slowly, a twist in his gut that blooms into something bitter and familiar. The kind of ache that settles and stays, quiet and cruel.

The feeling gnaws at Gojo relentlessly, but he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe too hard, like that might shift the world and remind you who’s really lying next to you. Because the moment he speaks, this illusion ends, and he’s nothing again.

You don’t wake up. And he doesn’t wake you. He lies there, bones tense under your softness, heart thudding out a rhythm you’ll never hear. He stays quiet, clinging to the silence like it’s the last thing keeping you beside him.

He strokes your hair, soft and careful, like you’ll vanish if he touches you too hard. Presses a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering there, breathing in the pieces of you he’ll never get to keep.

He inhales you like it might burn him clean. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t speak. Just folds the ache into his ribs and lets it hollow him out.

Gojo lies to himself, over and over, that it’s enough to hold you, even if your heart was never his to begin with. Because if this ends, he loses the only place you let him pretend you love him.

And he’d rather ache like this forever than wake up beside someone else.

Taglist is OPEN!!!

[yourislandgirl]

⁺‧♱₊ DON’T TOUCH, DON’T DO IT ˚˖𓍢⋆ || 박성훈 x fem!reader || fic

ib: this prompt by @hoondrop

summary: light and darkness culminates in a single glance when you find yourself entranced by a handsome stranger, and with one touch he brings you closer to god than you could ever have imagined

genres: fallen angel!sunghoon x human!fem reader, romance, mature, suggestive, angelic/devilish powers au, religious imagery, strangers to ???

warnings: swearing/cursing, skinship, indirect allusions to sex but nothing explicit is written, some descriptive sentences on bodily harm (burns.. to sunghoon), desperate sunghoon, he’s lowkey going through a psychotic break and questioning his entire purpose, yn sees a handsome guy who questions religion like herself and runs with it, not an accurate rep of christian mythology — i’m not christian i just like researching and learning religious symbolism so i’m so sorry if i get smth wrong

w.c: 5.9k

[archive]

It had been at least ten or so hours since he’d lost it all. Or at least that was his assumption. Time worked differently in this realm. Everything felt tortuously long.

The field where he’d woken up had left charred grass blades beneath him, his skin stippled and smoking in two long stripes down his broad back. The smell made him want to heave and yet nothing came out. But the feeling… He’d never felt such a repulsive reaction in himself.

Angels didn’t feel nauseous, they didn’t feel hunger, rage, wrath, or at least they weren’t supposed to.

But now the feelings seemed to suffocate him. Yet the air was stale.

The world of the humans felt bleak — it lacked the opulence of pearlescent pillars and amber chandeliers and marble pathways. The trees seemed less alive, the flowers less fragrant, everything was less.

But it was better than the other option…

He refused to go there.

But that left him no other choice but to stay here. Among the humans. They were…different.

Some shone brightly, others had a festering wound coiling inside them, draining them with every breath and every sin. Those fighting for sanity were always teetering on the brink of giving up and pulling through. Those that gave in, fell into the poison of release that had Sunghoon looking away in disappointment.

But at least they had the chance to redeem themselves.

Sunghoon regarded every passing person with a semblance of prospect — they each had the opportunity to find salvation. Something that would forever remain out of his reach.

Turmoil riddled his mind, complicated emotions that had never touched the strings of his heart were now orchestrating his feelings. He’d become a marionette, a simpleton compared to humans who had grown into mastery of these emotional shortcomings.

This shame buried under anger was new. And it only grew with every passing hour.

He found himself walking into an empty chapel’s halls. Rows of pews and stone walls carved with intricacy, paintings and murals of the divinity that he’d once known — it wasn’t enough.

His steps echoed, heavy against oakwood polished floorboards. The urge to raise up into the air, suspended between gravity, it gnawed at him. But despite all the dust and musty candlewax, all Sunghoon could smell was the burning flesh on his back.

He chose a pew to the far corner, away from the entrance but far enough from the podium that he felt like he could stare without the guilt swallowing him whole. His back rested against the length of the bench, one arm bending back to cushion his head.

And for the first time since he fell, Sunghoon wept.

Hot tears slid down his unblemished cheeks — skin that had never felt anything more than the warmth of Heavens sun, the sweetness of its rain — he felt the rage pushing itself out, heating up his face, pulsing against his skull, twisting in his throat.

Feeling the sticky yet dry remains of his sadness was humbling.

Amongst the multitude of muddled emotions, one thing remained consistent — Sunghoon had divinity that did not hold power to those above, and was irrelevant to those below, he only mattered here, and yet here was the realm of freedom that promised salvation to everyone but him.

Sunghoon let his hand slide down his face, wiping his tears and with them, his self pity.

Alright Father, you want to punish me? Let me show you the liberty of your punishment.

⋆ ───── 𝜗𝜚 ───── ⋆

There wasn’t any goal with your walk. You just wanted to get out, clear your head, get your thoughts straight, something to pass the time. It wasn’t a planned route. There wasn’t an intended destination.

So when you found yourself on the steps of the old church in your town, it felt more pretentious than comforting.

What gave you, the girl who renounced religion as something that predetermined value, the right to step foot into such a place when you felt lost.

Regardless, you simply scoffed and entered the place anyway.

It was the better option compared to the town’s newer church. This one was all but abandoned, safe for the archive room being used as storage by the pastors after they all moved to the newer church across town.

You remember sneaking into these halls as a young teenager. Usually during a game of truth or dare, to see who’d be brave enough to enter the abandoned church at night and get a picture of the weeping angel statue out the back on the church grounds. Safe to say you’d finished the dare with only minimal nightmares for the rest of that weekend.

“Worth it,” you whispered to yourself as you slid past the slightly ajar doors.

The place hadn’t changed at all. In a way, that was comforting. After seeing all the new apartment complexes closer to the city or the reconstructed parks that got rid of the old equipment you’d grown up with, this was an oddly nice change of pace.

