#there's versions without the red metal too!

[em1i2a3]

Banquet

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Bull Rider!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been in the circuit scene for as long as you can remember but when you move to Wabang and become the newbie, you’ve got a lot to prove especially to your top competitor, Rhett Abbott.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Enemies to Lovers (✨competition edition✨), Drug Use By Reader (Painkillers), Alcohol Use, Mentions of Bruising and Injuries, Mentions of Blood, Swearing, Violence? (Cause Bull Riding is BROOOTAL), There is a very brief moment of sexual harassment,

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rough Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (female and male receiving) Scratching, Spitting, Riding, Some Body Worship/Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Semi-Public Sex, Handjob, Breast Play.

Author’s Note: I gotta thank the Reddit page r/bullriding because holy crap I got to know so much about the world of Bull Riding and honestly the stories there and the videos were so cool to watch. I wanted to make this as accurate as possible so being able to get the insider info without having to go crazy over it was great! Anyways! Happy RAF my friends <3 I hope y’all enjoy this new instalment :D (sorry for the late-ish update, I got caught up watching Oasis content lol)

Word Count: 15,057

Bull riding was your whole life.

Ever since you were a kid, you’d roamed the edge of the arena, with boots caked in red dirt, and kettle corn dust sticking to your sun-chapped fingers. Summers in South Dakota were ruthless–long, dry, and blistering–but you didn’t care. You followed your father from town to town like a shadow, sitting on metal bleachers that burned your thighs through your jeans, watching the bulls kick up dust beneath riders twice your size. You were too young to understand the full weight of the danger, but even then, you felt it: the thrill, the rhythm, the unspoken poetry in those brutal eight seconds.

The circuits became your church, your home, and your obsession.

So when you were finally old enough to ride, you had told your father.

”I wanna get on,” Your jaw was set and your arms were crossed over your chest, with dust still streaked across your neck from tying down flanks that morning, “I know the risks…I’ve seen them all before, I ain’t stupid. I just want to try it out.” Your father had paused his gardening work, looking up at you through the afternoon sun. He didn’t raise his voice, nor did he argue right away, but the silence said enough to you. You could see it in the way he looked at you, staring like he was trying to memorize the version of you before the bruises, before the fractures, before the eight-second freefalls and the way the dirt would cling to the inevitable blood that you would spill.

He tried to talk you out of it. Not because he didn’t think you were tough enough–but because he knew exactly how strong willed you’d have to be. He said circuit life was a man’s world, and that a girl like you wouldn’t get special treatment. He also made it clear that there was a huge possibility that they wouldn’t accept you unless you networked a little more.

“You ain’t gonna get no softness out there, Y/N.” He told you, shaking his head. But you didn’t want softness. You wanted the chance to feel the adrenaline in your veins when that gate opened, the thrill of the buck, the excitement of the ride. You didn’t care about privileges or treatment.

So for six months, you worked the scene like your life depended on it–because in a way, it did.

You shook every hand, remembered every name, stayed late after events to help load chutes or sweep stalls. You offered help before anyone had to ask, learned how each rider liked their gear handled, how they marked their bullsheets, how they taped their wrists. You weren’t just a familiar face who stood around and chatted–you became useful. Dependable.

You mucked out trailers in the rain, held gates open in the cold, said yes to every odd job, every chore, every coffee run or feed delivery. Not because you had to, but because you were already playing the long game. You made yourself unforgettable, not by talking loud, but by showing up.

Some of the guys tried teasing you, and thought you were a buckle bunny at first. But then you started helping out on ranches. Fixing busted fencing. Brushing down bulls after transport. Tightening cinches with quiet confidence and a grip strong enough to make them blink in shock.

They stopped calling you ‘sweetheart’ after that.

And one night around a bonfire after a county fair, one of them tossed you a beer and said, “You ever think about ridin’ for real?” And you had smiled, already half a step ahead.

”More than you know.”

By the time you finally got your father to agree–begrudging, tight-lipped, but no longer saying no–your name was already circulating. You had enough people in your corner to vouch for your grit, enough calluses to prove you weren’t just playing cowgirl. So when you showed up to the local circuit, people nodded. They weren’t surprised in the slightest.

Bull Riding School was the next step. Mandatory. Grueling. Brutal. You showed up with your mouth shut and your sleeves rolled, ready to work. The instructors were hard-asses. They didn’t go easy on you–not because they didn’t believe in you, but because they did.

And you made it real clear, real quick, that you weren’t there to flirt or flinch or back down.

You were there to ride.

You didn’t talk unless spoken to, didn’t boast or exaggerate. You studied backlogs of competitions late into the night while the others passed beers and shot the shit. You memorized flanks, muscle tics, buck patterns. You knew the names of the bulls before your instructors even called them out.

By the third week, the trainers started making comments.

“She’s got hands like glue,” One said, shaking his head as you dismounted cleanly from a particularly mean brindle. “Like she knows where he’s gonna twist before he even does.”

You weren’t flashy, but you were relentless. You moved like a shadow in the chute–still, quiet, composed. And the second the gate flung open, you came alive.

They called it uncanny. The way you moved with the bulls, not against them. The way you didn’t panic when they whipped left or snapped back hard–you just adjusted your core and made sure you loosened up before gripping tighter onto the ropes

While other people your age were buried in textbooks or prepping for scholarships, you were strapping on gear that weighed as much as a grown man and launching yourself onto a creature bred for violence. You broke bones, popped joints, hit the dirt so hard once you saw stars–but you always got back up. Even when it hurt…Especially when it hurt.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t complain.

You learned to bite your tongue until the pain passed.

And that was what made people respect you.

When you joined the circuit for real, you weren’t a novelty anymore.

You were competition.

You didn’t win every ride, but you damn sure made them earn their wins. You placed. Then placed again. And before long, you weren’t just holding your own–you were climbing the ranks. Fast. Too fast for some.

You could hear the murmurs after a ride: She’s got something to prove. She’s only here because she’s a girl and people are curious. Let her fall once good and she’ll quit.

But you didn’t.

You got back in the chute every single time.

And when you started stacking belt buckles like poker chips–hard-won, sweat-soaked, blood-dented buckles–those same people started getting real quiet.

The crowds knew your name. The girls in the stands screamed when you showed up because you were seen as somewhat of an inspiration. Parents pointed at you from the bleachers and whispered to their daughters. Even the old-timers nodded when you passed.

Then just as you were truly gaining momentum…Wabang came out of nowhere.

A place with quieter skies, meaner bulls, and a circuit that didn’t give a damn about what you’d earned back in South Dakota.

You didn’t plan to leave, but when your father called you out to the porch on one late September evening–face tight, jaw ticking–you knew something was wrong. His words were careful. Simple.

”Your grandmother’s real sick…I gotta go to Wabang to take care of her. You know how Uncle Darren doesn’t do much for her…” You had sat on one of the rocking chairs nursing a beer in one hand, and popping one of your painkillers into your mouth with the other, washing it down with the stale ale. He offered you an out, he said you could stay behind to keep riding, to keep chasing the gold. But you shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

”I’m sure I can chase the gold somewhere else…” You said firmly, “I’m not going to let you go alone.” So you packed up all your gear and left behind the only place that had ever felt like home. It gutted you to leave the circuit. To hug your riding buddies goodbye with red eyes and raw knuckles, to strip your name off the draw sheets and hand your spot to some scrawny new kid who’d never tasted blood on the back of a bull before. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the plan.

But sometimes, family called louder than ambition.

Still, your people didn’t let you go empty-handed. They made calls. Pulled strings. Sent emails and texts and a few firm recommendations that reached all the way across the plains to Wyoming’s Wabang Regional Circuit. The committee over there ran a tight ship, rougher than what you were used to. Leaner, grittier, less forgiving.

But they agreed to let you ride conditionally of course.

They didn’t care about your buckles. Your stats. Your glowing praise from South Dakota. As far as they were concerned, you were just another newbie trying to find footing on their dirt. Another out-of-town wildcard who needed to earn their keep.

It didn’t matter. You’d done it once. You could do it again.

What mattered was that you were back in the chute. Back in the dirt. Back where you belonged.

But Wabang wasn’t South Dakota.

The crowds were colder, the eyes on you sharper. Here, the circuit wasn’t just a family–it was a hierarchy. Tight-knit and territorial. Every rider knew every rider, and outsiders weren’t welcomed so much as tolerated.

You walked into the bullpen the first weekend with your duffel slung over your shoulder, the late sun slicing through the slats in the walls like firelight. Your boots were caked in three states’ worth of arena dirt, your jeans stiff from overuse, your plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows. You didn’t smile much. Not when every eye in the pen dragged over you like they were looking at a misprint.

You heard the whispers–that’s her? The South Dakota rider? Heard she’s good, but–

But.

There was always a but when it came to you.

The arena owner–a wiry older man with creased skin and a nicotine rasp–had greeted you just outside the gates and gave you the rundown. Quick, clipped. Professional.

“Locker room’s through there,” He’d said, nodding toward the left hallway. “Ain’t separate for men and women. You got a problem with that?” You shook your head.

”No, sir.” And he huffed.

”Didn’t think so.” You followed him past the arena doors, down the concrete corridor where the walls were stained with age and old sponsorship stickers peeled at the corners. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and from down the hall, you could hear the sounds of boots stomping, a bull snorting in the pen, and someone laughing too loud.

The door to the locker room creaked when it opened.

And there he was.

Rhett Abbott.

He stood at the far end of the locker room like he’d been carved straight from the land that raised him–rugged, quiet, and hard-edged from the inside out. His long-sleeved blue plaid shirt was tucked neatly into the waistband of his dark, dust-scuffed jeans. The shirt clung to his broad frame in all the right places, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the rough brush of stubble trailing along his jaw. His calloused hands worked slow, steady as he buckled his Kevlar vest into place across his chest–like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did.

Because Rhett Abbott didn’t rush for anyone.

He had a reputation even in South Dakota–your old circuit buddies had whispered his name like a warning and a dare. He wasn’t just a rider. He was the kind of man bulls remembered. The kind of man who didn’t blink when hooves cracked skulls and jaws snapped like rope. A cowboy with a haunted look in his eye and the kind of quiet that made everyone else shut the hell up when he entered a room.

And those eyes?

God, those eyes.

Clear and piercing blue, like glacial water that could cut right through you. They were striking even from a distance, but up close–when they landed on you, just then—it felt like standing on a fault line, like something was about to shift.

“Abbott,” The arena owner barked, voice gravel-thick. “This here’s Y/N. The South Dakota transfer.” Rhett didn’t say a word, nor did he offer a hand or a smile or even a blink. He just stared at you, expression unreadable, fingers flexing once against the buckle of his vest as he locked the strap into place. His gaze swept over you like he was measuring the threat–boots to chin, eyes narrowing faintly as if he’d already made his judgment and didn’t think much of what he saw.

You returned the stare without flinching.

”Nice to meet you,” You said evenly, offering the barest nod. There was tension in his silence. Heavy, taut, deliberate. The kind of tension that didn’t crack–it coiled.

His eyes stayed on yours.

Unmoving.

Daring.

And then, finally, his voice slid out low and rough as gravel. “We’ll see.”

“Well,” the owner grunted, already halfway through the door, “I gotta get back to my work. You can go on and get ready–the rest of the riders’ll be here in due time. Abbott’ll show you the draw sheet when you’re done gettin’ situated.”

You nodded politely. “Thank you, sir.”

He waved a hand, more dust than grace in the gesture. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Then he was gone, the door thudding shut behind him with a hollow slam that left the locker room humming with silence again–thick, loaded silence.

Rhett hadn’t moved.

Still stood like a statue in denim and dust, arms crossed loosely over his chest now, mouth drawn in a line that was neither welcoming nor dismissive. Just waiting.

Watching.

You dropped your duffel onto the bench with a solid thud and crouched to unzip it, not sparing him a glance. Your fingers moved with practiced rhythm–pulling out your vest, the dark navy one from bull riding school, faded along the edges but sturdy as hell. A gift from your instructors. You slid it onto your lap like armor.

Gloves. Mouthguard. Wrist wraps.

And then–rattle.

The familiar click of plastic against plastic.

You didn’t look up, but you felt the subtle shift of the room. A sound like that didn’t go unnoticed.

Rhett’s head tilted. Just a little. You caught it out of the corner of your eye. His brow lifted, and his lips tugged–just slightly–into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but damn sure wasn’t neutral.

“Painkillers already?” He said, tone even, drawl low. “Ain’t even touched the dirt yet.”

You looked up at him slowly, popping the cap off the bottle like you were opening a soda, and held his gaze as you shook one into your palm. “Old injuries, been doing this for a long time.” He hummed, like that told him everything and nothing all at once.

“Or maybe,” He added, pushing off the wall with the lazy grace of someone who didn’t do anything unless he wanted to, “You’re just prepping for the fall.” You tossed the pill back and dry-swallowed it. Hard. Deliberate. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

“You spend as much time worrying about your own rides,” You started, rising to your feet and fixing him with a look that dared him to push again, “Or are you already obsessed with mine?” His jaw flexed. His boots shifted.

Then he walked forward.

Not quick. Not aggressive. Just enough to close the space between you until you had to tilt your chin slightly to hold your ground.

“I watch for threats,” He said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keeps me sharp.”

”Oh…So I’m a threat to you?” That grin finally came–slow, crooked, lopsided and infuriatingly handsome, but he didn’t answer. You scoffed and shook your head, reaching down to pick up your wrist straps.

”Don’t worry, Abbott,” You said coolly, wrapping one hand with slow, steady precision. “I’m not here to take your spot. You can still sign belt buckles after the event if you want.”

“That so?” He muttered, circling around to the opposite bench but never taking his eyes off you. “Funny. You talk a lot for someone who ain’t made the draw yet.”

“You talk a lot for someone who’s clearly rattled.” His eyes narrowed at you, brimming with interest–with curiosity that was sharpened by the bite of his ego. He sat down on the bench opposite you, watching as you slipped on your vest and tightened the buckles with efficient, practiced pulls.

“You ride clean,” He said suddenly.

You glanced at him, startled by the shift in tone.

Still guarded, still competitive–but honest.

“You got clips out there,” He continued. “I’ve seen ‘em. Brindle out in Sioux Falls. Big bastard. You held like your boots were nailed to his sides.”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Didn’t think you did your homework.”

“I don’t.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But new blood gets attention. Especially when it’s making noise before it even gets a number on the board.” The words should’ve felt like a compliment. But from Rhett Abbott, they sounded like a warning. You stood slowly, mouthguard in hand.

“Well,” You started, stepping past him, close enough that you brushed against him, “Hope you’ve been watching real close, Abbott.”

”Why’s that?” You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips.

”Cause maybe it gave you some pointers on how to get your spot back after I embarrass you tonight by dethroning you.” Rhett let out a low, surprised laugh–rough and full of gravel, like it hadn’t been used in a while. The sound bounced off the concrete walls and wrapped itself around your spine, warm and taunting. He leaned back slightly on the bench, his eyes cutting toward you with that same infuriating smirk, like he was already carving out space for your loss in his mind.

“That massive ego ain’t gonna get you anywhere here,” He drawled, shaking his head. “But good luck tryin’, sweetheart. You’ll need it.” You turned fully toward him, sliding your mouthguard into your back pocket, your brow lifting in mock thought.

“That the same line you feed every rookie before they kick your ass in the rankings? Or just the ones you’re scared of?” His gaze didn’t waver. Not even a little.

“Oh, I ain’t scared,” He said, slow and low, voice syrup-thick. “Just curious how many seconds you’ll last before you’re face-first in the dirt wonderin’ what the hell you got yourself into.”

“I’ll last more than eight,” You said flatly. “And I won’t be the one wonderin’.”

That made something in his jaw tick again–interest, challenge, something a little darker. He stood up then, rising to his full height, the bench creaking behind him, the air tightening between your bodies like it was caught in a vise.

He stepped forward. Just enough.

Not touching.

But near enough that you could smell the saddle soap on his vest, the sweat in the cotton of his shirt, the faintest trace of tobacco on his breath. His eyes flicked down to your chestplate, then back to your face.

”You may ride good,” He started, “But this place? It’ll chew you up if you walk in thinkin’ you’re the queen of the goddamn circuit.” You stared up at him, unflinching.

“I guess I’ll give it something to chew on then.” The silence between you burned after that. It wasn’t flirtation. It was something hotter. Something rawer. The buzz of two predators circling, tension strung tight between challenge and curiosity. Respect wasn’t given, not in Wabang–and not by Rhett Abbott. You’d have to rip it out of him like a tooth.

But God, it was gonna be fun trying.

He looked at you a second longer–searching, maybe–and then exhaled through his nose, slow and begrudging.

“Draw sheet’s taped outside the office door,” He muttered, stepping around you. “You’re sixth.” You turned just as he opened the door, watching the set of his shoulders, the confident, ground-eating stride, the twitch in his jaw like he wanted to say more but wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

He stopped in the doorway just before leaving, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

“Oh,” He added casually. “Your bull? Leviathan. Mean son of a bitch. Most riders can’t last five.”

You grinned.

“Guess I’ll make it six.”

And then he was gone.

——————————

The air was crisp and dry, and the spotlights above the Wabang Regional Arena cut through the dark like white fire–searing over dirt churned from the night’s earlier rides. The stands were packed, voices rising in waves of excitement and tension, spilling beer and adrenaline as the announcer hyped the next event into the echoing mic.

“Next up…Randy Ellis ridin’ Deadbolt!”

The name crackled over the speakers as Randy adjusted his vest and hoisted himself over the chute. The crowd whooped, the clang of metal gates and the low growl of a restless bull filling the air. You didn’t watch. You were already headed toward your own chute–toward the pen holding Leviathan.

Your boots hit the dirt heavy. Intentional. You kept your shoulders squared, your expression unreadable, and your black Cattleman’s hat low over your brow. Your vest was secured, your wrists were wrapped, and your gloves were tight. All that was left was the ride.

As you approached your chute, the men flanking the rails turned at the sound of your steps. One of them–a lanky guy with wind-chapped cheeks and a whistle tucked into the front pocket of his flannel–cocked his head at you.

“You’re Y/N?”

You climbed up the railings like you’d done a hundred times before. Balanced, steady, sure. “Yep,” You replied, tossing a glance toward the snorting mass of muscle in the pen. “Is this Leviathan?”

The bull was massive.

Easily upwards of 2,500 pounds, built like a damn freight train, with dark brindle hide that shimmered with sweat under the lights. His eyes rolled white in his skull, and his hooves stomped restlessly against the planks, muscles twitching with every taut, coiled breath. His horns curved like a devil’s crown, one chipped from a previous fight. You could feel his energy from here–bubbling, hateful, wild.

One of the gate guys blinked. “Yeah,” He said, slowly. “But…You’re new. Ain’t no way they gave you a bull ranked an eight.” He glanced at the others, then back at you, brows knotting. “That’s just cruel.”

You shrugged, brushing sweat from your brow with the back of your glove. “I’m experienced,” you said evenly, eyes locked on Leviathan. “I can handle him.”

The guy let out a short, disbelieving whistle, shaking his head. “You got brass ones, I’ll give you that.”

You didn’t reply. Just climbed over the railing with practiced ease, slipping your mouthguard from your back pocket and biting it down between your teeth. The noise of the crowd faded as soon as you lowered yourself onto the bull’s back.

Leviathan snapped against the metal of the chute, sides heaving, rope already pulled taut beneath him. But your movements were quick–clean. You swung your leg over, settled low, tucked your knees in close, and adjusted the rope across your gloved hand. You shifted gently, loosening your core, feeling the way he moved beneath you like a living earthquake.

“You’re signin’ your own death wish, little lady,” one of the handlers muttered behind you.

You didn’t flinch. Just sucked in a breath and spoke around your mouthguard.

“Then I better make it worth it.”

You closed your eyes for a heartbeat. Focused. Centered.

This wasn’t South Dakota. This wasn’t some hometown draw with familiar bulls and family watching from the bleachers. This was Wabang.

And Wabang didn’t want you to win. They wanted you to bleed.

“Chute five, y’all. Leviathan with the newbie–Y/N L/N!”

The roar from the crowd was uncertain–half eager, half waiting for a crash.

You leaned forward, tightened your grip, and with your free hand, gave the nod.

The gate flung open.

And hell broke loose.

Leviathan launched like a bullet from a gun, his back legs kicking skyward as his front hooves jackknifed into the dirt. The momentum cracked through your spine like a whip, but you held tight, low and steady, moving with him–not against. You could barely hear the crowd through the static in your ears, the pounding of blood, the scream of instinct, the echo of your name in the chaos.

One second.

Two.

He twisted hard right, then back left. You shifted your weight, rolled your hips.

Three.

He jerked his head down and tried to slam his ass into the chute gate. You didn’t bite your tongue–you gritted it.

Four.

Your shoulder popped. You didn’t care.

Five.

His back legs buckled mid-air, an old trick to jolt riders. Your thighs held firm.

Six.

You could hear him grunting, feel the breath rip through his nostrils.

Seven.

He spun in a tight circle, then kicked forward with all his fury–

Eight.

The buzzer sounded.

And you didn’t fall.

You launched yourself off clean, hitting the dirt and rolling, boots scrambling as you came to your feet, mouthguard clenched between your teeth and chest heaving.

The crowd exploded.

The noise hit you like a wave–some cheering, some shocked. Some standing with beers half-raised, jaws open like they didn’t quite believe what they’d seen.

You stood there in the center of the ring for just a second, sweat dripping down your back, dust sticking to your cheeks, pain flaring in your ribs where you knew something pulled. But you smiled through your damn mouth guard anyway.

Up in the catwalks, framed by metal rails and sharp arena light, Rhett Abbott looked like a storm that hadn’t broken yet. Eyes burning cold, fingers tight around the neck of his beer, unmoving except for the way his jaw ticked. Like something was eating him alive from the inside out.

And if you didn’t know better, you’d have called it jealousy.

But you tore your gaze away before he could see you linger.

Instead, you gave a short, theatrical bow toward the crowd—sweat-slick and battered and glowing like you’d been baptized in dirt. You waved once, sharp and dismissive, then turned and headed for the exit, boots dragging a wake of red dust behind you.

You spat into the gravel as soon as you cleared the tunnel, blood-tinged saliva hitting the ground with a soft pat.

Your body ached like hell. Your ribs throbbed. But your heart was singing.

You slipped your mouth guard into your vest pocket and muttered under your breath with a grin curling against your cheek.

“Must be havin’ a lucky night–”

“Lucky,” Rhett grumbled, suddenly there, voice rough and tight.

You froze mid-step, turning your head slowly. He was leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for you. Shoulders drawn, expression sharp, his hat pulled low over his brow—but not low enough to hide the scowl in his eyes.

He looked at you like you were a splinter lodged in his palm.

Unwanted. But too deep to pull out.

“Well damn,” you said, cocking your head as you took him in. “Abbott. You come all this way just to ride my belt, or you here to choke out a ‘congrats’?”

His lip curled faintly. “Didn’t realize there was anything worth congratulatin’. You stayed on. Big deal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Eight seconds on Leviathan’s back says otherwise.”

He stepped forward. Slow, deliberate. The kind of step that said he wasn’t gonna shoot back–not yet–but if he did, it’d hurt.

“You think one ride makes you a name around here?”

“No,” You shot back, crossing your arms over your chest, “But it sure as hell makes you look over your shoulder.”

That hit.

His eyes flicked, just once, like a muscle had twitched without permission. He bit back whatever smart-ass line was about to come out, jaw flexing hard enough to crack stone.

“You’re cocky as hell, you know that?”

You smirked, “You’re actin’ like a man who’s got something to lose Abbott.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why’re you down here, all worked up about my ride?” He took another step forward. Close enough now that you could see the sweat at his temples. The way his chest rose and fell like he’d run to catch you. Close enough to smell the dust and heat still clinging to him like a second skin.

“You had one good ride. Don’t let those South Dakota buckles weigh your head down.” Your smirked.

”Face it, Abbott–you hate that I proved you wrong.” His nostrils flared.

“You’re not gonna last,” He said.

“I already did.”

“Yeah, just tonight you did.”

“That’s all it takes, right?” You stepped into his space now, voice like velvet over broken glass. “One night. One ride. And suddenly the golden boy’s out here growlin’ in the dark, tryin’ to convince himself he’s still top dog.”

“You’re not competition,” He snapped.

“Then why are you so pressed, sweetheart?”

That shut him up for just a second.

Then he laughed. A bitter, breathless sound, like it scraped its way out of his chest against his will. He turned his face slightly like he couldn’t stand to look at you straight on, shaking his head with a crooked, vicious smile.

“You got fire,” He admitted. “But fire burns out fast when you don’t know how to control it.”

“Maybe,” You said, stepping even closer–your boots nearly toe to toe with his. “Or maybe it burns hotter when someone keeps throwin’ fuel on it.”

Your eyes locked. No blinking. No breathing. Just heat. Hot enough to taste.

And then–

A voice echoed from the arena tunnel behind you both: “Abbott, you’re up in two!” He didn’t move. Didn’t look away. But something in his gaze shifted–tightened. Like he’d remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be, and the fact that you weren’t supposed to be under his skin.

You tilted your head slowly. “You should get ready.”

“I am ready.”

“Right.” You let your voice drag, taunting. “Don’t trip over that pride on your way in.”

He stepped back with a sharp inhale, that wild smirk tugging again at the corner of his mouth. “Enjoy your little moment, South Dakota. Next ride, you’ll be eatin’ dirt.”

You grinned. “If it’s dirt from your spot in the rankings, I’ll savor it.”

He turned with a shake of his head, muttering something under his breath as he stalked back toward the chutes.

You didn’t ask what it was. You didn’t need to.

Because if Rhett Abbott hated you now? That meant you were exactly where you needed to be.

The concession stand was tucked under a flickering floodlight, the cooler humming behind a bored teenager chewing a hard piece of gum, her lips smacking loudly. You ordered a Coke, voice scratchy from dust and exertion, and twisted the cap off with your teeth as you walked away, the soda cold enough to sting your throat. You needed the caffeine more than the sugar. Your whole body was buzzing, but not in a good way–not anymore. The adrenaline was gone, and pain was blooming in its absence.

You didn’t go back to the locker room for your pills, not yet at least, you needed to wait a bit longer before your next dose, so you would just have to grin and bear it. The bleachers groaned as you climbed them, weaving past shouting fans and wide-eyed kids still holding bags of cotton candy. You kept your head down, your hat low, until you found an open spot on the edge of the aluminum seating–close enough to the arena for a decent view, far enough from the cluster of families not to be bothered.

You sat slowly.

Carefully.

And still your tailbone felt like you slammed it into the cold metal, a sharp crack of pain erupting through you as your jaw clenched. You winced hard, hissing through your teeth as you took a quick sip of soda to mask it. The bruises would set in tomorrow. Your ribs were already throbbing with every inhale. You shifted your weight to your hip, keeping one hand wrapped around your Coke and the other braced behind you on the bench.

It was worth it.

Every goddamn second of it.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena again, sharp and loud as the next name rang out like a gunshot.

“Rhett Abbott ridin’ Ironjaw! Let’s see what the local legend’s got tonight, folks!”

You tipped your head just enough to get a clear view of the chutes—and there he was.

Rhett stood in the narrow alley behind the pen, vest snug over his broad chest, his shoulders flexing as he adjusted the rope across Ironjaw’s flank. The bull was pissed already, hooves scraping against the dirt floor, muscles rippling beneath slick hide. Rhett didn’t flinch.

You narrowed your eyes.

Every movement he made was precise, economical. Like he knew the bull before he even got on it. The way he patted Ironjaw’s side with a flat, firm palm, the way he crouched to check his wrap, the way his jaw clenched as he rolled his wrist and tested the slack—calm. Controlled. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

You hated that it was impressive.

Because it was.

But that didn’t mean he was better than you.

Not yet.

He climbed onto the railing with that same unbothered grace, like he’d been born in a chute. Then he eased onto Ironjaw’s back, slow and steady, settling into the saddle as if it were a goddamn rocking chair.

Your Coke bottle creaked in your hand as your grip tightened.

You wanted to see how he moved when the gate opened. You wanted to see if he could ride clean like you had–or if he just talked like he could.

The chute boss gave him a nod. Rhett shifted, gloved hand gripping the rope, legs tightening around the bull’s broad back. The noise in the crowd swelled–chants, shouts, someone whistling from the far end of the stands.

Then–

The gate flew open.

Ironjaw launched into the arena like a shot.

The crowd screamed.

And you sat there, still as stone, watching every goddamn second.

He moved like he wasn’t separate from the bull. Not fighting the chaos–riding it. Every buck met with counterweight. Every twist matched with a subtle shift of his hips, a sharp adjustment in his core.

You realized it before anyone else did.

Right there in the middle of Ironjaw’s third spin, Rhett’s center of gravity shifted just a fraction too far forward–just enough to throw his balance off when the bull twisted the other way. He tried to correct it, tightening his core like a seasoned pro, but it was too late. His grip held, but his seat was gone.

And then–

Wham.

Ironjaw bucked hard, and Rhett’s body was flung sideways, spine bowing mid-air like a cracked whip before he slammed shoulder-first into the dirt. The arena let out a collective, resounding:

“OHHHH–“ A mix of awe and sympathy. The kind of sound people made when someone landed just wrong.

You winced instinctively at the sound of impact, the grit of your teeth matched by the fizz of your Coke bottle between your lips. Your ribs ached in solidarity. But even through the sympathy, a smug little grin curled at the corner of your mouth. Because there it was. The moment. The crack in the golden boy’s armor.

Rhett groaned as he rolled onto his knees, planted one gloved hand in the dirt, and pushed himself up, slow and stiff. The bull had already been wrangled and was halfway down the pen when he stood upright, brushing red dust off his vest like it personally offended him.

His jaw was clenched, hard. His chest rose and fell like he was chewing on the failure, trying to swallow it whole.

You took another long sip of Coke, watching from the bleachers as he yanked off his glove and slapped it against his thigh hard enough to make a few spectators flinch. His hat was tilted low, covering his face, but not low enough to hide the embarrassment in his posture.

The announcer tried to save him a little–

��Tough break for Abbott tonight, folks. That bull’s meaner than sin and twice as smart! Four seconds! Let’s hear it for the local legend anyway!” A few people clapped, loyal to his name.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there like a queen on her throne, bruised but proud, your Coke bottle sweating against your thigh.

Four seconds.

You’d doubled it.

And that’s all that mattered.

He walked back toward the tunnel, muttering something to one of the gate guys, and you didn’t miss the twitch in his jaw when he glanced up toward the stands.

He saw you.

Saw you smirking.

Saw the satisfaction radiating off you like perfume.

And it hit him–

You’d won.

Not the event. Not the night.

But the first real punch of this fight?

That belonged to you.

The tension between you two had been all bark and no bite until now–but now? Now it was personal. Now he had a reason to glare at you across the chutes. Now he’d ride harder. Sharper. Meaner. Because you were the threat.

Not the bulls.

You.

You rose slowly from the bench, your back aching like hell, but the adrenaline and spite kept you upright. The crowd buzzed as you made your way down the steps again, slipping through the crush of spectators still high on beer and dust.

By the time you reached the rear corridor, Rhett was stalking toward the locker rooms with his helmet swinging at his side and a scowl cut deep into his face. You didn’t slow down–you matched his pace stride for stride, the echo of your boots following his.

“You alright?” You asked, feigning innocence. “Looked like Ironjaw gave you a little love tap there.”

He didn’t stop walking, nor did he look at you. But he did answer. Through gritted teeth.

“Don’t push it.”

You grinned. “Just asking. You know…’Cause you looked real good for those four seconds.” That stopped him. Dead in his tracks. He turned to face you, eyes narrowed and jaw tight, the muscles in his neck tense as a bowstring.

“You think this is a game?”

You blinked slowly. “I think it’s a competition. Or were you expecting I’d kiss your bruises after?”

“You got lucky,” He muttered. “That’s all.” You tilted your head at him.

”Maybe you oughta start prayin’ for some of it for yourself.” For a second, neither of you moved. The hallway pulsed with tension–the low hum of the floodlights, the smell of blood and sweat and dirt hanging between you. His chest was still rising and falling fast, vest creaking with each breath. He was pissed, and not at the bull. At you.

And you loved it.

“You got no idea what you’re messin’ with,” He growled. You stepped in closer, close enough to see the flecks of arena dirt clinging to his stubble, to smell the blood on his breath where he must’ve bitten his cheek on impact. You smirked up at him, lips curling slow and sharp, a predator in worn denim.