You pulled out the lighter in your back pocket and reached for one of the single candle holders. The sun was setting rapidly outside and the streetlights on this side of town were old and quite frankly unreliable.

The crackle of the aged wick filled the previous pin drop silence and you felt goosebumps rise along the length of your forearms. The slither of cold that slid down your spine made your shoulder shake slightly.

It was a delicious sort of drear, the kind that had you curious and pushed away thoughts of your day, your week, your life.

Tonight, in the halls of the church, with its enormously high ceilings that glittered with cobwebs and candelabras, all that mattered was your peace of mind. You didn’t care about tomorrow, or yesterday, or even the last hour.

You just wanted to get lost in the one place in town that had stood still through the progression of time.

You took tentative steps along the rows of seats, searching for the odd bible left behind, maybe some other momento, lost among moth eaten cushions. The amber flame in your hand cast eerie shadows, reflecting mirages from the multicoloured stained glass.

You had just reached the podium when the sight of a limp body along one of the pews had you frozen on the spot, a gasp strangled in your throat.

“What the— Hey.”

You placed the candleholder on top the podium, letting its light spread wider from the elevation, and you hesitantly walked closer to the man laying there in what appeared to be a satin shirt and pants that looked darker than obsidian. A grey coat was bunched up behind his neck for support and upon further inspection, his shoes seemed caked with mud and gravel, as if he’d been walking for hours.

You shuffled closer, breath held between your pursed lips. Except it didn’t stay back for long — your eyes had only just reached his face when you felt the air being pushed out of your lungs.

He was… Beautiful. There was simply no other word for it.

Fair skin mildly speckled with dark stars, lips that looked like they had a touch softer than rose petals, one hand tucked under his head, dark hair spread in different directions from his sleep. His other hand was adorned with silver rings, glistening despite the minimal lighting, as if they glowed but not quite.

Your hand reached forward before you could even control it. The desire to touch him was something so out of this world that it was as if you were viewing yourself through a screen, your body moving without any intention other than to feel the form of someone that screamed angelic.

As your fingers touched the soft fabric on his shoulder, you wondered if he was some wealthy runaway, some sort of political figure or celebrity, maybe even a model. No other explanation came to mind. He looked otherworldly and his clothes felt like they were meant to be worn by a prince.

And he radiated warmth. Not a feverish burn but a simmering heat. Like the sun in the early morning, the first rays of light.

Finally, taking a breath, after what felt like a millennia, you cleared your throat and gave him a gentle shake.

“Hey. Wake up. … Hello?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, lips creasing together before sitting up with a jolt, eyes wide, shoulders tense. You stumbled back a few steps, watching him observe his surroundings until his gaze landed on you. Before he squeezed his eyes shut.

“…So bright.” His voiced was slightly rasped from sleeping and yet the gravity of his tone had you lost for words.

All you managed to get out was a measly “Huh?”

“Bright.” He repeated himself.

Looking back at your single candlestick, you frowned a little. “That’s too bright for you?”

The man simply rubbed his eyes with his fingers, blinking a few times before shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it.” Your hand clasped itself around your mouth hurriedly.

Heat prickled the back of your neck as you watched the man in front of you start to stretch and stumble to his feet, standing taller as he straightened up.

He didn’t appear to have registered your words, thank god, but the embarrassment had already washed over you.

It was hard to stop staring, observing the way he scanned his surroundings, took a step forward before looking down and sighing in disappointment. It was as if he expected something to happen.

You were just about to work up the nerve to ask some sort of question when he turned around.

“Oh god…” You took a step backwards, hand reaching for your phone. “You— You’re hurt.”

He froze, his shoulders squaring as he looked back to you. “I’m not. I— It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not?” Your phone lit up as you unlocked it. “You need a doctor.”

He took a step closer, palms up placatingly. “I don’t! Just… Stop. Trust me. I’m fine.”

Your thumbs paused, hovering over the keypad. It was a little impossible to look away from him. His gaze had a depth that had you swimming just to stay present in the moment, fighting against the tide.

He must have taken your silence as an indication to keep going. “I, uh, already had it treated. It just needs to be aired out to heal now.”

That didn’t seem medically sound in the slightest. From your quick glance it looked like severe burns, not the kind you got from a kitchen stove. Two long stripes etched down his back, the marks burnt through his shirt, browning the once pale, moonlit-white of the satin.

“I don’t think that airing it out will help much…” Your eyes darted between his, gaze fixating on the small moles that dotted his face. You were so focused on counting them, you missed the way his lip quirked up.

With a shrug, he reached for his coat, grey and long, draping it over his shoulders. “I’m just doing what my doctor told me.”

Normally, this would be the perfect opportunity to form an ending to the conversation and make a quick exit.

Normally, you would do that just that, giving a curt smile and a quick nod and a simple ‘Have a good night’ before speed walking out the door.

Normally…

Nothing about this man was normal.

“What are you doing here?”

He sighed at your question, arms crossing over before he spoke, “Just sleeping. I’ve had a long day. You?”

“Uh… I was out for a walk. Kind of ended up here. Weird, right?”

His expression sobered a little, his mind seemingly drifting before he responded. “No. You probably came here for a reason. Like I did.”

“And what reason’s that?”

“Peace. Silence. Company.”

You felt the same tug on your limbs, where it was like you were a mere spectator while your feet took a few tentative steps forward. “Are you the company?”

The man’s eyes seemed to soften, a hypnotising contrast with the subtle strike of his smirk. “If you want me to be.”

⋆ ───── 𝜗𝜚 ───── ⋆

It wasn’t like Sunghoon knew what to do in such situations.

Stuck in a realm where redemption was futile had suddenly made every thought, every action, every inhibition seem enticing.

What could he do now that he had no limitations on his soul?

Did he even possess a conscience? Or was it always just an added bonus to divine existence?

What would it be like to give in and fall into that freedom?

He’d have to get used to not raising into flight after taking a single step — the lack of wings left a lightness to his shoulders. He felt uninhibited.

Usually in bouts of desperation, one does something that they will eventually regret. But Sunghoon couldn’t deny how exhilarating it was to dismiss regret. To feed into thoughts of impurity because he finally felt separate from the shackles of feather and bone that had once framed his structure.

He had the opportunity to let go of everything that had once defined him. He had the chance to reinvent himself in his own image, rather than what was handed to him upon birth. He just didn’t know where to begin.

Until he laid his eyes on you.

Through the brief interactions, it was clear why you shone so brightly. There was a genuine light inside of you — golden and glistening — ready to shine onto anyone in need or sear the space around you to protect yourself. There were a few people he’d seen with such brightness.

You were the first one he’d seen up close.

It should have concerned him. Usually he was supposed to have a sense of nurturing and a desire to help facilitate such brightness.

Now, all he wanted was to feel the tempting burn of your light under his fingertips.

This should have concerned him — this desire, so raw, and so new, and so unknown. Yet it was so natural.

Sunghoon let you have your space, blinking repeatedly every chance he got in order to get used to the way you shone in the dark space of the church hall.

The way you moved with a hesitant step, a slightly measured reaction, like you were aware of how much space you were occupying, it was so human of you.

You’d taken the candleholder back in your hands and were explaining briefly why you’d decided on going for a walk in the first place. And Sunghoon listened with raptured attention. Eventually the pair of you made your way past the long echoey hallways and into the archival room.

“This room’s got more comfy chairs anyway.” You gave him a little smile, setting the candleholder down on one of the empty tables before you went to light a few more.

With every little flame that flickered to life thanks to your lighter, the room glowed a little orange. Sunghoon sighed, your own light slightly dimming from the candles around the place.

“So,” you started, “Why are you sleeping at a church? Not that I’m judging… Or, maybe I am. I don’t know. I’m just curious.”

An amused smile etched on Sunghoon’s lips. Your flailing hands as you tried to explain yourself was endearing enough that he didn’t register his response until it happened.

“I can’t go back home.”

“Trouble with your folks?”

“Something like that. I just needed to rest until I can figure out what to do with myself.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either. Sunghoon knew there was not much a fallen angel could do unless they got help from those in power in the Underworld.

But then he’d be indebted.

Dismissing the concern he simply relaxed at how you accepted his words. Your attention seemed taken by the volumes of tomes and books that lined the shelves.

Pulling one out, you flipped it over before frowning at the lack of text on the back. “Guess that doesn’t work. Only novels have blurbs,” you muttered.

Sunghoon walked a little closer, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he carefully took the book from your hands. “Check the inside, last few pages.” He opened the back of the book and pointed out a tiny paragraph of text, looping in fancy script on the aged, yellowing paper.

His eyes followed the way your fingers traced each loop of ink, trying to read the words.

“It’s Latin,” he whispered. “Translates to something about ritual to revitalise a soul after they have sinned.”

You scoffed, closing the book and sliding it back into the shelf. “Sin itself is so bogus.” Halting for a moment, you stole a glance at Sunghoon. “I mean, not to offend you if you’re religious. Which I’m assuming you are if you choose to sleep at a church when you’ve got nowhere to go. I didn’t mean—”

“Relax.” Sunghoon, leaned against a table behind him, arms crossing over his torso as he spoke. “I don’t think sin has weight on me anyway. Not anymore.”

Again, not a lie. But not the truth.

Again, he should have been concerned with the ease at which he was crossing his old limitations. But he wasn’t.

Instead he was smiling at the way you relaxed. He was nodding at your explanation on the rejection of sin, entranced by the confidence in your autonomy. A little envious of what was blissful ignorance to the kinds of realms he’s seen. You truly were existing in the moment for no one but yourself.

“You should keep doing that.” His fingers played with the platinum ring that weighed heavy on his other hand. The last piece of the life he had once known.

You hadn’t quite understood his words. “Doing what?”

“Living for yourself.”

You smiled.

It should have been a sin to have a smile as ethereal as yours, but Sunghoon just smirked at the realisation that you’d renounce that sin as well.

“I don’t actually know what I’m doing.” You walked closer to where Sunghoon stood, back rested against the table. He watched you with a gaze so soft, it was impossible to notice how he was basically pulling you closer with a single look.

He remained situated in one location, eyes following your every movement, as if the dark brown irises that flickered gold from candlelight were some source of power, in control of every step you took.

“You…” The words died on your lips.

You’re different. You’re not normal. You’re doing something to me. And I’m letting you….

Sunghoon was indeed in control. A power he hadn’t ever used without intention until this very moment. He wasn’t moving a human being to the right position in order to facilitate some divine timing. That was no longer his purpose. He had no purpose for anyone other than himself.

Just like you.

He wanted to give into that. Feel what is was to be like you. Feel what it was to be with you.

Feel you.

⋆ ──── 𝜗𝜚 ──── ⋆

There was no logical explanation for how it happened. One minute you were standing a few meters away from the most handsome man you had ever laid your eyes on, and the next minute, you were inches away from him.

Less than inches.

He stood tall, gaze cast down, eyes half-lidded and filled with a darkness that only seemed to beckon you closer.

Your neck craned slightly as you held his gaze. You had no clue where you found the will to keep looking when every nerve in your body was pulsing with the urge to look away. But his pull was inexplicably demanding. And it had you wanting to fulfil what he asked, his desires becoming your own, his thoughts enveloping yours, a shadow encircling light.

With shaky hands, your fingers reached closer — little dark spots on his skin, porcelain smoothness, light rouge dusted across his cheekbones with the candlelight shadows making him seem like he was suspended between this world and a world just beyond the veil — you ached to touch him.

“Don’t.”

With a blink, you halted. Your eyes searched his for some explanation.

“You don’t want to touch me.” He spoke with a certainty, like he knew the power he held over you, like he knew you were questioning why you wanted this so bad.