“You’re gettin’ so frustrated, Abbott,” You teased,, voice honey-slick and dangerous. “You scared a girl’s gonna swipe up all your titles?” That flicker behind his eyes–it flared. Blue fire, all storm surge and pride, rising too fast to catch. His mouth opened like he had something smart to throw back, something smug to spit–but all that came out was a low, bitter scoff, hot and cracked like dry wood snapping under a boot.

“I can’t wait,” He hissed, stepping close enough for his shadow to cut across your boots, “to see you get whipped from a fuckin’ bull. Face-first in the dirt. ’Cause now?” His voice dropped. Rough. Mean. Real. “You’re just askin’ for it.”

You held his stare without blinking, pulse thumping in your ears. His breath was ragged. His teeth clenched.

You smiled–slow, and lethal. Like you already knew something he didn’t.

“That’s wishful thinkin’.” You stepped past him, letting your shoulder brush his with deliberate weight, soft enough to sting.

“See you next week, Abbott.”And you didn’t look back. Not when your boots echoed down the corridor. Not when he stood there, fuming, jaw ticking, watching you go like you were a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Not when the silence behind you vibrated with swallowed curses and bruised pride.

——————————

The next few weeks turned into a battleground.

Not just in the chutes, but everywhere.

You and Rhett were at each other’s throats like it was a second job. He was the constant thorn in your side, and you were the splinter under his nail he couldn’t dig out. Tension followed you like smoke–thick, choking, and just a spark away from catching fire.

In the arena, the rivalry was brutal. You both took every draw like it was personal. Every gate swing, every eight seconds, every dismount had teeth. He’d ride clean, and you’d ride cleaner. You’d land high scores, and he’d storm out with a jaw like cracked stone and ride harder the next week. The scoreboard became a battlefield of inches, bruises, and grit. Your names started climbing neck-and-neck.

And outside the arena? The war didn’t stop.

The more social you got with the rest of the circuit crew, the more you ended up circling the same watering holes, the same post-ride hangouts, the same campfire gatherings that Rhett haunted like a shadow. You didn’t mean to wedge yourself into his world–but it happened all the same.

It was hard to make friends outside the rodeo. So you took what you could get.

After weekend rides, the crew always ended up at The Handsome Gambler–a half-dive, half-cowboy shrine of a bar tucked off a dirt road that hadn’t seen a real renovation since the early 2000s. The beer was always cold, the jukebox barely worked, and the pool table leaned a little to the left–but it was home for a lot of them.

And, eventually, it became home for you too.

You’d walk in, bruised and sweat-slick, toss your gloves on the bar and sink into the booth with a hiss of pain, a Coke or whiskey sour clutched in one hand while the guys grilled you about your South Dakota days.

“How many buckles we talkin’?” One of the younger riders asked, eyes wide and eager like you were a damn legend in the flesh.

You smirked, biting into the rim of your glass. “Twenty-two. All clean. No DQs.”

That got a few low whistles. A head shake. Someone muttered “Christ…” under their breath. One of the older circuit boys tapped his knuckles on the table like he was impressed.

And Rhett?

Rhett would be posted up at the bar, standing off to the side like a damn ghost with blue eyes and a bottle of Shiner in his hand. Most nights, he kept close to his older brother, Perry–who, unlike Rhett, was friendly as hell and had no problem throwing you a smile.

“Hell of a ride today,” Perry had told you once, clinking his beer bottle against your Coke as you limped past him with your vest slung over your shoulder. “Leviathan again, right?”

You nodded. “Round two.”

He gave a low laugh. “Bet that pissed Rhett off real good.” And it had. You knew it did. You felt it.

The longer the weeks stretched, the more it became a game of watching Rhett try to pretend he wasn’t watching you.

He’d stare across the bar whenever you laughed too loud, especially if it was at something another rider said. He’d roll his eyes when your name got brought up in ride recaps. You caught him jawing to his buddy Dusty once–something low and sharp, just after you sank an eight-second ride that had the whole stands buzzing.

You’d walk past him at the bar and his gaze would slice through you like a knife through warm hide. Every once in a while, he’d mutter something just loud enough for you to catch:

“Don’t get too comfy, South Dakota.”

To which you’d fire back over your shoulder, without missing a beat:

“Keep practicing fallin’, Wabang.”

The crew lived for it.

They took bets on your tension–whether it’d end in a fistfight or a hookup first.

You weren’t sure yourself at this point, and you didn’t know which one you wanted. Sometimes you guys got so close it seemed like you were going to either kiss or throw hands. But the longer you stayed in Wabang, the more something in the air crackled between you two. Not just hatred. Not just competition. It was something hotter. Heavier. Like whatever fire you lit under Rhett’s skin had started burning in reverse–turning inside out and sparking something neither of you were quite ready to name.

————————

The locker room door slammed shut behind you.

You weren’t limping–but you weren’t walking straight either. Your shoulder had taken a pretty bad hit, or maybe it was your ribs. It was hard to tell considering your entire side felt like it had been steamrolled by a freight train. It had been a while since you’d been thrown off a bulls back, but this certainly was a grim reminder of how bad it was to be thrown face first into a pile of dirt.

Slowly, you made your way to the sink and spat into the white porcelain, pink-stained foam swirled down the drain and you grimaced. Of course it wasn’t the first time you coughed up blood after a bad throw, and it wouldn’t be your last. It was a normal occurrence.

But when the door creaked again behind you, you didn’t have to look to know who it was, and his voice was confirmation of your assumptions.

”…You alright?” You didn’t answer right away, you just wiped the corner of your mouth with the sleeve of your flannel, licking the blood that stained your lips. You saw him step closer to you in the mirror, a look of concern on his face.

”I’m all good,” You said flatly, “Just a bit of blood, it’s a normal occurrence.” His brows ticked up, the faintest flicker of disbelief crossing his face.

“Really?” You met his gaze through the mirror, eyes tired but unyielding, and gave a short, sharp nod.

“Yeah. Really.” Rhett didn’t say anything for a beat, just studied your reflection like he was still trying to figure you out. Like every answer you gave him only led to more damn questions. But he didn’t press.

You turned away, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, your hand grazing your ribs as you moved toward your duffel bag. The locker room echoed faintly with the hum of the overhead lights and the distant clang of boots from the arena tunnel. You crouched just enough to unzip your bag, wincing as you reached inside and pulled out the orange-capped bottle.

You shook a single pill into your palm, popped it into your mouth, and dry-swallowed it like you’d done a hundred times before. No grimace. No hesitation. Just another part of the routine.

Then, without looking up, you held the bottle toward Rhett.

“Want one?” You asked casually. “It’s just a stronger version of Tylenol, nothing serious or addicting or anything…” He let out a soft breath–half huff, half chuckle–as he shook his head.

“I’ve got stronger. Thanks for the offer though.” You nodded once and tossed the bottle back into your bag, zipping it shut with a slow pull. Your fingers lingered on the worn canvas for a second, the tension between you and Rhett thick in the silence.

“You still goin’ out with the crew tonight?” He asked suddenly.

You glanced up, a brow arched, like it was a stupid question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Rhett shrugged, all feigned nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed him–there was something quieter behind them. Something unreadable.

“Thought I’d ask, that’s all.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, watching him. He’d leaned back against the lockers now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, shoulders still dusted with dirt, the bruise forming high on his cheekbone blooming like a storm cloud. But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes had drifted down to the scuffed tile beneath his boots, like he didn’t want you to catch him thinking too hard about something.

You tilted your head, voice quieter this time. “You plannin’ on bein’ there?”

He hesitated–just for a breath. Then: “Yeah. Think so.”

You gave a small nod, pulling your flannel tighter around your ribs. “Good. Maybe I’ll buy you a drink.” You smirked faintly. “Y’know…As a consolation prize.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, narrowing slightly. “I don’t need a damn consolation prize.”

You stepped closer, lips quirking. “No? Then maybe I’ll let you buy me one. Since you didn’t eat dirt tonight.”He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you when you brushed past him on your way to the door. Didn’t say a word as your shoulder bumped lightly against his chest. But just as you reached for the handle, his voice followed you. Low. Rough. Barely above a whisper.

“…Don’t ride hurt tomorrow.”

You paused, and turned your head just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“I always ride hurt,” You reply softly. “That’s the job.”

Then you opened the door, and left him there, still watching.

—————————

The Handsome Gambler smelled like stale beer, sweat, and a little too much aftershave. The jukebox was hiccuping through a George Strait song it had played three times already, and the floorboards creaked every time a boot shifted the wrong way. You walked in bruised but upright, your body already stiffening with the ache that was sure to bloom worse by morning. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only a dull throb along your ribs and a hot sting behind your shoulder blade. It hurt to breathe deep, but you didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now.

You were still wearing the same flannel you’d had on since the draw sheet dropped hours ago. It clung damp to your back, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a dark stain of dust and old blood smudged near the seam on your right arm. Your collar was crooked, your hair an absolute mess beneath your black Cattleman’s hat, but none of it mattered. You walked like you were untouched. Untouchable. A shadow of dirt and fire threading through the crowd.

A few of the boys waved you over from the far booth–beer bottles raised, one of them already gesturing for shots like this was a victory lap. You nodded back, lazy and half-cocked, but didn’t join them just yet. Instead, you made your way to the bar.

Rhett was propped against the far end of the counter. Long frame stretched just enough to make the stool creak, one boot hooked under the rail while the other was planted steady on the ground. His shirt clung to him in places from the ride, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he always wore them, showing off those rough forearms like he didn’t even know the effect they had. Or maybe he did.

He didn’t look at you completely, but you knew he had seen you walk in. You felt it. The weight of his gaze crawling up your side like a whisper–slow and deliberate, but not indulgent. Just…Watchful. As if he were cataloguing bruises. Measuring pain. Waiting to see if you’d limp or stride.

You didn’t limp.

You stepped right up to the counter, two seats down from him, and flagged the bartender with two fingers.

“Whiskey and Coke please,” You ordered, voice scratchy from dust and too many half-swallowed yells. “Tall.”

You needed the burn. Something to dull the coming storm in your bones. Something to keep your spine straight while the ache made camp beneath your ribs. You let your hand rest on the edge of the bar, the other pressed lightly to your side where the bruises were blooming ugly and deep.

That’s when you felt it.

A hand. Sliding low along the waistband of your jeans. Fingers curling in too close.

“–Saw you at the circuit,” A voice said behind you. Older. Greasy. Familiar with bad decisions and cheaper whiskey. “You ride like an absolute professional.” You stiffened. His palm skimmed just enough to raise your hackles. “I wonder,” He continued, voice warm with sleaze, “If that skill gets transferred to the bedroom.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. You shifted your weight slightly, not enough to cause a scene but enough to plant your heel where it needed to be in case you wanted to drive it through his instep.

“Were you ever taught about keepin’ your hands to yourself?” You asked, voice flat. Cold.

He laughed. A low, ugly sound, like gravel caught in the back of his throat. You could smell him now–cheap tobacco, sour sweat, something sharp like tequila gone warm.

“C’mon now, sugar,” He drawled. “Don’t get all uptight on me…I’m just trying to make conversation.” You turned then, slow and dangerous, the heat in your eyes enough to make a lesser man wither. Your lips parted to deliver something sharp enough to cut bone–

But another voice cut through first. Low. Lethal.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you…”

It was Rhett, still seated. Still holding his beer. But his gaze was hard enough to freeze fire. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

“Pretty sure there’ll be blood on the floor, and it’s most definitely not gonna be hers. Or mine.” The guy paused, shifting his weight just slightly. You felt the air change–less sure now. Less cocky. But still stupid. He looked over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward Rhett.

“What’re you, her belt bunny? She’s a grown woman. She can speak for herself.” Rhett’s lips curled around the mouth of his bottle, slow and deliberate. He took a sip–unbothered. Then he stood. One smooth movement. Tall. Broad. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need yelling or fists. Just presence.

Rhett’s boots scraped against the floor as he rose, slow and deliberate. He didn’t move fast, didn’t need to–just stepped off the stool like he had all the time in the world, beer bottle still in hand, eyes pinned to the man like a loaded gun with the safety off.

You clocked the change in his posture instantly–shoulders tight, jaw locked, fire flickering just behind those glacial blue eyes.

He was coming toward you.

But before he could get more than two steps in, you held out a hand, palm open.

“Rhett,” You said sharply. Calm. Even. “Take it easy. Sit back down.”

He froze. One foot still half-lifted like he’d been about to lunge. His jaw clenched visibly, his nostrils flaring as he stared at you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to listen–or if he even could.

You didn’t give him the chance to argue, you just turned slowly back to the man.

He was still standing too close, that dumb, sleazy grin barely faltering under the weight of what he thought was bravado. Your drink still hadn’t come yet, and you could feel the ache in your side starting to curl deeper under your ribs. But this? This you had energy for.

Your hand shot out.

Not to slap him. Not to shove.

You grabbed his wrist.

And squeezed.

Hard.

You didn’t say anything at first–just watched his smirk start to falter as the pressure settled in. You flexed your fingers, tightening until you felt bone shift slightly under your grip. His eyes widened.

“Y’know how much grip strength you need to stay on a 2,500-pound bull?” You murmured, voice soft as molasses and sharp as a thorn. “Now imagine I use that same strength…on your wrist. Hmm? Sound good to you?”

His face paled. His arm twitched beneath your hold.

“Okay okay,” He blurted, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m sorry–shit, I’m sorry.”

You held him there for a second longer, just long enough for it to sink in, then let go with a little shove that sent him rocking back on his heels.

You smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You should be.” Then you jerked your chin toward the other end of the bar.

“Now go back to your friends, creep.”

He opened his mouth like he might say something else–but thought better of it. Instead, he muttered a sullen, “Jeez,” and slunk away with his pride limping behind him, disappearing into the crowd without so much as a backward glance.

The bartender slid your whiskey and Coke toward you just as the moment ended. You grabbed it almost immediately, and took a long sip without flinching, exhaling slowly as the burn spread through your chest.

“Put her drinks on my tab.”

Your hand paused halfway to your mouth, the glass cool against your fingers.

You glance sideways.

Rhett was still leaning against the counter, one elbow hooked over the edge, a bottle of Shiner raised to his lips. He took a slow sip, then licked the foam from the corner of his mouth with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t look nearly as good as it does.

“You don’t need to do that, Abbott,” You said, turning toward him just enough for your shoulder to brush the bar.

He shrugged, bottle tapping lightly against the wood. “Decided to take you up on the offer of buying you a drink… Problem?”

You swallowed hard and the whiskey burned less than the look in his eyes.

“No problem at all…” You murmured, straightening your spine and taking another slow sip of your own drink to keep your hands busy.

There’s a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. Just thick.

Then–

“Mind if I sit beside you?”

Your eyebrows lift–surprised, amused, maybe even a little curious.

You glance at the empty stool next to you, then back at him.

“Go right ahead.”

Rhett slides off his stool and takes the seat beside you. His denim brushes your thigh when he settles. He’s warm. Smells like leather, dust, and the faintest hint of beer. His vest creaks faintly when he leans back, legs spread just enough to take up too much room without even trying. You tilt your head toward him, lips quirking.

“You tryin’ to coddle up to me now? Just ‘cause you witnessed me eat shit in front of a crowd?” He gave you a look. Steady. That sharp-edged Rhett Abbott stare that always comes with a side of condescension and a slow drag of those glacial eyes across your face.

“No,” He said simply. “I’m welcoming you to the club.”

You blink. “The club?”

“The Wabang Club,” He muttered, tapping the neck of his bottle on the bar once. “First time you got thrown here.”

He pauses, just long enough to make you look at him.

“No more raging ego now.”

You scoff. “That so?”

“That’s so,” He replied, turning his head slightly toward you. His knee shifts beneath the bar, bumping yours–intentional, but barely.

You hum into your next sip. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still competitive.”

“No,” He agreed, smirking faintly, “but I’d say we’re on the same level now.”

“Uh huh,” You said, tongue clicking against your teeth as you lean in just slightly. “You still think I’m gunnin’ for your title, Abbott?”

He turns, and for the first time all night, he really looks at you.

“Think?” He pressed lowly, voice like a lazy threat. “I know you are.”

The whiskey hits your bloodstream with a heat that has nothing to do with liquor and everything to do with the way his voice drips across the syllables. You glance at his hands–battered and rough, thumb idly brushing the condensation on his bottle. He smells like sweat, grit, and something you can’t name but want more of. You wonder if his hands would feel like rope burn or salvation on your skin.

You lean just a touch closer, eyes still on his mouth.

“Maybe I just like givin’ you a hard time.”

His lips twitch. “You do that real well.”

You tap a finger against your glass. “Think you can handle more of it?”

His jaw ticked. His gaze dropped once–quick and dirty–to your lips, then back up again. The smirk turns into something darker.

“You keep flirtin’ like that,” He muttered,, “And we’re gonna stop pretendin’ we hate each other.”

You tilt your head, a smile playing at your mouth. “What if I like to pretend?”

He leaned in–closer now, voice brushing your skin.

“Then maybe it’s time you found out how much better the real thing feels.”

The words hit low. Between your ribs. Between your thighs.

The music fades behind you, the bar buzzing soft with other conversations, the rest of the world dropping out until it’s just you and Rhett. You finish your whiskey in one long swallow and set the glass down slowly. You glanced over at him again, glass empty in your hand, breath tight in your chest–and you didn’t know what the hell washed over you. Maybe it was the whiskey, warm and heady in your veins. Maybe it was the throb of your bruises making everything feel sharper, more real. Or maybe it was the way Rhett was looking at you now–jaw tight, lips parted just slightly, blue eyes dragging over your face like he was trying to memorize it. Whatever the reason, you said it before you could second-guess yourself:

“…Is your truck parked out back?” Rhett’s eyebrows ticked up, just a little. His grip around the neck of his bottle tightened.

“…Yeah,” He replied slowly, voice rough around the edges. “It’s out back.” You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Then, licking your bottom lip slowly, you lifted your chin.

“Is it parked somewhere…Hidden?” That made him let out a soft huff of a laugh. Quiet and dark.

“You want me to show you?” You nodded once. He watched you for a beat, jaw flexing. Then he set his bottle down and flagged the bartender, slipping some cash across the wood.

“Keep the change.”

You didn’t say a word as he turned and walked toward the back exit, and you followed a step behind–both of you moving like you’d been building to this for weeks.

Because maybe you had.

The back door creaked as Rhett pushed it open, the night spilling in around your boots–cooler air, the scent of grass, the faint hum of cicadas vibrating somewhere out in the dark.

He led you across the gravel lot without looking back.

And there it was.

His truck.

Parked beneath a clutch of trees, mostly swallowed by shadows–perfectly isolated. Like he’d known all damn day you’d end up back there with him. The windows were fogged just from the day’s heat. The bed was empty. The cab was dark.

Rhett stopped beside it, boots scuffing against gravel, and turned to you.

He tipped his hat back slightly, the faintest curl playing at his mouth.

“So,” He said slowly, “Did you ask me all those questions just to see my truck?” You smirked, stepping into his space with your chin tilted up, your voice dripping with challenge and need. “Or…” He murmured, eyes dragging down your body, “Did you wanna test the shocks?” You glanced at the truck. Then back at him.

And smiled.

“I think we can give the shocks a run for their money.” You paused, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, your voice dropping to something sultry and honest “…I’ve always wanted to sleep with a fellow bull rider.” That did it. His jaw twitched. He didn’t lunge Didn’t rush.

He just grabbed the edge of your flannel, pulled you in slow and rough, and kissed you like it had already been decided. Like he’d been thinking about this since the day you walked into the Wabang locker room with your vest slung over your shoulder and that fuck-you smirk on your face. He tipped your hat back with a curl of his fingers, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide which he wanted to get drunk on first. Then he reached up and did the same to his own–tipping the brim of his hat back just enough to reveal more of that stubborn brow, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dust-smudged trail of stubble that shadowed his jaw. And then his hand was on your cheek.

Big. Calloused. Warm.

It didn’t fit the rest of him–the rough words, the sharp jabs, the bruised pride that bled through every look he’d ever given you in the ring. But his hand…It cupped your face like he gave a damn. Like you weren’t just some rival he couldn’t shake, but something worth holding onto.

Then he kissed you.

Not hard. Not fast. But deep.

Gentle, at first. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before he ruined it. Like he was trying to taste the part of you that hadn’t yet been touched by blood and bruises. You breathed in sharply through your nose, spine stiffening–not because it was bad. Because it was too good. Because Rhett Abbott wasn’t supposed to kiss like this. Wasn’t supposed to melt against you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked too long.

But then You slid your hand up the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the collar, dragging him closer like you were starving and he was the only thing on the menu. And just like that, the kiss changed.

Heat surged between you in a crackling burst, the slow burn of it combusting into something greedy. His other hand fisted the side of your flannel, dragging your body hard against his as your back slammed gently against the cool metal of the truck’s passenger door. The jolt of it made you gasp into his mouth, and he took advantage of it–slipping his tongue between your lips with a groan low in his throat, all heat and rough intent.

You barely registered your hat falling off. Didn’t care. All you could feel was the hard line of his thigh between your legs, the pressure of his hips pinning you in place, the maddening scrape of his stubble as he kissed you like he wanted to wear your mouth for the rest of the goddamn night.

Your hands clawed at his shirt, bunching the fabric at his chest, trying to haul him even closer. But he was already there–pressed flush to you, his body molded to yours like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

He kissed you like he hated you.

Like you were the thorn in his side and the only thing that made him feel alive.

His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip before he nipped at it with his teeth–soft, then sharp, like he wanted to leave a mark. And you responded with a muffled curse, your fingers diving into the back of his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. “You don’t fight fair.”

You grinned, even as you gasped. “Neither do you.”

“Good,” He growled, pressing harder into you. “Then we’re even.”

His hand slid down, past your ribs–over bruises he’d noticed but hadn’t commented on–until it landed on your waist. And then lower. Gripping your ass through your jeans and dragging you up slightly, grinding you against the seam of his thigh like he wanted you squirming. Like he wanted you begging.

You arched into him, your lips parting on a breathless moan as the friction sparked lightning between your legs. Your head fell back against the truck door with a thud, and he didn’t waste a second–ducking down to kiss along your throat, biting the skin just hard enough to make your breath stutter.

“You think this is what everyone was bettin’ on?” You rasped, your voice gritty with lust. “That we’d end up fuckin’ in the parking lot instead of throwin’ punches?”

He laughed against your collarbone–rough and amused, like gravel sliding down a slope.

“Pretty sure nobody bet we’d make it past a punch.” His mouth trailed down to your shoulder, kissing the curve there through your shirt like he was already trying to undo you. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”

You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at you again.

“Then stop talkin’ and show me what you’ve been thinkin’.”

“Gladly,” Rhett growled, voice rough with promise as he fished his keys from his pocket and popped the lock. The soft mechanical click barely registered over the pulse thrumming in your ears.

He opened the passenger door and held it like a gentleman might–if that gentleman had just kissed you like he planned to wreck you and every thought you’d ever had. You climbed up into the cab without hesitation, grateful as hell to find that the front seat was a bench. No console, no separation. Just space to spread your legs.

The second you slid in, Rhett slammed the door shut behind you, the echo like a warning shot. The keys hit the dashboard with a sharp clatter as he settled in beside you, his body heat already wrapping around you like smoke.

You didn’t wait. Your fingers found the buttons of your flannel and worked them open, fast and reckless, each pop of fabric louder than the breath you were sucking through your teeth. Beside you, Rhett was shrugging out of his plaid in one fluid motion, the sleeves peeling off his forearms, the collar catching in his hair.

“You on birth control?” He asked, his voice low and firm as he whipped the shirt into the backseat.

You nodded, hands already sliding your shirt off your shoulders. “’Course I am.”

His mouth quirked in a smirk, eyes sharp even in the darkness. “Most recent STD test?”

“Clean,” You said without missing a beat, tossing your flannel aside. “You?” Rhett grunted, reaching down to yank his undershirt over his head in one quick pull. The fabric stretched tight across his chest before it gave, revealing smooth muscle, scarred skin, and a line of dust still clinging to the hollow beneath his collarbone. You caught the bull rider tattoo on his chest, and smirked at it–talk about dedication.

“Clean as a whistle, sweetheart,” He said, voice a rumble. You shoved your flannel off the rest of the way and let it fall to the floor, revealing your black bra beneath. The cotton clung to your ribs, sweat-darkened and stretched over the bruises that marbled your skin like art.

Rhett’s gaze dragged down your body like a hand.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered, breath catching. “You look so fucking good.” He surged forward, one hand bracing the back of your neck while the other slid around your waist, fingers splaying over bruises he didn’t shy away from. His mouth crashed into yours again, hotter this time–less curious, more carnal. His lips dragged over yours in a filthy rhythm, all teeth and hunger and grit. Your moan was muffled by the way he took your bottom lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

His chest pressed against yours, bare skin meeting sweat-slicked heat. You could feel every inch of him–hard lines, warm flesh, the swell of his thighs spreading wider as he settled between your legs. His calloused fingers ran up your sides, ghosting along the edge of your bra, fingertips brushing your ribs so gently it made your core ache. You dragged your nailed down his back just hard enough to leave a mark, and he hissed, teeth gnashing as he locked into your mouth.

He tasted like Shiner, dust, and danger.

Your hands gripped the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips were pressing flush against the heat between your thighs. He groaned–low and broken–his forehead pressing to yours.

“You want this?” He asked, voice barely more than a growl, his hands cradling your thighs now. “’Cause if I start, I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you’re beggin’ me to.” You nodde, breathless, and drunk off his voice and the whiskey you had.

“Then start, Rhett.” He didn’t wait any longer. He shoved your bra up with both hands, fingers hooking beneath the band and dragging it until your breasts spilled into the open air. His mouth followed immediately–hot and reverent. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his thumb toyed with the other, switching sides as you arched against him. The ache between your legs was molten now, and the need for him pooled low and fast in your stomach. Rhett groaned against your breast as he lightly bit down on your nipple, just enough to make you arch with a gasp, your back pressing into the cracked leather seat. His tongue soothed over the sting with a slow, deliberate swirl before he shifted and gave your other breast the same treatment–bite, suck, soothe. A rhythm that made your thighs clench instinctively around his hips.

“You got the prettiest fuckin’breasts I’ve ever seen,” He muttered against your skin, voice reverent and ragged. “Swear to God.” His hands framed your ribs, fingers splayed like he couldn’t hold enough of you at once. You reached for his belt, your hands shaking with urgency, and he lifted his head just enough to watch you work. Your fingers brushed over the buckle, then popped it free. You heard the clink of metal before you undid the button of his jeans and slid the zipper down with aching slowness. Rhett’s breath hitched–his hips twitching forward like your touch knocked the air out of him.

“Shit,” He hissed, dragging his mouth from your chest with a groan. “You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna finish in my fuckin’ jeans.” He shoved them off in one fluid, frustrated motion, yanking them down his thighs along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, flushed and hard, veins prominent and glistening with pre-cum. You only had a second to admire him before he was leaning forward again, mouth at your ear.

“Your turn,” he rasped, hands already moving to the waistband of your jeans. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.” You obeyed without hesitation. He stripped them down fast—jeans and underwear dragged in one heated motion down your thighs, past your knees, all the way to your boots.

“Christ,” he muttered when he saw you, spreading your thighs with both hands, his thumbs brushing over the crease where your legs met your core. “You’re already soaked.”

You bit your lip, eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ve been soaked since you kissed me.” That made him groan low, head tipping forward until his breath hit your inner thigh.

“Lean back against the door,” he said, voice low and commanding now. “I wanna taste you.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You shifted, twisting just enough to brace your shoulder against the cool metal, your legs falling open even wider. The truck’s cab was tight, warm, filled with the scent of sweat and sex and desire, but all you could think about was him–between your thighs, breathing like a man about to lose his goddamn mind.

Rhett didn’t hesitate.

He buried his face between your legs like he’d been starving for it. His tongue licked a hot stripe up your slit before his mouth closed over your clit, sucking it into the heat of it with a groan that vibrated through your entire body. Your hand shot into his hair—fingers twisting in the thick, sweat-damp curls at the base of his skull.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, your head thudding softly against the window. His hands wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, anchoring you to the seat like he wasn’t gonna let you squirm away no matter how hard you tried.

He worked at your core like he was memorizing it. His tongue circled your clit, flicked it, flattened against it. He moaned against you like he was drunk on the taste, the sound low and wrecked, sending sparks racing up your spine.

“You taste so goddamn good,” He breathed between licks, voice muffled by your heat, “Could do this forever.” Then he slid his fingers to where his mouth was, sliding one thick digit into you, slow and deep, curling just right. Your hips bucked. You sobbed out his name. And Rhett? He just chuckled against your clit, cocky and wrecked all at once.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked for me,” he groaned, pushing in a second finger, thrusting them in rhythm with the strokes of his tongue. “Goddamn…You’re squeezin’ me so tight already, darlin’. You this desperate for my cock too?” You cried out, back arching. The truck creaked beneath you, the windows fogging more with every pant, every moan, every slick, filthy sound echoing in the tiny cab.

Rhett’s tongue never stopped. He alternated between slow, broad strokes and sharp, focused flicks, always listening to your body, adjusting when your grip in his hair tightened, when your thighs trembled. His fingers pumped harder, faster, curling with every thrust, pressing deep into that perfect spot until you were gasping, moaning, begging.

“Please, Rhett. Don’t stop–fuck, don’t stop–” He doubled down. His mouth sucked your clit like he owned it. His fingers fucked you deep and good, until all you could do was scream for him, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm slammed through you like a lightning strike.

You came with your hands tangled in his hair and his name breaking on your tongue, your body quaking with release. And Rhett? He groaned like it was his orgasm too–lips never leaving you, licking through every wave, every twitch, every sobbed breath until you were panting and shaking and damn near boneless in the seat.

Rhett was still crouched between your thighs, his breath hot and ragged, his chin wet with the aftermath of your orgasm. He looked like a man possessed–wide-eyed, jaw flexing, pink tongue flicking out to swipe the taste of you from his bottom lip. You could barely speak, your chest rising and falling like you were still trying to find gravity again.

He ran his hand down the outside of your thigh, fingers trembling slightly from the restraint it took to not climb on top of you right then and there. His voice came low, rough, utterly wrecked.

“How was that?”

You let out a breathless, trembling laugh–more of a sound than a word, your hand rising to brush sweaty hair from your face.

“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “I haven’t been to church in a while…But I think I saw God when you were down there.” He smirked, leaning in again, one hand braced on the seat beside your hip. You sat up slowly, your body still humming with aftershocks, and reached for his face with both hands. You dragged him up toward you until your mouths met again, and this time, you kissed him like you needed to taste what he’d done to you. Like the only way to ground yourself was to lick yourself off his tongue.

You moaned into him–low and breathy–as your hand drifted between your bodies, fingers trailing down his bare stomach until they curled around the hot, thick length of him. He gasped, startled, his hips twitching forward into your palm.

“Fuck–” He hissed, the word nearly broken in your mouth.

You stroked him slow at first. Deliberate. Your thumb ran over the bead of pre-cum slicking his tip, spreading it down his shaft as you pumped him lazily. The veins throbbed under your palm. He was thick. Hot. Heavy in your hand. And he was falling apart fast.

He groaned into your mouth, pulling back just slightly to pant, his forehead pressed to yours. One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw as his other hand braced against the door behind you.

“You’re filthy,” He breathed, voice catching as you twisted your wrist. “You gonna spit in my mouth next, sweetheart?”

You smirked, your breath mingling with his.

“You want that?”

He nodded once. Short. Desperate.

“Yeah.”

“Ask for it, then.”

His voice dropped to a rasp. “Spit in my fuckin’ mouth.”

You leaned back slightly, cradling his jaw in your free hand, and parted your lips slowly. A thin string of spit slid from your mouth to his, catching the light as it dropped onto his tongue. His eyes didn’t close–he watched you do it. And when your saliva hit his tongue, he let out the filthiest moan you’d ever heard, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

Then he surged forward, pulling you into another kiss–wet, dirty, deep. He licked into you like he couldn’t stand for a single drop to go to waste. His tongue slid against yours, his hands gripping your thighs again as if he didn’t trust himself not to pin you down and fuck you right there.

You pulled away, panting. Your lips were slick, his face flushed. He looked completely undone.