But that want, that craving, it was all you could focus on. You could have pleaded in that moment, but you tried to bite back the desperation from seeping through your voice and nodded. “I do.”

A smirk struck his features with the magnetism of lightning. He was so alluring. And he was just standing before you. “Innocent girl…” The gravel of his voice left a thundering thump in your chest, in your soul, in the parts of yourself that you didn’t expect. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I do.”

“Really?”

You kept your eyes locked with his, nodding again.

Swallowing back the shivers that were working their way up your forearms, you waited as he straightened up a little more, growing taller than before. You didn’t think it was possible. His own hand started raising higher, mirroring yours, his fingers just a hairs width away from your own cheek.

“Then tell me,” he started, “What do you think you want?”

You bit your tongue. How could you tell a nameless stranger — a handsome stranger, but a stranger nonetheless — that all you really wanted was to feel his hands on you, feel his breath mixed with yours, with no clause or reason or regret for what would come or what it could mean.

Meaning only mattered when it was given that importance. Meaning only existed if one let it. You didn’t intend to.

“Hmm?” He hummed, awaiting a response.

Your response came with your gentle touch, fingertips softly tapping against one of his moles, eyes fixated on the slope of his nose, trailing down to the tantalising sight of his lips, parted ever so slightly. He stiffened from your touch, eyes fluttering closed. A low hiss, barely audible, filled the little space between your faces.

“I know what I want.” You didn’t think your voice had ever been so soft. “The question is, do you want the same?”

His eyes were still closed, his hand dropping down to clench around the fabric of your jacket. “I shouldn’t…”

His brows furrowed, eyes opening to finally meet yours and you felt a sweltering heat from his very gaze. He held a breath for an eternity longer than you thought was humanly possible. Your hand had only just lifted off his face when he grasped with a firm grip, sparks creeping along your palm from his touch.

“I shouldn’t want this.” His whisper seemed to be more for himself than for you. So you chose to remain silent. Entranced by the sight of someone fighting to remain logical in a space that seemed to defy logic, where the energy pulsed with desire, where intellectualising the tension was trivial when you could just give in and feel.

And when he took that single step closer, fingers lacing into yours, you closed your eyes in an immediate release of control. There was no time to question yourself, to try and understand why you were acting in a manner that didn’t feel normal. All that mattered was the warmth of his breath, ghosting lips that hovered over yours, and the gentle rub of his thumb on the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment.

“Forgive me.”

You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Unable to respond, you thanked every source of operant powers that you didn’t have to.

His lips seared with a fire that breathed another life into you. An indescribable feeling, like no other kiss, no back-of-a-party hook up or first date butterflies could compare from the way he claimed you in that very moment.

Nothing mattered when he moved his mouth against yours. Nothing became everything. The ground beneath your feet could have gave way and you would have remained in the spot, one hand pressed against his chest, the other sliding out of his grasp and pulling him closer with the collar of his shirt.

His hold was the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. His arm wrapped around you, fingers pressing into the material of your jacket, one hand already working on lowering the zipper just enough to slide his hand along the bare skin of your neck, cupping your jaw.

You pulled back, breathing deeply. His eyes held a lust that you hadn’t seen before, a thirst that didn’t seem explainable, yet it only drew you in. His thumb slightly pulled on your lower lip, like he was hypnotised, thoughts foggy, only one goal in mind. You could have chalked it up to the heat that bathed the room, but honestly, you had the same goal. And with the way he studied you while you unzipped your jacket and pulled it off, he seemed to understand.

“Are you sure you’re not an angel?” He asked, seeming a little dazed.

The line felt undoubtedly cliché and yet the way he looked at you — eyes glossed over, lips parted, ready to swallow yours again in an instant — he seemed to really mean it.

You giggled, tugging his grey coat off his shoulders. “I’m no more an angel than you are.” You pulled him back down by the collar, your grip so tight you thought you heard a button pop. “Besides,” you breathed against his lips, “I don’t think angels get up to shit like this. Do you?”

He exhaled low, nose nudging against yours, like the mere act of sharing oxygen with you was making his head spin. And maybe it was, because yours was doing the same.

The sound of his chuckle had you biting back the most embarrassing sounds. And it didn’t help when he held your waist, fingers pinching at the skin through the material of your shirt while he turned the two of you around, leaning you against the desk.

“I can tell you with the upmost certainty,” his hand reached down and hooked under one of you knees, lifting you up by the back of you thighs, seating you on the desk as he stepped closer, between you legs. “Angels don’t do anything like this.”

He seemed almost grateful…

For a split second, the confusion overtook the emotions and you wondered about the man before you. The one who’s hand was trailing up your clothed thigh, his other hand stroking the soft skin of your cheek, like he was trying to memorise the sensation, trying to embed your warmth into his soul.

You felt the urge to ask, but you were torn between the need to know and the need to feel.

“Are you okay?” He leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss before pulling away to gauge your reaction.

You nodded. “Never better.”

His lips trailed down your jaw, the warmth drowning any doubts, teeth poking through to prick against the pulse of your neck. You clenched your hand around the width of his arm, tilting your head further to feel as much as possible.

When your fingers slid between the silk of his hair, you wondered if you’d ever felt anything so smooth. It curled between your fingers, practically begging to be tugged.

And who were you to deny that.

Each touch ignited a beating pulse in its wake. Each kiss melted together. Tongues clashing, teeth nipping, hands wandering to places that had your moans and whines melding together into a lewd symphony.

And yet you had never felt more content.

That’s what happens when desire takes the reigns. Time blurs together and before you realise it, you find yourself feeling like heaven is found in some dark corner of an archive room, in the arms of a handsome stranger who seems to be just as lost as you are.

a.n: this was supposed to be a drabble but i think i’m almost incapable of writing those bcs tell me why this ended up being so long T^T not complaining (that much) bcs i still had fun writing it !! hope i delivered xx

perm taglist: @oceanstide — @sheepsgf — @itsrinsdrs — @enjakey — @rynnest — @jaylaxies

2025 © yourislandgirl

[consciouslygrowing]

Let’s NOT normalize daddy issues. It’s not a cute trend.

Why has Daddy Issues become this trauma that’s over sexualized by men that most likely have mommy issues? And I’m going to just throw this out there, most likely narcissistic that crave validation because they are insecure with themselves or their moms gave them and enabled their god-like complex. And guess who’s the perfect target for them? Women with daddy issues because we want love so bad we will do anything for it. Like accepting toxic behaviors our dads showed us and abuse. Why has it become this thing some women think is so “ cute ” or brag about? Possibly using it as a dark humor kinda thing to cope with it, I get it. But god damn it fucking SUCKS to actually come to the realization and accept that your dad wasn’t there for you mentally, emotionally, or physically. Maybe you can relate because your dad has passed away. Maybe he passed away on bad terms with you. Maybe he chose things like alcohol, drugs, or women over you. Maybe he just completely abandoned you. Maybe you don’t even know your dad. Maybe your dad is still alive but you have no connection/relationship with him. My parents are married for I don’t even know, 32 years?! But absolutely hate eachother. And that’s just the harsh truth. How’s that for an example of marriage growing up? Something that’s suppose to be so sacred. So special. So beautiful to share your life with another person. It’s been anything but that since I can remember.

Point is, I’m tired of seeing this as some sort of trend because like I said before, it FUCKING sucks when you come to the realization of it all and how it’s effected you from your childhood, to your adulthood.

It’s anything but cute.

It’s not feeling good enough. It’s insecurities. It’s never being able to fully trust a man. It’s always thinking somethings wrong. It’s fighting for someone even when you shouldn’t. It’s accepting bare minimum until you come to your senses. It’s accepting abuse. It’s neglect. It’s walking on eggshells. It’s losing yourself by giving more, more, more and more to someone that doesn’t even love you so you fight even harder for it to get them to love you. It’s constantly wanting to fix broken men. It’s not loving yourself. It’s anxiety. It’s thinking everything’s your fault. It’s constantly wondering if you’re making the right decision. It’s soul crushing. It’s noticing every little change in tone, behaviors, body language and thinking danger, you’re going to leave me. It’s living in fight or flight and freeze. It’s DRAINING.

As a little girl. Your dad is suppose to be your first love. He sets the tone of what a man should be and how a man should treat you and then you never settle for less. If your dad wasn’t there for you in any aspect you’ve probably been in toxic, chaotic relationships. And man I sure do wonder if I had a dad that showed up for me in every way if I would have ever been in any of the shit I was in. Probably not.

Positive side is that this life we live is one big lesson. You can either learn and grow from things, change your ways or stay stagnant. I’m in therapy and I refuse to let my trauma make me stay stagnant. All we can do is move forward and do better. Be better. Choose better. Everything BETTER.

CONSCIOUSLY GROW.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

how do you think the boys yearn/deal with a crush? I’m trying to envision a dynamic between a hunter reader and the two brushing off their feelings

Oh I LOVE this question with all my heart! Thank you, anon, for sending it in! ❤️

It's kind of a shame we never got to see either of them really with crushes. Out of all the romantic scenarios the show didn't have (which is fine, not complaining at all, we wouldn't have that much amazing fan fic if it did, is my theory) them yearning/pining is the thing I would have loved to see the most.

Dean just becomes a puppy dog, I think. He's all smiley and giggly around her. Hangs on every word she says. That woman can do no wrong. Extra points if she's a bit of a trouble maker, and Dean gives her a pass on everything, which reeeeally weirds out Sam, cause he wouldn't get away with half the stuff you do!

It's only when she puts herself in real danger that Dean's super protective side comes out. He can't contain the worry, gets grumpy. He's angry at whoever hurt her, and they'll get what's coming to them, but his fear for her safety translates into a bad mood. No assurances from her side that she's fine are gonna calm him down, either - it takes hours for him to get out of that state, and at some point, when all her wounds are taken care of, he'll probably isolate himself, stew a bit. Love's great and all, but it's exhausting. He doesn't know how to make her his, and he doesn't know how to be around her when that's all he wants to do. Maybe at some point he'll try to take a step back, keep some distance. But at the first sweet smile or inside joke, he's right back where he was before.

Sam's kinda similar, except that he makes sure to keep his distance the moment he realizes there's something going on. He's seen the show too - well, he lived it - and he knows he's no good in that regard. Plus he's got better self-control than Dean. Still, he can't help being drawn in my the little things: you sharing your excitement about something you read, you getting a little cocky and playfully flirty once you've had a drink. When he reaches for something for you and passes it down, and you look up at him with that look that tells him you know he enjoyed that. But it can never be. Sam knows that.

He gets jealous as hell, but doesn't allow himself to express it. He doesn't have any right to you, he knows that. Doesn't matter how much he imagines things could be different, how much he wishes they were. He lies awake at night, one arm tucked behind his head, deep frown on his face while that big brain goes over the problem he's trying to solve again and again. There is no solution. He rolls onto his side and tries to sleep, but only dreams of you.

And I know you didn't ask for this specifically, but if they're both down bad for you? Oh man. They can read each other, know each other so well, so they immediately know what is going on . There's no way either of them is going to get in the way of his brother getting what he wants, getting something good - and you are the best there is. They'll both try to keep their distance, failing, of course, miserably. Cause how can they stay away when you make them feel so alive so good? Something's gotta give, but whether it's an unplanned kiss after surviving a life threatening situation, you taking the initiative or confronting them about acting like absolute weirdos - only time will tell.