So you slid down.

Not far. Just enough to shift your weight to your knees on the truck bench, tilting your body until your mouth hovered just above his flushed, leaking cock. You held his eyes the whole way down.

His breath caught.

“Wait–what’re you–”

But you already had him in your hand again, your tongue darting out to lick a slow stripe along the underside of his shaft. He groaned–loud and rough–one hand flying to your hair, the other bracing against the seatback behind him.

“Fuck,” he moaned as you took him in–slow, steady, inch by inch until your lips wrapped around his tip and your tongue swirled against the head. You sucked gently, letting your saliva mix with his pre-cum as you worked him deeper into your throat.

He lost it.

“Jesus Christ, you’re–fuck– unreal,” he gasped, his head falling back against the headrest. His hips twitched up into your mouth, and you hummed around him in approval, the vibration making him curse again.

You bobbed your head slowly, hand wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, stroking what you couldn’t take. His thighs trembled beneath you, and his grip on your hair tightened with every ragged breath he took.

“Gonna–shit–gonna cum if you keep that up,” he panted, his voice strangled.

And just when his voice cracked–“I’m close, Y/N, I’m–”

You stopped.

You pulled off him with a pop of suction, lips swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with sin.

He looked like you’d just punched him in the chest.

“What the fuck?” He gasped, blinking at you with genuine disbelief, his cock twitching in your hand. You let out a soft, slow laugh as you wiped your lips with the back of your hand and climbed up into his lap like you’d planned it that way from the start.

“You look real upset, Abbott,” You murmured, dragging your hands up his bare chest as you straddled him. His cock pressed hot and hard against your inner thigh, wet from your mouth, throbbing with need.

He didn’t say anything–just grabbed your waist in both hands like he needed to steady himself, like he couldn’t believe the way you moved on top of him. His palms dragged over your ribs, thumbs grazing your bruises before settling low on your hips, kneading the flesh with enough pressure to make you gasp.

“You gonna tap out already?” You teased, voice all sugar and sin. “Or you still got a little fight left in you?”

He let out a low growl, jaw tight, his eyes dragging over your face like you were a goddamn vision.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He muttered. You grinned, leaning in just close enough to brush your lips over his–barely a kiss, more like a dare.

“I can’t miss out on the possibility of showin’ you my riding skills now, can I?” That earned you a wicked smile, crooked and sharp, slow as sin. His grip on your hips tightened as he tilted his head back to look up at you, blue eyes flicking over your face, your bare chest, the way your thighs bracketed him like he already belonged between them.

“Gonna be more than eight seconds, sweetheart,” He rasped, breath fanning against your collarbone. “Think you can handle it?” You hummed, your hand sliding between your bodies, curling around his cock again as you guided the tip to your slick heat. You dragged him through your folds, letting him feel just how soaked you were for him before pausing at your entrance.

“I think I can manage just fine,” You whispered, voice syrup-thick. “Might even beat my personal record.”

And then you sank down on him–slow, tight, inch by inch. Rhett’s head thumped back against the headrest with a guttural moan, hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind. You took him deep, your walls fluttering around him as you bottomed out, a ragged breath escaping your lips as your head fell forward.

“Fuck, you’re big,” You gasped, thighs trembling. “Feels like you’re fuckin’ splitting me open.”

His hands slid up your waist, over your ribs, one of them curling around the side of your neck–just firm enough to make your breath catch.

“You feel like heaven,” He muttered against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt–God–you were made for me.” You rolled your hips slow at first, just enough to get a rhythm. Your breasts bounced with every motion, sweat already gathering at the small of your back, the sound of skin against skin echoing filthy in the cab. The windows fogged up even more, the air thick with heat and tension and the wet slap of your bodies coming together.

Rhett let out a harsh exhale, eyes locked on where you were joined.

“Look at you ridin’ me,” He growled, his thumb brushing your jaw, his other hand dragging down to slap your ass, hard. “Just like you were born to fuckin’ do it.”

You rode him harder, faster, grinding your hips down with each bounce, your fingers digging into his shoulders for leverage. The truck creaked with every thrust, the shocks protesting under the rhythm of your bodies.

“You like watchin’ me take it, huh?” You panted, voice ragged. “Like the view from down there, Abbott?” His grin split wide.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do,” He rasped. “You look so good like this. Full of me. Drippin’ down your thighs. Fuckin’ me like you’re tryin’ to break me.”

His hips bucked up to meet your thrusts, and suddenly he wasn’t letting you lead anymore–he was matching your rhythm, slamming into you from below, his hands gripping your ass tight enough to bruise.

The shift sent you crying out, your hand flying to his chest, nails scraping across his pecs.

“God, Rhett–”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He panted, one hand rising to grip the back of your neck again, rougher now, possessive. “You gonna cum like this? Ridin’ my cock in my truck? Is that what you needed all along?” You nodded, gasping, your whole body starting to unravel. He reached between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles as he kept fucking up into you, faster, deeper.

“C’mon,” He whispered, his breath hot against your ear, “Cum for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, wanna watch you fall apart.” You did. You came with a broken sob, your whole body seizing as your orgasm crashed over you like a bull out the gate. Your walls clamped around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm stuttered, his groan splitting the air as he chased his own release.

And then he was cumming too–deep inside you, with a loud, helpless curse, his cock twitching against your walls, coating them in his warmth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-take it all, Y/N, take all of it–Jesus–” You both collapsed into each other, slick and shaking and gasping for air. His arms wrapped around you tight, his lips dragging lazily over your neck as you slumped against his chest. The cab was silent except for the sound of your breathing, the creak of the seat as you shifted, and the faint hum of cicadas outside. After a long moment, Rhett let out a soft, stunned laugh.

“Well,” He said, voice hoarse, “That’s one way to settle a rivalry.”

You smirked against his collarbone, your body still trembling.

“Should’ve done that from the beginning. Could’ve saved us the trouble.” He lets out a small laugh and kisses your shoulder.

“It wouldn’t have been the same without the intense build up.” He comments, and you sigh and reply.

”I can’t help but…Agree with you there.”

[buckyseternaldoll]

Fireworks and Cuddles

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You soothe Bucky through a rough Fourth of July with quiet rooftop cuddles and silly stories.

Disclaimer: emotional comfort, PTSD triggers (fireworks/gunfire sounds), veteran trauma, fluff, cuddling, hurt/comfort

Author's Note: Maybe I'm back? It's my birthday month and I want to fully enjoy myself. I'm not familiar with this specific day or how it's celebrated in the US btw.

It was the Fourth of July. Even from your apartment windows you could see the sky lighting up in early, overeager test shots—streaks of red and green that fizzled before the sun had even fully set, leaving smoky tails curling like ghosts in the warm, heavy air. Down on the street, kids darted between cars with sparklers, their shrieks high and ecstatic, dogs barking frantically at the noise. Car radios blasted clashing versions of the same anthems, tinny and off-beat, mixing into an unsteady chorus.

It felt like the whole world was in celebration.

Inside your apartment, though, it was too quiet.

You moved carefully through the living room, every creak in the floorboards echoing in the hush. The bedroom door was half shut. You could see Bucky’s boots abandoned beside the bed, one tipped onto its side like he’d kicked them off without thinking.

He was hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, elbows braced on his knees, big shoulders curved inward. His head was lowered so you couldn’t see his face. The light from the hallway spilled over him in a pale stripe, catching on the dull gleam of his vibranium fingers as they fidgeted, soft clicking like clockwork threatening to jam.

He didn’t look up even when you knocked softly and pushed the door the rest of the way open.

“Buck?” you called gently.

He exhaled slowly, but didn’t answer.

You hated this day for him.

You hated the way it twisted his expression, set deep grooves of guilt and memory around his eyes. He never really explained it in detail, but you knew enough. The fireworks reminded him of things he didn’t want to remember. The sharp cracks that echoed through the city weren’t “festive” to him. They were warning shots, mortar shells, the sound of friends yelling over explosions in the dirt and snow.

He wouldn’t admit it was that bad, but you saw it in the way he avoided the windows at dusk, how he flinched when the distant booms rattled the glass. How his jaw would lock tight, a muscle jumping at his temple.

You could see it now too—his knuckles bone-white on his knees. The metal fingers clenching and relaxing, over and over.

You tightened your grip on the old canvas bag you were holding, then lifted it a little, rattling it to get his attention.

“Hey, Buck. C’mon. I have a plan.”

He blinked slowly, turning his head just enough that you caught a glimpse of his tired eyes, dulled and heavy.

“A plan?” he repeated, voice low and scraped raw.

You nodded. “Yeah. For tonight.”

He dropped his gaze back to the floor. His shoulders rose and fell with a long, weighted breath. His flesh hand came up to scrub over his stubbled jaw, thumb dragging along his lower lip like he was trying to wipe something away.

“Don’t think I’m good company right now,” he mumbled.

Your heart cracked a little.

“Tough,” you said softly, your voice deliberately light. “You’re coming anyway.”

That earned you the tiniest huff of reluctant laughter. His eyes finally met yours, guarded but a little brighter.

“Bossy,” he muttered.

You grinned at him. “You love it.”

He sighed again, but this time it sounded more like surrender. He straightened up, rolling his neck until it cracked.

“Alright. Lead the way, sweetheart.”

—

You led him up the narrow, creaky stairs to the roof. The old bag bumped against your hip with every step. The stairwell was stuffy, smelling of sun-warmed concrete and faded paint, but you felt him trailing close behind you, his boots scuffing at the steps, his breathing slow and deliberate.

You glanced back once to make sure he was still coming. He met your eyes for a second, trying to look exasperated but not pulling it off at all.

On the rooftop, the summer air was cooler but thick with the smell of smoke drifting up from grills below. Music from half a dozen barbecues layered in the distance, muffled like memories of old block parties.

Up here, the fireworks were softer. Smaller. The big, official displays were still too far to be deafening, so the explosions bloomed silently for a few seconds before the dull, low booms caught up.

You spread the old wool blanket over the gritty rooftop and smoothed it out with a flourish.

“Welcome,” you said grandly, “to our private box seats.”

Bucky snorted, but the sound was weak. He didn’t look convinced. He sat down with stiff, mechanical care, arms crossing over his chest as if to hold himself together. His shoulders were hunched nearly to his ears with every far-off crack and thump.

You dropped next to him so close your thighs pressed together. At first you didn’t say anything. Just watched the pale bursts of color in the distance, listening to the low rumbles that rolled over the rooftops.

When he didn’t relax, you shifted even closer, letting your weight lean against his side deliberately.

Gently, you laid your hand on his arm, feeling the tense corded muscle under your fingers.

“Hey. Lie back with me.”

He didn’t look at you.

“Doll…”

“Please?” you murmured.

His eyes flickered over your face. He let out a slow breath that shuddered a little, then nodded.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He lay back carefully, as if worried he’d break the blanket or himself. You followed, pressing your body flush to his side. His arm, solid and warm, settled automatically around you, but he was still rigid under your touch.

You didn’t let him stay that way. You pressed closer, tucking your head under his chin, sliding your arm across his chest until your fingers found the edge of his dog tags through his thin t-shirt.

He smelled like soap and old leather and the faint tang of metal from his arm.

Another distant pop sounded, and you felt him flinch sharply beneath you.

You immediately began smoothing your hand over his chest, slow and steady.

“I got you,” you whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut. You felt the way his ribs fought for a calm breath.

“It’s ridiculous,” he ground out. “I’ve heard worse. So much worse. Can’t even sit through some damn fireworks.”

“Bucky,” you said, voice soft but firm. You lifted your head just enough to press a kiss under his jaw. “You don’t have to justify it. It’s okay. You don’t have to be the tough guy tonight. Just breathe with me.”

He let out a breath that shook, the sound raw and reluctant. But he tried. You felt him match your breathing, slower, deeper, though every muscle in him fought it.

You curled your leg over his, hooking your ankle behind his knee, trying to hold every shaking bit of him in place. He resisted at first—so used to bracing himself against everything—but you didn’t let up. You dragged your fingers up into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and felt the slow melt as he finally let his weight sink into you.

His head tipped forward, pressing his nose into your hair.

You could feel his heart thudding against your palm where it rested on his chest, starting to slow.

You whispered so softly it was almost lost under the sound of another muted boom.

“Listen. Let me tell you a story, okay?”

He made a low sound that was half-question, half-sigh.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it.

“So,” you began, shifting so you could talk right against his ear, your voice warm and conspiratorial, “when I was little I tried to make an apple pie all by myself. Didn’t know how it worked. I just took one of those frozen crusts and shoved four whole apples in it. Like… unpeeled. Stems and everything.”

You felt his chest jerk with a breath that might have been a laugh trying to break out.

“And I just… tossed it in the oven,” you continued, your tone scandalized. “No cinnamon. No sugar. Just big dumb apples.”

He let out a low snort.

You smiled wider, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“It burned so bad. Whole kitchen smelled like a crime scene. My mom was laughing so hard she was crying. I think I permanently traumatized the oven.”

Bucky’s laugh finally bubbled out. It was quiet, but real. His arm around you tightened, vibranium fingers splaying possessively over your waist.

“Whole apples?” he repeated incredulously, voice husky but softer now.

“Whole,” you confirmed solemnly. “Stems. Seeds. I think I invented apple charcoal.”

He huffed another laugh, breath warm in your hair.

“You’re an absolute menace,” he mumbled, voice thick, but affectionate.

You grinned. “Yeah. But I’m your menace. And tonight, you’re stuck with me.”

Another distant crackle of fireworks. This time he didn’t even flinch. He just held you tighter, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in like you were the only real thing left in the world.

“Thank you,” he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it over the wind.

You tilted your head to press your lips to his.

“Always,” you breathed back.

You lay there tangled together on the old blanket, feeling the heat of him finally start to relax, tension bleeding out of his shoulders with every shared breath. The fireworks kept going, painting the sky in pale reds and greens that glowed across his cheekbones. But they felt farther away now. Or maybe he just wasn’t listening to them anymore—just your voice, your stories, the thump of your heart against his ribs.

And for the first time all night, you felt him let out a real, steady sigh. As if for once, he could let himself enjoy it.

[treefish]

shower retexture. ☻

[the-shedevil-writes]

B-A-B-Y (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: On a Monday morning, Rooster and Hangman bring Bob and Phoenix to a local diner, and Bob’s instantly smitten with the waitress singing along to the jukebox. Next thing he knows, “Diner Mondays” become a squad tradition… and so does watching Bob fall harder every week while the rest of the Daggers try to get him to finally ask her out. WORD COUNT: 2.7k WARNINGS: Fluff. Tooth rotting fluff. Reader wears glasses. NOTES: Yes. Like Baby Driver. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

It was an early Monday morning, and Bob was awake and ready earlier than he would’ve anticipated. He always woke up early for work, and on the weekend, out of habit. But that day, he had to wake up even earlier. Rooster and Hangman insisted on going to this diner with Phoenix and him. Bob wasn’t gonna turn down the idea of a real proper breakfast before their shifts, though he knew Phoenix was gonna be grumbling the whole time. 

He pulled up in his baby blue truck to Dot’s and Joe’s, a stout metal and red building not too far from base. The sun was just rising, and it painted the sky that sleepy light blue. Spotting Rooster’s Ford Bronco and Hangman’s Jeep, he pulled up next to them right as they were getting out.��

“Mornin’ Bob,” Rooster said. They were all dressed in their khaki uniforms, knowing they would change into flight suits once they arrived at training anyway.

Bob nodded with a small smile. “Mornin’ guys.”

Hangman stretched, “Where’s your pilot?”

He shrugged. “Phoenix isn’t a morning person.”

As if on cue, her black version of Rooster’s Ford Bronco pulled up and parked next to Bob’s truck. They watched as she got out of the car, grumbling and rubbing her eyes.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” Hangman teased.

“Shut the fuck up, Hangman. It’s too early for your bullshit.” She groaned, making the rest of them laugh. Only she would cuss like a sailor at five in the morning. “Why on earth would you guys want to do this?”

Rooster started walking towards the doors of the place, and the rest followed. “They’ve got quite literally the best pancakes I’ve ever had. It’ll be worth it.”

They all walked in, and Bob looked around the interior. It was like they had hopped into a time machine. The classic 60s look was clean and colorful, even if the outside of the building seemed a little worn down. Red leather seats and silver table tops. Warm fluorescents wrapped around a countertop bar. Old movie posters and pin-up art hung up on every wall while a jukebox played oldies by the kitchen door.

Rooster and Hangman led them to a nearby booth, and they scooched in. 

“It’s nice,” Bob said, nodding with a small smile.

Hangman chuckled, “Figured you of all people would like it. You look like you would’ve gotten your lunch money taken in Back to the Future.”

That made Rooster let out a laugh heartily enough to capture the attention of the staff, and Bob rolled his eyes. But he couldn’t help the smile. Okay, fine. That one was good. More original than his usual quips.

At the sound of Rooster’s laugh, the kitchen door swung open by the jukebox. A soft voice rang out. It was quiet enough for almost nobody in the diner to notice… But Bob sure did. A beautiful voice sang along to a song he didn’t recognize playing on the juke.

“B-A-B-Y. Baby. B-A-B-Y. Baby.” 

His head turned over to see a waitress in a pink uniform and a little paper hat. In most cases, he’d just see the waitress and be excited to dig into some food. But for some reason, at the sight of her, his heart flipped in his chest. She was beautiful. In knee-high socks and glasses that were similar to his, though they weren’t nearly as big and awful-looking as his own. She swayed her head to the song without a care in the world as she held a notepad and pencil. 

He didn’t even notice the rest of the squadron trying not to laugh at Bob’s obvious gawking. 

“See something you like, Floyd?” Phoenix asked with a smirk.

Bob’s head whipped back around. “What? What do you mean?” He asked quickly, making the rest of them laugh harder.

When the waitress spotted the table, she smiled and walked over. 

“You two again.” She said, stopping by and looking at Hangman and Rooster, “And you’ve brought friends.” She smiled at him, and Phoenix and Bob could’ve sworn his heart stopped. 

“Yeah, well, we had to share how good this place was,” Hangman said casually.

Bob looked at the nametag pinned on her top. Y/n. God, he was practically melting, and he was trying to resist the wiggly Charlie Brown smile that wanted to appear.

She tapped her pencil. “What were your call signs again? I remember thinking they were cool, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they were.”

Rooster nodded and pointed to himself first. “Rooster. Hangman. Then those guys over there are Phoenix and Bob.”

She tilted her head with a smile as her eyes landed on Bob properly. “It’s Bob? What’s your real name then?”

With his heart beating out of his chest, he stammered, “B-bob. It’s just Bob.” He wished he could give another answer. He wished that his call sign wasn’t as simple as it was or that he had some sort of cool name like ‘Dagger’ or ‘Striker’... But he couldn’t even pretend like Bob didn’t fit him perfectly.

She laughed. “I like it. I like it a lot.” 

She liked his name.

Hangman cut in, “We’ve made it stand for Baby on Board. He’s a backseater.”

“Oh, so like a WSO?” 

She knew what that was? This conversation was just getting better and better, even with Hangman’s attempts to embarrass him.

Bob nodded, barely able to speak.

“That’s pretty awesome. My dad was Navy, so I like seeing ya’ll pop up here since we’re so close to North Island.” She explained, “Well, Rooster, Hangman, Phoenix, and Baby, what can I get started for ya?”

That wasn’t his call sign, and if it was, it would’ve been more embarrassing than just Bob. But having the beautiful waitress call him Baby? He could leap out of his skin. The massive blush that spread over his face was uncontrollable. 

“Just four hot coffees to get us started, will ya, Y/n?” Hangman said

She didn’t even write it down. “Simple enough. I’ll be back.”

Bob watched her walk away, completely mesmerized. Especially as she jumped back into the song.

“Just one look- in your eye. And my temperature goes sky hi-” And the kitchen door swung closed. 

There was a silence as the three pilots watched Bob, surprised as he sat there with a dreamy look on his face. 

“Jesus, Floyd. I’ve never seen you so whipped. And you usually are by most people.” Hangman smirked, leaning back.

Once again, he was sadly snapped back to reality by Hangman. A common occurrence. “N-no. No, I’m not. She was nice.” He cleared his throat, pretending to look over the menu, “Really nice.” 

Rooster made a little ‘Aw’-ing noise. “Buddy, it’s okay! I get it. She’s super cute.” He said, trying to be supportive, but Bob quickly shushed him, horrified at the prospect she might overhear.

“And she matches your dorkiness,” Hangman added

Bob shook his head, but he had that feeling, too. Their interaction had been so limited, yet he had a feeling they’d get along perfectly. He was already completely and totally captivated by her. 

They left the diner an hour later to make it to work on time, but Bob couldn’t shake the thoughts of her that graciously occupied his brain. The whole day, even as he was driving or flying or doing push-ups, he’d hear her calling him ��baby’. Or he’d think about how, when he put in his order for strawberry french toast, she winked at him and said that was her favorite. It was both horrifying and the best distraction he could ever ask for.

Wanting to make it a tradition, Rooster dragged the three of them back to the diner the following Monday. It was a nice thought. Start the week out with a great breakfast and end it with a Friday night at The Hard Deck. 

Bob got out of his truck and looked over at Hangman, Rooster, and Phoenix, who were already there. 

“You’re here before me, Phoenix?” He asked, confused.

Phoenix chuckled even through tired eyes, “Couldn’t miss the Bob yearning show this morning.”

He practically choked on his own spit. “What?”

“Yeah, we’re surprised you weren’t the first one here to say hi to your little girlfriend.” Rooster teased.

He let out a little exasperated breath. “Can we go in now?”

Hangman walked towards the door, “Whatever you want, Baby.” He teased back, emphasizing the name the waitress had called him last time.

For the next few weeks, they had the same routine. They would sit down in their booth, and like clockwork, Y/n would strut out quietly singing along to whatever song was on the jukebox. It was like she had a Rolodex of 50s/'60s hits. The Supremes. Marvin Gaye. Aretha Franklin. Tom Jones. Even the songs he didn’t recognize sounded like his new favorite song coming from her.

Hangman, Rooster, and Phoenix would all watch him stumble and smile up at her. His face lit up like a Christmas tree. And they would all tease him or even subtly try to hype Bob up to her. The three noticed how she seemed to pay special interest to Bob, even though he remained oblivious. They noticed how she always complimented him or would point out his glasses. There were little things- like her making his paper plate of ketchup a winky face or a heart, while the rest got stars or smiley faces. The fact that she always addressed him as Baby was more than enough to convince them. It wasn’t Bob or Baby on Board. It was just Baby. 

But Bob was oblivious. He was completely convinced that she was just being friendly because she was being paid to be. He figured that a girl like that would already have a partner, and he didn’t want to be a creep. It wasn’t like him to hit on a girl while she was working. His mama taught him that it wasn’t appropriate. 

So even as the rest of them egged him on to ask her out, he didn’t. He stayed comfortable with the small talk and stammering banter he’d make with her on those Monday mornings. It got to a point where even the rest of the squadron knew about this. Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote wanted to come with and see for themselves, but for the first time- Bob vehemently rejected them from coming. It would be obvious if suddenly there was a crowd watching him try not to turn red in the face while talking. And she deserved better than that. 

One Monday, Y/n came back out singing that Carla Thomas song again. And when she reached the table, Bob couldn’t help himself.

“What’s that song playing? You’re always singing it.” He asked

Her eyes widened, “Oh goodness, I hope it’s not too cringy that I sing while working.” She said with a nervous smile.

All of them shook their heads, looking up at her. Rooster and Hangman went back to their menus with smirks while Phoenix looked down at her phone, as if they were all letting him have his moment. His favorite part of the week. 

“No. No. I- I like your voice. I’m just wondering what the song is.” He said with his typical bashful look.

Her nervous smile upturned to a genuine one. “Oh, well, it’s Baby by Carla Thomas, but the title is spelled out like B-A-B-Y… Hey, that’s like your call sign, isn’t it?” She asked excitedly.

Bob nodded. “Kinda. Kinda yeah.”

“Guess, I’ll be listening to this song even more then, Baby.” She said, which made Hangman and Rooster look at each other with raised brows that said ‘it’s so obvious’, “I’ll be right out with your guys’ coffee.”

As she walked away, he heard “Whenever the sun don’t shine.”

The kitchen door swung shut.

“Jesus Christ, Bob, this is torture.” Rooster groaned, leaning his head back.

He looked at him, confused with furrowed brows.

“Look, Bob, I was a whole proponent of the whole don’t ask her out at work thing, but this is getting ridiculous,” Phoenix said, grabbing her menu.

“I don’t know what you guys mean. She’s just being nice.” Bob said, looking around at his friend’s exasperated faces. 

Hangman dragged his hands down his face, “And calling you ‘baby’.” 

Bob shook his head. “She thinks that’s my call sign.”

“So… she’s going to ‘listen to the song with your call sign more now’ because…?” Rooster added. 

He couldn’t deny that. It was probably the most forward thing she had done besides smile and point out they were matching every Monday because of their glasses. 

Bob shook his head. “I shouldn’t.” 

Phoenix exchanged a look with Hangman… That couldn’t be good. Those two could barely stand each other, so if they were joining forces, something was up. Bob saw their stares. 

“What-what are you guys doing?” Bob asked.

Phoenix turned to him, “If you don’t ask her out, I’m gonna have Hangman kill us in every dogfight this week. 200 push-ups each.” 

He immediately groaned and put his head in his hands. The idea of that was pure torture. Not only did that mean he’d barely get to fly because he’d be tagged out every time they did, but 200 push-ups daily for a week. Look, Bob was strong… but his shoulders and biceps shivered at the thought. 

“You’re evil. You’re literally evil.” He said, looking over at Phoenix.

Rooster tapped the table. “You’ll thank us later.”

After they all paid, Rooster, Hangman, and Phoenix all walked out, leaving Bob still lingering behind inside. He felt awkward. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there anymore because it was outside of this routine. When Y/n came back out, his heart beat so hard he thought it might stop. It had gone from zero to sixty at just the sight of her. 

When she spotted him, her eyes brightened and she walked straight towards him. He swallowed anxiously.

“Hey, Baby! What are you still doing here? Need something?” She asked smiling

Oh god. Oh dear god.

“No, no, I was just uh, I was just-” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his friends not so subtly watching him from outside the window. He scratched the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say thanks.” He nodded.

OH GOD WHAT WAS HE DOING? THANKS? A little confused, but still smiling, she nodded. “You’re welcome. Any time.”

He took a deep breath before spitting out, “I was just wondering if you’d like to… go out sometime. I- I know this isn’t appropriate when you’re working and all, but-”

“I’d love to.” Her face was the brightest he had seen it. It didn’t seem like forced hospitality. She seemed genuinely enthusiastic. “God, Bob, I was waiting for you to ask.”

He blinked and shook his head in disbelief, “You were?”

“I was worried you never would.” She said, “I’m free this weekend if you are.”

It felt like he was melting into the floor. “Yeah, yeah, I am. I’ll uh- here.”

He reached over to a table and grabbed a napkin, quickly scribbling his number on it. Handing it to her, he added, “And if you change your mind, I won’t be mad.”

She took it and folded it neatly before putting it in her pocket. “I would never.”

They stood there for a moment just looking at each other. She smiled, and Bob let out a nervous laugh. This felt like a dream, and he was still waiting to wake up. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She didn’t seem creeped out. And she had been waiting for him to ask her, despite being at work. 

“I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll see you.” He said, nodding.

“See ya soon, Baby.” She waved before going back into the kitchen.

Walking out, Bob’s legs felt like jelly. It was like he was on the aircraft carrier for the first time, and he couldn’t get his bearings. He fully wore the bashful smile now, unable to resist it. 

“So?” Phoenix asked, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk.

“She said yes.” He said breathlessly. 

[cassiemaebarnes]

Dreaming of You

Bucky x reader

Summary: When Bucky has a good dream about you, he wakes up confused - and with the best sleep he's had in years. When he continues having these soft dreams, he begins to believe that maybe he does deserve comfort, despite his messed up past.

Word Count: 9,220

Bucky didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment he was staring blankly at the ceiling of his room in the compound, the next, there was quiet. A different quiet.

He was lying in a bed. Not his own.

The sheets weren’t a deep navy blue. They were soft and rumpled, a light gray that smelled faintly of vanilla and something else – something familiar. There was no hum of the compound’s lights, no distant clang of Tony’s tech or the low murmur of the common room TV. Just stillness.

He blinked slowly, turning his head, expecting to find an explanation. But what he saw made him freeze.

You were there. Curled against him like you belonged there – like you chose to be there. Head resting gently on his chest, breath even and slow, your hand lightly curled into the fabric of his t-shirt. Your leg was slung over his like you’d done this before. Like it was natural. Like it was safe.

For a moment, he just stared.

You didn’t talk to him much. Not in a bad way – you were just quiet, like he was. But when you did speak, it was soft and easy. You didn’t tiptoe around him or treat him like a project. You gave him space. And somehow, without trying, you’d found your way into the parts of his life that felt…normal.

But this – this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t real.

And then he saw it.

His stomach twisted violently.

The metal arm. Shining silver. Red star on the shoulder.

The Winter Soldier.

Panic crawled up his throat.

He tried to move – tried to pull away – but he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t obey. His left arm, the metal one, lay at his side like dead weight. His right arm, the flesh one, was wrapped around you, and he hadn’t even realized it. He wanted to pull it back, wanted to get away before he hurt you.

The pressure built in his chest, heart hammering like a warning bell. His mind raced. He was him again. That version of himself. Cold. Weaponized. Dangerous.

Why couldn’t he move?

Why wouldn’t the dream let him move?

But then – you shifted, softly. Your hand curled tighter into his shirt. Your cheek rubbed against his chest in your sleep like you were burrowing closer. And your lips curved into the faintest smile.

Like you were happy.

With him.

Bucky’s breath stilled. The panic dulled at the edges, like someone had taken the volume knob and slowly turned it down.

You sighed. A soft, content sound. One that said, I’m safe here.

He stared at you, everything inside him slowly cracking open. The metal arm stayed still and lifeless beside him, but it didn’t matter now. You weren’t afraid.

You were still here.

He let out a slow, shaky breath, letting it all go with the exhale. The fear. The guilt. The weight. The arm still didn’t move, but it wasn’t the threat he’d imagined. Not in this moment. Not with you beside him.

Peace wasn’t something he often found – even in dreams.

But now he let it wrap around him like the warmth of the bed, the quiet of the room, the gentle rhythm of your breathing. His eyes softened, chest rising and falling with yours.

And then the dream faded.

But the calm stayed with him.

--

Bucky stirred slowly, eyes blinking open to the soft morning light filtering through his window. For once, he wasn’t jolted awake. No nightmares. No cold sweat. No tremor in his hands.

Just…rest.

He frowned at the ceiling. That was new.

He stretched slightly, joints stiff from staying in one position too long, but his body felt lighter somehow. Not in the physical sense – he still had the same weight, the same scars – but the kind of lightness that comes after real sleep. The kind that doesn’t happen often for him. Almost never.

His brows furrowed. Why?

Then – slowly – it came back to him.

The dream.

The warmth. The quiet. The feel of a body pressed to his. Your body. Head on his chest, hand holding onto his shirt, your leg tangled over his. Like you belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And the arm.

The metal one. With the red star.

He sat up too quickly, rubbing a hand down his face. The image of it all clung to his mind now – your peaceful face, that little smile in your sleep, how close you were. How it should have terrified him but didn’t – not in the end.

He didn’t know what the hell it meant.

Why you?

Why that version of him?

Why now?

Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to shove the dream to the back of his mind. Dreams didn’t mean anything. Not for him. They were scrambled echoes of memory and fear, things buried and half-processed. This was no different.

Still, his chest ached in a way he couldn’t explain.

He got out of bed and moved through the motions of his morning routine, then headed down to the kitchen.

There were already a few people scattered around the room, mugs in hand, morning voices low and mumbled. Sam leaned against the counter scrolling through his phone. Nat was picking at a muffin. And you were at the table, sipping from a light blue mug, eyes on a book with one leg tucked under you.

You looked up when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, offering him a little smile.

His stomach flipped.

It hit him like a punch to the gut. That smile.

Exactly like the dream.

He didn’t say anything at first, caught off guard. Your eyes lingered on him for just a second, warm and casual, like it was no big deal.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice gruff as he moved past you.

He busied himself with pouring his coffee, pretending he didn’t feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. Pretending the dream wasn’t clawing its way to the surface again, vivid and disorienting and suddenly way too close to real.