[egot1stical]

spamton and tenna thoughts CH3 SPOILERS

so spamton and tenna both think the OTHER fucked them over. huh.

so tenna pov, he was getting close to spamton to figure out HOW he blew up so fast (and seemingly actually grew kinda attached?), but whoever was on the phone said... Something which cause spamton to abandon tenna which caused tenna to freak. I ASSUME the phone call was the caller telling him tenna was using him, but I may be wrong. we don't really know

then spamton pov, he was making a friend post Blowing Up, which yknow, was pretty unique because he was convinced all his friends hated him. but it just turns out that this friend was using him to get popular and he stopped talking to him out of the feeling of betrayal.

spamton seemingly picked up some of his dialogue tics from being around tenna. I mean, it makes sense, they're ads. specifically, SPECIL, CUNGADERO, and NEO were bastardisations of tenna's way of speaking.

its super interesting because it puts spamton as more or less the more powerful in the dynamic, which isn't what most people expected. I MEAN IT MAKES SENSE, tenna is old tech, spam is new, he was gonna teach him current era things, but yknow. it's fun to have more big shot spam context, cuz we don't know many specifics about that era

the caller... cooouuuullllddd be Mike? I'm really just lost on that. we sure don't know anything about Mike except it's someone spamton really cares about, that tenna's looking for according to spamton... but tenna KNOWs and has working for him in chapter 3 till he leaves too?

anyway they're really good, I admire spamton's determination to convince himseld that EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HIS FRIENDS HATES HIM. also crazy that he's still alive

(yes I've seen the foam scene both with and without dealmakers and the check and the rpg route ending)

concept from my friend that I think is good

-these two get along and like each other to a degree, bla bla tenna wants to be a big shot

-mike has been there the entire time, talking to both, figuring out what they see in the other

-mike calls "hes using you, you know?"

-hangs up before tenna even gets to him

-"aw man, spamton left? That sucks. Im here for u buddy"

-stays behind with tenna, maybe hes the more useful one to whatever goal mike has

-ends up leaving him as well

-profit?

[paperaddictionss]

Bakugou Katsuki~

Crossed paths.

You and Bakugou had a history, you fell in love in high school but broke up as you left so he could focus on himself and his career. It hadn’t been easy, in fact it felt like a whole piece of you was torn from your chest, torn from your heart, torn from your soul.

He missed you so much, he purposely went routes he knew that you used to go just to try and bump into you again. The heartache and headache was a constant reminder of his stupid mistake, he never should’ve left you. He never should’ve broken up with you. Maybe if he didn’t he wouldn’t feel such a void within him, such a dark empty hole where a part of his soul has been took away.

It’s not like you were dead, you were very much alive. He saw you on news channels all the time, forever admiring your excellence, your strength and your courage to be the pro hero you were. It was admirable as hard as that was for him to admit, he found himself often looking up to you on how to be a better person. How to be a better hero.

He knew he could’ve just gone to your apartment or messaged you, but he couldn’t allow himself to swallow his pride. He couldn’t face you, he couldn’t admit he was in the wrong.

You were walking the streets, off-shift looking down at your shoes it was weird not being in your hero costume since you practically lived in it, your own clothes felt almost foreign on your body even though they belonged to you.

Not looking where you were going you bumped into a hard chest, stumbling backwards before gaining your stability. You rubbed your head groaning, “watch where you’re going asshat.”

He heard the voice, the soft melody of your voice. His heart dropped and his eyes snapped up meeting yours. His heart thudded against his chest, the beats echoing throughout his whole body. Was it really you?

He swallowed the lump in his throat but it didn’t cover the fact it felt like all the air in his lungs had been squeezed out. Was he dreaming? Was this reality?

“Katsuki..” You trail off your voice almost a whisper as all the emotions, all the memories spent together rush back whirling around you. It was harder to breathe, but was it the air or was it him?

“Y/N…” He croaked out his voice wobbling due to the intensity of his emotions. He didn’t know where to start, what to say, what to do. Should he flee? Should he stay?

“Where have you been?” You finally break the silence that loomed around you two, anger seeping in between each of your words.

He left you. He didn’t visit. He didn’t call. He didn’t even message to get his stuff back and now he was just here speechless gawking at you.

Bakugou looked to you, seeing the slight furrow in your brows and the harsh annoyed glimmer in your eyes. You had every right to hate him. He wouldn’t blame you. He hated himself. But he had to say something back, it was the least he could do for you.

“Work,” his reply was more blunt than he intended it to be, the words aching his chest as they came out.

“Right. Work.” You scoff shaking your head, did he really not care? “I wasn’t on about it like that,” you mumble the words coming out quiet and vulnerable.

It ached his chest more seeing how much he had truly hurt you, “I’m sorry Y/N i really am,” was all he managed to croak out as he fought back the tears that yearned to be let from his eyes.

You bit your bottom lip, stuck in a war with your mind, part of you was telling you to walk off to move on with your life like he had. While the other half was screaming at you to jump into his arms like old times.

You swallowed the harsh bitter lump in your throat, wincing at the reminder of your pain. Your chin wobbled as you miserably failed to suppress how you were feeling.

Bakugou’s eyes immediately went to your wobbling chest, it cut him deeper, like rubbing salt in his already open wounds. Why was this so hard? He chose this. So why did seeing your face, seeing those big beautiful eyes for the first time in forever punch a hole through his stomach?

“I- i can’t do this,” you whispered as a solemn tear slipped down your cheek, cascading down the curves of your face. You went to turn away but the sound of his broken, beaten voice echoed through your ears.

“Wait…please,” He begged, watching your turn he took it as his cue to continue, “i never should have left you Y/N, i thought that leaving you would be for the better, would help me focus more on my career. But…but without you it’s been hell, i think of you 24/7, i watch you on the news. Everything is a reminder of you, a reminder of what im missing out on. That beautiful smile, that infectious laugh..”

That’s all it took for the control over your emotions to snap. The tears now flowed freely, as you stared at him the whole world around you fading, like it was just you two. He did care.

You were overwhelmed with emotions, confusion, annoyance, love, sadness and pain. It was almost unbearable, you stood there tears streaming down your cheeks unable to muster up words to him.

His heart tore more and more as he watched you unfold, revealing your shattered self piece by piece. He clenched his jaw, swallowing his pride before bringing you into his chest, holding onto your body like it was the last thing he could ever touch in this world.

Like it was natural, your body reacted immediately wrapping around him your hands bawling his shirt into your fists as you weeped into his chest. The smell of his aftershave drowning part of your senses, it was comforting and a play button, rolling all your memories into your head. You missed this and so did he.

“Please don’t ever leave again,” you sobbed into his shoulder, clinging to him for dear life, scared of him abandoning you again.

“I won’t, i promise,” he whispered into your hair as he, himself silently cried.

[magicalqueennightmare]

Trapped

John Walker x Reader

You're afraid of tight spaces. John now knows why

Mention of being buried alive.

Your relationship with John was a bit complicated to say the least? In Yelena’s words “Are you two going to fight or make out? I seriously get mixed signals every time you talk” he was a pain in the ass half of the time and the other half he had you teetering on the edge of having actual feelings for him. It was confusing as hell. 

You never actually hated John. Even when the entire world questioned him, you could honestly see both sides of the story. He’d done plenty of wrong but damn who hadn’t? Then he would do things like second guess you on something as simple as how much sugar you needed to put in your peach cobbler recipe and Alexei was all of a sudden having to take a frying pan out of your hand because you were about to swing it on the super soldier. 

You were never sure where you stood with John, so when Bucky told you that you were headed out with John to clear a base you felt your stomach flip. Just focus on the mission and do your job.

John’s broad shoulders were easy to follow as the two of you cleared each hall. He peered around one corner and before you could follow he had gripped your shoulders and was pulling both of you backwards into a supply closet. Your eyes widened when he shoved you in first pulling the door silently closed behind himself. The closet was tiny, cement on three walls with a metal door and the six foot two super soldier wasn’t helping it feel any less tiny.

You could feel your chest start to tighten. No, you could not do this. Not now, not in front of John. He leaned down, his mouth close to your ear “This place is a lot less abandoned than we thought. We may have to wait for backup” you shook your head quickly “I don’t know if I can” he raised an eyebrow and that was when he must have noticed the look on your face “What’s wrong?”

The sound of boots passing by made you both fall silent but as soon as they passed he raised both eyebrows. You sighed “Will we have to wait here?” he nodded “We can’t risk going further or going out” “John I can’t stay in this room. It’s too damn small” the realization hit him and he nodded slowly “You’re claustrophobic”

“I’m sorry” you whispered. He shook his head “It’s ok” he brought his com up to his ear and you heard a quick, whispered conversation between him and Bucky before he said “Copy that”

“Honey, we gotta stay here” you nodded quickly “Ok, I’ll be fine” you knew your eyes were wide, your breathing a bit erratic. He stepped back closer to the door, giving you as much room as he could with how big he was and how small the room was “Look at me darlin” you let your eyes find his and he smiled slightly “Match my breathing before you hyperventilate”

You nodded, raising your shaking hands and he stepped closer, putting your hands over his heart. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on” you followed his instructions and felt your breathing even out. You kept your eyes glued to his sky blue ones. “I’m sorry you got the claustrophobic former assassin. I got buried alive once. Bad experience”

He nodded, looking down at the space between the two of you then at you. You nodded that he could step closer. “You’re ok, nothing wrong with it. I’m glad I know so I can help you next time” you smiled “Thank you John” he raised one hand, tracing your face “Bucky, Ava and Yelena will be here within half an hour”

“So we’re stuck in here until then?” you asked, feeling your heart flip. He nodded, his hand dropping. “At least we’ll have time to adjust you to being in a tight space and hopefully you feel halfway safe with me” a small smirk played on his face as he teased you.

You shrugged “You may annoy me at times but I always know I’m safe with you” he grinned broadly, looking damn proud of himself “You feel safe with me?” you rolled your eyes “Don’t get big headed about it. I’m currently trying to ignore how the walls feel like they’re shrinking” 

He laughed quietly “They’re not, I promise. Want my shield to judge with?” you shook your head “No, I trust you on it”  “So, does this mean you don’t hate me?” he asked and your eyes flew up to his “I have never hated you. Gotten highly annoyed? Yes. Thought you made bad choices? Hell yes. Hated you? No”

A soft smile slipped onto his face “Good to know” “So you don’t hate me?” you asked and he shook his head “I could never hate you” “Good to know” you replied and he winked at you “Who knew getting trapped could be a good thing?” “Who said it was a good thing?” you asked and he shrugged “You’re breathing normal now. That’s good. We know we don’t hate each other, that’s really good”

You nodded and leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek “Yeah, it is” 

A little while later your coms flared to life “Incoming” as the closet door opened and there stood Bucky and Ava. “Ready to go?” She asked and you nodded “Yes please” you stepped out the closet around John and Yelena shot you a smirk. You narrowed your eyes but she just grinned “Let’s get to evac so we can all get home” 

You ended up falling asleep on John’s shoulder once you were all in the jet on the way back to the tower. Ok. maybe getting trapped had been a good thing after all.