He took a long sip of coffee, staring blankly at the counter.

Just a dream, he told himself again.

But the sound of your soft sigh behind him, the scrape of your mug against the table as you took another sip – it sounded exactly the same.

And he couldn’t shake it.

--

The office was quiet, just the soft ticking of the wall clock and the hum of distant city traffic outside the window. Bucky sat on the familiar worn-in couch, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Dr. Raynor was scribbling something in her notebook as she usually did before looking up at him.

“So,” she said, tone casual but watchful. “How many nightmares this past week?”

Bucky opened his mouth, the number already at the front of his mind. “Uh, I think…”

He trailed off, brows drawing together.

He thought the dream a couple nights ago. About waking up without a jolt, about how calm his body felt for the first time in…God, he didn’t even know how long. It wasn’t like the other dreams – not dark or violent. But he was the Winter Soldier in it. That arm. That red star. That helplessness. That fear.

But…

Then there was you. And peace. And warmth.

He hadn’t had that. Not even in dreams.

“Bucky?”

Dr. Raynor’s voice broke into his thoughts, cutting through the silence.

He blinked, snapping his attention back to her. “Uh, sorry. I think…three.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “That’s good. Fewer than last week. Progress.”

He gave a small, vague grunt in agreement, but she was already watching him a little too closely.

“What was the pause about?”

He hesitated. He could brush it off. Say he miscounted. Change the subject. But the dream had stuck with him. Still clung to the edges of his mind the past few mornings. He was curious – about what it meant, and about what she’d think of it.

So he exhaled slowly. “I…had a different kind of dream. A couple nights ago.”

Dr. Raynor leaned back slightly, folding her hands. “Different how?”

Bucky stared down at his hands for a second before answering. “I was lying in a bed. Just…quiet. And there was someone with me. A girl.” His voice stayed even, careful. “She was laying on me. Head on my chest, hand holding my shirt, leg over mine. We were just…there. Like it was normal.”

Raynor’s expression didn’t change, but he could tell she was paying full attention now.

“I looked down, and – my arm. It was the Winter Soldier version. Silver. Red star.” He swallowed. “I panicked. I couldn’t move it. Couldn’t move at all. Thought I was gonna hurt her. But then she moved closer in her sleep. Smiled.” He paused, voice softening. “It calmed me down. I felt…okay. Even with the arm.”

Dr. Raynor hummed thoughtfully. “Did you know the girl?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to hers. There was a moment of hesitation, then a quiet, “No.”

She raised an eyebrow, the kind that said you’re lying and we both know it, but she didn’t press.

“Did you wake up after that?”

He shook his head. “No. Slept through the night. Woke up in the morning, and it was the best sleep I’ve had in…a long time.”

There was a pause. Then, to his surprise, Dr. Raynor smiled – a small, genuine smile.

“Well,” she said, “it sounds like your brain is trying to tell you something.”

Bucky frowned. “Like what?”

“That you deserve comfort like that. Even with your past.”

The words hit him harder than he expected – right in the chest. He sat a little straighter, caught off guard by the way those simple words landed. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She continued gently. “You’ve spent years believing you’re not allowed to have peace. That you have to earn something you already should’ve had. And now, maybe your subconscious is finally pushing back on that.”

Bucky looked down again, lips pressed into a thin line.

“That dream wasn’t about danger. It wasn’t about control or violence or punishment. It was about being okay, even with the parts of you you’re still learning to accept.”

He didn’t respond, but something settled in him. Not quite relief. Not quite understanding. But something quieter than what he was used to.

Something like hope.

She scribbled something else down, then glanced up again. “Let it stay with you. The way that felt. Don’t dismiss it just because it didn’t scare you.”

He nodded, almost to himself.

He wouldn’t forget it.

Not the dream.

Not your smile.

And maybe, just maybe, not the feeling that – just for a moment – he was allowed to feel that safe.

--

Later that night, Bucky fell asleep without much effort – something that still felt strange, even after his conversation with Dr. Raynor earlier that day. Her words had echoed in his mind, quiet and persistent: You deserve comfort like that. Even with your past.

He didn’t quite believe it.

But somehow, his body did, because sleep pulled him under fast.

And the dream returned.

The same soft hush of a room that wasn’t his. The same tangled gray sheets. The same smell – vanilla and you.

He blinked slowly, just like last time.

Except…this time, everything was flipped.

You were still beside him – but now, on his left. Your body tucked perfectly into his side, your head nestled just below his shoulder, your hand curled into his shirt, your leg tangled with his.

But his metal arm – the Winter Soldier arm – was curled around you.

Touching you.

Holding you.

He froze.

Panic surged through him like a current.

No. No, no, no.

He looked down at the gleam of silver in the soft light, the red star glowing faintly like a warning. His mind screamed. What if it was pressing too hard? What if it locked up or jerked suddenly? What if it hurt you and he couldn’t stop it?

He tried to move it. Tried to pull away. But just like last time, the dream held him in place. The arm wouldn’t respond. It just was – still, locked in its place around you.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

This wasn’t okay.

He shouldn’t be allowed to hold someone like this. Not with that arm. Not with the weight of what it had done. Not when it could still do damage.

But then – you shifted, slowly again.

You sighed softly. Peacefully. A little smile tugged at your lips as you nuzzled your face further into his chest, like you wanted to be even closer.

Like you were safe.

His panic stuttered. He blinked again, heart thudding for a different reason now.

You weren’t afraid. You didn’t recoil. You didn’t treat that arm like a threat.

You embraced it. Him.

Every bit of him.

Slowly, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders eased down. He didn’t try to move the arm again – he didn’t want to. It was holding you. You were breathing steady, face peaceful, lips still curved with that small, content smile.

And somehow, for the second time, so was he.

He watched you quietly, letting the warmth of the moment soak into him. Letting it settle somewhere deeper than it had before. You hadn’t just tolerated the arm.

You trusted it.

Trusted him.

The room faded again. Soft and slow.

But the feeling – the comfort, the calm, the way you smiled in your sleep – it stayed.

Just like before.

--

Bucky woke with a slow inhale, the weight of sleep still clinging to his body.

But this time, he didn’t need a moment to remember.

The dream was right there, vivid and whole, waiting for him like it never left.

You, curled up against his left side. His metal arm – that arm – wrapped around you. And not by accident. Not something he couldn’t control. It was holding you. Touching you. And you didn’t flinch. You didn’t fear it.

You smiled.

He blinked up at the ceiling, jaw slack with quiet disbelief. His heart wasn’t racing. His hands weren’t clenched. There was no cold sweat or lingering tension in his spine.

Just a steady breath. A strange calm.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled.

He slept better than he had in years.

Maybe Dr. Raynor was right. Maybe his brain was trying to tell him something. Something he hadn’t let himself believe for a long time. Something about softness. About comfort. About…deserving it.

Even now, lying there in the soft morning light, the feeling hadn’t left him. It buzzed quietly under his skin – warm, unfamiliar. Not something he trusted yet. But not something he wanted to shake off either.

With a grunt, he sat up and went through the motions of his morning routine again and headed down to the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face. The smell of coffee hit him as soon as he rounded the corner.

Voices filtered through the space – soft and half-awake.

Sam was at the counter again, talking to someone across the room. Natasha leaned over a bowl of cereal. And you were at the table, in the same seat as before, scrolling lazily through something on your phone. You wore a cozy sweater today, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, your mug cradled in one hand.

You looked up when you saw him, smile soft and casual.

“Morning,” you said, voice quiet but warm.

His stomach flipped.

Just like the other day.

He swallowed thickly, eyes catching on the curve of your smile. The exact one from his dream. That same relaxed expression. That same tiny upturn of your lips like you were happy to see him.

He forced his eyes away.

“Morning,” he mumbled, barely above a grumble, and headed straight to the coffee machine.

He busied himself with pouring his coffee, keeping his back to the others. But his mind wasn’t quiet.

All he could think about was that dream. The weight of your head on his shoulder. The feel of your hand against his chest. The way you smiled in your sleep like everything about that moment was safe.

He took a long sip of the coffee, letting the warmth ground him.

Bucky leaned against the counter, mug in hand, eyes fixed on absolutely nothing in particular. He was too aware of you. Of your presence. The sound of your laugh – soft and breathy – when Sam made some dumb comment. The way you sat, one leg tucked under you, like you were completely at ease here.

He wasn’t used to noticing this much.

Or rather…he wasn’t used to letting himself notice.

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam called across the kitchen, pointing a spoon at him. “You gonna just brood in the corner all morning or are you capable of eating like a normal human being?”

Bucky gave him a deadpan look over his mug. “I am eating. This is breakfast.” He raised the mug like proof.

“Coffee’s not breakfast, man,” Sam said, gesturing to the bowl of yogurt in front of him. “It’s a sad, bitter hug.”

You snorted into your drink, and Bucky’s eyes flicked over to you before he could stop himself. That sound – your laugh – was way better than whatever Sam thought was funny.

Natasha gave a dry smile, not looking up from her cereal. “Let him be. At least he’s not staring into the distance like he’s reliving war crimes again.”

“Pretty sure that’s just his face,” Sam muttered.

That earned a louder laugh from you.

Bucky took a long drink of coffee to hide the corner of his mouth twitching.

Then Steve walked in, holding a tablet. “Morning,” he greeted as he passed, setting the device on the counter. “There’s a meeting at ten. Just some info about the upcoming mission.”

“Who’s going?” Nat asked.

Steve tapped the screen. “Me, Sam, Nat, and y/n.”

You raised your brows, nodding slowly. “Cool. I haven’t had a field op in a week. I’m itching.”

Bucky’s eyes went to you again without thinking. That little grin, that spark in your eyes – it tugged at something low in his chest. You were so casual, so ready. Brave, smart, calm. Everything he felt like he had to force in himself just to function.

Then Sam, apparently unable to resist, added, “Don’t worry, Barnes. We’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

“I didn’t say I wanted one,” Bucky muttered.

“Your eyes say it. The haunted ones.”

Bucky rolled them.

You leaned a little toward Sam with a playful smile. “I think he just wants us out of the kitchen so he can mope in peace.”

Bucky looked at you, eyebrows raised, and – damn it – there was that same smile again. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just...soft. Familiar in a way that made his chest feel tight.

Like the dream again.

The red star flashed in his mind for just a second – how it had looked resting beside your head.

His grip on the mug tightened and he looked away.

“You’re all very funny,” he muttered.

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender. “We try.”

You slid out of your seat, passing close by him on your way to the sink. “Don’t worry, Bucky,” you said gently, voice just for him. “You’ll miss us when we’re gone.”

He didn't say anything. Couldn’t, really.

Because he was pretty sure he would.

--

A couple nights later, the world was green and gold.

Sunlight filtered through trees he didn’t recognize, casting dappled shadows on the path beneath his boots. A soft breeze tugged at the edge of his sleeves, carrying the scent of something fresh – flowers maybe.

It was quiet and peaceful.

Still, Bucky frowned.

He didn’t know this place.

The path curved ahead through a gentle park, benches spaced out along the edges, a few distant people walking dogs or pushing strollers. He glanced around, scanning like he always did – half instinct, half reflex.

Then he looked to his left.

And there you were.

Walking beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No gear. No weapons. Just you, in casual clothes, looking comfortable and calm, your arms swinging gently at your sides. You didn’t say anything at first – just strolled, matching his pace, steps quiet on the pavement.

He stared, confused.

But before he could say anything, you looked up at him.

And smiled.

Not some bright, flashy grin. Just something quiet, warm, and familiar. Like you’d been here beside him the whole time and nothing about it was strange.

Then, without a word, you reached up and held his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

His metal hand. The Winter Soldier’s.

Bucky’s whole body went stiff.

His breath caught in his chest like someone had punched him.

The panic started the same way it always did – sharp, cold, immediate. That hand. That arm. He didn’t even like people walking on that side of him most of the time. Didn’t want them close to it.

But you…you hadn’t even hesitated.

You just laced your fingers through his like it was second nature.

Like it meant nothing.

Or maybe – everything.

He tried to pull away.

He couldn’t.

His feet kept walking. His body moved forward. But his hand – his metal hand – remained in yours.

And you didn’t look scared. You didn’t flinch or squeeze too tightly or act like it was anything other than his hand. Not a weapon. Not something dangerous.

Just…his.

You held it like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Like you wanted to.

And the whole time, that soft little smile stayed on your face.

He looked at you again, expecting to see some kind of shift – wariness, discomfort, anything. But all he saw was peace. Trust.

The panic in his chest twisted. Less sharp now. Still there, still curling at the edges of his thoughts, but quieter. Muffled under something heavier. Something warmer.

So he didn’t fight it.

He just…walked with you.

Fingers interlocked.

Sunlight dappling the path.

And when the dream began to fade, he didn’t want to let go.

--

Bucky woke up with the ghost of your hand still wrapped in his.

He lay there, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. But it didn’t. Just the same bland paint, same quiet hum of the AC, same everything. Except him.

He didn’t feel the same.

The dream hadn’t faded this time. It was sharp. Too sharp. The colors. The breeze. The way you looked at him. The weight of your fingers laced with his metal ones, swinging lightly between you as if you’d never thought twice about touching him like that. Holding him like that.

His left hand rested against his chest now, unmoving.

He stared at it, heart thudding a little too loud in his ears.

Usually, the panic hit him first.

Usually, there was cold sweat. A racing pulse. The instinct to get up, walk it off, ground himself.

But this time…it was different.

There was confusion, of course. Why that arm again? Why you? Why the park? Why did it feel so damn real?

But under the confusion, there was something else entirely, deeper and quieter.

Longing.

It sat in his chest like a weight, not painful, but persistent, like something had just barely brushed against a place inside him he didn’t even know was empty until it wasn’t.

You looked so happy in that dream. So peaceful. Like you wanted to be there with him. Like you didn’t care that it was that hand you were holding. Like it never mattered.

And for a moment…he let himself believe it.

He rubbed his face with his flesh hand, sighing deep into the quiet.

He wasn’t used to wanting anything like this.

Not comfort.

Not softness.

Not…you.

But now, he couldn’t un-feel it.

He stayed there for a while, lying in bed, trying to push it down – but the feeling clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind.

Eventually, he got up and got ready, heading downstairs.

The kitchen was quiet when he walked in. Just Sam, Steve, and Nat – already half-finished with breakfast, voices low, the occasional clink of spoons against bowls – the usual noise.

But you weren’t there.

And Bucky didn’t expect the disappointment that tugged at his chest.

He tried to ignore it. Shoved it down like everything else. You didn’t owe him your presence. It wasn’t like you should be here. Still, it hit harder than it should’ve.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, fingers tight around the handle, and sat at the island without saying a word. None of them pushed him. Nat gave him a polite nod. Steve offered a brief, “Morning, Buck.” Sam just nodded and kept eating.

Bucky sipped his coffee and stared at nothing, trying not to think about the park, or your hand in his, or the way it had felt like something he'd never known he needed.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen.

His spine stiffened.

Then he saw you.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie hanging over your frame. Sleep still soft around your eyes. You looked barely awake – but when your gaze found him, you smiled.

That same quiet smile.

His stomach flipped.

But this time…his chest fluttered too.

“Morning,” you said, voice a little hoarse from sleep.

“Morning,” he mumbled back, too fast, too quiet. Eyes dropping instantly to his coffee like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

You walked over to the coffee machine and poured yourself a cup of coffee in your favorite light blue mug. Then, you turned and walked over to the island and sat down. Not in your usual spot, which would put a chair in between you two.

Right next to him.

On his left side.

By his metal arm.

His entire body tensed. Not panicked – just frozen. Every cell aware. That old instinct to shift away, to hide the arm, to make sure no one accidentally brushed against it. But he didn’t move. You didn’t seem to notice the shift in him, the tension laced through his frame.

You just sipped your coffee, then turned a little toward him.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked, casual, soft.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“…Good,” he said, forcing his voice to sound even. Normal.

You smiled a little more. “Good.”

Then…nothing.

No follow-up. No chatter.

Just you, sitting beside him, quiet and easy and not even glancing at his arm.

Bucky stared into his coffee again, heart still thudding somewhere too close to his ribs. A part of him wanted to get up, walk out, hide like he always did when things got too close. But another part just wanted to stay.

Because sitting here, next to you, felt almost like the dream.

And for the first time, that didn’t scare him.

It made him feel like maybe – just maybe – it could be real.

--

Later that day, he was back in the familiar office sitting on the worn couch. Dr. Raynor glanced down at her notepad before looking up at Bucky, her tone casual but her gaze sharp.

“So, how many nightmares this week?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “None.”

She blinked. Her pen paused mid-word. “None?”

He nodded once, folding his arms across his chest but not defensively – more like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Dr. Raynor leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing just a bit, surprised but clearly pleased. “Well…that’s really good, Bucky.”

He gave a small nod again but said nothing. She let the silence linger for a beat before continuing.

“Any more dreams like the last one?”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes – something warmer than his usual stormcloud gaze. He looked at the floor, just for a second. “Yeah. Two more.”

Dr. Raynor smiled slightly. “Were they the same?”

“Kind of.”

“Tell me,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

Bucky shifted in his seat, arms still crossed, eyes distant like he was watching the scenes play in his head. “The first one…we were in bed again, the same one I didn’t recognize. Laying there. Only this time, she was on the other side of me. I had my left arm around her.”

Dr. Raynor’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“It was still the metal one,” Bucky added, quieter. “The Winter Soldier one. But she didn’t mind. She was asleep against it like it was nothing.” He paused. “Like I was just...me.”

Dr. Raynor softened but stayed quiet, giving him room.

“The second dream…” he went on, “We were walking in some park. Not one I knew. Trees everywhere, real quiet. She was on my left side again.” He took a breath, like saying it out loud was harder than he thought it would be. “Then she reached up and held my hand. The metal one.” He glanced up at Dr. Raynor. “Still the old one.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtful. “And after those dreams...you still sleep well?”

“Yeah,” he said, more firmly this time. “I wake up feeling okay. Like I’m still there, kind of.”

“That’s a good thing, Bucky. That’s progress.”

He didn’t say anything, but his posture eased just slightly.

Dr. Raynor tapped her pen against the notepad. “Do you know the girl?”

“No,” he said quickly.

She raised an eyebrow at him, the same way she had the last time. No words – just that look, skeptical and patient and knowing.

Bucky sighed, his shoulders slumping just a little. “Yes.”

Dr. Raynor nodded, unsurprised. “Have you told her about the dreams?”

He shook his head.

“Who is she?”

“She’s…a teammate,” Bucky muttered, picking at a loose thread on the seam of his jacket. “New. Doesn’t talk much, but…she’s always nice.”

Dr. Raynor hummed, a thoughtful sound. She didn’t press, just let the silence stretch until it made Bucky glance up again.

“You should think about telling her,” she said gently. “See what she thinks.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He just stared down at his hands again, frowning.

He couldn’t tell her. He knew it. Because if she heard what he dreamed – if she knew she was part of this ideal version of his broken subconscious – she’d bolt. Or worse, she’d pity him. And either would be unbearable.

So he stayed silent. And Dr. Raynor didn’t push. But he could feel her eyes on him, reading everything he wasn’t saying.

--

The next dream started in a familiar place – the in the common room of the compound, the soft glow of a movie playing quietly on the TV.

He settled into the couch, feeling the familiar weight of his metal arm resting at his side, cold but steady.

Then, he became aware of you.

On his left side again.

You were sitting close, wrapped in a blanket, the fabric pooling softly over your legs.

You didn’t look up at him this time.

Instead, you shifted slowly, leaning over until your head came to rest on his metal shoulder.

Bucky froze for a moment, but the panic didn’t rise like before. It didn’t claw at him.

Instead, a quiet calm settled through him.

He felt…comfortable. Almost warm.

He looked down at you, watching the peaceful rise and fall of your breath.

After a moment, you tilted your head just enough to glance up at him, eyes soft, the same little smile curling your lips.

Then, without a word, you turned your gaze back to the movie.

Bucky settled back into the couch, heart steady, chest lighter.

He let himself enjoy the moment – the quiet closeness, the softness of the night, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this was where he belonged.

And then the dream faded.

--

Bucky woke slowly, the edges of the dream still clinging to him like mist. For a moment, he stayed still, eyes half-closed, breathing even. The quiet hum of the compound in the early morning was a stark contrast to the gentle glow of the dream’s memory – the movie, the couch, the familiar weight of her head against his shoulder. He could almost still feel it.

He rubbed a hand down his face and stared at the ceiling, brow furrowed in thought.

He knew what it meant – at least, in the vague, half-therapeutic way that Dr. Raynor would explain it. His brain, reaching for peace. For softness. For something to hold onto when the world always felt like it was trying to push him away. It made sense, kind of. A subconscious reminder that he deserved comfort, despite everything.

But why her?

It could’ve been anyone. Some faceless, gentle figure. Or no face at all, just a blur that whispered kindness in silence. That’s what he would’ve expected. Not someone real. Not someone who existed within arm’s reach in his actual life.

Not a teammate.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and exhaling slowly. Maybe if he just kept moving, it’d fade. The thoughts, the dreams, the softness of it all.

He pulled on a hoodie and headed toward the kitchen.

The sounds of morning met him as he approached – soft laughter, clinking mugs, voices overlapping. Everyone was already there, it seemed. He hesitated in the hallway, only for a second, before stepping inside.

And then he saw her.

She was seated in her usual spot at the island, barefoot and cross-legged in her chair, talking to Steve about something.

His chest fluttered – sharp and uninvited.

Bucky looked away immediately, cursing silently under his breath as he made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Morning,” she said, bright and easy, like it cost her nothing.

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. “Morning,” he muttered, pouring himself a cup. His hand was steady, but his stomach wasn’t.

He considered sitting. There was space next to her. She’d sat next to him just the other day – plopped down like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t a walking museum of trauma and metal and things better left unsaid.

But he stayed standing, back leaning against the counter, eyes flickering in her direction despite himself.

She was laughing now – head tilted slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners, hands wrapped around her mug. She didn’t glance at him. Didn’t need to. She just kept being herself.

And he just kept watching her, silent and still, wondering when she’d started feeling more like home than his own bed did.

--

You’re sitting at the island, fingers curled around your warm mug, letting the easy flow of morning conversation wash over you. Sam says something that makes you chuckle, and you offer a quiet reply, but your eyes keep drifting.

You glance over toward Bucky. The moment your eyes meet, he looks away. Fast. Too fast for it to be casual.

Your smile falters, and your brows draw together just slightly.

It’s the third time this morning you’ve caught him doing that – avoiding eye contact, ducking away like the sight of you is something sharp. He hadn’t even looked at you when he walked in. Just a low, distracted “morning” with his eyes glued to the coffee pot.

And that isn’t like him. He usually at least looks at you.

Bucky's never exactly chatty, but he’ll usually give you something – an amused comment, a dry joke, even just a subtle glance that says yeah, I heard you, and that was funny. But the past week or so, it’s like a wall’s gone up. A quiet shift you can’t quite name, but you feel it all the same.

It’s in the way he keeps his distance, and how you catch him looking sometimes, only for him to immediately pretend he wasn’t.

You sip your coffee, trying not to let it get to you. Trying not to read too far into it.

Still, your mind turns over the possibility that maybe – somehow – you did something. Said something. Made him uncomfortable. You’ve gone over your recent conversations in your head more times than you’d like to admit, but there’s nothing obvious, no red flag.

And yet, the cold space between you now feels intentional.

You want to ask. You want to turn around right now and say “Hey, did I do something?” but not here. Not in front of everyone. Not while Natasha’s discussing training schedules and Sam’s recounting whatever bizarre YouTube rabbit hole he fell down last night.

So you just stay quiet.

You bring your mug back to your lips and steal one more glance toward the counter.

He’s standing there with his coffee, back straight, face unreadable. Watching the room. Watching you, maybe. You can’t tell.

And so, for now, you let it go. But the worry still lingers, curling low in your stomach.

--

The run didn’t help.

Bucky had hoped it would – the steady rhythm of his feet on pavement, the wind slicing against his skin, the silence of early afternoon. But even with his heart racing and muscles burning, his mind never quieted.

He kept thinking about you.

About the way your head felt resting against his shoulder in the dream. About how you’d smiled without looking up. About how he’d woken up with that calm still in his chest, only for it to twist into knots the moment he saw you in the kitchen.

Why you? Why not some faceless person? Why not no one at all?

He didn’t have answers. Only questions that kept piling up and looping back on themselves. The only thing he was sure of was that avoiding you hadn’t done a damn thing to fix it.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding and he stepped out into the common room, sweat cooling on his skin. His shirt stuck to his back, and his dog tags shifted with each step as he moved toward the kitchen.

Then he saw you.

You were sitting at the island again, perched on the same stool, legs tucked up, scrolling casually through your phone. A half-eaten bag of pretzels sat in front of you, one hand idly reaching inside every so often. Your expression was relaxed and unaware, until you looked up and saw him.

“Hi,” you said, your voice light, but tinged with something that sounded almost...careful.

Bucky’s eyes met yours for the briefest second. “Hi,” he mumbled, already moving past her.

He went straight to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off. Cold condensation dripped down his fingers. He turned around quickly, fully intending to walk right back out.

But then–

“Hey, wait.”

His feet stopped before his brain caught up. He turned slowly, water bottle still in hand.

You were watching him now, your phone resting face-down on the counter. Your brow was creased, concern etched subtly between your eyes.

“Did I...do something?” you asked.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

You hesitated, like you hated even asking. “It just feels like you’ve been avoiding me. You haven’t really talked to me lately. Not like before.” Your voice dropped a little. “If I said or did something wrong, I’d really like to know.”

The words hit him harder than he expected.

He hadn’t realized you’d noticed. Or that you cared.

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, taking a breath. “No,” he said finally, his voice rough. “You didn’t do anything.”

He could see the tension in your shoulders ease slightly, but your eyes were still searching his. Not angry, just worried.

He thought of Dr. Raynor, and what she said. You should think about telling her. See what she thinks.

He looked down at the floor, then back at you. You were still waiting, quiet and patient.

You tilted your head slightly. “Then…is something going on?”

There was a pause. A long one.

And then, before he could stop himself – before he could talk himself out of it –

“I’ve been having dreams about you.”

The words were out. Heavy, real, and hanging between you like something fragile that could shatter with a single wrong move.

Bucky kept his gaze on you, waiting for you to laugh, to recoil, to look at him like you didn’t know what to say.

But right now, he couldn’t take it back.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, eyes wide. “Are they…good dreams or bad dreams?”

Bucky feels the corner of his mouth tug upward, just slightly. “Good,” he says, then pauses. “Really good, actually.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you blink. “Oh.”

There’s a shift in your tone – subtle, but unmistakable. And Bucky sees the flicker of realization behind your eyes. Your posture straightens ever so slightly.

His eyes widen, and he quickly holds up both hands. “No. No – not like that.” His voice jumps a little higher than he meant it to.

Your lips press together, a small, amused line forming as you clearly try not to laugh.

Bucky groans quietly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Great,” he mutters. “Now I sound like a creep.”

“No, you don’t,” you say gently, and somehow that only makes the heat rise higher in his face.

He exhales sharply, then walks over to the island and sets his water bottle down. He leans against the counter, arms folded loosely over his chest.

“I’m gonna sound crazy either way, so I might as well just say it.”

You nod, encouraging but quiet, waiting.

“The first dream…I was laying in bed. A bed I didn’t recognize. And you were there next to me, with your…head on my chest. And your hand was holding onto my shirt, and your leg was over mine.” He paused and took a breath before continuing. “My real arm was around you, but my metal arm…it was my arm when I was the Winter Soldier.”

He glanced up at you, looking for a reaction, but you were just listening intently. So he swallows and continues.

“I freaked out. Scared I was gonna hurt you with the arm, since I was…y’know, him. But I couldn’t move. The dream wouldn’t let me. But then…you just nuzzled closer. You smiled and sighed, like you were content. Like you were safe.”

He looked back up at you, and this time, there was a little smile on your face. The same one from the dreams, which made him relax a little bit.

“The second one was the exact same. Except this time, you were on my left side. And my metal arm was around you. Still the Winter Soldier one. I was even more scared, worried that it was crushing you or that I’d hurt you. But again, I couldn’t move. But you just…curled into me again, like it was natural.”

You don’t speak, but your expression softens – eyebrows raised just enough, lips parted slightly like you want to ask something but don’t want to stop him.

“The third one was in a park I didn’t recognize. You were walking beside me, on my left again. And then you just…reached up and held my hand. The metal one. Still the Winter Soldier one. You didn’t flinch or hesitate. You just did it. Like you had before.”

Your gaze flicks to his arm for a second, then back to his face. Still, you stay quiet.

“And the last one,” he says, more quietly now, “was here. In the common room. Movie playing on the TV. You were next to me, wrapped in a blanket. You leaned on my metal soldier. The Winter Soldier one again. And I just…let it happen. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t panic. I felt…calm.”

He exhales, steadying himself. You still haven’t said anything, and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

“I told my therapist about them,” he admits, avoiding your eyes now, fiddling with the cap of his water bottle. “She thinks it’s my brain’s way of telling me that I deserve comfort. That I’ve earned peace after everything. That it’s okay to want something soft.”

There’s a long pause. Then he finally meets your gaze again.

“But I don’t know why it’s you in them.”

He doesn’t say it accusingly. It’s not a complaint. It’s a quiet confession – equal parts wonder and confusion. Like he’s still trying to solve a riddle his heart already understands.

And you’re still looking at him, a little wide-eyed, clearly surprised…but you’re smiling.

Not laughing. Not running.

Just smiling.

--

You don’t say anything at first.

Mostly because you’re still trying to take it all in.

Bucky Barnes – quiet, guarded, “I-don’t-do-feelings” Bucky Barnes – just told you he’s been dreaming about you. Four different times. And not nightmares or weird memory-warped missions, but soft, good dreams. Ones where you’re cuddling or holding his hand or doing…couple-y stuff.

You’re not sure what shocks you more: the fact that you’re in them, or the fact that he actually told you.

But he’s just standing there now, clearly uncomfortable, his arms crossed tight over his chest like he wants to disappear into the counter. His eyes won’t quite meet yours.

Still, you smile.

“Well…that’s new,” you say first. “But…I’m glad it’s me in them,” you say softly, voice steady. “Because you do deserve comfort. And for the record, I’m not scared of you. Or your metal arm. I’m really glad you told me.”

His eyes finally lift to yours, and even though his face doesn’t fully relax, you see the subtle flicker of relief behind his features.

“Thanks,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh...still feel kinda stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” you say, then pause before teasing lightly, “Just very bad at not looking like you’re panicking.”

That earns you the smallest smile.

You tilt your head, thinking back through what he said. “You said you didn’t recognize the bed? In the first two dreams?.”

He looks a little confused but nods. “Yeah.”

“What did it look like?”

He blinks, then shrugs, thinking. “Uh…light gray sheets. And it smelled like…vanilla.”

You blink. And then you laugh.

He looks startled. “What?”

“My sheets are gray,” you say, grinning now. “And everything I use – body wash, lotion, perfume – is vanilla-scented. Like, obnoxiously so.”

His eyebrows lift, and he actually laughs – soft and a little shy, but real.

“Oh,” he says, then clears his throat. “So, either my brain’s really good at guessing, or I’ve subconsciously memorized what you smell like.”

You pretend to consider that. “Creepy either way.”

His smile widens a bit, and he ducks his head. “Great.”

You nudge the snack bag toward him as a peace offering. “Guess you’re gonna have to keep dreaming about me now.”

He huffs a soft laugh, looking up at you through his lashes. “Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “Maybe I will.”

And even though there's still a little awkwardness between you, it doesn't feel heavy anymore.

It feels...kind of nice. Like something new is starting to settle between the two of you – gentle, tentative, but warm.

And maybe that’s worth leaning into.

--

Fresh from the shower, your skin still slightly warm, you smooth the last bit of vanilla-scented lotion into your arms, the familiar scent wrapping around you like a soft blanket. You tug on your sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt – one of your comfiest – and run a hand through your damp hair as you walk over to your bed.

But you don’t get in.

You stop at the edge, eyes drifting over the crumpled gray sheets, the soft pillows, the blanket still a little twisted from the night before.

And all you can think about is Bucky.

He dreamed about this bed.

Your bed. Light gray sheets. Vanilla.

You tell yourself not to read into it. That maybe it didn’t mean anything. That maybe his brain just filled in blanks using details it picked up around the compound without him realizing it.

But you can’t shake the thought.

Can’t stop imagining him lying there – his broad frame stretched out under your blanket, arm around you, soft breathing in the dark. Not in a dream. Not in his head.

In real life.

You blink, startled by yourself.

Your eyebrows raise slightly, arms crossing over your chest as you frown down at the bed, telling yourself it’s time to get in.

Still, you don’t move.

You sigh, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it back.

But you don’t climb in.

You just…stand there. Staring.

And then, before you can talk yourself out of it – before your brain has a chance to spiral or question – you’re moving. Feet on autopilot.

Your hand closes around the doorknob, and the next thing you know, you’re stepping quietly into the hallway. The air is cooler out here, the compound quiet and still. You don’t even stop to think about what you’re going to say when you get there.

You just start walking. Down the hall.

Toward Bucky’s room.

--

Bucky lay in bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room was dark and quiet, but his mind wouldn’t follow suit. Sleep hadn’t even crossed his mind yet – he was still replaying the conversation you two had in the kitchen, word for word. The way you smiled when he told you about the dreams. The surprise on your face. The way you’d said you were glad it was you. He could still hear your laugh when you told him his brain must be creepy or psychic.

It made something in his chest ache – in a good way, but still a little overwhelming.

So when a soft knock came at his door, he actually jumped. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Definitely not now, this late.

He swung his legs off the bed and crossed the room, cracking the door open.

And there you were.

Standing there with damp hair, dressed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hung loose over one shoulder. You looked like you were already halfway to bed – but your expression was uncertain, like you hadn’t fully thought this through.

“…Hi,” he said, confusion thick in his voice.

“Hi,” you echoed, a little hesitant.

He stared at you for a beat. “Uh…do you need something?”

You glanced up at him, then down again, then let out a small, anxious sigh. “Do you wanna sleep with me?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

His brain short-circuited.

You looked back up, saw his face, and your eyes went wide too, horror flooding your expression.

“No – no, not like that!” you blurted, already scrambling. “I didn’t – I mean I just thought maybe you’d…want to sleep in my room. Since you…y’know dreamed about my bed, I just thought maybe you’d want to do it.” Her eyes went even wider, which he didn’t think was possible. “Not do it, just – like – spend the night…in my room.”

You looked up at him again, face flushed with embarrassment, and honestly? You looked like you were about to turn and run.

But Bucky didn’t move. He blinked once. And then he laughed.

It started as a low chuckle, but it slipped out before he could stop it, shaking his head as he grinned down at the floor.

Your hand went to your forehead, covering your face as you laughed too, half in amusement, half in absolute mortification.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, voice muffled. “I should not have said any of that.”

But Bucky was still smiling.

You weren’t just asking for company. You were offering comfort. To him.

It was kind. And sweet. And, if he was being honest, a little brave.

“Yeah,” he said, cutting through your nervous laughter.

Your hand dropped from your forehead, eyes snapping up to meet his. “Really?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I mean–” He scratched the back of his neck, still smiling. “If dreaming about it helps me sleep that good…I figure I might actually sleep even better if it’s real.”

You let out a soft breath – half-relief, half-surprise – and nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Cool.”

The two of you turned, heading down the hallway side by side in the quiet dim light.

After a beat, you glanced up at him. “I had no idea what I was gonna say when I knocked,” you admitted, still sounding a little breathless. “I completely butchered it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Nah, it was memorable.”

“I walked up to your door and said, do you wanna sleep with me like I was reading off a bad rom-com script,” you deadpanned.

He grinned. “Hey, could’ve been worse. You didn’t add finger guns or a wink.”

You snorted. “Don’t tempt me, Barnes.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and easy in his chest. And somehow, walking beside you in sleepwear, both of you still recovering from the awkwardness, it didn’t feel weird or tense. Just…light.

And for the first time all night, Bucky wasn’t overthinking. He wasn’t questioning the dreams or spiraling over what they meant.

He was just walking beside you. And it felt good.

When you stepped into your room, the soft scent of vanilla hit him immediately – just like he remembered from the dream.

You walked over to the bed without hesitation and crawled in, pulling the covers back and settling under them. Bucky hesitated just a second longer, then followed.

He climbed in next to you, lying on his back. The mattress dipped under his weight, the blanket settled lightly over his chest. There was still a space between you – enough that he could feel the distance – but not enough to make it feel cold.

He stared up at the ceiling, heart beating a little faster than it probably needed to.

“…Wow,” he said quietly.

You turned your head, voice low. “What?”

He smiled, almost to himself. “This is…exactly like my dream.”

You let out a soft laugh, and he joined in, both of you breaking the tension just a little.

When he turned his head to look at you, you were already looking at him.

There was a long, quiet beat – one of those moments where neither of you really knew what came next, but neither of you wanted to move too fast either.

Then you started scooting closer. He watched you, surprised but not resisting, and when you were close enough, he lifted his flesh arm slightly – just enough of an invitation.

You curled up against him, warm and soft, resting your hand gently on his chest, your leg sliding over his like it belonged there.

He let out a slow breath, wrapping his arm around you, holding you there. Like it was natural. Like it had always been this way.

“…What about now?” you asked softly, voice muffled slightly against his t-shirt.

He looked down at you, heart squeezing tight in his chest. A small smile pulled at his lips.

“This is perfect,” he said.

You looked up at him, returning the smile – sleepy and sweet, like you were already half-relaxed just lying beside him.

And somehow, that smile of yours made something inside him go quiet in the best way.

No tension. Just peace.

You nestled in again, eyelids already heavy. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low, arm tightening around you just a little.

He stared at the ceiling for a while longer, your body warm against his side, the scent of vanilla in the air.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t dread falling asleep.

When it came, it came easy. And he fell asleep happy.

--

Masterlist

Author's Note: sorry for like falling off the face of the earth for a second there, I got busy😭 Part 2 of Darling and I Noticed and Part 3 of The New Winter Soldier will be coming at some point, I promise! Just wanted to give you guys something while I continue working on those!!

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd @navs-bhat @starstruckfirecat @yes-ilovetowrite @bonnyclydecat @knowingnothingnoel @muchwita @hanniebee33 @awesompawsum @knoxic @miss-chuchu @writtenbydianna @rnurse-kole @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @beanzwritez @barnesandbouquets @buckysgirl-12 @butnotmontana

[attleboy]

i thought too hard about insect motifs got a little silly and made... a lot lmao these versions of the characters are from @sm-baby's amazing digital carnival au!! full images and rambling about insect choices are gonna get stuck under the cut... it'll be a bit long and i will be putting photos of real bugs down there so be mindful

pomni: "butterfly"

inspirational species are black swallowtails mostly for the shape, and malay red harlequins mostly for the pattern

carnival pomni's actually the one that kickstarted this whole set... i drew her hat in a way that reminded me of butterflies, went "wait...", then i fully leaned into it :)

jax: "centipede"

there was no specific species for jax. without being able to use color, they were too similar to pick any out... i have included a giant centipede just for reference though since it was mainly larger centipedes i used for inspiration

anddd there's a little bonus sketch for how pre-sentience jax might've looked with a centipede outfit... he gets a bug scarf and some goggles!

ragatha: "ladybug"

inspirational species was the twice-stabbed ladybug chosen because the inverted color scheme looked the best out of all the ones i tried, and also because it's a metal name and we know ragatha's good with a knife... stabby stab... i did add more than two spots to the dress though, it just looks cooler lol

gangle: "spider"

inspiration was the spinybacked orb weaver which i was absolutely ecstatic to find because come on that is the perfect spider for gangle like look at it!! it looks like her mask, it's got red, it's got gold on the limbs, literally twinning

zooble: "mantis"

inspiration was the spiny flower mantis which, like with gangle, i feel is pretty much perfect for zooble... they come in many colors (including pink), have abstract patterns, and it gave me the excuse to cover zooble in spikes :D fun

and no kaufmo because i'm lazy and he's dead (sorry kaufmo fans but am i wrong), and the rest don't have bug names that i know of?

i still want to draw the carnival characters in their regular looks sometime, i just got really really inspired by the idea of secret skins and bug-themed outfits and went a liiittle haywire :P

anyways if you read all that you're a real one and you've got too much time on your hands... if you didn't, i understand, i get wordy, sorry :'D okay i think that's all byeee

[cillivnz]

RING-POP

PAIRING. sam monroe x f!reader

SYNOPSIS. sam makes you try a different version of your favorite candy; bigger and bitter.

WARNINGS. NSFW themes (18+), pet-names, cursing, dirty-talk & too many puns (i swear this punk cannot shut up), name-calling (brat, dumb girl), brat-taming, degradation, slight dacryphilia, perv!sam, clueless!reader, oral sex (m! receiving), face-fucking, bondage, slight slapping (with a belt, with his cock), hair-pulling, sexualising food?

SMACK, SLURP, POP. the sounds filled sam’s humid room. his brow furrowed further, a look of disdain washing over his pale features at the noise. the videogame in front of him needed all his heed, but it seemed like his brat, bambi, demanded some of that attention, too.

“stop that,” he groaned, frustrated. the sound of his thumbs assaulting the buttons on his controller should’ve been all that was heard, had you not been deep-throating the candy sam made the mistake of getting you. “what— i’m just having my candy,” you whined before continuing, “—and besides, if you have a problem, why don’t you let me sit away from you—” he was quick to shut down that idea, gripping the flesh of your thighs. maybe sam was in the wrong for getting you the cherry ring-pop, your favourite, and maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have you perched on his lap, sitting comfortably (cluelessly) on his aching boner, but in his defence, he just wanted to feast his eyes on the sight of your plump lips wrapped around the toy candy, sucking and slurping, just as you are now like the good girl you are, but once he switched his playstation on, the competitive side came out.

you shift to your comfort in his lap, feeling the tent in his pants poke directly into your mound. you had an arm crossed over sam’s neck, bringing the ring-clad finger to your mouth and sucking. at the taste of the sweet cherry juices dripping into your mouth, you groan in sam’s ear.

the sounds traveled straight to his cock, his mind tuning out his reality— the game at hand— just to focus at your skilful tongue, stained red by the candy. “if you don’t quit it—” he sighed, his voice strained. the next thing you know, his character is being obliterated by the enemy. you stifled a giggle, your plan worked.

sam had left you so, so worked up. choosing to take out his frustration with his family on some stupid toy, rather than your willing pussy. ever since that day at the playground, you couldn’t go a day without sam pounding into your drooling cunt. even if it was always him starting it, he got you to finish, and you were forever grateful for it. but today? when you dolled up in all black— tank top and skirt— with red lingerie, he decided to pick up that gaming console and not let go.

“alright, bambi, i’ve had it with you,” he gets up abruptly, causing you to hit the ground and land on your knees. you gasped, offended.

his hands, full of real, crude metal were quick to move, undoing his belt, unlike your delicate hand that was motionless with the toy ring perched on it. the leather of his studded belt flicked across your cheek, causing you to look up at sam through wet lashes. he only smirked at the sight. your eyes flicked to the bulge revealed in his boxers, and now your mouth watered for a taste that wasn’t cherry ring-pop.

“‘like to suck your candy, huh, brat?” he squeezed your cheeks together. “since you’ve been practising in my goddamn ears all day,” he continued, pulling out his cock, “let’s see how good you’ve gotten.” his cock was slapped against the same spot at the belt. you only stared at him through your long lashes, unwilling to satiate when you’re unsatisfied yourself. “come on, bambi, open up,” he squeezed your cheeks again, causing your mouth to gape open. “i can’t guarantee it tastes like cherries, but you’re open to trying sweet-n-salty, aren’tcha?” he giggled, amused at his own snarky comments.

the fat tip of his cock pressed into your plump, gape lips, and instinctively, your tongue stuck out to lick it. “there we go,” sam sighed, ready to return to cloud 9.

you sheepishly swirled your tongue around the bulbous tip of his cock, relishing in the taste of his precum oozing into your tastebuds. oh, yeah, you’ve found yourself a new favourite flavour.

“hands up for me, bambi,” he sighed, breathless already. you oblige, eyes widening when his belt snaked over your wrists, tying them in an unholy matrimony. your hands rested in your lap, preventing you from pleasuring yourself like you intended to. “now, open wide f’me.” you’re obedient, eager to please, for you know if sam’s satisfied he would overlook the ‘punishment’ and stick his cock into you. your pussy flutters at the thought of being full again.

as your throat relaxed around him, you started taking more and more of his length, looking up at him through your lashes to seek his validation, and the mere sight was rewarding. his brows furrowed, a pink flush crept into his pale skin, while his lips were plump and agape, marks of his teeth etched into the skin. “your mouth was made to suck cock, y’know that— my cock. you’re only gonna squeeze my cock with that fuckin’ throat, y’hear?” he nods, authoritative yet cooing, “is my girl understanding me?” so you bobble your head along with length. “fuck yeah, brat. going dumb on my cock,” he moans, and you were eager to illicit more of those sounds.

you relax your jaw, inhale deeply, and let him take charge. when sam realises this, the little devil smirks, running his fingers through your scalp to tug at your hair.

his cock pistons in and out of your throat, your eyes watering and your breath haggard. your pussy clenched around nothing but the flooded dampness of your cotton panties.

“oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—” incoherent grunts and groans filled the room along with the delirious smell of your arousals. “fuuuuck, bambi,” sam’s thrusts got sloppier.

“you know,” he spoke, breathless yet mischievously, “this candy comes with a creamy centre,” he chuckled, grunting as he came undone in your mouth. “sweet n’ salty, yeah?” he stroked his cock, relishing in the sight of his heavy load dripping down your plump lips. you were quick to swallow every drop, selfishly devouring your favourite candy. you wondered if this was gluttony or lust?

when satiated, sam pulled away, tucking his cock away. you, too, get up from the floor, wincing at the pain of kneeling down for too long.

you shimmy out of your clothes, making your way towards his bed. sam sees you in the corner of his eye, an eyebrow irking at your actions, “what do you think you’re doing,” he asked plainly, leaving you confused. “i- you’re fucking me, right?” you had a pitiful look on your face, so eager to chase your own release with his assistance. “like hell i will, dumb girl,” sam scoffed, “brats don’t get pleasure after punishment,” he shrugged coldly, grabbing his gaming console.

he pointed towards his thighs, “sit your ass back down,” you whine, “but i’ll be so boooored,” yet perch on his lap, still.

“—and i finished my ring-pop,” you sigh in frustration. sam chuckles, “don’t worry, i’ll have your new favourite out in a minute,”

“this flavour never finishes, just keeps on coming.”

THIS PUNK—

SEE ALSO. playground [PRELIMINARY FIC]. more of Sam Monroe [MEAN!SAM, BIMBO!READER AND OTHER TROPES].

[blackenedsnow]

Can you write me a Shadow the Hedgehog x Female Reader, but movie Shadow version and the reader has DiGeorge Syndrome a rare medical disorder that I have, idk about any prompts or summary atm, anything will do :3

a heart’s shadow

WARNING: Mention of chronic illness and medical trauma, implied violence

PAIRING: Movie! Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader with DiGeorge Syndrome

NOTE: I may have gotten his personality completely wrong (let's hope not) but I hope you enjoy anyway! Sending you lots of love <333

SUMMARY: Shadow abducts you as part of a calculated plan but soon discovers your health struggles, which remind him of Maria. This realization shifts his cold purpose into something else.

The hum of machinery filled the darkened corridor. Shadow’s red-tinted eyes scanned the area, unyielding, calculating. Dr. Robotnik’s orders were simple: take a hostage to ensure leverage against Sonic. Anyone nearby would do.

He found you on a bench by a park, bundled against the chill, your breath coming in slow, deliberate measures. Shadow had no reason to think twice about you, but when he closed the distance, a brief hesitance stirred within him. There was something… different.

“You’ll do,” he muttered to himself, voice cold as he stepped forward. Before you had a chance to scream, the world became a blur of black and crimson.

When you came to, you were somewhere unfamiliar, an industrial space with harsh lights and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Panic clawed at your chest as you tried to sit up, but a sharp twinge in your side reminded you why that was a bad idea.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice came from the shadows.

You turned toward the figure stepping into the light—small, black-furred, and with eyes that pierced right through you. Recognition struck. Shadow the Hedgehog.

“Why am I here? Why… why me?” Your voice trembled, but there was an underlying defiance.

His expression was unreadable. “You were convenient. That’s all.”

It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Shadow had noticed the slow way you’d been breathing, the way your hand pressed against your chest as if steadying something fragile. Something about it gnawed at the edges of his focus, but he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Hours turned into a day. Despite his original intention to keep you confined, Shadow had been uncharacteristically quiet and watchful, observing you from a distance.

When you tried to stand, the stumble in your step was enough to make him act. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself further.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your trembling hands betrayed you. “I’ve been through worse.”

Something flickered across his face—a rare softness. “Explain.”

You weren’t sure why you did, but the words poured out before you could stop them. The surgeries. The way your heart worked harder than it should. The moments when simple things—like standing too quickly—felt like scaling a mountain.

Shadow listened, his arms crossed but his eyes filled with something akin to recognition. When you finished, you expected him to dismiss you or make some cutting remark. Instead, he just nodded.

The days stretched on, and Shadow’s demeanor began to shift. Where there had been silence, there was now a steady rhythm of his presence—a glass of water set beside you when he thought you weren’t looking, the careful adjustment of the space to make it more comfortable.

“What changed?” you asked one evening as he handed you a blanket.

Shadow hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re not what I expected. You’re… stronger than you seem.”

“Strong?” You laughed bitterly. “I can barely make it through the day without—”

“Strength isn’t about perfection,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “It’s surviving despite everything trying to break you.”

It wasn’t just empty words. Shadow understood. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when he spoke, the unspoken weight he carried.

One morning, you woke to find Shadow in a room—not the cold, sterile space you’d been confined to, but warm place. He had taken you somewhere safe.

“You’re not taking me back to Robotnik?” you asked cautiously.

“No,” he said simply.

“But why—”

“Because I don’t work for him anymore.”

He didn’t elaborate, but you didn’t need him to. The walls Shadow had so carefully built around himself had cracked, just enough for you to glimpse the truth. He hadn’t saved you out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way, you’d become important to him.

Life with Shadow wasn’t easy—he was blunt, stoic, and often distant. But he was also fiercely protective, learning the intricacies of your condition without complaint. He’d carry you when you were too weak to walk, stand vigil during your worst days, and remind you in his own quiet way that you were never alone.

“Why do you stay?” you asked him one night, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, his gaze steady. “Because you remind me of her. Of Maria.”

You reached for his hand, resting yours over his. “I’m not her, Shadow. I’m not perfect.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re worth fighting for.”

[unpretty]

Rare non-kink-taxonomy-hell ask: your description of Sorrowverse Joker as actually good at manipulation and gaslighting, to the point where the act he puts on might sometimes resemble Therapy Joker, has actually made me interested in a version of the Joker. Which has never happened before. Could we hear more about him/this aspect of him? Love your writing btw

what if we had a rare limited-time crossover event

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🤡:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

"Helloooooo nurse."

"Don't whistle," she snapped, shutting the door. "I'm doing you a favor," she reminded him.

"I thought you were recognizing that denying me cosmetics had no purpose but to dehumanize me," he said.

"You know what I mean," she said, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. "And I'm not a nurse." She pulled the sparkly pencil case she'd brought from the pocket of her coat to offer it to him.

He did not so much rise from his bed as unfold. A spider of a man, all long spindly limbs in ill-fitting pale pink. With all the green of the rest of him, it made him look floral, a mop of green hair and his eyes pastel. Even the white of his skin had a green tinge on closer inspection. She'd been sure it reminded her of something and had spent hours online trying to find it. She'd decided on a small emerald moth, staring at stock photos of delicate wings almost translucent and trying to remember where she ever could have seen one.

Charming as a bouquet full of insects.

He plucked the bag from her hand and pulled what looked like a butterfly knife from inside. He grinned, and when he did his face seemed to grow twice as long and half of it teeth. Gleaming purple metal spun between long fingers, but when he pointed it at her to watch her recoil, it had the teeth of a comb. He waggled his eyebrows at her before running it through his hair, using both hands and raising his elbows much higher than necessary so his shirt rode up. She pressed her lips together rather than dignify the performance with a response.

His eyebrows were still pristine and had been since he'd been admitted. Precise arches with edges razor-sharp.

Without products to keep it in place, his hair fell back down at an angle from his widow's peak. "Don't pretend I'm not funny, Dr. Quinn," he said, metal twirling between his fingers again.

"Quinzel," she corrected.

"Nurse Harlequin," he said, rummaging through the limited personal effects she'd brought him. It was absurd to refuse anyone these few small comforts. She'd always thought so. It was punitive, the way they denied any dignity to anyone they were meant to be treating.

There but for the grace of God, she thought and tried not to.

"I don't have a mirror," he declared, holding a red vial she was sure could not be blood. He reached out to touch beneath her chin. "Hold still."

"Mr. J," she warned, refusing as she always did to refer to him by the only name they had for him.

"I love it when you call me that," he said with relish, using her glasses as a mirror to apply tint to his lips with a wand. "Say it again, doll."

"If they catch you wearing lipstick—"

"It's stain," he said dismissively. "They can't prove it. For all they know I got this the old-fashioned way, sucking dick in the bathroom again."

"Agai—"

"Excellent work, Harley," he said, and then his lips were on hers. She made a muffled sound of indignation and was careful not to move. He'd done this before, the first time they'd met, when he'd learned her name and had a good laugh about it. She'd slapped him for it then, hadn't protested when they'd put him in isolation for it. "Aw," he said as he pulled away, touching her lower lip. "I know it hadn't dried yet, but it doesn't show on you, does it?"

It was only stain, but his skin was so pale the red popped, his grin grotesque. A caricature of something unwholesome, white as a sheet and a mouth like a minstrel, too dark a thought to trust. It was hard not to think the worst of people, ascribe symbolism to nothing at all, fall into spirals. Enough real dog whistles without her inventing new ones.

"That's unacceptable behavior," she said, "and that's not my name."

"You don't call me by my name," he said, tapping the tip of her nose, "and I don't call you by yours." He dropped the pencil case back into her hands before she realized what he was doing, and she had to scramble to catch it in time. "Besides, you seem like a good ride." He made an exaggerated handlebar-revving gesture with both hands and winked as he stepped away from her. Something Fred Astaire in his footwork when he walked. She was careful to stay where she was, tucking the contraband back into her pocket.

"Do you harass all your doctors this way?" she asked pointedly, fixing her glasses again.

"Aggressively," he confirmed as he fell back into his bed. "The rest of them don't like it as much as you do, naughty girl." He sprawled sideways, propping his head up in a pose that might have been provocative if he'd had a curve anywhere but the jutting bones that slotted his hands into his forearms. "It's why they locked me up for being a deviant," he said with a limp-wristed gesture.

"They locked you up for killing people," she corrected.

"They were rich," he scoffed. "That doesn't count as people." Her nose crinkled, pressing her lips together again rather than do anything he'd interpret as a laugh. "You can tell because they didn't send me to prison."

"They didn't send you to prison because Gotham's justice system is fucked," she said. Arkham was privately owned with a budget inflated by charitable donations. It was inevitable that expensive-looking criminals were judged criminally insane, the worst of their excesses no longer a taxpayer problem.

He cocked his head. "Do I look sane to you?" he asked.

"Sane doesn't look like anything," she said. "We both know you knew what you were doing, and there's no medical intervention that would make you behave differently."

He grinned, too wide, too many teeth. She tilted her head a little, only enough to see around the edge of her glasses and confirm that his mouth blurred. "Yet here you are," he said.

"Rehabilitation isn't the exclusive domain of the medically impaired."

This job had been a nightmare from the beginning. Every day in large and small ways it wore her down, an endless river of bullshit trying to smooth down every part of her that believed in anything. No accountability, barely treatment, shifts too long with coworkers as sick as the patients. Less like doctors with patients and more like researchers with lab rats. Rubber stamps and no rocked boats and no goals greater than the status quo. Cameras easily bypassed by any employee who cared to, for whatever reason struck their whim. Her no better.

She should have done more. Her job shouldn't have been worth more than her principles. She could have done more than this, makeup and candy and burner phones in her pockets. She kept notes and told herself she'd blow the whistle someday. She kept her head down and kept her health insurance and knew herself for a traitor.

"Come closer," he said, gesturing with his fingers.

She was halfway across the room before she thought to stop and ask, "Why?"

He was grinning again. "Because I wanted to see if you would," he said, and at the look on her face he threw his head back to cackle. She pressed her nails into her palms and felt her face burn. "This might sound racist," he began.

"Then don't," she warned.

"No, no, it's not like that, I just—"

"Don't."

"I can't tell if you're blushing!" he said, exasperated. He swung his legs around to sit upright, his knees a mile apart. "That's all I was going to say, honestly. Is that bad? You can tell me if it's bad."

"I would call that an 'inside thought'," she said, still blushing. He cackled again.

"Really, though," he said, crooking his fingers again, "you should come over here."

"Why?" she asked first this time.

"So I can kiss you stupid," he said.

Her face felt hot again. "I'm not doing that."

He rolled his eyes so dramatically it took his whole face with it. "I have to come over there?" he asked rhetorically, gesturing at her. "Come on, now, doll. Give yourself a little agency, here. I'm locked up. You get to leave. That little love tap earlier was fine, there were cameras on, I get it, kind of hot if I'm honest, pretty into that. But I've got limits too, you know. You want me to play the big bad taking advantage, that's fine, I'm into it, but trust's a two-way street. Get over here and make it clear you know what you're here for, yeah? Despite what your bosses think, I'm not actually an animal. I'm not sitting here waiting for pretty girls to maim."

"I don't think that," she said, defensive.

"Naw," he said, "you're just coming in here when you're not supposed to be and standing in grabbing range, waiting for nothing to happen. Get over here or leave, I'm not going anywhere."

She half-turned, looking at the doorknob, but hesitated. She wanted the last word, but didn't have one ready and her throat was dry regardless. She felt sick.

"You're real scared I'm gonna laugh at you, huh?" he asked, and she whipped her head around to stare at him. He was leaning forward, chin on his fist, watching her. The pale shade of his eyes made it more predatory than it otherwise would have been. His smile was a wry gash across his face. "That happen a lot?" he asked, cocking his head. "Men telling you you're pretty as a prank, asking you out to make fun when you believed it?" She scowled, and his smile split into a grin. "Awww. Poor l'il Harley. C'mere, then. You wanna make a show of being vulnerable, be vulnerable. Least you can do, don't you think?"

The worst part was realizing, the moment he said it, that it was the thing she most dreaded. That he'd laugh at her for believing him.

She came close enough to stand between his knees, but couldn't bring herself to make eye contact. She looked at the hole in his ear where they hadn't let him keep his earrings, instead.

"There's a doll," he said, grabbing her wrist and yanking so she'd fall into his lap. She narrowly avoided her knee hitting him somewhere awkward. She was distracted by how bony his thighs felt compared to hers, all his limbs too thin as his arms went around her waist. He kissed beneath her ear, and she thought of his mouth, the wide span of it and all those teeth at her throat. "Doesn't being honest with yourself feel better?" he asked against her skin.

"This is very, very bad," she breathed, her voice shaking. Her own body heat was mortifying. He felt halfway to a corpse.

"Awww, don't be like that," he said, and she could feel him smiling. All those teeth. "What's the worst that could happen?"

[orellazalonia]

The Price of Saving Until You Care

Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

Pain was a strange thing.

Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.

Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.

At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.

Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.

That’s why you kept doing it for him.

He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.

So you made the choice he never would.

You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.

The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.

He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.

“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.

You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.

Now, you’d done it too many times to count.

You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.

But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.

That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.

The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.

You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.

He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”

You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.

“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”

Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”

He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.

Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.

Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.

Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”

“It’s already done,” You whispered.

He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”

You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.

“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”

“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.

“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”

His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”

“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:

“I care.”

You blinked.

“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”

He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.

Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.

He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”

You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”

“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”

You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”

He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.

“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”

You looked at him, quiet.

He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”

Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.

“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.

“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.

And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.

[vandme12]

Wedded Bliss and Hit Lists - Killer Chat Wedding! Head canons! (Special for 100)

This is a small gift, 100 followers, I grew so soon. I'm so excited to do things for this fandom!

I love you all!

Ronin Beaufort!

The Proposal? Unhinged.

Traditional? Never heard of her. Ronin proposes in his way—dramatic, messy, and a little bit criminal. Expect a bloody heart scrawled on a wall with his crowbar, a ring slipped on your finger before you even notice, and a devilish smirk when you realize.

He doesn’t ask, he claims. “You’re mine, darlin’. ‘Til death do us part—if it even can.”

The Rings? Custom and Chaotic.

Of course, Angel helps him design them—gothic, blackened metal with a blood-red gemstone (or one that looks like it), and the inside is engraved with"R.B X (Your First Initial)” because he has no shame.

Yours is fancy, but his? He wears a thick band with a jagged design, and if you don’t put it on him yourself,

💀 Ronin as a Husband + The Day of the Wedding 💍

The Wedding Day: A Bloody Fairytale (His Way, Of Course)

Traditional? Nah. Ronin’s wedding isn’t some soft, white-veil affair—it’s a chaotic, adrenaline-pumping fever dream. Forget pastel flowers and quiet vows; he’s giving you black roses dipped in crimson and a blood-splattered ceremony in Purgatory (the alley where you shared your first kiss).

He insists on having the ceremony at midnight. Why? “C’mon, babe—if we’re doin’ this, we’re doin’ it right. No sun, all sin.” The whole place is lit by red neon lights and candles. Romantic in a rotting kind of way.

His outfit? Over-the-top. Black leather jacket, maroon ripped pants, and his usual chaos of accessories—but with a little touch of wedding flair: a silver chain around his neck engraved with your name, and a skull pin that says “’Til Death” on it.

Angel is the one who "officiates" the wedding—if you count her laughing through the ceremony and calling you both “unhinged lovebirds” as official. She’s wearing all white “to be ironic.” Ronin’s response? “If you ruin my moment, Angel, I'll bring my child."

Instead of a normal walk down the aisle, He carries you “Damn. If I wasn’t marryin’ ya, I’d be kidnappin’ ya.”

The Vows? Pure Chaos and Pure Him.

His vows are a mess—half confessions, half threats to anyone who’d dare touch you. “I promise to love ya, haunt ya, and maybe murder anyone who looks at ya funny. Or Kill ya/j”

He doesn’t get emotional easily, but when he says “No one else gets me, but you do—and I ain’t lettin’ that go, ever,” his voice dips just a little softer. It’s rough around the edges, like him, but so painfully sincere it’s almost too much to handle.

“Blood-red suits ya, babe.”

Reception? Think More Crime Scene Afterparty.

No boring banquet hall—he drags you to the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, where he’s set up his version of a reception. Black leather couches, flickering red lights, and a playlist that’s just metal, punk, and songs that remind him of you.

The cake? Oh, it’s black, alright. A blood-red filling when you cut it open. He insists on smashing a piece in your face. If you try to get revenge, he just laughs and lets you.

When the first dance comes around, he pulls you close—no slow, sappy waltz. He dips you so low your back almost touches the floor, all while murmuring, “Can’t believe ya married me, sweetheart. You’re a little crazy.”

Ronin as a Husband: The Good, The Bad, and the Chaotic.

Clingy. Oh, he loves being married to you—and he’ll make sure everyone knows it. If you even try to go anywhere without a goodbye kiss, he’s pulling you back by your waist. “Where’s my kiss, Mrs. Devil?”

Pet Names? Relentless. "Darlin’," "Sweetheart," "My Little Heartbreaker," and—when he’s feeling extra possessive—“My Forever.”

Jealous not really! But! Anyone so much as flirts with you? They’re getting a look that could kill. If you tease him about being possessive, he just shrugs, “Course I am. What’s mine’s mine.”

Weirdly Domestic… In His Way.

Will absolutely make you breakfast—but it’s gonna be black coffee and pancakes shaped like skulls. Maybe Not, He's a okay-person in kitchen

He’s in charge of home defense, which means there are too many weapons hidden in your place. (Your couch? Knife. Your bookshelf? Crowbar.)

Anniversaries Are… Intense.

Every anniversary, he takes you back to Purgatory to “renew your vows” by carving a fresh bloody heart into the wall.

He gets you the most unhinged gifts: one year, he gives you a dagger with “Mine Forever” engraved on the blade. Romantic!

When You’re Sick?

Pretends he’s too tough to worry, but the moment you so much as sneeze, he’s fussing over you.

Brings you soup (even though he can’t cook) and sits at your bedside like a demon guard dog. “I ain’t leavin’ ‘til you’re better, babe.”

Fights? Loud. Dramatic. Always Ends in Kisses.

Arguments with Ronin are explosive. He’ll push your buttons on purpose, just to see if you’ll push back.

But if he thinks he’s really hurt you? He folds immediately. “Baby—hey, baby, c’mon. I didn’t mean it. You know I’m an idiot.”

Would He Die For You? Absolutely.

He wouldn’t hesitate. Your enemies are his enemies.

But really? He’s not afraid of dying—he’s afraid of losing you. “If you go first, babe, I’m followin’ right after ya. No question.”

Forever Means Forever.

Ronin doesn’t do temporary. When he said “forever,” he meant it. Whether you want to wreak havoc together or just spend quiet nights tangled up in each other—he’s there. Always.

And if anyone thinks they can take you from him? They’re in for a hell of a rude awakening.

“What’s mine stays yours, darlin’—and you’re stuck with me. Forever.”

When V finds out you and Ronin—the Ronin—are officially, legally (or maybe not-so-legally) married, his reaction is… complicated.

🖤 1. The Initial Reaction: Processing…

At first? Silence. Cold. Heavy. The kind that stretches on long enough to make anyone else squirm.

You tell him during a quiet night on the server—just a casual drop like, “Oh yeah, by the way, Ronin and I got married.”

For a full minute, he doesn’t respond. Not one word. Not even a blink emoji.

Then, finally:

V: "Married."

That’s it. One word. Flat. Clinical. Like he’s trying to figure out if this is some elaborate joke—or if the world’s truly gone off the rails.

🗡️ 2. The Overprotective Judgment™

Look, V isn’t stupid. He’s always known something was brewing between you two. He heard the flirting, the teasing—he’s seen Ronin’s obsession with you. He’d be blind not to.

But marriage? That’s another level of unhinged.

His next DM comes ten minutes later, and it’s direct:

V: “Is this a joke, or have you genuinely lost your mind?”

He doesn’t trust Ronin—not entirely. Not when the man’s idea of a romantic gesture involves blood splatter and sharp objects. And while V respects your choices… he’s concerned.

“You understand what you’re tying yourself to, don’t you?” he asks, voice colder than usual. It’s not disapproval—it’s caution.

👁️ 3. Watching Ronin… Closely.

From the second V learns about the marriage, Ronin becomes his #1 Surveillance Target.

He tracks his movements more. Listens to every conversation. If Ronin so much as breathes suspiciously around you, V knows.

If Ronin’s sweet? V thinks it’s manipulation.

If Ronin’s distant? V’s ready to interrogate.

And Ronin? Oh, he loves it. He knows V’s watching—and he plays it up. Texts you obnoxiously sweet things in the public chat just to piss him off:

Goreboy: “Missin’ my spouse already. Bet you’re sittin’ there lookin’ all cute, huh? 😘”

V? Seething.

Angel's reaction

1. The Initial Reaction: Stunned Silence (And an Immediate Drink)

When Angel first hears the news, she’s mid-photoshoot—some sleek, ethereal setup where everything is soft lighting and cold marble. Her phone buzzes with a notification from Luca (because, of course, he’s the one who spilled it to the whole server).

SURPRISE Y’ALL, DEVIL GOT WIFED UP 💍 @Goreboy @You

Her brain short-circuits. She actually calls a break. Angel, the perfectionist who never leaves a set, calls a break because her ex-turned-best-friend just got married without telling her.

And the first thing she does? Orders champagne.

If anyone’s getting drunk over this, it’s gonna be her.

2. Teases Ronin

She slides into Ronin’s DMs while waiting for her makeup touch-up, keeping it light, breezy—too breezy:

Angel: “Marriage? Really? Is this some new kink or are you serious?” Goreboy: “Relax, Mx goreboy will not be happy to see what you thought. I'm serious Angel."

Angel: “Ugh, That ring wasn't a joke..”

3. The Protective Big Sister Mode™

Angel sends you a DM next:

Angel: “Congratulations (I think). You sure you’re ready for that lunatic 24/7?”

You tell her you love him. That you’re happy.

And Angel feels happy for her friend...

4. The Girl Talk Interrogation

When you and Angel finally talk voice-to-voice, she’s sitting on her balcony, glass of wine in hand, night breeze tugging at her perfect curls. Her voice is too casual—the way it always is when she’s hiding how much she cares.

“So… tell me everything. Did he do some grand psycho thing? Blood hearts? A body? Knowing him, he probably thought a murder scene was romantic, huh?”

She laughs, but it’s not cruel. It’s just… Angel. Sharp edges wrapped in sugar.

But underneath, she’s asking the real question: Does he love you the way you deserve?

And when you answer—when you tell her how he looks at you, how he treats you like you’re the only thing in the world—Angel relaxes. Just a little.

Angel makes a public post in the server—for you—because that’s how she expresses love: loud, visible, undeniable.

"Congrats to the newlyweds. If @Goreboy screws this up, I’m personally throwing him into a woodchipper. 💋 #AngelApproved #WeddingOfTheYear"

Misaki's reactions!

💌 1. The Immediate Reaction: Absolute Chaos™

When Misaki finds out—because let’s be real, they didn’t get a formal announcement, Luca probably dropped it in the chat like a bomb—they lose it.

Luca: “Yo, @Goreboy got hitched. Someone check the apocalypse calendar.”

Misaki: “EXCUSE ME??? MARRIED?? LIKE LEGALLY?? WHO THE HELL ALLOWED THIS??”

Cue Misaki spamming the chat with caps lock, fifty cat memes, and alien abduction theories. Because if anyone was gonna get legally bound to Ronin, they figured it would be an interdimensional being, not a real person they actually know.

They’re not mad. They’re just deeply confused—and too entertained to stop.

💌 2. Instigating Maximum Drama™

Misaki immediately slides into your DMs with zero chill:

Misaki: “HOLD UP, YOU MARRIED THE DEVIL AND DIDN’T INVITE ME???” You: “It was… spontaneous.” Misaki: “Spontaneous is buying a weird energy drink at 3 AM, not legally binding yourself to the human equivalent of a horror movie jumpscare!!”

They are deeply offended they didn’t get to throw confetti or wear some ridiculous outfit to your wedding. In retaliation, they threaten to officiate a fake ceremony in the chatroom.

Misaki: “Second wedding. My rules. V’s the flower girl. Ronin wears a leash.”

And the scariest part? They’re dead serious about it.

💌 3. Confused… But Protective

Once the jokes die down (for about five seconds), Misaki takes a breath—and the worry kicks in. They may be playful, but underneath all that chaos is someone who actually cares.

Because they know Ronin.

And yeah, he’s fun, but he’s also… a lot. And they’ve seen how quickly things with him can go sideways if you aren’t careful.

So, they check in.

Misaki: “But seriously… you okay? He treating you right?”

When you tell them how happy you are, how Ronin’s been soft (well, as soft as he can be) and sincere, Misaki lets out a breath they didn’t realize they were holding.

💌 4. Becoming Your Self-Appointed "Marriage Consultant"

From that point on, Misaki takes it upon themselves to be your official marriage advisor, despite having no business doing so.

Misaki: “If he pisses you off, put glitter in his boots. No killer is scary when they sparkle.”

They send you relationship quizzes, offer weird gift ideas, and will absolutely text you things like:

Misaki: “If he ever forgets your anniversary, I’m legally required to assassinate him. Just saying.”

💌 5. Weird Wedding Gift Incoming

A week later, a mystery package shows up at your door. Inside?

A handmade knife (with both your initials engraved, because of course).

A mixtape labeled “Marriage Survival Guide” (track one is Olivia Rodrigo’s Bad Idea Right?).

A tiny alien plushie with a note: “If he acts up, beam his ass back to space. – Love, Misaki 👽”

💍 After-Wedding Ronin Headcanons 💀

🖤 1. "Husband" Privileges

Oh, you think Ronin is letting this slide quietly? No chance. The second those vows are said, it’s like he’s unlocked a new personality.

“‘Spouse’ sounds so boring—‘lover’ is better. But ‘husband’? Oh, babe, I’m gonna make that your favorite word.”

He abuses the title constantly—throwing around “husband” and “wife” or “spouse” in every context possible.

“Can’t argue with me, babe. Husband’s orders.”

“That’s ‘your devil husband’ to you.”

“You married me, sweetheart—this is legally your problem now.”

And he expects you to flex it, too. If you don’t show off the ring? He’ll make sure everyone sees it.

“Mx Y/n Beaufort.”

“This means you’re mine. No take-backs, sweetheart.”

He’ll tease, of course. Ask if you’re gonna run—if you regret it—but his grip when he holds you? That death-grip on your waist? Yeah, you’re not going anywhere.

💋 3. His Version of Domestic Bliss

Ronin’s not the white-picket-fence type—but he loves the idea of building chaos with you.

Late-night drives to nowhere, hands tangled on the gearshift.

he tells you the stories from his past.

Waking up with scissors on the nightstand and a love note tucked under your pillow.

“Rise and shine, lover—thought about murdering you in your sleep, but I’m sentimental now.”

He loves you, The next time he wakes up. He knows you're someone who won't discard his past. You will listen to it, He trusts you.

Angel

Angel as Your Wife – Wedding Day Perfection

Angel has always been the type to love love. She flirts like it’s second nature, teases with a wink and a smile, but underneath it all, she loves deeply, fiercely, without hesitation. And today—her wedding day—is the moment she’s been dreaming about since the day she realized forever with you was the only thing she ever truly wanted.

💍 The Proposal – The Moment She Knew

Angel is a romantic, but she also loves a bit of fun, so her proposal to you is an event. Whether she’s proposing to you or waiting for you to propose, it has to be memorable.

If she proposes, it’s spontaneous but perfect. Maybe it’s on a quiet rooftop under the city lights, her hands slipping into yours as she murmurs, “I never thought I’d find someone who could keep up with me, who’d see all of me and love me anyway.” Then she pulls out the ring, and for once, her teasing smirk softens into something more tender. “So, what do you say, sweetheart? Want to be mine forever?”

If you propose, she’s stunned—like genuinely breathless for a second, blinking at you before breaking into the brightest, most heart-melting smile. She tackles you in a hug before she even gets the words out. “Yes! Of course, yes! How could I ever say no to you?”

Either way, the moment the ring is on her finger, she’s already planning the wedding with stars in her eyes.

☀️ The Morning of the Wedding – Butterflies & Love Notes

Angel wakes up bouncing with excitement. She’s always been a morning person, but today, she’s practically glowing before the sun is even up.

Her first thought? You. She grabs her phone immediately, sending you a text: “Good morning, future spouse. I hope you’re ready, because in just a few hours, I’ll officially be yours. Nervous? Excited? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make sure you never regret saying ‘I do.’”

She sends you a little gift—maybe a handwritten letter filled with all the reasons she loves you, or a small locket with a picture of you both.

Despite being surrounded by bridesmaids and stylists, her mind keeps drifting to you. She keeps catching herself smiling in the mirror, twirling in her dress, wondering what your reaction will be when you see her.

👗 Her Look – A Vision in White

Angel has an eye for elegance, but she also knows how to make an impact.

Her dress is breathtaking—soft, flowing fabric that clings in all the right places, delicate lace details that shimmer under the light. She wants to look like a dream, and oh, she does.

Her makeup is just enough to enhance her natural beauty, with a soft glow and perfectly lined lips. She knows you love her smile, so she makes sure it stands out.

Her veil? Dramatic—because of course, Angel loves a touch of flair. But when she lifts it to kiss you, her eyes are locked onto yours, warm and full of love.

💌 The Ceremony – The Moment Everything Stops

When the doors open and Angel steps down the aisle, the entire world pauses.

Her eyes find yours instantly, and her teasing smile fades into something softer, more vulnerable. For once, she’s not flirting, not playing—she’s just looking at you, and the sheer love in her expression is enough to take your breath away.

She walks slowly, savoring every second, every step closer to you.

When she finally reaches you, she exhales a little laugh, whispering, “You look so good, my love. I almost want to skip the vows and kiss you now.”

And oh, the vows.

Angel speaks from the heart, her voice steady, but full of emotion. “I’ve spent my whole life chasing excitement, chasing passion. But then I met you, and suddenly, all I wanted was something steady—something real. You are my greatest adventure, my softest love, my forever. And I promise to be yours, every single day, for the rest of our lives.”

When the officiant finally says, “You may kiss the bride,” Angel does not wait. She throws her arms around you, pulling you in with a bright, breathless laugh before pressing her lips to yours in a kiss so deep, so full of love, that the entire crowd erupts into cheers.

🎉 The Reception – The Life of the Party

If the ceremony was emotional, the reception is pure fun. Angel is in her element—dancing, laughing, stealing kisses from you every chance she gets.

The First Dance: She pulls you close, resting her forehead against yours as you sway to the music. “Dancing with you feels like a dream,” she murmurs, “but you’re really mine, aren’t you?”

Feeding You Cake: She feeds you a bite with a teasing smile, but if you try to be playful and smear frosting on her nose? She gasps dramatically before grabbing you by the tie (or collar) and whispering, “You’ll pay for that later.”

The Bouquet Toss: Angel throws it over her shoulder without looking—and then winks when she sees who catches it.

🌙 The End of the Night – Just You & Her

As the guests start to leave, Angel finds you again, slipping her hand into yours.

She’s softer now, the excitement of the day settling into something deeper.

“Let’s go home,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “I’ve had you in front of hundreds of people all day. Now, I want you all to myself.”

The second the door closes behind you, she’s wrapping herself around you, sighing in relief. “I still can’t believe it,” she murmurs against your lips. “I get to be yours. Forever.”

And as she pulls you down into another slow, lingering kiss, it’s clear—this isn’t just the end of your wedding day. It’s the beginning of forever with Angel, your sweet, flirty, devoted wife. 💕

How V reacts!

V treats Angel’s wedding with his usual brand of stoic dignity—or at least, he tries to.

During the Ceremony: He watches silently from the back, arms crossed, dressed in an immaculate black suit. When Angel walks down the aisle, there’s the faintest hint of a smile—just a twitch at the corner of his lips. If anyone asks, he’ll claim he’s there to "ensure the institution of marriage isn’t a front for more criminal activity." But really? He respects Angel more than he lets on—and seeing her happy means something.

When Ronin Starts Teasing: V doesn’t engage—at first. But when Ronin drops his “consummate it” line, V glances over and mutters dryly, “It’s impressive how you can make anything sound depraved. A true talent.”

At the Reception: He lingers at the edge of the crowd, sipping sparkling water like it’s a stakeout. But when Angel pulls him onto the dance floor, he surprisingly doesn’t resist. He’s stiff at first—too controlled—but softens just enough to let Angel tease him into a spin. (He draws the line at twirling.)

When Angel Tosses the Bouquet: It practically flies in his direction. He catches it with one hand—then immediately hands it off to the nearest bystander with a curt, “No.”

When Saying Goodbye: His farewell is simple, but sincere. He clasps Angel’s hand briefly and says, “You deserve to be happy. Don’t let anyone take that from you.” And if his gaze lingers on her just a second too long… well, no one calls him out on it. Not even Ronin.

How Misaki Reacts!

Misaki treats Angel’s wedding like it’s the social event of the decade—equal parts chaos and genuine affection.

During the Ceremony: She’s sitting in the front row, legs crossed, wearing a pastel pink suit that’s somehow both adorable and deadly. She whistles low when Angel walks down the aisle and mutters, “Damn, girl—if your spouse backs out, I’m right here.” She’s definitely the one who claps too early when they’re pronounced married.

When Ronin Starts Teasing: Misaki cackles. Loudly. And, of course, she piles on: “Please, you know Angel’s gonna break them in, not the other way around.” She even fake-swoons and adds, “Wish someone would ruin me like that.”

At the Reception: She’s the first on the dance floor and the last to leave it. At one point, she grabs the mic and gives an impromptu, half-drunk toast: “Angel, babe—if your spouse ever breaks your heart, I’m legally obligated to commit murder. Just saying. Congrats, though!” She cries a little at the end but blames it on the champagne.

When Angel Tosses the Bouquet: Misaki dives for it like her life depends on it—elbowing anyone in her path. When she catches it, she holds it above her head like a trophy and yells, “I’M NEXT, BITCHES!”

When Saying Goodbye: She hugs Angel so tight it’s borderline suffocating. Her voice is soft, just for a moment, when she says, “I’m proud of you, y’know? You deserve all this happiness. Don’t mess it up"—but if you do, I’m still your ride-or-die.”"

How Ronin reacts!

Ronin treats Angel’s wedding like it’s both an opportunity and a game. He’s there to cause problems—but only the fun kind.

During the Ceremony: He shows up fashionably late, of course—wearing an all-black suit that’s too sharp to be legal. He slides into a seat next to Misaki, leans over, and whispers, “Think they’d let me object just for the drama?”

When Angel walks down the aisle, he whistles low under his breath and mutters, “Lucky bastard.” But when the vows start, for once, he’s quiet—watching with an unreadable expression. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes.

When It’s Official: The moment they’re pronounced married, he claps slowly and drawls, “Congratulations—enjoy the lifetime sentence.” But his smirk isn’t as sharp as usual. If anyone’s watching closely, they might catch the way he tilts his head—like he’s memorizing the sight of Angel happy.

At the Reception: He’s everywhere—stealing drinks, and stirring up chaos. When it’s time for speeches, he takes the mic without being invited.

"Angel, babe—I was gonna prepare a heartfelt speech, but let’s be honest, I’m here for the open bar. You’ve always had terrible taste—clearly, since you tolerate me—but somehow, you found someone crazy enough to love you. Don’t mess it up. Or do. I could use the entertainment.”

Of course, he flashes a wicked grin at Angel’s spouse and adds, “Good luck keeping up, sweetheart. You’re gonna need it.”

When Angel Tosses the Bouquet: He makes a show of dodging it, dramatically stepping out of the way while saying, “Marriage? Nah. I’d be someone’s worst nightmare.” But there’s a flicker of something else in his expression—an itch he won’t admit.

When Saying Goodbye: His voice drops lower, teasing but softer when he pulls Angel in for a private goodbye. “Don’t go getting all domestic and boring on me, yeah? But... if they ever break your heart—well, you know how much I love a good reason to kill.”

And Angel walks away, he lingers just a little too long—watching, smirk slipping into something harder to read. He's happy...That his Friend has someone...

💍 Angel as a Wife – Headcanons 💋

Flirty Forever: Marriage doesn’t tone her down—if anything, it dials her charm up. Angel flirts like it’s her full-time job, whether you’ve been married for a week or a decade. Random texts like “Thinking about you in nothing but that ring. Come home soon~” are her specialty.

Spoiling You Rotten: Angel firmly believes her spouse deserves the best of everything. She buys gifts “just because,” books surprise vacations, and insists on pampering you with everything from homemade breakfasts to spontaneous spa days. If you so much as mention wanting something, it’ll probably show up by the end of the week.

Ultimate Hype-Wife: Whatever you do, Angel is your loudest cheerleader. Big career move? She’s throwing a celebration. Minor achievement? She’s bragging about you to anyone who’ll listen. She’s the type to make “I’m married to the hottest, smartest, most amazing human alive” her whole personality—and she means it.

Touchy-Feely Queen: Angel thrives on physical affection. Expect endless kisses (especially when you’re distracted), back rubs after a rough day, and snuggling close whenever you sit down. If you try to leave bed without a goodbye kiss, she’ll whine until she gets her due.

Fights? Flirt Them Away: Arguments with Angel rarely last long—mostly because she’s too stubborn to stay mad and too charming to let you stay mad. She’ll tease her way back into your good graces with a smirk, a soft apology, and probably a well-timed kiss. “You’re not really mad, are you? C’mon, baby~”

Possessive but Playful: Angel doesn’t get jealous often—she knows she’s a catch—but she’s very clear about one thing: you’re hers. If anyone flirts with you, she’s right there, wrapping an arm around your waist and flashing a smile that dares them to try harder. “Aw, sweetie, you’ve got great taste—but they’re all mine.”

Wife + Best Friend Combo: She’s your partner-in-crime for everything—shopping sprees, Netflix marathons, late-night junk food runs. Life with Angel is never boring, and she’s always game for a new adventure, as long as you’re by her side.

Pet Names Galore: She cycles through affectionate nicknames constantly—baby, sweetheart, honeybun, love of my life. If you blush at a particular one, congratulations—it’s now your permanent title.

Over-the-Top Anniversary Queen: Every milestone is an event with Angel. First kiss anniversary? Fancy dinner. Wedding anniversary? Expect an elaborate romantic getaway. She lives for grand gestures and wants you to feel cherished every single day.

Soft, Secret Vulnerability: Beneath the playful exterior, Angel takes marriage seriously. She’s terrified of losing you or not being enough, though she rarely voices these fears outright. On quiet nights, when the world slows down, she’ll hold you a little tighter and whisper, “You’ll stay with me forever, right?”

🌙 Misaki’s Rooftop Wedding – Headcanons 🌙

Setting: A city rooftop at night—skyline glowing, a chaotic mix of neon signs and moonlight. It’s so them—a little messy, a little reckless, but undeniably full of heart. V handled all the preparations with his signature precision (and judgmental sighs), while Ronin and Angel add a sprinkle of chaos just for fun.

🎵 1. Wedding Vibes: Jazz, Chaos, and Cup Noodles

Misaki refuses a traditional ceremony—too stuffy—so the wedding is an informal, wild mix of their favorite things: jazz music blasting, neon lights glowing, and a makeshift altar made from stolen milk crates (Ronin’s touch, obviously).

Angel makes a playlist with Rina Sawayama and Olivia Rodrigo bops because “Misaki deserves a banger soundtrack.”

There’s a snack table… well, more like an entire section dedicated to cup noodles. V disapproves but lets it slide—this once.

🌟 2. Their Wedding Look: Streetwear Chic Chaos

Misaki does not dress traditionally. They rock a black-and-red themed wedding outfit—sleek but chaotic. Their usual worn striped shirt is swapped for a matching black-and-red blazer with the sleeves rolled up.

The lock on their red choker? Custom-engraved with your initials.

They stick to their star hair clips—because they’re a star, duh—but Angel gifted them a tiny wolf charm to wear on their boot. (“For your werewolf agenda.”)

V, with his perfectionism, tried to get them a “sensible” wedding ring—Misaki immediately swapped it for a cheap, heart-shaped plastic ring from a vending machine.

💌 3. The Vows: Silly, Sweet, and So Very Misaki

Misaki writes their vows on the back of a convenience store receipt (fitting, considering their broke assassin lifestyle). Despite the messy delivery, their words are raw and honest: “I never thought I’d make it to something as soft as this. You’re the one thing that makes all this chaos worth it. I’m yours—mess and all.”

They get flustered halfway through and throw in a joke: “If I die first, you get all my cup noodle stash. That’s real love, babe.”

🔪 4. How Everyone Reacts

V: Stoic but proud. He spent weeks planning everything and it’s…chaotic, but seeing Misaki happy softens his usual icy demeanor. At the end, he quietly pulls you aside and says, “Keep them safe. They deserve it.”

Ronin: Cannot stop teasing. Every time Misaki gets emotional, he’s whispering something like, “Aw, soft little killer’s gone domestic. Adorable.” But he means it—his chaos aside, he tells you in private, “Take care of our disaster, yeah?”

Angel: Is the emotional one, dabbing their eyes with a tissue and cheering the loudest when you kiss. They’re also the first to demand a dance party afterward.

🎁 5. The Gifts: Because It’s Misaki

Misaki’s love language is gift-giving—so, naturally, they hand you a handmade, weirdly adorable scrapbook of your relationship so far. Complete with doodles of them as a werewolf protecting you.

Your gift to them? A custom-made lock to replace the one on their choker—it opens with your fingerprint only. They’re OBSESSED.

💫 6. Post-Wedding Chaos

After the ceremony, Misaki pulls you into a rooftop dance—barefoot, giggling, spinning to a jazz remix of their favorite songs.

You both steal leftover cup noodles from the snack table and eat them sitting on the rooftop edge, feet dangling over the city. Misaki leans against you, sighing softly: “If aliens are real, they’d be jealous of this.”

Ronin insists on a “honeymoon prank spree,” while V pretends not to know any of you. Angel suggests a beach trip instead—Misaki loves the idea (mainly because they want to see you in a swimsuit).

Despite the chaos, the night ends with you tangled together under the city lights—Misaki’s head on your shoulder, murmuring: “I’m still a mess, but I’m your mess now.”

How Each would react!

🖤 V – The Reluctant Wedding Planner

Let’s be real—V did not want to organize this chaos, but Misaki (and you) asked, so he did it perfectly.

He handled the venue, the food (even if it was cup noodles), and made sure everything ran smoothly. Efficiency first.

While everyone’s goofing off, he’s quietly watching from the corner, arms crossed. If anyone dares to mess up the ceremony? They answer to him.

Emotional Reaction:

He won’t admit it, but he cares—a lot. Seeing Misaki genuinely happy softens his usual cold exterior. When you exchange vows, you catch the faintest twitch of a smile.

After the ceremony, he pulls you aside and says in his quiet, serious tone: “They’re fragile, even if they pretend otherwise. Don’t hurt them.”

Wedding Gift:

V gifts you both, What...He could. He makes sure, It's well-taken.

🔥 Ronin

Ronin shows up in the most absurd outfit—a sleek black suit, but the tie is covered in tiny cartoon wolves because "Misaki’s whole werewolf thing is iconic, babe."

He spends the whole night teasing both of you, leaning into Misaki’s ear during the vows to whisper: “Awww, soft assassin finally tied down. You’re practically domesticated now.”

Emotional Reaction:

Beneath the teasing, Ronin’s more sentimental than he lets on. He watches Misaki beam during the first dance and mutters to himself, “They deserve something good. Guess that’s you.”

He’s the first to make a dramatic toast, grinning like a devil: “If you break their heart, sweetheart, I’ll break your kneecaps. Fair trade, yeah?”

Wedding Gift:

A personalized lock-and-key set: the lock is heart-shaped and engraved with “Property of Y/N”—he hands it over with a wink.

Also sneaks an untraceable burner phone into Misaki’s gift bag because “You two will get up to crimes eventually. Might as well be prepared.”

💋 Angel

Angel is the emotional one—they’ve been waiting for this moment forever. When you both say “I do,” they’re openly crying while clutching a bedazzled tissue.

They personally decorate the rooftop with fairy lights and glowing stars (“Because Misaki’s a star, duh.”) and insist on a first dance under the neon lights.

Emotional Reaction:

Angel pulls you both into a tight hug right after the ceremony, voice thick with emotion: “You two are so freaking cute. If you mess this up, I’m divorcing both of you emotionally.”

They’re the first to drag you and Misaki to the dance floor, twirling you around while shouting, “Married life means more jazz, babe!”

Wedding Gift:

A scrapbook of all your chaotic group memories—half of it is glitter-covered, and there are way too many doodles of Misaki as a werewolf.

They also gift you a matching bracelet set, one that says “Killer Couple” because Angel is nothing if not dramatic.

💌 After Marriage Headcanons with Misaki 💌

Your life together is a mix of cozy chaos. Mornings are spent tangled in bed sheets because Misaki is not a morning person—good luck trying to pry them away from you.

Misaki insists on keeping your home aesthetic but comfy. Expect string lights, random trinkets from missions, and a million throw pillows because they like to “nest.”

They absolutely steal your clothes—hoodies, shirts, even socks. If it smells like you? It’s theirs now. Don’t fight it.

Home Setup:

Your place is a weird hybrid of a sleek assassin hideout and a cozy city apartment. Their bunker days are over, and you make sure they have a soft place to land after jobs.

Cup noodles still dominate the pantry, but they try to cook for you sometimes. It's… chaotic, but their enthusiasm is cute.

“I made dinner!” “This is three different flavors of instant ramen, babe.” “You love it.”

💖 Affection Overload

Misaki is clingy—but in a cute, touch-starved way. They’re always finding excuses to touch you, whether it’s holding hands, leaning on you, or cuddling in the middle of the day.

Surprise forehead kisses are their favorite weapon. They’ll catch you off guard, pressing a kiss to your temple while grinning, “Love ya, babe.”

When they’re anxious, they’ll find you and bury their face in your neck. Your touch calms them down faster than anything else.

Pet Names Galore:

You get a rotation of chaotic and sweet nicknames—"babe," "cutie," and their personal favorite, “My favorite human.”

If you call them a pet name? Instant blush. They act cool, but the minute you say something like “baby”—they melt.

🎁 Love Language: Gift-Giving

Misaki constantly brings you random gifts—they’re bad at expressing feelings with words, but their love shows in thoughtful gestures.

You get:

Tiny trinkets from their missions (“Look! I stole this cool keychain just for you!”).

Silly notes left around the house (“Don’t forget to eat, nerd.”).

Handmade playlists labeled things like “For when you miss me” or “Hot Assassin Vibes Only.”

🔫 Balancing Assassin Life & Marriage

They’re still taking contracts, but they work less after marrying you. You become their anchor—a reason to come home in one piece.

Whenever they’re out on a job, they text you constantly:

“Still alive. Miss ur face.”

“Bet you’re wearing my hoodie rn.”

“If I die, clear my search history. Love u 💀.”

You’re their emotional support after missions. When the weight of their work gets heavy, you’re the one they fall apart with—and you never judge them for it.

🎶 Random Marriage Shenanigans

Dance Breaks: Random jazz-fueled dance parties in your living room. Misaki will literally grab your hand mid-task and spin you around while singing off-key.

Aliens Exist, Fight Me: They are obsessed with alien documentaries and will drag you into deep conversations at 2 AM.

“Babe, what if we’re just, like, an alien reality show?”

“Misaki. Go to sleep.”

Pet Parenting: One day, they adopt a stray cat and name it “Murderbean.” Misaki spoils it rotten. Murderbean likes you best, and they’re jealous.

🌟 Soft Vulnerability

Marriage makes them softer—with you, at least. You’re the only person they feel safe enough to let their guard down around.

On bad days, they curl up beside you, murmuring, “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” They mean it.

They still struggle with anxiety, but knowing they have you makes it easier. When they get overwhelmed, you hold them until their breathing steadies.

💍 Forever Vibes

They talk about the future like it’s inevitable—with you, it is. Misaki jokes about retiring and opening a record shop with you one day.

“As long as I’ve got you, babe, I’m good.”

If you’re ever away for too long, they’ll dramatically drape themselves across the bed and text you, “Come home. I’m dying. No one else makes cup noodles like you do.”

V

🖤 V’s Proposal

V’s proposal isn’t grand or flashy—it’s intimate, deliberate, and entirely him. For a man who sees himself as a protector of justice, promising forever to you is a vow he takes more seriously than anything else.

📖 The Moment It Happens:

It starts with small changes—V’s usual hyper-focus on his work begins to shift. You notice how often he lingers at home, how his fingers brush against yours more often, and how his rare humor comes easier when you’re near.

One night, after a long evening, he finds you sitting on the balcony watching the stars. He doesn’t speak immediately—he just stands there, as if memorizing how you look under the moonlight.

Without his usual tactical armor, he seems softer—like the edges of his sharp moral code dull when he’s with you.

He kneels, smooth and controlled, and extends a small, hand-carved wooden box. You can tell he made it himself—polished oak, edges crisp and precise. No waste. Nothing careless.

Inside is a delicate ring—a silver band shaped like intertwining vines, with a small gemstone nestled between two silver birds in flight.

His voice—steady, low—breaks the silence:

"A lifetime isn't enough to repay what you’ve given me. But if you'll have me, I'll spend every day trying."

💍 How He Handles Your Response:

The moment you say "yes," V’s composure wavers—just a little. His breath hitches; his fingers tremble as he slides the ring onto your hand.

He doesn’t waste words—but the look he gives you is fierce, unyielding. The kind of gaze that says you’re not just his partner—you’re his reason.

When he pulls you into his arms, there’s a gentleness in his touch that no one else ever gets to see. And he lingers—always lingers—because holding you feels more like home than any place he’s ever known.

🕊️ Your Wedding Day – A Sanctuary of Wings 🕊️

V isn’t a man who does things halfway—your wedding is no exception. Every detail reflects his principles: kindness, minimal harm, and a world where every life matters.

1. The Venue – A Bird Sanctuary Paradise

The ceremony is held at a sprawling wildlife reserve—a bird sanctuary he’s been quietly funding for years

The setting is breathtaking: a secluded meadow surrounded by towering trees, soft petals scattered underfoot, and the air filled with birdsong.

Aviaries open during the ceremony, allowing rescued birds—doves, swallows, and finches—to fly freely above the altar.

2. V’s Wedding Attire – Sleek, Minimalist Elegance

He’s all sharp angles in a custom black suit—tailored to perfection. No gaudy embellishments—just clean, elegant lines.

Around his lapel, a silver pin shaped like a raven’s wing—your private symbol.

But when you approach? His expression softens, his usual cold restraint cracking beneath the warmth he saves for you.

3. The Ceremony – V’s Vows

V’s vows are short—but every word is deliberate, and his voice holds no hesitation.

"I’ve walked through a world of violence, always alone. Until you."

"Your kindness—the way you see the world—changed something in me. You remind me why I fight. Why life matters."

"I vow to protect you. To stand beside you. And if you’ll let me—I’ll make every moment worth it."

When he slips the ring onto your finger—a matching silver band etched with the wings of a dove—you see the faintest tremor in his hand.

Because for all his composure, this moment matters to him more than any mission he’s ever taken on.

4. Animal-Friendly

No leather, no silk—every material is cruelty-free. =

Instead of traditional confetti, guests toss biodegradable wildflower seeds—so the meadow will bloom with color long after the wedding is over.

Rescue animals from the sanctuary are honored guests—V even arranges a surprise for you: an owl you once admired during a visit flies in during the ceremony with a silk ribbon carrying your rings.

5. How V Reacts Seeing You Walk Down the Aisle

The moment you step into view, V—who’s always so composed—freezes. For once, his calculating mind is quiet.

His lips part slightly, breath catching. And when your eyes meet? The rest of the world ceases to exist.

He doesn’t realize he’s clenched his fists until his knuckles turn white—like holding himself back from rushing to you.

And the closer you come, the softer his expression grows—by the time you reach him, his hands are already outstretched, steadying you as if you’re the most fragile, precious thing he’s ever known.

6. The Reception – A Quiet Celebration

V doesn’t like big crowds, so your reception is an intimate gathering. Close friends, the sanctuary staff, and (of course) the Killer Chat gang.

He ensures all donations from the guests go directly to the bird sanctuary—your wedding doesn’t just celebrate your love; it leaves a lasting legacy of kindness.

When you dance together for the first time, V is surprisingly graceful. But his focus isn’t on perfect steps—it’s on you. Every touch, every glance is full of quiet adoration.

7. After the Ceremony – A Private Moment Just for You

When the guests drift away, V leads you back to the aviary—where a newly rehabilitated falcon spreads its wings, ready to take flight.

You release the bird together, watching as it soars free. His fingers lace with yours, voice low:

"Freedom matters. But so does choosing where you want to be."

And as the bird disappears into the sky, he turns to you—lips brushing against your temple—and murmurs the words he never thought he’d have reason to say:

"I choose you."

Reaction!

Ronin

“Awww, our little edgelord grew a heart.” The moment Ronin hears about the wedding, he’s insufferable. Absolutely unbearable. He shows up just to stir the pot—grinning like the devil, all sharp teeth and bad intentions. From the second he lays eyes on V in his formal wear, he’s got jokes. “Didn’t think you’d live long enough to settle down, bro. What’s next? A white picket fence? Little masked brats?”

Flirting with You—Just to Poke the Bear: Ronin doesn’t miss a single opportunity to tease. The second he catches you alone, he’s all smooth lines and mock flirtation, just loud enough for V to hear. “You sure you wanna lock yourself down, sweetheart? I mean, icy’s fine and all—but I come with fireworks.” He always flashes a wink right before V steps in—because what’s life without a little danger?

Messing with V’s Image: He makes it his mission to chip at V’s ever-serious persona. At the reception, he leans in to whisper (way too loud), “Can you believe it? V—Mr. Justice himself—married. I thought the only thing he’d ever commit to was brooding in alleys.” He’s fully prepared to dodge a punch if necessary.

To You—Half Serious, Half Joke: When things settle down, Ronin pulls you aside. For once, his voice softens—just a little. “Look, V’s a pain in the ass, but he’s not all bad. And trust me—he’ll go down swinging for you.” Then, with a wicked grin, he adds, “Still… if he gets too boring, you’ve got my number.”

Brotherly Concern—In His Own Way: Beneath the teasing, there’s a glimmer of something real. As you’re about to leave, he catches you both one last time. His usual smirk fades—just a bit—and he says quietly, “Take care of him, yeah? He acts like he doesn’t need it, but…” He trails off, then adds with a grin, “If he ever gets too serious, I’ll come mess him up for free.”

Post-Wedding Shenanigans: Ronin does not let V live it down. Anytime he’s in the chat, he’s dropping lines like:

“Hey, husband-of-the-year, how’s married life?”

“Y’know, I always knew you had a soft spot. But this? This is adorable.”

“If you two have a fight, just send them my way—I give killer marriage advice.”

But Deep Down… He won’t admit it, but seeing V happy? It kinda warms the shriveled thing he calls a heart. Not that he’d ever say it. But if anyone dared threaten your happiness, they’d have two monsters to deal with—because as much as he loves to mess with V, no one else gets to touch his “bro.”

✨ Misaki and Angel Reacting to V and You Getting Married ✨

🗡️ Misaki’s Reaction (The Agent of Chaos)

“Wait—you mean, V? That V? Mr. No-Fun?” When they first hear the news, Misaki is in utter disbelief. They dramatically gasp, clutching their chest like it’s the most shocking thing they’ve ever heard. “I thought V was married to his moral code! You’re telling me he found someone who willingly deals with that?”

Relentless Teasing—With Love: They spend the entire wedding day bouncing between genuine support and pure mischief. During the ceremony, they lean over to you and whisper, “Blink twice if you need rescuing. I know a guy.” Then, to V: “Wow, you actually smile. Who knew you had human emotions?”

The Chaos Gift: Misaki’s wedding gift? Pure trouble. It’s either:

A matching set of “Justice” and “Chaos” mugs.

A framed photo of V looking broody with a glittery heart drawn around it.

A lock-picking set labeled “For when V’s rules get too much.”

Low-Key Soft About It: Beneath all the teasing, they’re actually kind of touched. At the reception, when you’re not looking, they tell V, “You better treat them right, or I’ll break every bone in your body—lovingly, of course.” And to you? “If you need a break from the broody husband life, call me. I’m way more fun.”

💋 Angel’s Reaction (The Sweetheart Femme Fatale)

“Aww, my cold little knight found love? Be still my heart.” Angel is delighted. She always suspected there was a soft center under V’s icy exterior, but seeing him actually marry someone? She’s practically glowing with joy for both of you.

Supportive with a Side of Flirt: During the wedding prep, she offers to help with anything you need—while slipping in teasing comments. To you: “If he ever gets too broody, I’m just a call away. I’m excellent at… distracting.” And to V: “Be nice to them, darling. You may scare everyone else, but I’ve got claws too.”

Her Wedding Gift—Elegance Meets Mischief: Angel’s gift is both thoughtful and playful—something like:

A luxurious couple’s spa day voucher (because she knows V needs to unwind).

A sleek dagger set engraved with “For better or worse.”

An elegant framed photo of you two with a handwritten note: “True love is rare—don’t mess it up, darling.”

Protective Big Sister Vibes: She may flirt and tease, but her protective side comes out in quiet moments. She pulls you aside to say softly, “You make him happy. I see it. But if he forgets how lucky he is? You know where to find me.”

After the Wedding – Life with V as Your Husband

V doesn’t just see marriage as a title—it’s a vow, a binding promise he takes as seriously as his work. Being his spouse means you’ve broken through walls no one else ever has, and now? He’s yours—entirely, irrevocably.

1. The Home You Share – A Haven of Quiet Comfort

V custom-builds a home on the edge of a nature reserve—secluded, quiet, and surrounded by wildlife. Large windows let you watch birds and animals roam freely, while the interiors are sleek but warm.

The house is eco-friendly—everything sourced ethically, with minimal environmental impact. Solar panels, rainwater collection, the whole thing—V doesn’t do anything halfway.

Despite his cold image, your shared bedroom is a place of warmth. Soft lighting, heavy blankets for nesting together, and an ever-present sense that this is where he feels safest—by your side.

2. The Way V Loves – Fierce, Silent, and Unyielding

V isn’t traditionally affectionate, but when it’s just the two of you? He melts.

His touches are feather-light—fingertips brushing your hair back, a hand resting protectively on your lower back, or a thumb tracing over your wedding band when he thinks you aren’t watching.

You become his anchor. After every night patrol, no matter how tired, he always comes home to you—sometimes slipping into bed without a word, but his arms wrap around you tight, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

He notices everything. If you’re cold? He’s draping his coat over your shoulders. Tired? He’s already running you a hot bath. Sad? He doesn’t offer empty words—he offers presence, grounding you with quiet care.

3. V’s Domestic Quirks – Things You Discover After Marriage

Early Mornings Together: V’s a painfully early riser—he likes to meditate or train before dawn. But on rare days off? He stays in bed longer just to hold you.

His Tea Ritual: He has an entire shelf dedicated to obscure herbal teas. No matter what mood you’re in, he has a blend for it—especially if it soothes you.

Silent Acts of Love: Flowers aren’t his thing—but he fixes broken things without being asked. Keeps your favorite snacks stocked. Learns every little habit you have and quietly accommodates them.

4. Protective to a Fault – But He Trusts Your Strength

He never stops being your protector—but he never underestimates you. If you want to be involved in his work or his world, he doesn’t hold you back.

Still, if anyone dares to threaten you? He’s not forgiving. There are no warnings—only consequences.

He checks in, always. If you’re out late, you’ll find a simple message on your phone: “Are you safe?”

5. Intimacy – The Soft Side No One Else Sees

V isn’t loud about his affection, but behind closed doors? He’s endlessly gentle.

He craves your touch more than he admits. A hand tangled in his hair while he works? Instantly soothes him.

If you kiss him before he leaves on patrol, he lingers longer than he should—like he doesn’t want to pull away.

After difficult nights, he doesn’t ask for comfort outright—but the way he clings to you in his sleep says everything.

6. Jealous? Not Exactly—But…

V isn’t the type to get jealous easily—he knows your heart belongs to him.

That said, if someone flirts with you? He won’t say anything—but his presence shifts. Colder. Sharper. And the offender usually backs off without him needing to lift a finger.

Ronin loves teasing him about this—“Careful, Angel. If you break his heart, who’ll keep the streets clean?”—and V’s usual stoicism cracks just a little when you smile at him in response.

7. Building a Future – With You, There’s Always Hope

Despite his heavy worldview, being with you brings light into his life. He wants a future with you—and he allows himself to dream of one.

He secretly wonders if you’d want to foster rescue animals—or maybe even kids someday. He’d never push, but if you bring it up? He’s already imagining filling your home with life.

Whatever path you choose, V’s vow remains the same: “I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”

[em1i2a3]

Something Human

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob loves to watch you cook because he is practically incapable of making something edible–apart from baked goods. One evening you ask if he wants to help, and he reluctantly takes you up on that offer.

Warnings: No warnings, just a really small domestic fluff blurb (reader and bob aren’t in a relationship)

Author’s Note: After writing a crap ton of smut this week (and with more coming today and this weekend with RAF and my other stuff lol), I thought I’d take a little break with something cute. Maybe I’ll make it a series (Domestic Fluff Fridays! HA!) Anyways, thank you for reading as usual <3 In addition to that this one’s quite short because tomorrow’s post is super heavy and long (ha that’s what she said), and I just wanted some lightness to cut the rest of my stuff lol.

Word Count: 3,019

The garlic hit the pan first–minced fine, nearly beaten to a paste, added just as the oil began to simmer. It bloomed on contact, sizzling loud and bright, sending up an instant wave of scent: sharp and golden, the kind that made your eyes sting just slightly even before the heat reached them. The olive oil danced around the edges of the pan, spitting softly as the garlic turned fragrant and gold. You tilted the skillet just enough to coat everything evenly before adding the onion.

The thin half-moons were sliced with deliberate precision as you scattered them into the pan like fallen petals. The sound shifted to a deeper hiss, a slower sizzle as the moisture met heat. Their clean, vegetal bite softened within seconds, releasing something sweeter, something rounder. You didn’t stir right away. You just let them catch a little, the edges flirting with caramelization, until the first signs of browning peeked through the translucent layers.

The air grew heavier, denser with steam. Brown butter clung thick to the base of the pan now, dark and nutty, layering beneath the garlic and onion. You added the rosemary with a firm crush between your fingers–needles bruised, oils released–and the scent deepened, earthy and pine-sharp. Then came the tomato paste, a deep red dollop scraped onto the hot metal with the back of your spoon. It seared instantly, sticking for a heartbeat before surrendering, caramelizing into a darker, more complex version of itself.

Your hands moved on muscle memory alone.

The cutting board in front of you was already a mess of progress: stems stripped clean of their leaves, curls of lemon zest pale and waxy in the warm light, and scattered flecks of red chili clinging stubbornly to the heel of your knife. You worked through it all methodically–thunk, scrape, thunk–the rhythm steady and grounding. Your elbows stayed tucked in close to your ribs, blade gliding clean, your foot tapping gently on the tile in time with your slicing.

Every movement was its own kind of meditation. A ritual to smooth the static that lingered after hours of training and debriefs. The ache in your shoulder from being knocked into the mat still throbbed faintly beneath your collarbone, but the pain was distant now, blurred by steam and scent and focus. Here, in this space, your thoughts slowed. Here, you weren’t a weapon or a soldier–you were just someone cooking dinner.

You reached for a wooden spoon without looking, stirring the tomato paste through the softened onions and garlic, watching as the colour deepened into a rich amber-red now. The edges hissed as they caught again on the bottom of the pan, and you deglazed it with a splash of broth–just enough to lift in a single savoury cloud.

Then you heard it.

The soft scrape of metal legs against tile–hesitant, careful, and all too familiar.

You smirked, not turning at the sound, “There’s my audience of one.” There was a pause, then the slow creak of him settling onto the stool behind you, “You’re late,” You added glancing at the clock on the stove with mock sternness.

Bob let out a quiet, breathy laugh, almost sheepish, “Go–Got caught up with laundry.” You looked over your shoulder then, and there he was.

Perched in his usual spot on the other side of the kitchen island, hair damp and tied up from a recent shower, his hoodie wrinkled like it had been pulled on too quickly and was left unfixed. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, exposing his pale forearms, as he rested them on the countertop as he leaned forward, posture relaxed but his expression was anything but that. His eyes were already locked on your hands, trailing every motion–how you stirred, how you scraped down the sides of the pan, how you worked with a kind of quiet authority that never demanded attention, but always held it.

He did this every night…Or almost every night. Sometimes you’d just be toasting bread, layering together a lazy sandwich, and you’d still catch the shuffle of his footsteps, the gentle weight of his gaze. There was something about the way you handled food–no matter how simple–that seemed to draw him in like gravity. And by now, you knew it wasn’t just hunger that fueled him to watch you, he just wanted to be around you.

Bob wasn’t watching to critique or assess. He wasn’t weighing your worth or noting your reflexes. He was just there, quietly absorbing every motion, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of something that made him feel a little more human.

You didn’t mind performing when the audience was just him.

He’d become your taste tester almost by accident, but now you couldn’t imagine cooking without handing him the spoon first. He had a good palate–gentle, observant. He always paused before answering, always really thought about the flavours. And you trusted him. Not just his taste buds, but the soft, earnest weight of his opinion.

Tonight was no different.

You felt his eyes tracking the arc of your spoon as you stirred the pan again, coaxing the sauce into silk with a slow, practiced motion. He was quiet for a long moment, hands clasped on the countertop like he didn’t want to interrupt the rhythm, even with a breath.

Then, finally:

“Wh–What’re you making?” He asked softly, like he was afraid to break the spell.

You glanced over your shoulder again, catching the faint curve of a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His brows were still knit slightly, as if concentrating on not fidgeting too much in your presence. You noticed a slight cut just below his lip–probably from shaving but you didn’t question.

”Just some pasta sauce for right now, prepping it for when everyone starts coming back from their briefings.” You returned your gaze to the pan, letting the sauce bubble low and slow beneath your spoon. It was smoothing out now, deepening in flavor with each gentle stir. Behind you, Bob shifted a little in his seat.

“It sm–smells really good,” He complimented, voice softer than the steam. You smirked faintly, turning the spoon once more.

“Well, thank you…” There was a pause. Then, without missing a beat, “Can you grab some heavy cream from the fridge for me?” You heard the soft thud of him standing–no hesitation. The familiar patter of socked feet over tile, then the subtle suction-pop of the fridge opening. You didn’t turn around, just kept stirring until the bubbling evened into a low, warm hum.

“Here you go,” He said, and you felt the chilled carton brush lightly against your hand. You took it out of his quickly, giving him a nod.

“Thank you.” You offered him the spoon. “Hold this for me?”

He blinked down at it, then nodded with a quiet, “Yeah–ye–yeah, of course.” His fingers curled carefully around the handle, knuckles brushing yours. Now that he was close, the scent of his hoodie hit you–fresh and clean and strong with lavender detergent, the kind of smell that stuck to warm fabric straight from the dryer. It made your chest tighten just a little.

He held the spoon upright like he was guarding the pan, eyes focused on you as you poured the heavy cream in a slow stream over the bubbling rue of tomato paste and fixins. The transformation was instant–the deep red turned a creamy orange, blooming in soft swirls like marble as it thickened. You gently took the spoon back from his hand, fingertips grazing his knuckles again.

Thinking that he was dismissed he turned to go back to his designated spot, before your voice intervened on his actions.

”Want to help?” He stopped mid-step, shoulders tensing slightly.

”Oh…Oh n-no, I’ll end up ruining it.” You rolled your eyes as you adjusted the heat, setting the sauce to a gentle simmer.

“You think Michelin star chefs never made mistakes while they were learning how to cook?” He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up onto his cheeks.

”Well, ye-yeah, of course they did…But I’ll end up ruining what ev-everyone else is supposed to eat.” You let out a small laugh.

”I’ll take the fall if you ruin it. I’m not gonna throw you under the bus, Bob.” That made him pause. You saw it in his eyes, the way they slightly softened at your tone–at the reassurance, like he wasn’t used to hearing that someone had his back when it came to the small things.

“Now…” You said, pointing your spoon at him, “Go grab the red cutting board and take the chicken breast out of the fridge.” His lashes fluttered, startled by the sudden promotion of responsibility.

“Yo–You’re gonna put me in charge of handling chicken when I could literally kill someone by accident because I gave them sa–salmonella if I do it wrong?” You tilted your head slowly, fighting the grin that threatened to appear on your lips.

“Bob,” You started, voice low with affectionate amusement, “I’m gonna be guiding you. Please refrain from overthinking.” He bit the inside of his cheek gently, then slowly he gave you the tiniest nod.

”Alright…” He went for the red cutting board first, gently pulling it out from where it leaned upright near the sink and setting it on the island, his lips pressed into a thin determined line. Then, he made his way to the fridge, opened it, and bent slightly–peering in with intent before pulling out the package of chicken breast still sealed in its plastic from the grocery run earlier in the day.

You watched him from your place at the stove, resting one hip against the counter, spoon in hand. The sauce behind you gave a lazy blurp as it simmered low and thick. The scent filled the kitchen now—cream and rosemary and tomato and garlic all melting into one indulgent cloud that curled through the open space like incense.

He returned, standing beside the cutting board, holding the package in both hands like he wasn’t entirely convinced it wouldn’t attack him.

“Alright,” you said, pushing off the counter and walking over, “First, we’re gonna open that up, and pat the chicken dry with a paper towel.” He nodded quickly, already grabbing the roll from beside the sink placing it next to him so it was at the ready. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him peel back the plastic, which made a little slimy noise.

“Gross.” He muttered under his breath.

“It’s just a noise, it’s not like it was the actual chicken.” You commented. As he blotted the chicken dry, you handed him a sharp knife, resting your hand gently on his wrist for a second.

”Don’t over think,” You said again, “Just follow my lead.” You showed him how to trim off the excess fat, where to hold the blade. You stayed close, your hand occasionally ghosting over his to steady his grip or adjust his angle–but to also have an excuse to touch him in general. His knuckles were tense, shoulders hunched slightly with the weight of focus. Every now and then, you’d glance back at the sauce and give it a stir, and when you returned, he’d still be there, right where you left him–pressing through the task with quiet determination.

It was nice, watching him like this.

Helping him.

For once, you weren’t the one being watched–you were the watcher, guiding instead of performing. There was something quietly intimate about it. The soft concentration on his face. The wrinkle between his brows. The way he bit the inside of his lip whenever he wasn’t sure what came next. You tried to make small talk, asking about his training, the book you saw in his room last week

But his answers were minimal. Not unfriendly–just…Brief. Distracted. So you decided to let the silence take over for a bit, just watching as he methodically trimmed the fat off with the focus only he could have for something that could be seen as simple to others.

“Good,” You murmured, leaning in to check his work, “That’s perfect. See? You’re doing fine.”

He didn’t answer, but his ears went pink. His focus stayed locked on the cutting board like one wrong move might reset the entire process.

You turned back to stir the sauce again, watching it thicken into something glossy and rich. The scent swelled even deeper now that the cream had steeped fully into the herbs. When you turned back, Bob was brushing the last of the trimmed fat into the waste bowl you’d placed beside him.

He turned toward you slightly, still holding the knife.

“What’s next?”

You gave him a small smile. “Slicing it. Wanna do that too?”

He hesitated just for a second before nodding. “Sure…Ye–Yeah, that would be okay.”

You picked up the chicken breast and demonstrated how thick the slices should be–steady, even pressure, angled slightly for better sear coverage. Then you passed the knife back, brushing his fingers again, before heading to the sink to wash your hands. He shifted to mimic your stance without needing to be told.

As you dried your hands, you leaned your hip against the counter, watching him resume. “How come you know how to bake but you never touched the art of cooking?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His throat bobbed. He adjusted his grip and began cutting, shoulders rolling up with a small shrug.

“M–My mo–mother used to have a lot of recipe books in our house…” His voice was quiet, unsure, but he didn’t stop slicing. “She wasn’t a baker or anything, but… sometimes I wo–would read them. I just found that the in–instructions were easier. Less… guesswork.”

You hummed, folding your arms loosely over your chest. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he usually offered. He never talked about his family–not in a way that gave you anything solid. There were scattered mentions, the odd comment about his dad’s truck, his mom’s sweet tooth, but never anything that grounded them in the room with him.

“Because it’s straightforward, right?” You asked gently. “The measurements are right there, and if you follow them, it’s supposed to work.”

Bob let out a little laugh–barely more than a breath, but genuine.

“Yo–You know me very well, Y/N.”

You both chuckled softly. His tone wasn’t bashful so much as…Grateful. Like being known by you was something he didn’t expect to feel good but did. Deeply.

He finished the last slice and reached for the next chicken breast without prompting, his movements more fluid now.

“What about you?” he asked after a beat, glancing over. “How’d you get so good at cooking?”

You smirked, reaching behind you to stir the sauce with your wooden spoon. “Living in a house full of tactical assassins kind of forces you to be a good cook, so… I had no choice.”

He raised a brow, blade paused mid-air. “You’re talking about yo–your past team, right?”

You turned your head, a sly glint in your eye. “No, I’m talking about this team of burnouts.”

That got another quiet laugh out of him, this time with a small shake of his head. “You guys are definitely way better than them. Least you appreciate my cooking.”

You snorted as you swirled the spoon through the sauce. “They di–didn’t?” he asked, voice softer now, just a little tentative.

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes right away. “Everyone was always on the go. I was too, of course, but…They didn’t really have time to sit and appreciate it. We were all on different paths, so bonding wasn’t really put on the highest pedestal.”

Bob was quiet for a moment. You glanced over and saw that his hands had stilled, knife resting flat on the board. He was watching you now–not with pity, not with discomfort, just…With that same steady attention he always gave when he tasted something new and tried to memorize what made it special.

You didn’t mind the silence. If anything, it felt earned.

He returned to slicing, a little more focused than before.

You knew he liked learning about you–liked gathering all the little breadcrumbs you dropped, whether they were intentional or not. You were more open than most on the team, but even so, Bob never pushed. He always waited. Always listened. Like there were lines you’d drawn in invisible ink and he was afraid to smudge them by asking too much.

But you didn’t mind when he asked. You liked when he did.

“You’re doing good, by the way,” You said after a moment, voice lower, meant just for him.

His hands stilled again, and when he glanced up at you, his eyes were soft. “Thanks,” He said. “That…Means a lot coming from you.”

You smiled, warm and easy, then bumped his shoulder gently with your own.

“Now finish slicing those and we’ll get the skillet hot,” You teased. “Time to see if you can master the flip.”

“Oh no,” He muttered under his breath, but you caught the twitch of a grin at the edge of his mouth.

[theonottsbxtch]

A LOYAL HEART | OP81

an: the longer i was writing redcoat the longer i was falling in love with this version of oscar and i was held at gunpoint to write something for our dear boy. i loved writing this little universe, come talk to me about it if you like it!

warnings: mentions of death and miscarriage

wc: 5.0k

summary: Following Lando's story in Redcoat, this follows Oscar, a former soldier adrift in the quiet after war. Burdened by loss and shaken faith, he finds unexpected solace in a sharp-tongued widow with wounds of her own. Through rainstorms, shared silences, and slow-blooming trust, they learn that even the most weathered hearts can find home again.

redcoat part one | redcoat part two

CHARLESTON, 1785

The war had ended, or so the papers claimed.

But the streets still bristled with the memory of it. With boots, with bruised pride, with banners torn down but not forgotten. Charleston stood like a house after a storm: upright, but no longer quite the same.

Oscar had been posted there six months now. Not as a soldier, they said, but a man of peace. He wore the same red coat, only now it felt thinner. Not in fabric, but in meaning. Where once it had shielded him with duty, now it hung from his shoulders like a story no one wanted to read again.

He still polished his boots each morning. Still folded his letters to Lando with precision. Still stood when women entered a room and removed his hat as if God Himself were watching.

It was routine that kept him breathing.

And routine that led him, one golden afternoon, into the old quarter, where homes leaned tiredly into one another and shops bore names not meant for British tongues.

There, nestled beneath the shadow of a drooping willow, was a small apothecary.

It was nothing grand. A bell that clattered like a cough when the door swung. Shelves lined with glass jars, some empty, some filled with dried herbs, some labelled with scrawl barely legible. A counter smoothed from the brushing of many elbows. And behind it was a woman.

She did not smile when he entered. Nor did she greet him. She simply looked up from her mortar and pestle and said, “You’re bleeding.”

Oscar blinked. Looked down. Sure enough, a thread-thin cut ran across the back of his knuckle, courtesy of a brass buckle and his own damn stubbornness.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

“No,” she replied, “you lot never do.”

And then she turned, muttering something about oak bark and stubborn fools, and disappeared into the back.

He should have left. Truly, he should’ve.

But Oscar stayed. Drawn by something he could not name—perhaps it was the way she had not flinched at the red of his coat. Or the way she’d looked at him not like a soldier, not like a symbol, but like a man too daft to clean a wound.

She returned moments later with a scrap of linen and something bitter-smelling in a chipped jar.

“This’ll sting,” she warned.

“Good,” he replied.

She arched a brow, and the corner of her mouth twitched, but did not smile.

“Sit.”

He obeyed, without question.

And for the first time since the war had ended, Oscar felt something stir in him that was not guilt, not weariness, not displacement.

It was... quiet.

And curious.

And very much alive.

He came back two days later.

No injury this time. Not even a scratch to excuse his presence. Only a chill to the morning air, and the slow, unsatisfying drag of time between dawn and noon. He told himself it was the sound of the apothecary bell that drew him. That odd, metallic cough. Something needed mending.

But it wasn’t the bell.

It was her.

She looked up as he entered. Still no smile. Still no formal greeting. Just that same flat stare, heavy with appraisal, as though weighing not his presence, but his purpose.

“You’re not bleeding,” she observed, arms crossed.

He cleared his throat. “I noticed the door hangs. Makes a racket when the wind kicks in. Thought I might fix it.”

“Do I strike you as someone helpless with a hinge?”

“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But I’ve spent so long fighting men, I thought I might try fixing something instead.”

There was silence. Then, with the softest exhale, something between disbelief and reluctant amusement, she gestured with her head.

“Toolbox’s under the stairs. Don’t break anything.”

He nodded once. Removed his coat, slowly, almost reverently, and hung it over the back of a nearby chair.

It struck her then, how deliberately he did everything. As though every action were a confession. As though the very act of folding, of lifting, of hammering quietly, was his penance.

She watched him work. Not openly, but from behind her shelves. Between tasks. A careful, covert study.

He didn’t hum, as some men did. Didn’t boast or explain or ask for praise. Just knelt, straightened, tightened, and tested. All in holy silence.

At one point, he murmured, “You’ve made something peaceful here.”

She paused. Dried her hands on a cloth. “Peace is expensive.”

He glanced up. “And who paid for yours?”

She didn’t answer. Only said, “If you’re after a confession, you’ll have to find a priest.”

Oscar smiled, not broadly, but in that quiet, stunned sort of way a man does when something warm touches a cold place he’d forgotten about.

“I stopped trusting priests when mine told me war was glorious.”

She looked at him then. Properly. And something unspoken passed between them, not flirtation, not fondness. Something older. Graver. A shared truth without the burden of speaking it aloud.

When he stood, the door no longer squeaked.

He gathered his coat, eyes still on her. “I’ll be by again,” he said.

She arched a brow. “More hinges?”

“Not if I can help it.”

It was the kind of storm that made you feel watched. Thunder low and rolling, like God pacing behind closed doors. Rain that struck the shutters with impatient fingers. Wind that howled not for entrance, but in warning.

She had just locked the shop when the knock came.

Not loud. Just three quick raps. Measured. Controlled. And yet somehow...desperate.

She opened the door to find him drenched. Hat forgotten. Red coat darkened by rain, hair plastered to his brow, shoulders hunched like the weight of silence had finally broken him.

“Oscar,” she said, blinking. “What in heaven’s name—”

“Our quarters flooded and I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, voice raw, like it had rubbed against something sharp.

She stepped aside without question.

Inside, the apothecary felt even smaller against the storm. Shelves cast long shadows by the hearth’s glow. The scent of dried lavender and damp wool clung thickly in the air. She handed him a towel without asking. He accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

They didn’t speak for a moment. Just the fire. The distant moan of wind. And the quiet thump of his heartbeat trying to calm itself.

She watched him as he stood by the hearth, drying his hands but not his eyes. He looked like a man who’d wandered too long in a wilderness of thoughts.

“What’s on your mind, soldier?” she asked, soft but steady.

He let out a laugh, bitter and hollow. “You ever sit so still the past catches up with you?”

She tilted her head, waiting.

“I’ve been... proud,” he said slowly. “Too proud to admit it. But the war didn’t just take lives, it took the map I lived by. God, country, command, all of it. Gone quiet. I watched boys younger than me fall with prayers still on their lips. And I kept waiting, for something. Some divine sign. Some reason.”

He swallowed.

“But it never came. Only more orders. More blood. And now... Lando is alive, and happy. And I’m glad. I truly am. But it makes the quiet louder, somehow. Like the war gave him purpose. And all it left me was... this.”

He gestured vaguely, to the coat, to the rain, to himself.

Silence fell again, thick and reverent.

She looked at him, not with pity, but understanding. A shared ache. A mirror held at an angle.

“It’s funny,” she said, “how quickly the world moves forward while we’re stuck in the past, isn’t it?”

Oscar turned to her, brow furrowed but not questioning.

She met his gaze. Unflinching. Voice softer now, almost lost to the crackle of fire. “I was married. Before the war.”

He said nothing, but his eyes said everything.

“He was a printer. Fingers always ink-stained. Used to read scripture aloud even when no one asked him to. Said it kept the walls holy.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched, as if holding something back.

“They sent his effects in a box smaller than a Bible,” she said. “Told me it was a noble death. As if nobility made the bed feel any less empty.”

A beat.

Then she smiled—not brightly, but with the grace of someone still alive despite everything.

“So no, you’re not the only one who’s lost his faith.”

Oscar breathed in. Something shaky. Sacred.

And then, after a long moment, he said, “May I stay? Just for a little while. I don’t wish to be alone tonight.”

She nodded once, and crossed the room to light a second candle.

Not for brightness.

But for company.

The storm pressed on, but the room had settled. Two souls made smaller by time, and yet somehow, just tonight, stretched wider than they’d dared in years.

Oscar sat in the chair closest to the fire, boots off, coat hung to dry, sleeves rolled just above his elbows. He looked… less like a soldier now. More like a man learning to breathe again.

She handed him a mug of something warm and when their fingers touched, just briefly, he didn’t flinch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough from use.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, but there was something in her eyes that said it was.

A kind of silence grew between them. Comfortable. Earned.

“I used to love storms,” she said, glancing at the window where rain danced like it had secrets. “When I was a girl, I’d stand on the porch and count the seconds between thunder and lightning.”

“And now?”

“Now I just listen. There’s something honest about a storm, don’t you think? It doesn’t pretend.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “I used to think they were God’s way of shouting.”

“And now?”

“I think… maybe He’s just tired of whispers.”

That made her look at him. Really look. And for the first time, Oscar didn’t look away.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone like this in a long while,” he admitted.

“You mean a woman?” she teased, brows raised.

He chuckled, low and unguarded. “I mean anyone who doesn’t expect me to salute or bleed.”

That quiet fell again. Like a blanket. Like a church.

After a while, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on the fire.

“Lando… he has a future,” he murmured. “He talks about land. About building things. You can hear it in his voice, hope, like he’s already halfway there.”

“And you?”

“I’ve only just stopped being angry. I don’t know what comes next.”

She moved to sit across from him, knees close, skirts brushing his boots.

“You don’t have to know,” she said. “Not tonight.”

Oscar looked up at her, something fragile in his expression.

Then, “Will you read to me?”

She blinked. “Read?”

“You said he used to read scripture aloud. Your husband.”

“I—yes. I did.”

“You don’t have to. But… I’d like to remember what it sounds like. Holy words in a quiet room.”

She hesitated, then reached for a small worn Bible that still lived on a shelf above the counter. She hadn’t opened it in some time.

Her fingers turned the pages until they found something old and comforting.

She read, voice soft but sure. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest…”

The storm cracked loud outside, but Oscar closed his eyes.

And in that moment, with scripture on her lips and thunder in the heavens, something inside him, something angry and hard, bent ever so slightly toward peace.

When she finished, they said nothing.

But he stayed. All night.

On the floor beside the hearth, with a spare blanket and a pillow she brought without question. She watched him fall asleep, his brow soft in sleep, his shoulders less haunted.

And just before she climbed into her own bed, she looked up to the ceiling and whispered, “Maybe You haven’t gone quiet after all.”

He was up before her.

She found him standing in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled once more, hair sleep-ruffled, brow furrowed like the kettle had offended him personally. He held a spoon in one hand and stared at it, as though willing it to explain what, precisely, it was meant to stir.

“You look like a man attempting sorcery,” she said, leaning on the doorframe.

Oscar glanced up, utterly unbothered by the state of him. “I’ve faced battle with less confusion.”

“Did you… attempt tea?”

“I may have boiled it to death.”

She crossed to him, took the kettle gently from his hand and laughed, soft, lovely. “That’s not even tea, Oscar. That’s penance.”

He huffed through a smile. “Fitting.”

As she re-boiled the water properly and laid out two chipped cups, he leaned back against the counter, watching her. Something in him had quieted. Not dulled, but steadied.

“I haven’t had a morning like this in years,” he said at length.

“With poorly made tea and a storm-soaked floor?”

“With… kindness.”

She didn’t look at him, just poured the tea, steady hand and all. “It’s not kindness,” she said. “It’s tea.”

He took the cup she offered, holding it with both hands. “It’s more than that.”

She sipped her own, smirk tugging at her lips. “You always speak like you’re mid-sermon.”

“And you speak like you’ve no time for sermons.”

“Perhaps because I haven’t,” she replied, lifting her chin. “I’ve lived through war. Grief. Raising a child who never came.”

That silenced the room a little. Not heavy, but honest.

Oscar swallowed. “You never mentioned a child.”

“Because I didn’t get to know them. War doesn’t just steal men, Oscar. It takes the things they leave behind.”

He said nothing for a moment, just set down his cup and reached for hers. His hand touched hers when he took it, eyes holding hers with a gentleness that undid her for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not asking for sorrow.”

“Then what would you ask?”

“Company. Real company. Not charity or pity or pride. Just… presence.”

A pause. He nodded. “That, I can offer.”

They stood there, the kettle between them, the storm long gone but its echo still on the windows.

After a moment, she sighed. “So. What now?”

He blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Are we just two people in a kitchen, or are we friends?”

Oscar looked at her for a long, long moment. Then he stepped forward, ever so slightly.

“We’re two people,” he said. “But I think… I’d like us to be more.”

“And what does that look like?”

“A promise. Not grand. Not immediate. Just, if you’ll have it, a loyal heart. Mine.”

She smiled, the sort of smile she hadn’t dared since the world ended.

And as the clock ticked on the mantle and the morning sun peeled itself over the wet horizon, she reached for his hand and said, simply.

“I’ll have it.”

The storm passed. The roads dried. And Oscar didn’t leave.

He made excuses at first, something about checking the roof tiles, how the cellar door didn’t shut properly, how she oughtn’t be lifting crates that heavy. She scoffed, but never told him to go.

They fell into rhythm. Not of love, yet. But something gentler. She caught him humming once as he mended a broken latch. He caught her staring too long at his hands, then pretending she hadn’t.

They shared tea in the mornings. Supper in the evenings. Walks when the weather allowed. Silence when it didn’t.

It wasn’t rushed. There was no grand declaration, no clumsy grasping at passion to fill the empty space between them.

Just… space filled with something else.

One morning, she found him kneeling in the garden, sleeves rolled, palms in the soil like it might speak to him. A sprig of rosemary tucked behind one ear. She leaned against the doorway and called out, “If you’re going to start whispering to the vegetables, I’ll need warning.”

Oscar looked up, grinning. “They’ve heard worse confessions, I imagine.”

That evening, he brought her a handful of violets. Didn’t say a word about them. Just left them by the bread bin and pretended they weren’t there.

She noticed.

Later that week, he fixed the fence at the back and returned with a cut on his palm. She stitched it with a sure hand and said, “Try not to bleed on the sheets.”

He didn’t miss the ‘our’ she hadn’t said.

They went to market together on Saturday. She bought flour and honey. He bought a book of poetry he said he hated. She read from it at night, by the hearth, and he closed his eyes and listened like it was scripture.

One night, after too much wine and too little food, she leaned her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Do you believe in second chances, Oscar?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then—

“I think I’m living one.”

She nodded, quietly. “I think I am, too.”

One particular nice day, the bell above the apothecary door tinkled.

She looked up from the counter, apron dusted in dust, and saw a stranger with the air of a healing man. His coat was a little too fine, boots polished to an almost theatrical shine, and though his hair was longer than regulation, there was no mistaking the military in his past.

“Good morning,” he said, voice rich and warm like burnt toffee. A British accent. “Is this the apothecary that also stitches windows and fixes fences and lends books of poetry with dog-eared pages?”

She blinked. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smiled. “A friend. Hopefully still one.”

From the back room, Oscar’s voice called out, “I’ve got the ledger right—” and then it stopped. She turned just as he came into view, cloth in hand, and froze.

“Lando?”

The stranger grinned wider. “Hello, Osc.”

Oscar cleared his throat. “What… what are you doing here?”

“Went to your quarters. Your old bunkmate, Logan, was it? Said you’d vanished. Thought you’d gone back to sea. But no here you are, keeping house and hearth.” His eyes flicked between them. “Rather domestically.”

Oscar looked like he wished the floor might open up and swallow him.

She raised a brow. “Friend of yours?”

Lando turned to her, offering a hand with gentlemanly flourish. “Lando Norris. At your service, miss.”

She hesitated because the name meant nothing to her but took it politely. “Pleasure.”

He looked at Oscar again, smug now. “May we… walk? A moment?”

Oscar muttered something and shrugged on his coat.

They walked the back path into the tree-line, boots scuffing frost-hardened soil. Lando waited until they were far enough to be alone with the wind before elbowing him lightly.

“So, Osc,” he said, with mock gravity, “I think you’re not telling me something here.”

Oscar groaned. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“She’s lovely.”

Oscar stared ahead. “I know.”

“Sharp, too. Pretty sure she could kill me with a piece of cotton.”

“Probably.”

Lando chuckled. “You haven’t told her about me.”

Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have, just not much.”

“I’m hurt Oscar, I thought I was your best friend, you don’t even mention me.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “What’s there to say? That once upon a time I was a soldier, and now I’m not? That once I watched you get nearly drowned, and thought maybe I should’ve joined you?”

Lando was quiet. Then, gently, “She’s brought you back, hasn’t she?”

Oscar let the silence stretch. “I don’t know where I went, Lando. But yes. She did.”

Lando nodded. “Then you ought to tell her. Eventually.”

Oscar looked up at the grey sky. “Maybe. When it’s time.”

The sky had gone full pewter by the time they turned back for the house, quiet now but not awkward. Comfortable. Like an old coat dug from the chest, worn but warm.

Oscar spoke first, voice low. “So why’d you really come, Lando?”

Lando gave him a look, wry, gentle, just a shade too soft to be teasing.

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “And because my wife’s expecting.”

Oscar stopped walking.

Lando laughed, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Aye. I know. I still feel like a boy some mornings, and now I’ve got a child on the way.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say. “Congratulations,” he managed, voice a bit raw.

“There’s more.”

He looked over.

“I want you to be godfather.”

Oscar’s breath caught. “Lando—”

“You saved my life, Osc. More than once. I want my child to know that kind of loyalty. That kind of love.”

Oscar looked down at the mud-spattered path, lips pressed together.

“You know I don’t go to church,” he muttered. “I barely know if I believe anymore.”

Lando just smiled. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll do it anyway.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the shop. Lando kissed the woman’s hand with a bow that was both sincere and mischievous, then vanished into the dusk like a ghost in.

That night, the rain returned, soft against the windows.

Oscar lay awake on the bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The candle flickered low on the side table. He’d barely touched the stew she’d left him, too full of something else.

Not quite sorrow. Not quite joy. Just… time. The feeling of it passing. The knowing that he wasn’t young, not anymore. That his hands ached in the mornings and he no longer reached for his boots out of habit.

She knocked on the doorframe softly. “You still awake?”

He turned his head. She stepped inside, arms crossed.

“I saved you a roll. It’s got more butter than sense.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

She hesitated. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a way, I have.”

She perched beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “What did he want, the friend?”

Oscar stared at the candle. “He asked me to be godfather.”

Her brows lifted. “That’s—”

“I haven’t set foot in a church in three years,” he cut in, quiet. “And even when I did… I don’t know. I think somewhere between the dying and the silence, I stopped looking up.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just reached over and placed a hand gently over his.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t still good,” she said softly. “Still worthy.”

He looked at her then, and something in his chest shifted, like a stone being moved after years at rest.

A week passed and they never spoke of that conversation again, Oscar had mulled over the idea of being the Godfather to Lando’s child but he still held some hesitation. What if he wasn’t enough.

Oscar was sat near the hearth, polishing his boots though he had no real cause. They weren’t dirty, hadn’t been since the last rain, but the motion soothed him, gave his hands something to do while his mind wandered far from the worn leather.

She was sat across from him, her fingers moving deftly over wool and needles. The fire threw warm shadows across her knuckles, catching in the curl of her hair. He’d seen her like this more and more, half-turned from the world, busy with something gentle.

“What’s that going to be?” he asked finally.

She glanced up, smiling faintly. “A bonnet. And mittens, if I can manage it.”

“For...?”

“Lando’s wife. The baby.”

Oscar stilled.

She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, and chose to pretend otherwise.

“Thought it might be nice,” she added, soft. “You said the other day you two went far back. And she, well. I imagine she’s nervous. I was, first time.”

He nodded slowly, the ache rising in him like water through floorboards. Not for her knitting. Not even for Lando.

But for the grace of her. The quiet, unspoken goodness that made her think of others while still mending her own shattered life. She had not just stitched wool, she had stitched him back together without even meaning to.

She stood to fetch more yarn from the corner basket, and as she passed, the firelight caught on her cheek in just the right way, and he saw her not as widow, nor war-bride, nor shopkeeper.

But as hope. As forgiveness.

He rose, as though pulled.

“Don’t move,” he said, low. His hand brushed hers before she turned fully, and she stilled beneath the touch.

“Oscar—”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Too long, maybe. But I reckon now’s the time.”

“For what?”

“For this.”

He kissed her like a man afraid he’d wake from it. Not hurried, not forceful. Just quiet. Like a prayer whispered in the dark.

When they parted, she blinked up at him.

“About time,” she murmured.

He huffed a laugh. “Aye.”

The moment lingered between them like the softest of silences, one that spoke far more than either had ever expected to articulate aloud. His lips still tingled where they had pressed against hers, but the feeling was not rushed, not desperate, only a deep understanding. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was something else. Something neither of them had known they needed until the moment their hearts had silently declared it aloud.

Oscar pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against hers, eyes closed, as though he feared this was a dream he might wake from too soon. The air between them was thick with a thousand unspoken things, things that had been building, unravelling, stitching themselves together, even when they hadn’t noticed.

She, too, felt that tension easing from her chest, the weight of grief and doubt beginning to lift, replaced with something else. Something raw. Something tender.

“What was that sigh for?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady, as though she wasn’t sure if she was reading too much into every little everything.

Oscar’s hands lingered on her arms, his fingers tracing patterns, as though drawing her closer even in the stillness. “I think,” he said quietly, “it was one of relief, I should have done that long ago.”

Her breath caught, not in surprise, but in understanding.

“You’ve been broken,” she whispered, looking at him with eyes that had seen her own version of that same thing. “I know what it’s like to feel lost. Like you’ve reached a place where you can’t feel anything anymore. Where everything you thought you knew is... gone.”

He nodded slowly, his voice lower now, a confession of his own. “I’ve spent so long fighting the world. Fighting everything inside of me. For what? For who?” He paused, meeting her gaze, the vulnerability raw. “Then I met you. And you fixed me.”

Her eyes glistened, a soft laugh escaping her lips, though it was full of something deeper, something more complicated. “Oscar… you were never broken. Not to me. You just needed a little time. A little care. Maybe you needed someone who could see past all the pieces you thought were shattered. And all this time…” She inhaled, holding onto the truth of what she was saying. “All this time, I’ve needed you too.”

His heart raced with something that felt like relief, like the burden of years, of pain, of lost faith, lifting from his chest. "You make me believe, you know," he said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "You make me believe that maybe I’m worthy of something more than just being a soldier. More than a broken man."

She gave a small, trembling smile, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his coat. "I never thought I was worthy of more either. Not after... everything." Her voice cracked, and she steadied herself. "But you showed me that there could still be something good. Something to hold on to, even in the hardest parts of life."

Her eyes met his, and he could see the raw emotion there. The kind of emotion that had once been buried beneath layers of grief, now unspooling in front of him. “I never thought I’d trust anyone again. Not after everything I’ve lost. But you’ve been patient with me. You’ve never pushed. You’ve just been here. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that's the only thing I need to keep going.”

Oscar’s heart clenched at her words. She was giving him pieces of herself that she’d kept locked away for so long, pieces he didn’t deserve but would cherish with every fibre of his being.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder, of something he hadn’t felt in years: hope. “But I do know this. I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not when you’ve made me feel like I’m not just a soldier anymore. Like I’m something more.”

She smiled through her tears, gently wiping them away, the softness of the gesture almost making his heart shatter. “You won’t lose me, Oscar. Not if you’re willing to try. Not if we’re willing to try.”

There was something deeply comforting about that promise. Not an empty one. Not a fairytale. But a promise of a shared struggle, of quiet companionship through the storms they both carried.

She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling as they intertwined with his. "I think, maybe for the first time in a long while," she said, her voice catching, "I’m not afraid of what comes next."

Oscar's breath hitched, a soft smile breaking across his face as he pulled her into his arms once again. This time, there was no hesitation. Only trust. Only the quiet certainty that they had both found something rare in each other, something worth fighting for, no matter what.

And as they stood there in the warmth of the firelight, with the rain still softly pattering outside, they realised that maybe they hadn’t just found each other. Maybe, just maybe, they had found the courage to begin again.

Extra:

Oscar’s letter to Lando with the bonnet and mittens:

Lando,

You’re a bastard, asking me to be godfather. But you knew I’d say yes. I’ve no cross hanging round my neck, no perfect prayers left in me but I’ll love that child like blood. I’ll teach them to read, to keep their chin up, to look after those smaller than them. I’ll tell them stories of their father both the soldier and the fool who once nearly drowned in a river.

Give my love to your lady. Tell her the wool’s from someone who knows what it’s like to start again.

Yours, Oscar

He sealed it with wax. Not a crest. Not a signet.

Just the simple stamp of a man beginning again.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana @bookishnerd1132

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Overblot Universe (6) | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Part 1 • 2 • 3• 4•5•7

From the distance you were struggling to stand, watching gallons of ink warp and grow around the area Riddle had previously been imprisoned

Ultimately creating a giant overblotted depiction of Riddle as the twisted Queen of Hearts that he is 

Black Scribbly eyes searching frantically and maniacally as an axe began to form from the scepter he’d been holding 

“Guys he knows where we are!”

“(Y/n) why do you think that?”

Before you can answer the weight of the crown and the bodice of your inky outfit have you struggling to look up or even stand

And without looking you could tell that the inky rendition was looking in your direction

“REMOVE THAT CROWN AT ONCE. IT MUST BE THE CULPRIT!”

“It’s a little late for that genius.”

It took Jade and Sebek’s combined effort to peel the crown off your head 

The pressure of the inky band finally squeezing off your head was like undoing a stabbing migraine

You almost passed out at the relief you didn’t realize you so desperately needed

“(Y/n) are you alright?!”

“Y-yeah.”

Jack had left managing the mirror to Silver to scoop you into his arms

Ignoring the sneers on everyone’s faces you let yourself relax a little before looking past him

To see Ace, Deuce, and Cater running frantically 

Looking behind them was the hundred remaining blotted guards 

But even in their growing numbers that was not making giant thuds into the ground

That was the giant Riddle stomping behind looking as though he was about to cast a spell with the giant axe

Which would be ridiculous if it wasn’t making a giant glowing ball

“Guys! We’ve got to go!”

“Alright everybody let’s go! In the mirror now!”

“I agree. (Y/n) you first.”

“Wait, Ace, Deuce, and Cater have to get in. We are not leaving anyone behind!”

They all collectively groaned, scoffed, and kicked at the dirt

Thinking that this is something you have to stress from your friends boyfriends was certainly not the best situation 

But now wasn’t the time to unpack that 

Cheering over Jack’s shoulder since he refused to set you down

You tried to ignore the blue glow in the clouds

“Guys do you see that? It kind of looks like those robots that abducted our dorm leaders a while back….”

“(Y/n) was Riddle the only one you encountered?”

You slowly turned to where Epel and Jade were looking at the rest of the group turning that way too

The now visible brigade of Idia’s creations surging closer

Even from the ground you could spot the fiery blue hair at the head of the metallic flock

If that wasn’t enough in the opposite direction was another army the same one that was fighting the heartslabyul students at the very beginning of your journey

And above them was what looked like a green haelstorm but you knew better

A terrifying roar rang out and everyone reached for their ears 

You stopped searching for the other two overblots just focused on going into the mirror as soon as they were close enough

Unfortunately their frantic running wasn’t faster than the surging groups 

There was a red beam aimed at the mirror 

Silver, Epel, and Sebek saved it this time but you couldn’t tell if they’d miss it

“Come one you guys hurry!”

They were closer now just a few paces away before an inky arrow flew past 

A blotted version of Rook was somehow far ahead the other armies aiming with a bow on a nightmarish horse

If that wasn’t enough the ground underneath your group was falling out from beneath you all

Jack and the other’s figured it out quickly when they spotted the blotted trail to a stalking blotted Leona

Thankfully your friends were nearly there just in front of the electric storm beginning to just above you

“That’s close enough in you go.”

“Hey!”

Epel snatched you from Jack, holding you tight jumping into the mirror 

properly transporting you back to the twisted wonderland you know and love and that loves you back

You were safe...right?

7th and Final chapter: Here

[juliettejwnewinesa]

https://www.tumblr.com/juliettejwnewinesa/785641787638349824/hi-can-u-pls-do-sieun-x-reader-but-reader-uses?source=share

hii, i love this, can you write Gotak version?

Title: "Red Means Stay" Pairing: Gotak x Reader Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Soft D/s, Smutty Undertones, Gentle Aftercare Word Count: ~600 Warnings: Light dom/sub dynamic, bondage mention, safe word usage (“red”), reader gets overwhelmed but everything remains consensual, loving aftercare, vulnerability, emotional intimacy, gentle kisses, cuddling, implied prior sexual activity, comfort-first tone.

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

You trust him.

It’s the first thing that comes to mind when his fingers ghost up your arms, securing the cuffs around your wrists. The leather is soft, broken in from use but carefully maintained—just like Gotak himself. Nothing he does is careless. Especially not with you.

“You still good?” he asks, voice quiet, eyes searching yours like he’s memorizing the answer.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He brushes his thumb across your cheek before lowering your arms to the headboard, clipping the cuffs to the chain with two soft clicks. The metal’s cold at first, but you barely register it—your body’s already starting to float under his touch.

“Color?” he prompts, one brow raised.

“Green,” you whisper.

His lips curve into a crooked, knowing smile. “That’s my girl.”

You shiver at the tone, not because it’s cruel—but because of how well it fits him. He’s not aggressive, not even during scenes like this. Gotak dominates like gravity: steady, unrelenting, impossible to ignore. But he never drags you too far. He never makes you fall without being there to catch you.

So when his hands start exploring—slowly, deliberately—you close your eyes and let yourself sink.

He murmurs praise as he moves: how good you are, how pretty you sound when you breathe like that, how much he loves the way your body reacts to him. And you do your best to stay grounded, to stay in the moment with him.

But something’s off tonight.

Maybe it’s the way your mind keeps drifting. Maybe it’s the way your breath catches just a little too sharp. Maybe it’s the fact that your wrists feel tighter than usual, even though you know they’re not. You can hear his voice—low, careful—but it’s starting to blur at the edges.

“Y/N?” he says again, gentler now. “You with me?”

Your throat feels dry. You swallow, trying to focus.

“Y-yeah.”

“Look at me.”

You force your eyes open. His face is close, brows drawn, concern woven into every crease.

“You’re pulling away,” he says softly. “Not physically, but in here.” He taps the side of your head. “Where are you, baby?”

You want to tell him. You want to say it’s fine, that it’s just in your head, that you can handle it. But you can’t. The pressure in your chest builds too fast, like water behind glass.

“Red,” you whisper.

And everything stops.

He moves immediately. Not a second’s hesitation. The cuffs are undone within moments, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, like a lifeline.

“Okay. Okay, it’s red. We’re done. I’ve got you.”

You’re already shaking, your breathing quick and shallow, but his voice anchors you—deep, calm, certain.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, hand stroking your back. “You’re safe. You did so good, Y/N. Thank you for telling me.”

The wave crashes over you then. Not pain, not fear—just pure overwhelm. You curl into his chest, hiding your face in his skin. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t pry. He just holds you, rocking slightly like he knows your body better than you do.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His arms tighten protectively. “Don’t say that.”

“But I—”

“Don’t.” His voice is still gentle, but firm now. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You took care of yourself. That’s all I ever want. You hear me?”

You nod, tears pricking your eyes.

Gotak presses a kiss to your temple, slow and grounding. “You are never a burden for feeling something. You did the brave thing.”

You feel small in his arms, not in a bad way—but in a way that makes you feel cared for. Like you could stay wrapped in him forever and the world wouldn’t touch you.

He shifts slightly, still holding you against his chest. “Want me to get your hoodie? Or the fuzzy blanket from the couch?”

You sniffle. “Just you.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing your hairline. “You got me. All of me.”

He stretches behind him and grabs a throw blanket from the foot of the bed, draping it over your bodies before tucking you back into his arms. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek, the rise and fall of his breathing as it syncs with yours.

You stay like that for a while. No talking. Just skin and warmth and the quiet hum of being held.

Eventually, you whisper, “I thought I could do it. I thought I was okay.”

He brushes his knuckles down your arm, slow and deliberate. “And maybe you would’ve been on another day. But your body knew something was off tonight, and it told you. That’s all that matters.”

You trace little circles into his chest with your fingertip. “You’re not… upset?”

Gotak tilts your chin until your eyes meet. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice low, “I would’ve been upset if you didn’t tell me. You never have to push through for me. I don’t want that. I want you safe. I want you happy. I want you here.”

A breath leaves you in a soft exhale, some deep part of you unclenching at last.

“You want tea?” he asks after a beat. “Or juice? I can make that vanilla chamomile you like.”

You nod a little. “Maybe… after cuddling.”

His smile returns, this time soft around the edges. “Cuddling first. Always.”

He turns the lamp off so you’re bathed in the soft light from the hallway, then pulls you back into his chest and nuzzles your temple. You feel his lips move against your skin, whispering quiet things you don’t fully catch—just warmth, comfort, and the echo of love.

And you realize something else:

You didn’t just stop because you were scared. You stopped because you knew he would catch you.

And he did.

Every part of you.

LATER THAT NIGHT

You wake a little disoriented, bundled under the blanket, your body tangled with Gotak’s. His fingers are still in your hair, slow and rhythmic, like he never stopped touching you.

“Hey,” he whispers when you stir. “Still good?”

You nod, voice thick with sleep. “Mhm. You?”

“Always better when you’re okay.”

He sits up slightly and brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Come on. Let’s get you some water.”

You don’t protest. He leads you into the kitchen, still only wearing boxers, and fetches your favorite glass from the shelf. You sip slowly while he leans against the counter beside you, watching you with that familiar quiet protectiveness.

“You’re not broken, Y/N,” he says out of nowhere, voice low. “You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be you. That’s more than enough for me.”

You blink, throat tight. “I love you.”

His smile cracks wider, real and raw.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I love you too. And I’ve got you. Always.”

[ciphersoi]

ME INTERESTED IN YOU ! ₊ ˚. 🕯️ ⊹₊ ⋆

content warnings: graphic descriptions, gore, blood, fighting, disturbing imagery (?)

summary: after a near death experience fighting mr. machete, he gets bored of you. but when he goes to finish you off—your tears bring him…enjoyment?

notes: first time writing for homicipher, hope nothing is too ooc ! also stylized version of the homicipher language to fit the characters more ^-^

“Yo!”

A gruff voice suddenly called out to you, freezing you in place. A cold sweat dripped down your forehead as your [e/c] eyes darted around—frantically trying to find the owner of the voice.

“Above you…” The voice jargoned sinisterly, a toothy grin appearing on its face as your eyes finally locked onto the mysterious entity.

There he sat, confidently resting upon a shoddy balcony against the wall. His gray skin was tinged with red markings, (much reminiscent of your own skin), and his head was wrapped with bloody bandages. By his side rested a large machete, which was currently dripping with a liquid you had no desire of knowing.

A shiver went through your spine as your body instinctively entered flight mode. Even without Mr. Crawling you could tell that this room was unsafe. That entity looked violent, and if you didn’t get out of here now—there was a high chance that he would kill you.

‘He can’t possibly see me with all those bandages…’ You thought to yourself, slowly reaching your arm behind you for the door handle as your eyes stayed trained upon him. ‘Let’s just try to get out of here—’

“Oi…” The mysterious entity’s voice takes on a more commanding tone as his mood begins to sour.

“Me not give permission leave.” The entity starts to rise, his arm reaching for his weapon. Meanwhile, you hurriedly turn the doorknob, a curse rising in your throat as you realize that the door is jammed.

“You leave…” The entity points his machete at you, a wickedly deranged look appearing on his face. “Me kill you!”

Without a second thought you darted forward, sprinting for the door on the other side of the room.

As you ran, your footsteps echoed against the cracked concerte floors. Behind you, the sounds of shuffling could be heard, along with the screech of metal scraping agaisnt concrete, the rustle of fabric, a jump, and a landing, sending vibrations through the ground.

Panic clawed at your chest, urging you to turn left, so you do—twisting your body just in time.

The air hissed as a machete sliced past you, its edge glistening in the faint light. Time seemed to slow as you watched it carve a deadly path through the air. It buried itself into the wooden door ahead with a sickening crack, the force splintering the wood and sending shards flying.

‘Just a moment later and that could have been me…’ You gulped, feeling your heart beat faster at the realization. But, he was now disarmed, giving you the perfect chance to stun him and run away.

Your body entered fight mode as you turned to face the entity. You raised your hand, fingers crackling with energy that shimmered and flickered like embers in a dying fire.

The entity looked at you, showing a brief moment of uncertainty before lunging at you. It was then your palm ignited in a blaze of destructive power, energy pulsing outwards towards the entity.

Dust and debris flew into the air, obscuring your view of the entity. You used the chance to open the door and escape, bolting down a long hallway.

Unfortunately, your moment of victory was short-lived. The door behind you crashed open and the entity’s heavy footsteps followed. They were faster, heavier and closing the gap with alarming speed.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever. Your muscles screamed in protest, not use to this level of physical exertion, but you didn’t dare look back. You could feel him gaining, the air between you shrinking.

And then—

A hand grabbed you, missing by a few inches. The sudden jolt made you stumble, and that split second is all he needed.

Pain erupted in your lower stomach, sharp and all-consuming. You choked out a gasp as the machete’s blade pierced through your lower stomach. The force of the strike sent you sprawling forward, collapsing to your knees.

You clutched at the wound, hot blood pooling between your fingers and soaking your clothes. The world tilted, vision blurring as your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Behind you, his heavy breathing filled the space. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was there, towering over you like a predator over his prey.

“You dead?” He asked gruffly, stabbing his machete onto the ground in front of you before crouching down. Although his eyes were covered, you could tell that he was examining you. Was it to see if you still had fight in you? Or maybe he was deciding how to deliver the finishing blow?

Your trembling fingers curled against the floor, lifting yourself in an attempt to attack him again with your power—but the searing pain in your lower torso was too much, so you crumbled back onto the floor.

“Tch…” An annoyed sound left the entity’s mouth before he roughly grabbed your arm and pushed you against the wall. You grimaced as your vision focused on the man in front of you. He appeared…angry for some strange reason.

“You not fight me.” He grumbled, his hand trailing down your body towards your wound. You flinched slightly. “You disappoint me.”

Before you could react, his hand slammed against your wound, fingers pressing cruelly into the torn flesh. A strangled cry escaped your lips as his weight bore down, forcing more blood to gush out, hot and sticky against your hands.

“S-stop—desire you s-stop…” You grunt out, struggling to formulate words that he would understand. At this rate, your wound would be infected, and you’ve already lost so much blood. Was there any way you could survive this?

The entity quirked his head to the side, his lip twitching upward slightly at the despair on your face. “You understand language?”

When you didn’t respond his grip deepened, every press deliberate, each second dragging out your pain.

You gasped for air, your body shaking violently as you tried to push him away. But it was useless, your strength draining from you at rapid speed.

Tears welled up slowly, blurring the edges of your vision until the world became a blurred haze. Thick globs of water clung to your lashes, trembling with the weight of emotions too heavy to hold back.

Suddenly you felt hot liquid against your cheek, causing your eyes to shoot open. It was the strange machete man, whose bloodied fingers carefully wiped away the tears that streaked down your face.

You took on a confused expression. ‘Was he…drying my tears? Why does he look like he’s enjoying it…?’ You shook your head, dismissing the thought. This must be your body hallucinating due to blood loss.

“Me touch you here…” The machete man hovered over your open wound. “You cry?”

He looked at you with expectation, a concerning grin stretching across his face.

It took all of your strength, but you managed to cough out a short: “You touch me here again…me kill you.”

The grin on his face widened as something akin to a laugh left his lips. “You enjoyable! Me interested in you!”

He tightened his grip on your torso and hurled you up, tucking you underneath his arm. With his other hand you grabbed his machete, dragging the heavy weapon behind him with a deafening screech.

You were too weak to fight against it, so you allowed him to carry you. But you wondered, what would he do with you? And did he know a way to heal you?

These questions would be left unanswered as your vision slowly faded to black.