[rafeobx]

THE GHOST BETWEEN US

MASTERLIST

ex!rafe x maybank!reader

plot: it’s been months since you ended things with rafe—ever since john b found out about your secret and gave you an ultimatum. everything’s different now: rafe’s with sofia, jj has kiara… and you? you’re alone. but everyone knows the truth — no matter who he’s with, rafe still loves you.

warnings: lots angst, jealousy, KOOK sofia

he’s with sofia now.

everyone knows it. she’s pretty. polished. safe. she wears white dresses and pearl earrings. she knows how to laugh at the right time, say the right thing, never ask too many questions. she’s from his world. the world that smells like old money and champagne on docks and names whispered like legacies.

she doesn’t come with war in her eyes and rebellion in her veins. she doesn’t come with the name maybank tangled in hers. she doesn’t make his father flinch when she walks into a room.

but everyone also knows that rafe still checks the old dock. still drives by the chateau late at night, lights off, heart clenching. still wears the chain you gave him that he keeps tucked under his shirt, hidden like a wound that never healed because he moved on the way people do when they’re trying not to die—not because he stopped loving you.

and sofia isn’t blind,—she sees the way he stiffens when someone says your name. she sees how he zones out, staring at nothing, lost in a memory only he knows. she kisses him, and he kisses her back but not like he kissed you.

never like you. he doesn’t say her name like it’s a prayer because she’s not you.

and no matter how many months pass — no matter how many pictures he lets her post, how many family dinners he shows up for, how many times she whispers i love you into the curve of his neck —his heart still belongs to the girl who walked away for blood. the girl who left to protect her brother. the girl who shattered both of them just to keep her world from burning even if it killed her, too.

the first time you saw him again was by accident.

midsummers. you weren’t even supposed to be there. kie had begged you to get out of your slump and jj promised they’d keep it chill and you thought, maybe, just maybe, if enough time had passed, it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

you were wrong.

he walked in with sofia at his side, tan and polished in his pressed white shirt and baby-blue tux, with that cruel kind of beauty that still made your lungs falter and your breath hitch.

he looked like a dream you weren’t allowed to touch anymore and when his eyes found yours across the crowd, he froze. everything around you blurred. you didn’t see sofia. you didn’t see the others staring between you and him. all you saw was him and the sea of distance between you.

you looked away, the ache in your chest spilled out of your ribs and onto the floor, deciding to leave before you could break. but rafe followed.

he always did.

you were standing out on the club stairs when you heard him behind you. neither of you spoke right away.

the ocean stretched out in front of you, but all you could feel was the air between you two—thick, electric, still alive.

“i tried,” you finally whispered, not turning around. “i tried to forget you.” his voice came slower. raw. honest. “so did i.” then you turned and there he was. the boy who tore through your world like a storm. the boy you never stopped loving.

you looked at each other like the pain had never left. because the truth was—it hadn't.

and in his eyes, you saw it all--the nights he stayed up thinking of you, the chain under his shirt, the truth he couldn’t say with sofia in his arms.

he still loved you and that was the cruelest part of all.

[prettydaisygirl]

Hi love! Congrats on 500 followers!! It’s well deserved as you’re an incredible writer! I wanted to request a 🌼 Hospital AU with Remus and “You can’t scare me like that. Okay?” where something happens to reader maybe partly because of her own doing (overworking, not taking enough rest, etc.) if you like that idea.

Hi nonnie!! Thanks so much for requesting :) I love doctor!Remus, he's just so sweet and gentle. Hope you enjoy <3

🌼 daisy (innocence, loyalty, pure love): pick a character and an AU from the lists above & a prompt from this list and I will write a <500 word drabble

daisy's 500 follower celebration bouquet

Remus Lupin, hospital, and "You can't scare me like that, okay?"

cw: fem!reader, husband!Remus, doctor!Remus, reader fainted from overworking herself, typical hospital warnings

°˖✧✿✧˖°

Remus is going through charts in his office when there’s a knock at his door. He glances up to see one of his nurses, Sarah, lingering in the doorway with her hand raised to the wood, an odd look on her face.

“Yes?” He asks, fingers still typing away even when he isn’t looking at his screen.

“Your um… Your wife is in A&E, Dr. Lupin.” She practically jumps out of her skin as Remus stands fast, things clattering around on his desk. He’s out of the room with a gust of wind, and Sarah follows as closely behind him as she can. 

“Any other information?” Remus asks her, his voice clipped with worry as his long legs carry him through the hospital halls. Sarah can barely keep up, but he doesn’t care. His mind is racing with possibilities. Are you sick? Was there an accident? Did someone attack you?

“No, sir. I know she was brought in an ambulance.” Well, that only makes things worse.

The doors to the emergency room open for him, and he instantly knows which bed you’re in even with the curtains drawn. Several nurses stand in a small group, whispering in hushed tones with anxious looks on their faces. If Remus wasn’t consumed with worry, he’d be angry that they’re just standing there instead of helping you. He doesn’t wait for any explanations, just steps between them and opens the curtain.

There you are. Pale, but alive, leaning back against the pillow like a child about to be scolded. The nurses freeze, and the normally chaotic A&E has gone completely silent. Or maybe that’s the panic surging through him, blocking it out.

“What happened?” Remus asks, approaching your side and taking your hand. His eyes scan over your figure, looking for any obvious injuries, but there aren’t any.

“I’m fine,” You say with a shake of your head, even though you know it’s the wrong answer. “Everyone is making a big fuss over nothing.”

“You fainted on the train, that’s not nothing.” One of his nurses speaks up behind him, catching both his attention and your sharp glare. Evidently, you’d asked them not to tell him that. His nurses know better.

“You fainted?” Remus asks, brushing a hand over your forehead. You aren’t warm, your skin is a shade too-fair, like there isn’t enough blood flow to your face. A nurse hands him your chart and he looks over your vitals quickly. There’s nothing emergent that jumps out to him. 

“I’m just tired.” You try to argue with a shake of your head, and Remus shoots you a look before waving away the gaggle of nurses behind him. He closes the curtain again, still checking you over as he sighs. 

“You aren’t just tired, my love. You’ve been overdoing it all week.” And you have, Remus has been watching. You’ve been staying up too late, and waking too early, frantic to finish your latest project at work. But it’s too much. “I need you to slow down. You can’t scare me like that, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” You say, and Remus’ face softens. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips and he feels you relax, tension leaving your muscles. 

“Don’t be sorry,” He says softly, dark eyes looking at you with such gentleness it makes your heart clench. “Just… take better care of yourself. I love you, and I want you to be healthy. It’s my job, both as a doctor and as your husband.”

“I know.” You say, and let your eyes close. His hands gently move over your back and then he presses his forehead to yours. You know he’ll always take care of you. “I love you too.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl