#[[ it's a good thing he's not physically there ]]

[lolobeey]

Unauthorized Response

Thought to myself: Oh, I'll just bang out a quick one-shot and try writing smut for the first time, and it somehow turned into this monstrosity (sorry for the word count)

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Scientist!Reader

Summary: The experimental neurobond was an accident. Getting stuck with Bucky Barnes was just your luck. Now you’re linked—body, mind, and something worse: sexual tension. You’ve got 72 hours to resist him. And every hour, it gets harder to remember why you should...

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!). Explicit Sexual Content. Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity. Accidental Neurobond. Shared Dreams. Shared Physical Sensations. Angst. Mutual Pining. Female Masturbation. Oral Sex (f receiving), Dirty Talk, Vaginal Sex. Praise Kink. Creampie. Multiple Orgasms. Post Thunderbolts Setting. Fluff.

Word Count: 16k

You’re three sips into your too-hot coffee when you see him.

He’s leaning against the wall outside Lab 4, all broad shoulders and brooding posture, like some kind of noir detective who wandered into a government facility and refused to leave. Tactical black from neck to boots. That infamous metal arm crossed over his chest like it has something to say and no one brave enough to contradict it.

Tall. Sharp. Sullen.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.

Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.

You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.

But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.

Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.

And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—

“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”

The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.

He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.

So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.

“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”

He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.

“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”

And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.

You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.

You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”

He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”

You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.

Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”

He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”

You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”

He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.

God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.

The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.

The door slides open with a quiet beep—

And the air hits you like a punch to the face.

Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.

Chemical.

You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.

Gas.

“No, no, no—”

You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.

The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.

You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”

But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.

The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.

You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.

Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.

Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.

You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.

His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—

Connected. Like he feels it too.

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.

And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.

To you. And him. Together.

—-

You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.

By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.

By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.

He, unfortunately, looks fine.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.

You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”

He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.

It makes your teeth itch.

“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.

Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.

A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.

Mental static. Not yours.

“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”

You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”

You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”

He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”

You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”

You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.

Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.

The door hisses open.

Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.

“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”

You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”

“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”

Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”

Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”

“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”

“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”

She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”

“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”

You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”

You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”

“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.

You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”

He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.

Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.

Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”

“What? Why?” you ask.

“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”

You blink. “Escalation?”

“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”

You stare.

Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”

The door hisses shut behind her.

You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.

He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”

“Then prepare to suffer.”

You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.

He falls in step beside you.

And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”

You don’t look at him.

He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”

—

The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.

Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.

You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.

It doesn’t work.

There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.

Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.

You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.

The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.

“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”

“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”

His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”

There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.

You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”

He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.

Blackjack. Of course.

“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”

“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”

You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.

Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.

You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.

You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”

He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”

He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”

He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”

You don’t answer right away.

Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.

But it’s not the room. It’s him.

You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.

Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.

Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—

Wait.

Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.

It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.

For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is lower now. Cautious.

You nod too fast. “Fine.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.

“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”

“She said it’s temporary.”

“She also said we might share dreams.”

Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”

“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”

A beat.

“You think I want you in mine?”

That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.

The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.

You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.

You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”

He snorts. “In that order?”

“Especially in that order.”

You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.

You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.

— 

The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.

You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.

The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.

You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.

None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.

His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.

You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.

You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.

From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“You feel that too?”

It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.

You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”

A beat.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”

And you mean it. Sort of.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.

He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.

Then, “No.”

You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”

A breath passes.

“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.

“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”

You stay still. Hold your breath.

“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”

The weight of it lands between you like ash.

“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.

“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”

Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.

His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."

“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.

There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.

“Well. Fuck me.”

You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”

His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.

Want.

It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.

You flinch. Inhale sharply.

He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”

You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”

“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”

You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.

“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”

“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”

You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.

“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.

“Good thing I don’t work here.”

You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.

You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I.”

“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”

“I already do.”

You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.

—

You’re dreaming.

You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life. 

You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.

And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.

You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.

Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.

Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.

Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.

But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.

Bucky.

But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.

Your dream flickers.

A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.

Your pulse stutters. And then—

It hits.

The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.

And suddenly you’re underground.

A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.

It’s his.

“Bucky?” you call out.

No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.

He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.

He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.

He’s not Bucky. Not here.

You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.

The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.

He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.

“Don’t look.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.

He still won’t face you.

“Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”

But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.

Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.

You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.

“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.

“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”

He winces. Like that makes it worse.

“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.

His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.

The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“I know,” he says softly.

And then—

—

You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.

Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.

You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.

He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”

“Yeah,” you rasp.

You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.

You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.

He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”

“No. But it’s still mine.”

You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.

“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.

He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”

You nod once.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”

You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.

The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.

“I’m not tired,” you say.

He glances up at you. “Me neither.”

It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.

You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.

No one speaks for a while. And then—

“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”

The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw. 

You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.

Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.

And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.

Is it the link?

You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.

You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.

“Do you have them a lot?”

He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low.  “Used to. Nightly. For years.”

You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”

“Not like that,” he admits.

Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.

“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is. 

“Was it easier this time? With me there?”

This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.

You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.

You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.

—

You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.

You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.

You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.

You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.

Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.

He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.

You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.

“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”

He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”

“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”

It’s a joke. You think.

But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”

You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.

There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

“I feel… weird,” you murmur.

He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.

You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”

“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”

Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.

And then the door hisses open.

Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”

You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”

You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”

You blink. “Somatic?”

Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”

You just stare.

Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”

“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”

You freeze.

“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.

She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”

You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.

Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”

You and Bucky don’t move.

“You mean—” you start.

“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”

You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.

Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”

She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.

The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.

“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.

“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”

Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.

You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.

Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.

You swallow. Hard.

He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.

Low. Sharp. Direct.

Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.

Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.

Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.

The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.

He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.

“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.

You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.

“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.

Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.

“That. The thing with your legs.”

You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”

“I know,” he growls.

And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.

You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”

“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”

You lock eyes. And don’t look away.

The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.

Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.

Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:

“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.

Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”

“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”

He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It feels like the point.”

You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”

He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”

Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”

There’s a long pause.

And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”

You blink.

“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”

His eyes lift to yours.

“About you.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”

“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.

Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”

“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”

His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”

You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

“That.”

You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”

“Look at me like that.”

You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”

“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”

You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”

You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.

It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.

“You think about it too,” you say quietly.

He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.

“Nothing reckless.”

You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”

“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”

You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself.  You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.

“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.

His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.

You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.

“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”

You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.

He is.

“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.

—-

The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.

Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.

It doesn’t work.

You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.

Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.

And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.

You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.

But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.

And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.

And worse—you want him to.

You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.

But something flares like it’s hungry too.

Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.

You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.

The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.

How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.

Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.

The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.

You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.

You press your hands over your face.

“Fuck.”

You stay like that for a long moment. Trying to breathe. Trying to pull yourself back into your body. Into the present. But even now, with the water off and your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you can feel the bond pulsing low behind your navel like it’s waiting. Like he’s waiting. And worst of all— You’re thinking about opening the door.

You want to know if he’s sitting there as wrecked as you are.

But you don’t yet. You reach for the towel. Wipe your face. Pull it tight around your body like it might hold you together. And you promise yourself you’ll be calm when you step back out there.

You wait a full minute before stepping out of the bathroom. You make sure your skin is mostly dry, your breathing sort of steady, and your towel tightly secured like a barrier that might still mean something. You open the door like you’re composed. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

Because the second you step into the room, you know. Bucky’s posture is wrecked. No more monk-like stillness. No more composed soldier routine. He’s pacing. Shoulders tense. Shirt clinging to him in places like he’s been sweating. His jaw is tight. His hands—both of them—are curled into fists like he’s holding back from breaking something. Or doing something.

His head snaps up the second he sees you. And then—he stops moving altogether. Freezes.

You feel it before he says a word: the punch of arousal, the crash of restraint, the friction of denial and desire grinding together behind his ribs like a blade.

His eyes sweep over you. Just once. Slowly.

The towel. The water still glistening along your collarbone. The flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with temperature.

You feel his restraint falter—just for a breath—and it slams into your chest like a jolt of electricity.

“You…” he says, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “That wasn’t fair.”

You blink, playing innocent. “What wasn’t?”

He steps forward once. Not touching. Not even close. But the bond pulls at you like gravity.

“You know what,” he says, voice low. “You know exactly what.”

Your heart pounds.

“So you felt that,” you say lightly, trying not to lose your footing on the slick edge of this moment.

He lets out a sharp breath. “You think I somehow didn’t feel that?”

The tension crackles between you—raw and thick and already past the point of pretending.

“I tried to shut it down,” you murmur.

He laughs. Just once. Bitter and breathless. “Yeah, I could tell ya tried really hard, sweetheart.”

You grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. “So what, you just sat there and…?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. And stays there.

You feel the burn of it behind your knees, in the pit of your stomach, deep between your thighs where the ache hasn’t fully gone away.

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “And?”

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. You feel him fighting it again—fighting you. But he doesn’t lie.

“I wanted to come in there.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.

“I wanted to touch you,” he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Everywhere you were touching yourself.”

You swallow hard.

“But I didn’t,” he adds roughly.

You look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes search yours. Not angry. Not even pleading. Just—holding back.

“Because if I had…” He exhales, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. Your body hums. Your fingers dig into the towel like it’s the last shield between you and a decision you might not be ready to unmake. And all you can do is whisper:

“…Okay.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. But something shifts in his posture—like he’s caught between instinct and decision, body wired forward even as his mind throws up a stop sign.

You see it all happen. The way his eyes flick to your mouth. The way his breaths become deeper. The way every muscle in him says yes while the rest of him fights to say no.

And then, finally—he steps back. One short, sharp step. Like distance will save either of you.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t.”

Your heart punches your ribs. “Why not?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shakes his head, pacing once, hands flexing.

“You just came out of the shower like that, thinking what you were thinking, and I—” He stops. “I felt everything. You know that, right?” he repeats yet again.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. And that’s the fucking problem.”

You blink. “So what, now you’re mad about it?”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to lose my goddamn mind.”

You fold your arms over the towel. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think our minds are so fried that we can’t tell what’s ours and what’s this,” he bites, gesturing between you two. “And if I touch you right now, I don’t know whose choice I’m making. Yours, mine, or the damn compound’s.”

That stops you. Because he’s right. Because you don’t even know anymore.

His voice drops. Still rough. Still wrecked.

“I’m not gonna take advantage of something that’s most likely not real. Not with you.”

You shift your weight, heartbeat hammering. You want to argue. You want to push. But part of you respects the hell out of it. So you just nod once. Clipped.

“Fine.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like restraint in physical form.

“Fine.”

And that’s it. You don’t close the distance. You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, heart still racing, skin still hot, towel still clutched like armor, and try like hell to pretend your body isn’t already halfway to betraying you again.

—-

Just perfect. Now there’s only a few more hours of pretending you’re not fully horny for the government-assigned menace in the corner.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the cot, earbuds in, blasting white noise loud enough to drown out your own thoughts—and hopefully his. It doesn’t work.

You can still feel him pacing. The slow, deliberate kind, like he’s working something out of his system. Like he’s hunting a problem he can’t solve. You can feel the heat of his attention every time your shirt rides up when you stretch. Every time you shift just a little too far sideways and your thigh brushes bare against cool air.

Every time your breath catches and his does, too. You know what he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.

So you decide to mess with him.

You think louder—sweet and smug, like you’re painting it across the bond on purpose: That shirt looks really good on you, soldier.

He flinches. Physically. And then stops pacing.

You smirk, tug the hem of your shirt down with exaggerated innocence. Small victories.

But then he drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. Which is so not fair.

You glance over and immediately regret it. His shirt stretches across his back like it’s apologizing to no one. Sweat clings at the collar. His arms flex, contract, flex again—slow and steady. Every controlled breath pushes heat through the bond.

You are trying to read a report. You are actively attempting productivity. But it’s hard when every line blurs around the mental image of his hands braced on either side of your head. You close the file. Try again.

He switches to pull-ups on an overhead bar. You throw your tablet at the wall.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He doesn’t stop. “Doing what?”

“Weaponizing your arms.”

His mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just trying to stay in shape.”

You scowl. “This is psychological warfare.”

“You started it.”

You grab a pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges without breaking rhythm.

“Unbelievable.”

Later, you fall asleep. Not on purpose. Just long enough for your body to betray you. The dream is hot. Too hot. Lips at your throat, a mouth on your hipbone, hands everywhere you shouldn’t want them. You wake up gasping, sweat pooling at the base of your spine.

And he’s watching you. Sitting in the corner, arms folded, expression like stone. Except for his eyes. His eyes are a slow burn. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel it. The echo of your dream still pinging between you. Not graphic—just emotional residue. A leftover ache.

And maybe the worst part is: you feel his too.

The loneliness under it. The way he felt it right along with you. The part of him that wanted it to be real. To be his hands. His mouth. His weight on top of you instead of the memory of a shared hallucination. You shift on the cot, heart still pounding.

“Did you…?” you ask.

He doesn’t move. Just nods once. “Yeah.”

You pull your knees to your chest and try not to shake.

Five hours in, you almost lose it.

You’re pretending to read again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing steady. He’s sitting on the other cot now, towel around his neck, shirt wrung out and tossed somewhere in the corner like it wronged him personally. His skin is flushed. His forearms are braced on his knees. His head is tipped back slightly.

You can feel it through the bond—he’s trying not to think about how your skin looked glistening after the shower. Trying not to remember the sound you made. You try to be good. You really do. But then you snap.

“You have to stop thinking about my mouth.”

You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. There’s a long pause.

“I’m not,” he says.

You glance over. He’s biting his lip. You both groan.

He covers his face with one hand. “Okay, you have to stop doing the thing with your tongue.”

“What thing?”

He waves a hand vaguely. “That thing you do when you’re concentrating. You lick your bottom lip slowly like you’re trying to kill me.”

You throw a blanket at him. He catches it with a smug little grin, but you feel the way his chest tightens under it. The way he’s fighting not to lean into the tether—into the pull of you.

You flop onto your cot face-first. “This is the worst horny hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

“Been in many?”

You scream a muffled “FUCK” into the mattress.

His chuckle is low. Rough. Warm.

It rolls down your spine like a confession you weren’t ready to hear. And when your hand slips between your thighs a minute later, just to relieve the pressure, just to breathe, you feel his breath hitch in your mind.

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, hoarse. Strained. Not angry—pleading.

You freeze. But don’t pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

A pause. Heavy. Loaded.

“You can.”

You roll your head toward him, half-lidded, flushed, and exhale: “Then say it.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Tell me not to touch myself,” you say. “But say it like you mean it.”

You feel his restraint buckle. The desire choking the back of his throat. You move your hand again, slow, under the blanket. The wet slide of your fingers deliberate.

“You already know what I’m thinking,” he grits out.

“Say it anyway.”

He’s still across the room, sitting rigid on the cot, fists clenched on his knees like it’s the only way to stop himself from moving.

You close your eyes and moan—quiet, bitten-off. You can’t help it. 

And that’s when it breaks him.

“God,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“I have some idea,” you tease back and squeeze your eyes shut.

And in your mind, you can feel a switch flip in his.

There’s a sudden metallic crack—a sharp, violent sound that echoes off the walls. Your eyes fly open. The security camera in the corner is shattered—glass fractured, wires exposed, the red recording light extinguished. His chest is heaving, fists clenched like he didn’t even think before moving.

“I want to be over there,” he rushes out hoarsely. “I want to rip that sheet off and watch you fall apart for me.”

Your breath stops but he keeps going, like his tongue is unable to stop.

“I want your legs open. Want your fingers soaked because you were thinking about my mouth.”

He rises, takes one step forward, then stops himself—grabbing the edge of the table like it might anchor him. You whimper.

“I’d put my hand between your thighs,” he says, lower now. Rougher. “Press my fingers into you until you begged me to fuck you.”

Your mind hums, white hot. You feel it in your ribs, your spine, your throat.

“You’d take it, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs. “All of it. My fingers, my cock—”

You cry out softly, thighs twitching, chasing friction.

“I’d have your back arched and your hands in my hair and you wouldn’t even be able to say my name without sobbing.”

You grind down harder now, pulse pounding in your ears. You feel him feeling you—his hips twitching, cock hard and aching, brain flooded with everything you’re giving him.

“Touch your clit,” he commands.

You do. Gasping. The pleasure punches through your body like a current.

“Just like that,” he says, voice shaking. “Rub slow. You don’t need to come yet. I want to hear you say what you want.”

“You already know,” you choke out.

“Tell me, doll,” he says again, dark, wanting. “Tell me how wet you are.”

You almost sob. “So wet—Jesus—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear it. I want every filthy sound you’ve got.”

You move faster, breath catching, the heat coiling tight and hard and close.

“I’d eat you out so slowly you’d scream. Then fuck you with my fingers until you begged for more. You want that?”

“Yes.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to come in you, fill you, make you feel it for hours?”

Your whole body locks—back arching, legs tightening—

And you shatter.

White-hot pleasure rips through you, shattering like glass behind your ribs—louder and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s also his body responding to yours, his want echoing through every nerve ending like a second heartbeat.

You can feel what you’re doing to him. The hunger. The ache. The way his restraint unravels with every sound you make, every twitch of your fingers.

The bond lights up like an explosion—flooding both of you. There’s no separation. No inside or outside. Just youandhimyouandhimyouandhim in one long, gasping pulse of release.

His groan is feral. Raw. Wrecked. You’re still trembling when you open your eyes. And he’s right there.

Closer than he was. Right in front of you. Breathing hard, eyes dark, hands clenched like it took everything in him not to touch you. Not to throw himself into the wreckage and keep going.

He’s about to move. About to drop to his knees. About to make good on every filthy promise he just breathed into your bones—

Then a chime sounds at the door.

You both freeze. A beat. Then Dr. Yen’s voice comes crisply over the intercom.

“Just a heads up—I’ll be entering the room in ten seconds for dampener prep. Try to look less… elevated.”

You let out a strangled noise and yank the blanket over your face, legs still shaking.

The door hisses open. Light spills in. Footsteps. Dr. Yen walks in like she didn’t just catch you mid-meltdown.

“Good evening,” she says, clipboard in hand, eyes respectfully trained downward. “Time for neural dampener administration.”

Bucky turns away like he’s been gut-punched. You lie there in silence, half-covered, half-exposed, pulse still thundering.

Dr. Yen pauses. Looks up.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just watch both your biometric readings spike like you ran a marathon while getting tased.”

You groan louder.

She sighs. “I’ll return in ten minutes with the equipment. Maybe try some breathing exercises.”

She turns and walks out, boots clicking.

The door shuts, and the silence she leaves behind could crush a mountain. You’re both wrecked. Glowing. Silent.  Not comfortable. Not even heavy. But pressurized. You shift on the cot. Pick at the edge of the blanket, like you’re unthreading a thought. You cough once. Clear your throat.

“So…” you say. Then instantly regret it.

Bucky doesn’t look up from where he’s now sitting, arms braced, jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on some invisible point across the room.

You try again, softer this time. “That was… intense.” Still nothing.

You roll your eyes at yourself. “God, sorry. That sounded like the end of a bad first date.”

Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. Low. Flat.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You blink. “What, the part where you told me everything you wanted to do to me while I was—?”

He exhales sharply. “Don’t.”

You pause. Watch him. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t fair,” he mutters. “I didn’t have to make it worse.”

“You didn’t make it worse.”

He glances at you. Briefly.

And you feel it—what he won’t say. The guilt. The self-loathing. The fear that he wanted it more than he should’ve, and the shame that he let himself say so.

You try to keep your voice light. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Feeling like this.”

Something flickers in him—shame, maybe. Sadness. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“It’s not real,” he says. “You know that.”

You shift again. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”

“I don’t know, Doc. But you should. You wrote the fucking book on it!” He’s not angry. Just tired. 

“You’re reacting to a synthetic neurochemical tether.” He says it like he’s quoting a file. “It wires your empathy straight into mine and floods your body with cross-sensory feedback. Of course it feels like something.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It feels like you. Like… warm static. I didn’t think I’d get used to it, but I have.”

His jaw clenches.

Something bracing inside him tickles through your bones. Like he’s locking the door before you even finish knocking.

You hesitate, before adding, carefully, “Maybe that’s not so terrible.”

He turns toward you now, finally, and there’s something in his face—tired, closed off, already half gone.

“Look,” he sighs. “In a few hours, you’re going to feel normal again. This’ll wear off, we’ll detox. And you’ll go back to thinking I’m a prick.”

You stare at him. “Is that really what you think I’m going to walk away with?”

“It’s what I’ll walk away with,” he says.

How certain he is bounces back at you. The way he’s already convinced himself this was a mistake. Not just a misstep, but a flaw in his wiring. Something he’s trying to undo before it’s too late and your resolve starts to melt.

His voice softens, but not in a comforting way. In that quiet, beaten-down way that says he’s already written the ending and doesn’t want to hear another version.

“I crossed a line,” he says. “And you’re going to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn’t.”

You feel it. In your ribs, your throat, your teeth. Not the tension from before—but a dull, hollow echo of finality. He believes this.

You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say that won’t bounce off the wall he’s putting back up. You nod once. Slowly. Then lie back on the cot and turn your face to the wall. The link hums faintly behind your ribs—tender, uncertain. But you don’t follow it. You just let the silence settle between you again. Thicker than before. Colder. Final.

—

You’re sitting across from him when the door opens. Same cots. Same sterile walls. Same ten feet of silence between you. You haven’t looked at him but you still feel him linked. Quiet, almost gentle now. Like it knows it’s dying. A breath too deep. A flicker of guilt. A spike of regret. It doesn’t matter that he won’t meet your eyes.

Dr. Yen steps into the room with her tablet in one hand and a hard-sided case in the other. She’s in scrubs this time. Hair tied back. Movements clipped and practiced.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The case opens with a soft click. Two injectors inside, small and sleek. She pulls one out and checks the dosage. 

“Once administered, the dampener will suppress all synthetic limbic resonance. You’ll feel a shift within thirty seconds. Disassociation. Numbness. Maybe a little nausea.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And then?”

She meets your eyes. “Then the link breaks.”

You nod. She walks to you first.

“Roll up your sleeve,” she says gently.

You do. The motion feels surreal—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere outside your body. She presses the injector to the soft skin inside your elbow.

You take a breath, hold it. Click. A whisper of compressed air. Cold floods your arm instantly—icy, clinical, creeping up your bicep like frostbite. It spreads into your shoulder, your neck, your spine.

And then—

Something inside you flickers. The hum. The warmth. Him. It begins to fade. Not all at once. It drains. Like light slipping out of a room. Like someone slowly turning the volume knob on a song you didn’t know you’d memorized. You feel the difference before you can process it. Your thoughts stop echoing. Your heartbeat feels… alone.

Bucky says nothing when it’s his turn. He doesn’t ask what it’ll feel like. He doesn’t hesitate. Just rolls up his sleeve, still pitched forward. Dr. Yen administers his dose with quiet efficiency. Click. Hiss. And then it’s quiet again. Except it’s not the same.

Because now, the silence is dead. No hum. No pulse. No emotional feedback or flicker of awareness. No him. He’s still there, physically. Still sitting across from you. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, the same unreadable expression. But you can’t feel him anymore. And the absence hits harder than you expect.

Dr. Yen checks the readings on her tablet. Taps a few buttons. Then nods.

“That’s it,” she says. “Connection is terminated.”

You nod, slowly. There’s a ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before.

Yen doesn’t linger. She packs up and walks out without another word. The door hisses shut behind her. And that’s it. It’s over.

You look at him. He’s not looking at you. There’s no warmth where your chest used to light up every time he almost met your gaze. Now it’s just empty space. You wait. A beat. Two.

He finally stands. Moves like he’s stiff. Or maybe he’s just trying to control the way his body reacts now that you can’t feel it.

His eyes flick toward you, just once. And then away.

At the door, hand hovering near the panel, he pauses. Just long enough to let hope get in one last swing.

“You’ll feel like yourself again soon.”

You blink. Straighten slightly. But before you can respond, he’s already gone. The door shuts behind him. And this time, you feel nothing at all.

—

Two weeks later and you definitely don’t feel like yourself again. Everyone said you would. That the dampener would work, that your neural pathways would recalibrate, that within a few days you’d forget what it felt like to share your mind with someone else.

They were wrong. The silence is worse than the bond ever was.

It isn’t just quiet—it’s hollow. There are no phantom thoughts, no flickers of static behind your ribs. No heat curling in your stomach when someone else walks in the room. You’re not buzzing anymore. You’re just… still.

You’ve tried to distract yourself. Buried yourself in lab reports. Filed updates. Pretended the whole thing was a chemical anomaly that didn’t matter.

You haven’t heard from him. You haven’t reached out, either.

Mostly because you’re not sure what you’d say—and partly because the last time you saw him, he all but told you that everything you felt was fake. You were still deciding whether to be mad or hurt when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s name lit up your encrypted line.

And now here you are. Walking into the new Avengers Tower for a mandatory debriefing.

You strut through the sleek white corridor with polished concrete floors, reinforced glass walls, surveillance cameras tucked into every corner. A place designed to look like freedom and security, while quietly reminding everyone who’s in charge. And Val’s definitely in charge.

You press your thumb to the biometric reader. The door clicks open. And then you’re in the room.

Seven chairs. One long table. Your team’s already there—Dr. Yen, Dr. Deenan, and Dr. Morales, seated stiffly with laptops open and half-expressed concern on their faces. You nod to them, then catch sight of the others.

The New Avengers. Ava’s leaning back with her boots up on the chair next to her, scanning her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Yelena twirls a pen in her fingers while whispering something to Bob, who stifles a laugh. Alexei ie eating something from a foil pouch. John Walker’s in full uniform, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting to be pissed off.

And at the head of the table—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She smiles when she sees you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Doctor,” she purrs. “Right on time. We were just getting to the fun part.”

You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this was a party.”

Val gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Take a load off.”

You sit. The chair’s cold. So is the room.

She taps her tablet, and the wall monitor comes to life—schematics, biofeedback logs, simulated overlays of two bodies in sync.

Yours. And his. Your heart gives a tiny, involuntary jolt.

“We’ve reviewed your data,” Val says. “The bonding agent was more successful than projected. Real-time empathic mirroring. Linked adrenaline response. Even synchronized aggression modulation. Fascinating.”

You glance at your team. No one meets your eye.

“Fascinating doesn’t mean safe,” you say.

“No,” Val agrees, tapping to the next slide, “but it does mean viable.”

Your stomach drops.

She keeps going. “We’ve had early conversations with R&D. We think we can refine it. Pull the limbic entanglement into tighter constraints. Give our agents an edge in the field. Total tactical unity. Real-time mental synchronicity in squads of two to five. Imagine it.”

“I’d rather not,” you say flatly.

Val tilts her head. “That’s surprising. You invented it.”

You cross your arms. “I invented a theory. Not a weapon. That compound was never designed for field ops. It was meant to test artificial empathy synthesis in high-stress environments. I never signed off on deployment.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, sweet as poison. “You tested it. That’s what matters.”

Your jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”

Val smiles.

“I want you to stabilize it.”

The room goes quiet.

You don’t answer.

Because your fingers have curled into fists under the table, and the muscle in your jaw is working too hard.

Val’s smile sharpens. “Don’t make that face. You’re not the first brilliant mind to regret what they’ve built. That’s why we’ve brought in oversight.”

You glance around the table, pulse ticking higher. “This is oversight?”

Val gestures lazily toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”

It opens. He walks in. Bucky.

Same stride. Same black tactical pants. Same expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. But not quite the same. Tighter. Like something inside him is coiled and hasn’t uncoiled since the dampener. You sit straighter without meaning to. He doesn’t look at you. Just nods to the room like it’s a formality. Takes the seat across the table from you, beside Ava, who gives him a quick look. You can feel the space between you stretch like a fault line.

Val keeps going, too casual.

“As most of you know, Sergeant Barnes was one of the two bonded during the prototype incident.”

No one speaks. Ava tilts her head, intrigued. Alexei is still chewing. John looks like he’s waiting to laugh. Bob’s the only one scribbling anything down.

Val turns toward Bucky, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You submitted a full statement. Care to summarize for the room?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“It’s not stable.”

“Define ‘not stable.’”

He looks directly at her now. “There’s no shut-off switch.”

Val smiles like she’s waiting for that. “The dampener worked.”

“Eventually.”

You feel a tug in your chest—but not from the bond. Just memory. Just him.

Val leans back. “Let’s talk about the psychological aftermath.”

You freeze. So does he.

“I read your report,” Val continues. “There were some… interesting observations. About your partner.”

You glance at him, breath catching. He doesn’t speak. Val does.

“‘Responsive. Precise. Too quick to hide discomfort behind sarcasm. Wants to be in control but softens under pressure. Harder to ignore than expected.’”

You stare at her. Then at him. He’s not meeting your eyes. His jaw is tight.

Val keeps reading, but her eyes are on you. “‘I think she felt it too. I think we both wanted it to stop, and neither of us wanted it to stop.’”

The room is silent. No one breathes.

She closes the file with a tap and smiles. “Romantic. Almost poetic.”

Bucky shifts in his chair. “That wasn’t meant for discussion.”

Val keeps going, tapping her tablet again. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t the only one who filed a report.”

Your eyes narrow. She scrolls casually. “Let’s see here…”

Your team shifts awkwardly. Ava raises an brow. Walker leans back, already skeptical.

“Ah—found it,” Val says, lips twitching. “‘Post-dampener vitals returned to pre-bond baseline within 48 hours. No lingering physical effects. Subject reports successful cognitive decoupling.’” She glances at you. “Very clinical so far.”

You say nothing. Your throat is tight.

Val continues reading, voice just loud enough to carry. “‘Subject notes difficulty adjusting to emotional silence. Persistent phantom resonance. Reports occasional insomnia, sensory misfires, and…’” She slows. “‘…a recurring sense of loss with no identifiable origin.’”

You feel the breath leave your lungs.

Val looks up, smile gone. Her tone shifts—mocking, just slightly. “‘It’s strange. I should be relieved to have myself back. But some part of me feels like it’s still looking for him.’”

The silence in the room shifts. Heavy. Sharp. Bucky turns to look at you. Not subtly. Not just a glance. He looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. Like you’ve handed him a key he didn’t know he was allowed to touch.

You look back. And for the first time since the bond broke—you really see him seeing you.

But then his expression shutters. Clean. Cold. Gone. Like he’s pulled the wall back up in one brutal breath.

Val closes the file with a flick of her fingers. 

“Well. This answers my question. If it worked that fast on two unsuspecting individuals—one emotionally distant, the other the one who wrote the damn rules about boundaries—what do we think it’ll do to a trained field team under fire?”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re not trying to refine it. You’re trying to weaponize it.”

Val shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Your pulse spikes. “You want to use forced bonding as a tactical tool. You want soldiers to feel each other die in real time, feel pain that isn’t theirs, emotions that aren’t theirs—”

“They’ll be trained.”

“They’ll be broken.”

Now the room shifts. Ava sits forward. Yelena’s brow lifts. Even Walker glances sideways at Val.

Val only smiles. “Everyone breaks differently, doctor. That’s the point.”

You can’t help it. You turn to Bucky. He’s looking down. Still silent. Still locked. But you know that posture. You’ve felt it. The way he retreats. The way he steels himself before walking away.

Val’s voice cuts back in. “Final reports are due in forty-eight hours. Including yours, Doctor. Whether you cooperate or not, this is moving forward.”

You don’t answer. She rises. The others begin to move.

But Bucky doesn’t. Not until the last chair scrapes back. Then he stands. And walks out without looking back. This time, you don’t hesitate.

You catch him in the hallway just outside the briefing room.

“Barnes.”

He keeps walking, boots steady on the polished floor like you’re not behind him, like he didn’t just bolt from a public dissection of your most private thoughts. You pick up the pace.

“I said—”

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning. “Not here.”

You follow anyway. Right past the security checkpoint. Into the common area of the residential wing.

Then you hear them. Voices behind you—low, not subtle. Bob. Alexei. You’d bet money Walker’s loitering just out of view, arms crossed and dying for gossip.

“Wow,” Yelena says from behind the coffee bar. “Very dramatic storm-off. Ten out of ten.”

Bucky still doesn’t stop. You catch up beside him, matching his pace. “You’re seriously going to act like none of that meant anything?”

“I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” he snaps, still not looking at you.

You ignore it. “What did you think was going to happen? You walk away and I just go back to being a line item in your report?”

He reaches the end of the hallway. Stops. Jaw locked. Hands at his sides.

“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. More tired.

You hesitate.  And then you say it—just low enough for him to really hear it.

“Bucky, please.”

His head turns. Slow. Measured. Like he didn’t expect you to use his name. Like it broke through something.

You stare up at him. One beat. Two. And then he grabs your wrist—not rough, not rushed—and pulls you with him through the nearest door.

His quarters. The lock clicks behind you. He doesn’t let go. You’re both breathing too hard for how little either of you has moved. His fingers tighten around your wrist.

“I don’t need a debrief,” he says flatly. “Whatever Val’s hoping you’ll get out of this—”

“Don’t do that,” you say.

His shoulders go rigid. “Do what.”

“Shut me out.”

He finally turns. And the look on his face makes your heart falter.

He’s not angry. He’s gutted.

“I told you, once this wore off—”

“I didn’t say it because of the link,” you snap. “I said it because it’s true.”

He shakes his head. “You think it’s true. Because it’s recent. Because you’re still sorting it out.”

“No,” you say. “I said it because I miss you. Because I can’t sleep. Because the silence feels worse than the noise ever did.”

He goes quiet. You take a step closer.

“And don’t tell me it’s not real. Don’t tell me it’s just feedback. I’ve been through every model of post-synthetic resonance in the literature. This isn’t detox.”

Bucky stares at you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s aching to. But the wall is still up. Tighter than ever.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re going to walk out of here and get over it. And I’m going to remember everything I said. Everything I wanted. And wish I hadn’t said a goddamn word.”

That knocks the air out of you. You feel the urge to step back—but you don’t. You root yourself there.

“I’m not over it,” you say, quietly. “And I don’t want to be.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And something shifts in him. But he still doesn’t move. So you step closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of the space between you. Not anymore. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

“I’ve spent two weeks trying to shut you out of my head,” you murmur. “Pretending I didn’t miss you. That I wasn’t checking every hallway and every email, wondering if you’d say something.”

He exhales sharply through his nose and looks down.

“And when you didn’t,” you add, voice tighter now, “I told myself you were just being careful. That you were trying to do the right thing.”

A pause. Then, lower.

“But maybe it was just easier for you.”

That hits. You see it—right in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak. So you finish it.

“Either you felt what I felt or you didn’t,” you say, chin lifting. “But don’t stand there and act like it was just some side effect. Like all of it—everything between us—was just my body misfiring.”

You take a final step closer to him.

“I know who you are now—not just the version you show, not the file, not the soldier. You. I felt every part you tried to hide. And it only made me want you more. And if that was all fake, I don’t know what the hell is real anymore.”

That’s when he moves.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s like something inside him snaps, and before you can take another breath, his hands are in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for years—not weeks.

You stumble into him with a gasp, grabbing the front of his shirt like you need it to stay standing. His kiss is rough, hungry, almost frantic—like he’s trying to erase the silence with his teeth.

He spins you, walks you backwards until your shoulders hit the door, and then he’s bracing one arm beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip like he needs to feel you, all of you, right now.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. Anger. Frustration. Hunger. Something dangerously close to relief. He pulls back just long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing hard.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, hoarse.

“Yes,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the line of his stomach. “I do.”

His mouth reclaims yours. This time, the kiss is slower. Hungrier. Less desperation, more purpose. His tongue traces the shape of your lips, parting them before diving in. His hands move, rough and reverent. Skimming your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. They slide beneath your shirt, palms splayed wide like he’s trying to cover all of you at once, like he can’t decide what to touch first. You feel the heat of him through every inch of fabric, and it lights you up from the inside.

He hesitates Just a little. Like it costs him something to stop. A breath caught in his throat. Fingers curling into fists where they’d just been on your ribs. Everything is vibrating with want. No bond. No compound tether. Just this. Just him. And he’s shaking. Not visibly. But you feel it in his breath. In the way his hands flex when they grip your hips. Like he’s holding back with every ounce of control he has left.

“You sure?” he rasps, low and wrecked.

You nod. He doesn’t move. So you press your mouth to his ear. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. “I’ve been sure since I looked you in the eye and told you not to think about sex.”

He exhales, a bit shaky, but lifts you, guiding you backward toward the bed. Walking you slow and blind, like he’s memorized every inch of you and he’s finally getting to touch what he learned.

You hit the mattress. He’s on you a second later, crowding you down with the weight of his body, the strength of his stare.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your cheek. “I want to see you.”

Your heart stutters as he starts to undress you. Slow at first, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Fingers dragging over skin with intention. Mouth kissing every new inch he uncovers.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whimper, hands reaching, but he pins your wrists lightly to the bed.

“Let me,” he says. “You’ve had your hands on yourself enough, haven’t you?”

Your face burns but your thighs twitch. He clocks it.

“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Liked making me feel it. Every fuckin’ second.”

“Bucky—”

“You wanna know what it did to me?” he asks, trailing his fingers down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “The way you touched yourself? Knowing I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t help you. Couldn’t taste you.”

Your breath hitches as his lips graze your inner thigh.

“I almost lost it, doll.”

He groans as he spreads you open, thumb teasing, mouth following. He’s slow at first. Too slow. Licking soft circles like he’s memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

And then he dives in.

Moans into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Holds your thighs apart, firm and unrelenting, while his tongue works in perfect rhythm. Watching you. Murmuring praise between licks and gasps. Your hips twitch, a whimper slipping through your clenched teeth.

“Already?” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “You that close, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but it’s useless.

“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet.”

You arch up in response, gasping.

“Needy little thing,” he laughs, brushing his fingers through your folds. “Bet this is all you’ve been thinking about the past two weeks, huh?”

He plunges a finger inside of you and curls, as do your toes while you rasp out.

“Bucky, please!”

“You gonna fall apart for me, doll?” he murmurs against you, the words so filthy and tender they almost make you cry. “I want it. Want to feel you shake. Want to taste every bit of it.”

He flicks his tongue in tight circles, then flattens it low and slow. Adding another finger to your weeping core. Your hips start to shake, lifting off the bed. He feels it and grips you tighter.

“Don’t fight it,” he gasps into you. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s mine.”

He sucks hard—just once—and your vision whites out. You try to warn him. A gasp, a stuttered breath, a twist of your hips. But it’s already too late. You come with a cry, fists clutching the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders, everything inside you unraveling at once.

It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good. And he groans into you like he’s the one coming. You’re limp, gasping, still shaking—and he’s still there, mouth wet, fingers brushing your hip.

“Shit,” you breathe. “That was…”

He kisses the inside of your thigh. Then again, a little higher.

“You’re not done yet,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.”

He keeps going, softer now—just enough to draw the aftershocks out of you, murmuring things you can barely hear over your own heartbeat.

“So perfect. So fuckin’ sweet”

You blink through the stars behind your eyes, chest rising in fast, uneven bursts.

“Bucky—”

He finally comes up for air, his eyes are darker with something deeper than just heat as his gaze locks on yours. And for a second, neither of you moves.

You’re still panting, still wrecked from his mouth and fingers, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize you, even as his restraint starts to crack again.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

“Good,” he says, fingers sliding up your sides. “Because I’m not done learning how you fall apart.”

You whine when he pulls away. But when his own shirt comes off, followed by the rest, your breath stutters—because even now, with the link broken, you’re still wrecked by your need for him.

Not like before. Not a shared mind or emotion. But like muscle memory. Like your skin knows him now. His mouth tilts up—barely a smile, more like relief bleeding through restraint.

Then he climbs your body like he owns it, skin dragging over skin. Not rushing. Savoring. Like he’s been starving for you and doesn’t want to miss a single fucking bite. His chest brushes yours—bare, flushed—and you both exhale hard, the contact so electric it knocks the air from your lungs.

You reach for him, aching, but he catches your wrists—not to stop you. To feel you. To anchor himself. His thumbs press into your palms, grounding hard.

“You still want this?” he murmurs.

You nod. But that’s not enough. Not for either of you.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”

He kisses you like he means to brand it into you, deep and claiming. His whole body comes down over yours, pinning you into the mattress with his weight like he’s trying to fuck the memory of him into your bones.

His hand trails down your side, over your hip, gripping your thigh with purpose. Holding you there, keeping you open for him.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, slowly dragging his cock against your sensitive heat. “That’s real. Not chemicals. Not the compound.”

You nod again, blinking up at him.

“I felt you before, doll,” he murmurs, pressing the head against your entrance. “But now? Now I get to have you.”

Then he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch as it steals the air from your lungs, not realizing how you could ever feel this full. He’s everywhere. It’s not artificial. It’s just him. Just this. And it’s overwhelming in a completely different way.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, as his hips finally meet yours. “Like you were made for me.”

He moves slow at first, watching your face, chasing every gasp, every arch of your body. Letting you relax into the stretch as he drags himself in and out of you. Your body answers him before your mouth can. Nails digging into his shoulder. The pressure already building, faster this time, hotter. And he feels it, responding with a low, rough growl in your ear.

“Got used to feeling everything,” he murmurs. “Now I’ve gotta earn it. Every sound. Every twitch of those perfect fuckin’ hips.”

You can’t even speak. You moan, hips tilting up, greedy for more.

“That’s right,” he breathes, rougher now. “Show me.”

He rocks into you again, harder this time. You gasp, cry out softly against his shoulder. 

“Bucky—please—”

“You begging already?” he groans, continuing to pound you deeper into the mattress. “Thought I was just a side effect.”

“You weren’t.”

He freezes, just for a moment. Kisses you again, softer now, but more desperate.

“Say it again.” His forehead presses to yours.

You touch his face, thumb brushing the hard line of his jaw. “You weren’t.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”

You whimper, helpless as your walls begin to flutter around him.

“Yeah, you are,” he breathes. “I can feel it. So tight around me already.”

And the way he looks at you—wrecked and reverent and just this side of feral—makes your whole body stutter. You want it. Want to be ruined by him. Claimed by him.

You tighten around him again, and his hips snap harder. His hand slips between your bodies. Finds your clit. Zeroes in without mercy.

“Give it to me,” he whispers into your throat. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

It hits like a freight train—loud and messy and devastating. Your back arches, your breath catches, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left.

He fucks you through it—long, dragging thrusts that keep you trembling. Your body’s oversensitive now, every nerve frayed, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Bucky,” you moan, hand in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.

He breaths into your mouth—kissing you like he’s starving.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he pants. “You know that?”

You whimper, thighs shaking.

“I tried to keep it together,” he growls, voice ragged. “I tried—”

Every thrust is brutal now. Precise. Shattering.

“Fuck,” he breaths. “When you were—”

“Buck—”

He kisses you again, biting your lip. His hand moves between you again, thumb rubbing fast and perfect.

“God, baby—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He growls your name, broken and wrecked, hips jerking once, twice—And you shatter. It slams through you—raw, loud, everything burning at the edges. Your body seizes, clenching around him, sobbing his name as you fall apart in his arms.

He buries himself inside you. You feel the heat. The flood. The way he tries to hold himself together and can’t. He’s trembling over you, muscles locked tight, jaw clenched as he pulses deep in you, riding it out with a low, wrecked moan.

You’re both gasping now. Shaking. Tangled up and clinging. And still—he doesn’t pull away. He stays. Forehead to yours, still buried deep, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’ve never thought—” he starts, voice ragged. “That wasn’t just—”

You touch his face, soft now. “I know.”

Because you do. This wasn’t adrenaline. Wasn’t science. Wasn’t the bond. It was him. It was you. He lifts his head slowly. Looks at you like he’s still afraid to believe it. So you cup his face, kiss his temple, and whisper, “Don’t you dare vanish on me now.”

His throat works, jaw clenches. But he doesn’t run.

He stays right where he is. Wrapped around you.

—-

The room is warm. Quiet. You’re lying on your back, one leg tangled with his, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Bucky’s fingers skim slow circles over your hip, like he hasn’t figured out how to stop touching you yet. Or doesn’t want to. You stare at the ceiling.

“Tell me again how this wasn’t a terrible idea,” you murmur.

He huffs out a laugh. “It was a terrible idea.”

“Oh, good,” you say. “So we’re on the same page.”

He shifts, rolling just enough to look at you. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising a little fast, like he hasn’t fully come down. There’s a smudge of dried sweat at his temple and your teeth marks fading on his neck, and you have the completely inappropriate urge to kiss both.

“Can’t believe I got to sleep with the woman who called me a glorified blunt object,” he says dryly.

You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to sleep with the guy who implied my life’s work was an emotional leash.”

“Touché.”

You sigh. Close your eyes for a second. The weight of it all—what came before, what you just crossed into—settles somewhere behind your ribs. He’s still watching you when you open them again.

“I’ll deal with Val,” he says suddenly. “If she tries to pull anything with the compound, I’ll shut it down.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I usually am.”

You study him for a beat. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Barnes.”

“No,” he says. “But I want to.”

Something about the way he says it. Casual and quiet, like it isn’t a big deal, makes your stomach tighten. He’s not pushing. Not performing. He just means it. You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “You know, if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d end up in your bed—”

“You would’ve laughed in my face.”

“I did laugh in your face.”

“You told me I looked like a government-issued mistake.”

You snort. “Well. You kind of did.”

He smirks, fingers brushing a line along your spine. “Still think I’m a mistake?”

You glance up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll dodge or hit back. So you lean up, kiss him—soft, but real. Honest.

“Maybe not a mistake,” you whisper against his mouth. “Maybe just… statistically improbable.”

He laughs against your lips. You both fall back into the pillows, tangled up and far too warm, but neither of you moves.

Eventually he murmurs, “This thing between us—whatever it is—it’s real now, right?”

You stretch a leg over his, sighing. “I mean, if it’s not, then I’m still having incredibly vivid sex dreams while awake.”

“That’s flattering.”

“That’s science.”

He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “Then let’s see what happens without science.”

You let that settle. No neurobond. No link. No forced proximity. Just choice. You curl in closer. And this time, when you breathe him in, you don’t feel afraid.

Just steady. Just… okay. You smile. And he feels it.

[allsteddie]

Richard Harrington is not happy when he finds out his son is queer. Even less so that he’s not only queer, but also fooling around with the town freak. Disappointment doesn’t even begin to describe what he feels; disgust is a little closer, but still not enough.

And Steve is not surprised when his father proves to be exactly the fucking discriminating asshole he’s always known he was. Their confrontation after his dad found out about him and Eddie is not pretty, but goes just how Steve expected it would.

Steve is not welcome in his father’s house anymore, and he is officially cut out of the Harrington money for good. That’s okay, though. Again, Steve has been expecting it to happen sooner or later, so at least he’s had time to prepare for it in advance.

He packs his things and leaves the house without looking back. That place has stopped being his home years ago, finally leaving it behind is pretty easy, almost a relief.

He and Eddie move in together. Steve has quite a bit saved up from his jobs at Scoops Ahoy and Family Video, and Eddie has been working with his uncle since he graduated, so between the two of them they can easily afford a small apartment downtown. It’s nothing fancy, far from it, but Eddie is not a fancy guy and Steve honestly doesn’t care at all; he’s learned a long time ago that money really doesn’t equal happiness.

Life is not easy. There’s no upside down anymore, but there are so many people still judging Eddie for things he didn’t do, and also so many people judging both of them just because they decided they’re not afraid to love each other openly. They face everything together, as always, but things get harder when their friends start going away to pursue their personal goals and they are the only ones left stuck in Hawkins, with no back up if needed.

Almost a year after they drop Dustin off at college, Steve and Eddie make a decision. They pack everything they have, load it into Steve’s car and move to Indianapolis to start over, this time without the weight of unfair misconceptions hanging over their heads for once.

It’s the best decision they could have made. Eddie finds a job at a record store, a dream come true for him, really, and Steve has enough experience with customer service (and the face and hair) to land a position in a designer store not that far from where they live. Money is not a problem, their past is just that, past, and the two of them make a real home out of their modest apartment. For the first time in a while, life is good.

Then, a couple of years after they leave Hawkins, Steve’s mom shows up at their doorstep, unannounced.

Eddie prepares himself for the worst. He hadn’t been there the night Steve left his parents’ house, but he had seen the bruises and the split lip the asshole had left behind when their argument escalated to something more physical. And even though Steve has never said bad things about his mother, not the way he’s said about his father, Eddie can’t bring himself to trust someone who doesn’t fight to protect their only son.

So imagine Eddie’s surprise when the first thing the woman says when she opens her mouth is, “I’m going to leave him, Steve. I can’t take it anymore.”

And Steve clearly also wasn’t expecting that because the “What?” he lets out is more a squeak than anything else.

Steve’s mom (‘Laura. My name is Laura. It’s nice to finally meet you, Eddie’) spends the afternoon at their place and the three of them have a very long, very needed talk.

She apologizes. She says she recognizes she should have said something when her husband was being a dick, that she should have intervened when he tried to kick Steve out, but she had been so afraid that she just couldn’t.

“I know this is not an excuse,” she says. “You’re my son, I should have fought for you. But believe me when I say I’ve regretted it every single day since it happened.”

She also hands Steve a small piece of paper with the name of a bank and a bunch of numbers scribbled on it.

“This is the bank account I opened for you when my mother died and left you half of her money,” the woman explains before either of them can ask. “You probably don’t remember her; you were three when she died. You were also her only grandchild, so half of the inheritance went to me, and half to you.���

“And how much money is that?” Steve asks, surprised.

“Over four hundred thousand dollars, I think. Close to five hundred, because I put part of it in a fund, but I don’t know exactly how much.”

“What the fuck!?” Eddie wheezes.

“Mom, I don’t want your money,” Steve argues.

His mom shakes her head. “But it’s your money,” she insists. “Your grandmother left it to you, so it’s yours.”

She doesn’t stay much longer after that. Steve asks if she’s gonna be okay facing his father by herself and Laura brushes off her son’s concern.

“I doubt Richard’s gonna care if I’m gone. I’ve barely seen him these past months, too busy with his new mistress, I guess.”

She hugs Steve goodbye, promises she’ll keep in touch from now on and leaves. Just like that. As if giving her son almost half a million dollars was something she did every freaking day.

“Babe, no offense, but your mother is crazy,” Eddie says after the woman leaves, still pretty stunned by how things turned out.

“She married my dad, of course she’s crazy.”

There’s a total of $357,461 in the bank account his mother handed him, plus $183,972 in the fund she mentioned. They don’t touch the fund money, but they do use a good chunk of the rest to open their own record store in Indianapolis; Eddie taking care of everything music related, while Steve handles the boring business side of things.

And although running their own business is hard work, it’s something they enjoy because they can do it together. They faced literal monsters together, for fuck’s sake, dealing with annoying costumers is child’s play.

(As for Laura Harrington, she does leave her husband. The money she gets out of the divorce, plus her inheritance money, is enough that she’s never gonna have to worry about working a single day in her life. She visits Steve and Eddie occasionally, as she promised, but most of her days are spent travelling all around Europe. Eddie still thinks she’s crazy, but he admits she’s also kinda fun to have around now and then.)

[blaysreid]

HEARTS FULL

pairing = germaphobe!spencer + bubbly!extrovert!reader

summary = Her thing is linking arms. His thing is avoiding touch. For years, they’ve danced around it. Until one sleepy night when she finally reaches for him and finds that maybe he’s been hoping she would all along.

The case had finally broken. Not with a bang, but with the kind of exhausted silence that only came after too many days chasing shadows through a rural Midwest town. The unsub was caught. The paperwork signed. Another horror story catalogued and closed.

And now, the team was dragging themselves back toward the airstrip, the cold wind tugging at jackets and fraying what little energy they had left.

You were walking beside JJ, who you’d barely spoken to in three days, too many hours spent inside precinct walls, too many leads that went nowhere. The moment her elbow brushed yours, you naturally slipped your arm through hers and leaned against her.

She didn’t even flinch.

She just smiled tiredly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just ready to be horizontal for, like… seventeen years.”

JJ snorted. “Same.”

Spencer walked a few paces ahead, head ducked down slightly as he adjusted the strap of his bag. You caught yourself watching the way his shoulder rose and fell. The subtle tension he always carried right there. He looked tired, exhausted even.

Since Quantico. Since the first year of profiling classes and coffee fueled late night study sessions. Since sitting on a park bench with him after your first real field op, both of you too shaken to speak until you finally just leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, “We did it.”

That had been the only time you ever touched him like that. He hadn’t pulled away. But after that, he told you gently, so gently that physical contact just wasn’t his thing. That he appreciated you, that he trusted you, but he wasn’t comfortable being touched. Nothing personal towards you, it's with everyone.

So you never did it again.

Not even your signature move - the arm linking. You did it with everyone else. Even Hotch, sometimes, when he was in a rare good mood and you were bouncing with post case energy. Hotch gladly even held his arm higher so you can hold it comfortably. Derek would always grin when you grabbed him. Garcia would squeal and twirl with you.

But Spencer?

You kept a careful distance. Even now, after years since you joined together, years after he told you to not take his words personally.

Even though you ached to reach for him. Sometimes to close the space, to show him that whatever this was between you two, it mattered more than what either of you were willing to say out loud.

You weren’t stupid. You knew you had a crush on him. And years after being a profiler you can tell he doesn't exactly think of you as a friend either. But you were also patient. And subtle. And maybe a little scared, too.

You boarded the jet, leaned your head against the window, and watched the sky shift from gold to blue to dark velvet.

⸻⸻

By the time you landed and made it back to the BAU headquarters, it was past midnight. Everyone had peeled off quickly, with Derek leaving first, then JJ with a yawned goodbye, Garcia blowing a kiss as she disappeared into the elevator with hotch eagerly waiting to see Jack after the long case.

You stood in the hallway with Spencer, the hum of vending machines and flickering lights the only company.

“Are you walking?” he asked, shouldering his bag again.

You nodded. “Too keyed up to crash yet. You?” Your hands reaching to pay for your vending machine drink.

“I was going to stop at that bookstore on Jefferson in the morning. That's if we don’t get called in of course."

You smiled. “You still haven’t finished that obscure memory treatise, huh?”

He smiled back a real one, small and crooked. “I have. Twice. I just like the smell in there.”

You tilted your head. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.” He giggles stepping forward.

“It’s not. It’s an adorable fact.”

He didn’t look away.

And neither did you as you both started making your way out.

“So,” you said after a beat. “Wanna go together? If we’re free?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly. Then, quieter “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You walked side by side toward the building’s exit. Your footsteps echoed softly. The air outside was cool, city lights casting everything in silver and gold. You said something, probably a joke about Rossi falling asleep with his eyes open on the plane and Spencer laughed, this breathy little sound that always made your heart feel a size too small.

And then, without thinking, without planning, you reached out and looped your arm through his.

His entire body went still.

You froze.

“Oh,” you said quickly, already starting to pull back. “Sorry- I wasn’t- I didn’t think- "

But you didn’t get the chance to finish.

Because Spencer… didn’t let go.

His arm stayed linked with yours. Not stiff. Not cold. But delicate, like he was holding something breakable. His fingers brushed against the inside of your elbow.

You turned to look at him.

He was blushing.

He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. And then he just smiled.

The tiniest, shyest smile you’d ever seen from him.

“I didn’t think I’d like this,” he said quietly, almost like he was confessing something.

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding.

“But you do?” you asked.

He looked down at your arms, still joined. His hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “With you, I do.”

You didn’t say anything else for a while.

You just walked like that - two shadows under the streetlights, arms tangled, hearts full.

And maybe you’d never said it out loud.

Maybe the words hadn’t quite come yet.

But in that quiet space between heartbeats, between two people who’d always known they were different…

You both understood.

[aenramsden]

[ID: All quotes from the linked interviews set over relevant gifs from the movie:

Image 1: For the three members of Huntrix, Kang referenced K-pop idols and models. They looked at ITZY, BLACKPINK, and TWICE. Korean model Ahn So Yeon inspired the fashion-forward character, Mira. For Zoey, Kang wanted a cutesy vibe. With Rumi, they leaned into a very classic, beautiful Korean look.

Image 2: The Saja Boys were inspired by Korean groups such as Tomorrow X Together, BTS, Stray Kids, ATEEZ, BIGBAnG, and Monsta X. They all follow the same archetype. There's always a muscular one who shows off his abs; one who was the romantic type (his bangs were purposefully meant to be heart-shaped); and th ebaby of the group. Baby Saja is obviously the maknae and they're usually the rapper of the group.

Image 3: Though the Saja Boys were given their own individual, distinct looks, they all have one thing in common. Fun fact: they all share the same CG body, except for Abby Saja, because he's a little bit bigger and he was bulked up like 20%.

Image 4: In Maggie's original mission, there's this idea of presenting women that were badass, super beautiful, and glamorous. But also weird and funny, food-loving, and silly and wearing their pajama pants. That combination of being fantastically perfect and also very flawed and human is at the heart of a lot of Korean storytelling.

Image 5: It was really just wanting the girls to feel very real. It was really to show women the way that Kang wanted women to be portrayed in tmovies, especially in a superhero movie. They worked really hard to create mouth shapes and eye shapes that were very Korean. So even though the girls are speaking English, they were mouth shapes that you would only make as a Korean person, with the Korean language.

Image 6: Kang admitted that the character of Jinu was inspired mainly by K-drama actors. Cha Eun-Woo and Nam Joo-Hyuk were leading men on the inspiration boards. They wanted him to have a very classic Korean look, which is why he had dark hair. Though Ahn was cast as the voice after the character was created, Kang does see the similarities.

Image 7: The costumes are also plot points. For example, with Rumi, there's the "Golden" song and the gold costumes represent their kind of MacGuffin of a dream that they're chasing of being perfect. By the end of the second act, Rumi is standing there and that dream is literally and physically in tatters. It's shredded around her.

Image 8: The name Saja Boys has a deep meaning. The word "Saja" means "lion" and also refers to Jeoseung Saja, the reaper/messenger of death of Korean folklore who escorts souls to the afterlife.

Image 9: The tiger and mysterious bird are inspired by Korean folk paintings, mainly Jakhodo (tiger and magpie art). Their names were revealed by the director on social media. Derpy is a clumsy cat-like tiger who delivers letters and tries to fix fallen objects. Sussie is a suspicious magpie with traffic-light eyes and a stolen traditional Korean hat.

Image 10: Ultimately, for Jinu's story is felt right for him to not get everything and be around at the end. He really needed to listen and learn from Rumi's message, be inspired by it and sacrifice himself for the better good. He give shis soul to teh big battle and ultimately saves her, but he's also the catalyst for all the other fans to sing with Rumi. He was the first domino to fall.

Image 11: There were several epiphanies with the color identity. The Golden Honmoon, which is a bit of a false goal. It's one color, pure, singular, and perfect. Thematically, there's this idea that we have more than one dimension to us. By acknowledging those imperfections, we get closer and maybe form stronger relationships. That helped them figure out what is called a Rainbow Honmoon.]

KPOP DEMON HUNTERS + TRIVIA From interviews with the directors {✩ | ✩ | ✩}

[sweetshuga]

ⓘ content warnings: smut ⋆ +18 ⋆ age gap ⋆ split second of fluff ⋆ sexual tension ⋆ munch!matt ⋆ pussy eating ⋆ pussy drunk!matt ⋆ praise kink ⋆ beard rash ⋆ light angst (unresolved) + more. «prompt»

It was almost the end of the semester and things were hectic to say the least. Exams were right around the corner and everyone was studying—even those who lazed around all semester.

Everyone was busy, and that included the professors and lecturers. Some were busy enough to neglect shaving, not having enough time to do anything more than what was necessary.

Matt Sturniolo—the lecturer you’d been having a physical relationship with—walked into the lecture hall in loose faded jeans, dark blue and white checkered button up and...

A grown out beard.

You immediately had to cross your legs in a futile attempt to get rid of the tension beginning to pool in your panties. You had seen him with a stubble, or a five o’clock shadow, but never a partially grown out beard. His blue eyes seemed to pop out even more in all the blue he wore, making him look more intimidating than usual.

His eyes were dead, expression serious, as he began to talk. The slight dark circles under his eyes paired with the beard and mustache combo had you wanting- no, needing to grind on his face.

You sat in the uni library, studying, trying but failing to erase the image of Matt’s facial hair out of your mind. God, he looked so fucking good. It was almost laughable how much you craved him between your legs.

With a sigh, you forced yourself to focus on your assignment and started to type on your laptop again. It had been two hours since you began working on your assignment and yet you hadn’t gotten much work done.

Suddenly, your phone lit up with a message, reminding you that you forgot to turn it off. You usually turn it off before you study so you wouldn’t get distracted but you somehow forgot to turn it off today. Your mind was too preoccupied with Matt.

«read the text messages»

As embarrassing as it was, you couldn’t help but rush to get there. He had never invited you to come over to his place. Hell, you probably had been there only once before and it was simply to bring a few of your assignments over. Which he initially refused but gave in after your pouty persuasion.

When you arrived at his place, he opened the door in loose grey sweatpants and bright pink t-shirt. His hair was damp and slightly messy like he’d been running his fingers through it after his shower.

Your eyes immediately landed on his face—or well, his facial hair.

Seeing your eyes glued to his beard, Matt couldn’t help his lips from curling up subtly at the corners, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"See something you like, sweetheart?"

His voice snapped you out of the tiny trance you were in, making you blink at him for a moment before you composed yourself, clearing your throat.

"Your beard... I don’t think I’ve ever seen you grow it out—not this much at least. You always shave." You pointed out, not answering his question but not denying it either.

"Yeah, I haven’t really had the time..." He paused, a hand coming up to scratch his jaw, briefly checking you out before continuing. "You look cute in that."

You glanced down at the simple oversized hoodie and pleated skirt you were wearing, your cheeks heating up despite your attempt to seem as experienced and composed as you made yourself out to be.

"Thanks, it’s nothing special though-"

"And? It looks good on you." He cut you off before you could say anything else.

"You gonna stand there all day, pretty?" He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for your response, and you could hear the teasing in his tone—something about it making your stomach swarm with butterflies.

"Yeah, no. I mean- I just... You know- Sleep deprivation. Right. I’m a bit sleep deprived so I just-" You stammered, rambling nonsense, your face flushing further.

He simply chuckled, the sound slightly deeper than usual.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the sound of his laughter, goosebumps breaking out on your skin.

Defeated, you quietly walked in when he stepped aside, lips pressed in a thin line, not knowing whether to cry or laugh at yourself.

Matt closed the front door and walked behind you. He was so close—almost pressed up against you. One of his hands slid down to rest on your waist as he leaned down to whisper lowly in your ear.

"My bedroom is the first door to the right. Wait for me there."

He slowly straightened up, his hand lingering on your waist for a moment too long before he lifted the same hand to gently pat your head then made his way to his kitchen—most likely to get something to drink and/or eat.

You watched him disappear into the kitchen, frozen in place, his whispered words still ringing in your ear. You complied with his request—after taking a few seconds to compose yourself—and made your way towards his bedroom.

When you walked inside, you were immediately hit with the smell of his cologne and something floral, probably air freshener.

You moved towards his bed, which had wine red silk sheets and matching pillowcase, paired with white fluffy comforter, quite the mature taste. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, you took in his room—from the little figurines on his bookshelf to the minimalistic decorations.

You couldn’t help your curiosity and stood up from his bed and walked towards the wall facing his bed where a painting—of a lone cabin in a dense forest—was hung.

"Beautiful isn’t it?"

Your head snapped to the side, startled by Matt’s voice. He was holding a few snacks and two cans of soda—not at all what you imagined him to like. A small laugh escaped you before you could stop yourself.

Matt smirked at your laughter, walking towards the bed and setting the snacks and soda down on the nightstand before turning to you with an amused expression.

"May I ask what’s so funny?" He questioned, sitting down on his bed, patting the space beside him, signaling you to come sit.

You obliged without being told twice and sat down beside him, close enough that your thighs were brushing against each other.

"Nothing... It’s just the snacks and soda were nothing l expected."

"What, you thought I’d bring alcohol or something?" He chuckled. "I try to stay away from things like that, but I do drink sometimes—it’s almost inevitable when you’re a working adult."

After some small talk that you usually never had with him, Matt brought up the actual reason you were at his place.

"So, about how you couldn’t orgasm," he began, taking a sip from his can of soda. "I hope you’re ready to change that."

He was acting differently today. Almost sweet. Oddly so.

It started with a slow kiss that Matt initiated but it didn’t take long for his tongue to slip between your parted lips, tangling with yours as he gently pushed you down on his bed, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw and down your neck before beginning to nip and suck the sensitive skin there.

His hands roamed over your body as if he was worshipping you, making you arch into his touch.

Your breath hitched softly when he tugged at the tiny skirt you wore for him, and you let him take it off without hesitation, letting him see your lace panties that were beginning to have a wet spot forming in the middle.

"Fuuck," he rasped. "Look at you."

His hands smoothed over your thighs, dick throbbing and tenting his sweats obscenely, breathing significantly heavier than before and pupils greatly dilated—making his pretty blue orbs look black in the dim lighting of the night lamp.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulled them off in one smooth motion, eliciting a surprised giggle from you.

"Prof-"

"Matt." He cut you off. "Call me Matt."

"Matt."

He smiled at your obedience. "Good girl," he purred.

Your breath hitched softly at the praise, his honey-like voice making that fire deep in your gut burn hotter.

You watched with hooded eyes as he kissed down your stomach, making your abdominal muscles tremble and quiver under his soft yet hungry kisses. The further down he went the more ragged your breath became.

Matt could smell your arousal. The scent was making his head spin. It was so intoxicating, so sweet, and it was making him hungry. His mouth watered as he got closer to his destination, resulting in his kisses becoming sloppier and more hurried.

Your breath hitched deep in your throat when Matt placed a soft kiss on your sensitive clit. Swallowing hard, he flattened his tongue and licked a stripe up your soaked folds, as if you were his favorite ice cream.

A soft, shuddering sigh slipped past your lips as Matt’s tongue slowly lapped up your juices, groaning softly in delight as the musky yet sweet taste of your arousal overwhelmed his taste buds, sending sparks of pleasure through him.

"Fuuck... You taste soo good..." Matt murmured as he leaned back slightly to look at your glistening pussy before looking up into your eyes through his lashes.

He looked undone already, panting softly, eyes looking almost glazed over like he was the one experiencing pleasure.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage and you didn’t know if it was because of him looking at you like a hungry beast waiting to feast on his prey or if it was because of the anticipation coursing through you. But one thing was for sure, him between your thighs was a sight you would never get tired of seeing.

Just as you let your guard down and got lost in thought, Matt’s mouth was back on your pussy, licking and sucking on your sensitive flesh as if he couldn’t get enough.

The sounds he was making were incredibly erotic and so fucking dirty. The soft, wet smacks of his lips almost french kissing your folds had your face burning hot in embarrassment.

"That feels so fucking good..." You found yourself moaning, your fingers tangling in his unruly brown locks, urging him to keep going.

Matt groaned against your pussy, the sound raw and filled to the brim with desire. His large hands slid under your ass, gripping the supple flesh, using his strong grip to pull you closer to his face.

He had been careful not to let his beard scratch your inner thighs but the taste of you on his tongue and the pleasure he felt from making you feel good was beginning to mess with his head, hence making him forget about his facial hair.

You felt something coarse rub against your inner thighs and you knew exactly what it was. It didn’t hurt at first, just a slight tickling sensation that had you squirming more than usual. But then Matt wrapped his arms around your thighs in an iron grip, locking you in place and keeping you glued to his face.

Before you could say anything about his facial hair, he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking gently. The pleasure he was giving you, paired with the slight discomfort of his beard rubbing against your delicate skin, made your mind go numb.

Your fingers tightened its hold on Matt’s hair, unsure if you wanted to push his face away and or pull it closer. Although you felt discomfort, you couldn’t get yourself to tell Matt, fearing he’d get worried and stop. You were getting close after all. You didn’t want him to stop.

Your hips twitched, rocking ever so slightly against his tongue as your orgasm approached slowly but surely. And Matt, ever the observer, noticed the way your body reacted. Every little jolt made him more aware of your impending orgasm.

The anticipation from knowing you weren’t far from coming all over his tongue was making him extremely turned on. The fabric of his sweats stretched taut around his erection and Matt couldn’t help but roll his hips against the mattress.

He’d always enjoyed eating pussy, but he had never unraveled this much during it. It felt as if he was the one on the receiving end with how much pleasure he felt just knowing he was making you feel good.

Your thighs quivered, your breaths coming in shorter gasps and pants. The amount of hitch in your breath was enough for Matt to understand that you were right on the edge, ready to fall.

And who was he to stop you?

His tongue flicked your clit rapidly, his eyelids fluttering. Groans clawed its way out of his throat and vibrated against your pussy as if he was feeling pleasure from munching on you. His jaw and tongue muscles ached from exertion but he had no intention to stop.

He was determined to make you come.

"Fuuck... Matt-- I’m—ahnn—cumming, cumming!" You cried out, body tensing briefly before shuddering uncontrollably. Your release washed over you in strong waves, each one making you whimper softly and roll your hips against his face.

A moan, raw and full of need, rumbled out of his chest as the sweet taste of your release coated his tongue and he eagerly lapped it all up.

"Y’taste fucking incredible, sweetheart-" Matt cut himself off with a groan of pleasure. He wasn’t even lying, you tasted like something he could eat every day and night and every hour in between.

He helped you ride out your high with his tongue, reluctantly pulling his head back when your body went limp, sated. He wanted to feast on you more but with the exhaustion from his busy schedule and the way his jaw ached, he wasn’t sure if he could.

Watching the blatant satisfaction on your face made him feel quite good. His ego skyrocketed when you opened your eyes and gazed at him with those soft, glazed over eyes filled with post-orgasm vulnerability.

He opened his mouth to tease you about how he just helped you come when you were having trouble orgasming on your own.

But then remembered his role in your life. He was your lecturer and you were just his student—someone he couldn’t have. Maybe it was the fear of judgement from others or it was just the discomfort of knowing he was twice your age. Either way, he couldn’t do this again.

With a sigh, Matt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze already drifting elsewhere—away from your vulnerable figure laying so invitingly on his bed, all sprawled out.

"Go home."

You blinked slowly and sat up. What was he suddenly saying? Wasn’t everything going well? Wasn’t that supposed to lead to an intimate moment?

"What?" You mumbled, your body still buzzing with pleasure.

"My ex-wife is coming over tonight." Matt lied, trying to get you to leave so he wouldn’t have to deal with the complex emotions that appeared whenever you were near.

Your expression fell. His ex-wife? He’s still in contact with her? Why’s she coming over? To do what? Are they reconciling?

Although hundreds of questions swirled inside your head, you couldn’t voice any of them. You felt utterly pathetic.

An uncomfortable silence filled his home at your departure. The taste of you still lingered on his lips, but it felt bitter now that you went back to the dorm, probably upset because of his stupidity.

Matt stared longingly at his closed front door.

He ran his hand through his messy locks, cursing under his breath at himself for pushing you away yet again. His mind began to fill with thoughts he didn’t want to think about. What if you get tired of this cat and mouse game and leave him for good? What if you–

Just then, his phone rang, cutting off his thoughts. It was his ex-wife, and Matt’s expression turned serious when he heard her request. She was asking him to consider getting back together? What was this woman thinking?

✰ english is not my first language! || wc: 2.6k ✰

Isa’s rambling ۶ৎ I immediately thought of lecturer!matt when I saw those delicious pictures of Matt in that photo dump. Also, I’m so so so sorry for delaying this fic sm holy fuck it’s been more than a month since that photo dump 💔

⟢ lecturer!matt taglist: @blahbel668 @ribread03 @sturniologals @annedebeijer @sleazy-1 @m0r94n @sugarraez @lvrsturniolo @iluvnicksturniolo @sturniolosluttt @sophand4n4 @squishybxg @matts-247 @lifecansmd @zokhlyxo @jibitzlesscrocs @oopsiedaisydeer @v33angel @shortnsweetsturnz @sagesturns @corspebridedelrey @anonymouslyachrisgirl @heartsforvin @lvrsturniolo @poolover123 @trustinsturniolos @mattsturnsgirlie @ri444nna @sturnboos @whore4-chrissturniolo @chrismoans @chlosallow @juless-is-elsa @nai2two @natesfavoritehoe @ineedchrisbadly @l0s3rhaha @chrissbabymumma @h3arts4nat @moond0llie @bernardsbendystraws @sorrybirds @devotedlyteenagemusic @httpssturns @mattswrinkleton

[yintual]

 ㅤ( 🍀 ) ㅤ O7.O9PM; ㅤ𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗿𝘆

jungwon thinks you need a break from studying 𖹭 749% > ﹏ <。 𝗰𝘄 # kisses ﾟ glasses bf ! won +PHYSICS mentioned

if there’s one singular flaw you have, yang jungwon finds himself thinking, it’s that you study a tad bit too much.

from his seat directly across you, he’s been watching you mumble about physics formulae for close to 3 hours. the library, too, is now almost completely empty save for the two of you. 

it’s not that he wants you to stop—jungwon’s more than aware of how important the assignment you’re working on is. so of course he wants to be supportive. which is why he’s tagged along with you in the first place, after all.

but hell, a guy gets tired of waiting, alright?

especially when his girlfriend just so happens to be sitting right across him—in hand holdable, and even, dare he say, kissable distance.

and you refuse to make it any easier on him with how cute you look when you pout at the page of numericals in front of you. it’s like you don’t even care about his sanity.

he rests his chin on his palm as he watches you furiously scribble something and erase it immediately after. 

tone flat, your boyfriend finally breaks the silence. “you know you’re looking at that worksheet like it personally offended you, right?” 

you answer without even sparing him a glance. “ugh, shut up. i got the sign convention messed up again. and i hate differentiation.”

“hmm. well maybe, and hear me out here ... what if … the universe is telling you to take a break.”

you don’t answer. he wonders if you even registered the words he’s just said.

“orrr …” jungwon leans forward, attempting to catch your eye to no avail, “maybe spare a glance towards your attention starved boyfriend? i promise he’s more interesting than electrostatics.”

that gets a giggle out of you, which admittedly does make him momentarily proud. but in mere seconds you’re back to locking in. he can’t help but mentally curse the education system for bringing him to this position. because god. this is tragic, really. 

with a sigh, he finally decides to take matters in his own hands. without a second’s hesitation, he’s pushing back his chair in favor of getting up and walking over to you.

“baby. i’m talking to you.” 

“alright, gosh, i’m—” but you apparently hadn’t taken into account the change in his position. you blink, confused, and realize after a minute that you feel a soft warmth behind you. 

and as you turn in your chair to face him, you find his arms caging you in against the table. 

“... i’m listening.”

jungwon leans in closer, his expression oddly smug. “don’t you think you’ve practiced enough questions for today?” 

“i just— there’s only a few more chapters i have left to go over ..” you’re not fully sure if it’s the close proximity that’s making you flustered.

“no. i think you’ve done enough.” 

you want to argue but the finality with which he speaks makes you reconsider your own words. 

“we don’t want you getting burnt out, yeah? you need some time away from physics.” 

you can barely think to formulate a reply to that as he dips his head down, placing a short kiss to your lips as if to emphasize his point. all you can do is smile into it, kissing him back with a hand resting on his chest to steady yourself.

“think we can both agree my idea was better, hm?” jungwon mumbles, peppering a few short peck along your jaw for good measure.

you pull back slightly, though, much to his displeasure. “well, mr. boyfriend, if you’ve had enough attention, then … i really do need to finish at least one more page.”

“... who said i’ve had enough?”

and then he’s taking off his glasses in one fluid motion before his lips are back on yours swallowing any protests you might have had. gone is the sweet, soft boyfriend who’d been giving you company all this while. 

(seriously, he picks the worst times to do these unfairly attractive things.)

the edge of the table digs into your back ever so slightly but you’re much more busy processing how sweet he tastes against you—of desperation. it’s a gorgeous color on him.

you vaguely think you hear his glasses fall to the floor with a soft clink. but with how intent your boyfriend seems upon robbing you of your coherence, you can’t say for sure. 

doing physics numericals is overrated anyway. you’d honestly rather just kiss your boyfriend, instead.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit @douqhnxtss @soona-huh @amoressb @nicholasluvbot @manariee @rinrinninnin @ddeonuswife @douqhnxtss @lovenha7 @amatariki @i-am-not-dal @liyahhhh620 @elleetlalune @luvvchn @s0shroe @wensurr @unhakies @starniras @calabaeri @athenaisonlinee @weepingsweep @itsactuallylina @puma-riki @starniras ⋆

        𝖤𝖷𝖳𝖱𝖠! [ <3 ] do we like layout. yes or yes. + gais i finally understand what timestamps are. its when u write a drabble and don't know what to call it!

ㅤㅤㅤ© YiNTUAL ♡ 2025

[timsrins]

“i grew one centimeter.”

you look up, deadpan. rin is standing there just past your bedroom door. he stands like a ghost, no greeting whatsoever, just straight to the point. as blunt as his brother’s bangs. 

“nice to see you too, rin. hello. yes, i missed you too. i haven’t seen or heard from you for fourteen days. i thought ego sent you off to war. i already got my stationery prepared, i was about to write you a letter confessing—”

“i grew. one centimeter.”

he says it again, like repetition will make it more meaningful. like the metric system is the most important thing in the world right now. he’s still by the door, arms by his side, shoulders stiff, and his bag hanging on his back. you don’t know whether he’s proud or just incredibly weird about measurements.

“as i was saying,” you continue, undeterred, “if you didn’t tell me beforehand that ego sent you guys training, i would’ve thought he killed you off for some petty reason. but then i thought, no, ego isn’t that bad. he’s actually a really good mentor. so you getting killed off was out.”

“i said i grew a centimeter.”

you finally lower your phone, staring at him like your brain has frozen halfway through processing. there’s a beat of silence. one. two. maybe three. hell, might as well take five.

“…okay,” you say slowly. “what do you want me to do about it?”

he meets your gaze without blinking. not a hint of irony. voice low and flat and utterly serious.

“praise me.”

you just stare.

nothing comes out of your mouth. you physically cannot form a response because what the hell did he just say to you. you refuse to believe this is happening. what the hell happened? where the hell did ego send him?

your eyes narrow in pure disbelief. like you’ve accidentally walked into the wrong conversation. like you’re still waiting for the punchline and realizing, with growing horror, that there isn’t one.

“praise you?”

“i worked hard,” he says, cutting you off like that explains everything.

“... for growing?”

“sleep schedule, posture work, morning trainings, meditating, yoga.” he says it with that same mechanical efficiency he uses when analyzing plays on the pitch. “ measurable progress.”

you just keep looking at him.

he looks back, completely unfazed.

he’s serious. itoshi rin is dead serious.

this man walked straight to your apartment as soon as training ended just to tell you that he grew a single centimeter and expects verbal validation for it. 

“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

but your body betrays you—because even though your face is blank and your tone is flat, you reach up a hand and let him bend down and touch his head to your palm.  you press your palm to the top of his head like you’re measuring it yourself.

okay, maybe he does feel the tiniest bit taller.

you drop your hand and sigh in defeat. as always you can never say no to him. curse you and your soft spot for one itoshi rin.

“congratulations on your one centimeter progress. growth arc of the century. it’s very impressive and inspiring.”

and like that, rin just plops onto you.

literally. like gravity ceased to exist for a moment and he decided your body was the most suitable mattress in the world. you grunt under his weight, your back hitting the couch cushions as he crashes on top of you like a human plank. his duffel bag falls to the floor with a thud, completely ignored.

“rin—”

he doesn’t say anything.

doesn’t have to.

his arms slide around your waist with zero subtlety, his face burying into your shoulder like it’s instinct. you’re still half-frozen from the whiplash of the past five minutes. your brain hasn’t even recovered from the praise me incident, and now he’s lying on you like he lives here (he does.)

you feel him breathe out. slow, deep, and heavy. the kind of breath someone takes when they’re finally safe. when they’re home.

and then—he bites you. not hard. just enough to feel his teeth graze your shoulder. no warning, no reason. like a cat acting out affection.

“did you just bite me?”

he hums. that’s a yes. completely unapologetic.

you tilt your head, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you clarity. it doesn’t. “you’re insane.”

“missed you.” rin says it so quietly. mumbled into you skin like he’s etching his word in your being and it makes your heart do its stupid backflips. 

he presses closer, like he can’t get enough. like fourteen days was fourteen lifetimes.

and just when you think he’s settled, he mumbles again:

“…still want that praise.”

you close your eyes. not in annoyance, but because itoshi rin is exhausting (affectionately) and unfortunately, yours.

[jbbuckybarnes]

Drivers React...

...to you pushing their hand away from your neck area with a short panicked expression (or any physical abuse trauma response)

Drivers: LN4, OP81, CS55, AA23, GR63, KA12, CL16, LH44, OB87, FC43, DR3, MV33/MV1

quick side note: touching that area casually isn't necessarily romantic, so I wrote some responses to be easily read in either a platonic or romantic way

Warnings: mentions of abuse, angry men, not proofread

LN4

He'd mirror the panicked face right back. "What's wrong?" you'd wave it off.

"Didn't look like nothing. You looked proper scared. Is everything alright?" he'd dote on you for the next few minutes until you felt comfortable enough to at least allude to having trauma regarding that area of your body. He'd just gently grab you and hold you, rocking side to side with you.

OP81

He'd remove his hand faster than he could react during lights out, instantly trying to read your expression. "I'm only doing that again if you give me permission, yeah?" You'd say sorry several times.

"Listen, I don't know what just happened in your brain, but it can't have been good. I'm ready to fight whoever or whatever made you look like that is all I'm saying." He'd watch your lower lip tremble in response to that and softly pull you close to him.

CS55

He'd gentle demand you to tell him "Who?"

You'd frown at that, "Mi belleza, who hurt you?" He'd get the memo that his asking is making it worse and he'd just hold you. For hours. Until you'd feel comfortable to drop the name or relation of the person who traumatized you. He wouldn't show the anger directly in front of you, making an effort to stay soft around you, but you could see the way his jaw tensed, the emotions quickly crossing through his eyes and the way his hands slightly tensed up as well.

AA23

He'd be so confused in the first seconds before clocking the situation and wordlessly pulling you into a hug and rocking you both side to side.

"It's okay, I won't do it again. I just might need more intel to send an entire Thai lineage after whoever was evil enough to make you feel that way." He said it with enough of a joking inclination to not worry you but what you couldn't see was how serious his face went after that. Whoever dared to take any joy from you was his enemy.

GR63

"Alright, who is getting their door kicked in by a bunch of boarding school kids that I pay later this evening?" He said it jokingly but the tone was serious enough to make it clear that he would make that a thing if you wanted to.

He'd be extra soft with you the rest of that day, not asking further but making sure to take note to not suddenly go for that area again while messing around with you. Secretly he was plotting someone's downfall and a chunk of money for legal action if you'd ever needed it.

KA12

He'd think he did something wrong and you'd have to explain to him that he just accidentally triggered a trauma reaction. He'd apologize profusely and dote on you for the entire next week but he wouldn't push the topic further until several months down the line when you mention something trauma-adjacent in a conversation again. He'd casually admit that he'd commit several crimes for you with his friends.

CL16

He'd blink confused like he suddenly became Leo for a second. His face would become angry, but he'd turn away, repeating, "I'm not angry at you, I'm not angry at you, I'm not angry at you, I promise, I just wanna put whoever made you that afraid through several walls." He'd pinch the bridge of his nose, take a deep breath and turn back to you, opening his arms to you with a soft expression to signal his intent before pulling you close, squeezing your entire body and kissing your head. "I believe there is a hell for people who hurt others like that." He mumbles.

LH44

He'd gently manage to make you tell him what happened. And he may or may not get someone involved to ruin that person's life a bit. Not in a big way. Just someone finding any even slightly illegal thing they've done based on some obscure law. You know, the their tree growing over too far into the next property type shit. Lewis would pay someone to become your abusers Karen from hell while making sure you heal.

OB87

He's a lil dumdum but not that dumb. He'd instantly clock what just happened, literally go on his knees to not tower over you and hug you.

"Just know if you ever tell me who messed with your brain, I might be charged for murder AND credit card fraud." Hearing that muttered into your skin made you giggle a bit while teary-eyed. He'd look up at you with his puppy eyes, "I mean it. Nobody hurts my family and you're part of my family."

FC43

Would turn on his soft mode so damn fast and promise you to send his crazier fans after your abuser if you wanted that. He'd organize a wholeass movie night with the whole shebang within the hour. Seeing you so scared of him touching you gave him psychic damage he'd have to balance out by letting you do a face mask on him or something stupid like that. He'd make it a point to always warn you before putting his hand around your shoulders or near your head.

DR3

King of distractions. He'd acknowledge what just happened and then make sure your mind would go somewhere else as fast as possible. He'd literally book some random activity on the spot if necessary. Have you ever tried making pottery? Well, now you will with a chaotic manchild giving you no chance to think about your trauma for a rest of the day.

MV1

He knows that look. You'd see his jaw tense and a slight frown form while his eyes stayed as calm as possible, fixated on yours. "What did he do and what is his name?"

You'd avoid his eye contact, "Tell me because that's not gonna leave my mind anytime soon." You tell him, he holds you close, "You looked like I was about to murder you for a second."

The next time he goes for the same movement he holds his hands still and searching your face before continuing.

Masterlist linked in bio <3

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

The Crash-Bang Incident - Part Three

Part One | Part Two

Or: on the way to the tunnels with a concussed Steve Harrington passed out in the back seat, Max crashes into Eddie's van.

Dustin’s crying and hiding his face in Mike’s shoulder like the world’s going to end. As if some washed-up jock dying would make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things. Mr. Newby’s dead already, and he’d been way more useful than someone who can’t even win a fight. 

Even still, his whole body loosens when Lucas cries, “they’re alive!” and jostles his shoulders like it’s something to celebrate. 

Dustin drags him closer to the hole in the ground so they can both peer down in it. And there Steve is, pressing that Eddie guy into the wall, arm outstretched like he’s using his entire body as a shield to protect the newcomer. 

Mike doesn’t get it – based on the D&D knowledge and the holes in his jeans, there’s no way Steve would ever be friends with this guy. 

When he and Nancy first started dating, Steve used to try to be nice to him to try and stay on his sister’s good side. He’d ask about Mike’s hobbies, but Mike had always been able to see past his pasted-on smile to the judgemental grimace barely hidden underneath. 

It had only lasted a few painful weeks before Will had gone missing, and Barb had died, and then Steve hadn’t come around much anymore. 

So, there’s no way Steve would be friends with a guy like Eddie. But he’d still put himself in the line of fire to protect him, just like he’d leapt into action to get the vine off of Mike. 

He doesn’t get it, and he doesn’t want to try, so he stands there, tapping his foot impatiently while everyone celebrates around him. 

“Holy shit, Harrington,” Eddie cries, voice loud and wobbly as it echoes up to them from the depths of the hole. “You saved my life!”

And then…Mike’s not sure, what with the bad angle and all of Eddie’s curly hair blocking his view, but it almost looks like he leans in and smacks a kiss right on Steve’s lips. It’s so quick that Mike’s got no time to rubberneck before Eddie’s shoving past Steve and stumbling toward the rope.

It’s almost embarrassing the way the guy grunts and strains to get up it, especially once Steve climbs the same rope in three seconds flat, smashed-in face and all. 

“So cool,” Lucas murmurs, Dustin nodding along reverently. 

Mike turns away with an impatient roll of his eyes, quick-stepping to catch up with Max. There’s no universe in which Steve Harrington would ever be cool. And Eddie seems fine and all, but he’s just another liability they can’t afford, and he’s dead-weight besides. They don’t have time to coddle the guy that knows jack-all and seems to be in worse physical state than Dustin. 

 What if El needs help? What if they can’t get the mind flayer out of Will? Mike needs to be with them. 

“Let’s go!” Mike calls, bumping Max’s shoulder as he overtakes her in his rush toward the car. “El might need help closing the gate.”

“Gate?” Eddie asks, voice cracking, and when Mike looks back at him, he’s got both hands in his messy hair and it looks like he’s pulling it in some sort of nervous tick. “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on!”

He stomps his foot like a kid throwing a tantrum, but no one pays him any mind. Mike rolls his eyes, checks the ignition for keys, and slides into the driver’s seat. 

If no one else is going to help him, he’ll go on his own. If Max could figure it out, he sure as hell can. 

“Hey, shithead,” Steve says, and Mike jumps, not having heard him come up. He’s standing right by the open car door, hand outstretched. “Hand them over. There’s no way in hell you’re driving.”

Mike scoffs but scrambles over the partition and over to the other side of the car to let Steve take his place. It’ll be quicker than arguing with the meathead. 

Everyone slides in as Steve cranks the engine, ignoring Eddie having a full-blown freak-out in the back seat. Mike stares out the windshield scowling as the rapid-fire questions the guy’s spitting out get higher pitched and more incoherent. His words are tripping over themselves to get out, leaving no room for anyone to answer his questions even if they wanted to.

“I’ll answer your questions when we’re back at the house, man,” Steve cuts in finally, talking right over Eddie.

“But what were those things?” Eddie whines.

Mike barely hears him as his ears ring. “What do you mean ‘the house?’” he asks, whipping his head around to glare at Steve. “We need to go help El!”

“What about Will?” Dustin asks in that snotty tone that means he’s being a judgemental ass. Mike hates it. 

He turns toward the backseat, snarling as he glares at the four people crammed into the backseat and Dustin especially. “Jonathan will help Will!” he replies hotly, hoping it’s true.

It has to be true.

“And Hopper won’t help El?” Lucas asks, sounding just as critical. 

Mike wants to jump back there and strangle them both. But then Eddie yells, “help them with what?” loud enough that he jerks back in his chair. 

“Enough!” Steve cries, slamming on the brakes hard enough that Mike has to catch himself on the glove box to keep from smashing his head into the windshield. 

The car’s completely silent, no more shouted questions or heated arguments. He swears he can’t even hear anyone breathing. It’s so sudden that Mike’s ears still ring with their phantom voices as he adjusts to the quiet.

He doesn’t want to turn toward Steve, doesn’t want to know what sort of face the guy’s making, and from the looks on Lucas and Dustin’s faces, he’s right not to want to. 

But they’re wasting time, so he takes one deep breath, and turns towards the driver’s seat. Steve’s hunched over on himself, eyes closed tight enough to give him crow’s feet, and both his hands are clenched hard enough on the steering wheel that the leather creaks. 

Mike curls away from him, pressing his back into the cool glass of the passenger side window. He hates the way he cowers away, like it’s his dad yelling in the kitchen about lazy kids, three seconds away from grounding him and Nancy, and not Nancy’s thug of a boyfriend having some sort of fit. 

“Wheeler, we’re going back to the Byers’ house,” he says. When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t even look at Mike, just keeps his gaze trained on the dark road in front of them, barely illuminated by the car’s headlights. “I’m supposed to keep you safe, and–”

“But what about El and W–” 

“And!” Steve shouts again, raising his hand like Mike’s mouth hasn’t already snapped shut. Steve winces and drops his head to the wheel with a goran. When he continues speaking, his voice is much quieter. “And for all we know, they’re already done and headed back to the house. Do you really want Ms. Byers to walk into her house and find Hargrove passed out alone in her kitchen and all of us gone?”

Ms. Byers would worry, Mike knows she would. But does that really matter when El might need help? When Will might?

Mike still doesn’t say anything. The car’s too quiet, and Steve’s proven himself to be unreasonable. He should’ve never let him into the driver’s seat.

“Shouldn’t we go to the hospital, Steve?” Eddie asks quietly. 

Mike turns to look at Steve– they’re all looking at Steve, now. He looks small, somehow, curled in on himself the way he is. He’s pale in the minimal light filtering into the car, making his blooming bruises and blood stand out all the more starkly, and as he turns to meet Mike’s gaze, he swears a bit of the porcelain embedded into his scalp catches in the light. 

Mike swallows, feeling suddenly spooked. 

“No hospital,” Steve says, looking at Mike instead of Eddie, like turning toward the backseat would be too much work. “Not until we know everyone’s safe.”

Then he closes his eyes and just… sits there. He can see the rise and fall of his chest, but not much else happens. Mike’s throat feels clogged. He didn’t cry when Will got possessed, or when El hopped into Hopper’s truck and they drove away, but he feels suddenly like he will, now, sitting in Max’s step-brother’s car and watching Steve Harrington die from a brain bleed or whatever the fuck is going on with him. 

“You need me to drive?” Eddie asks, still in that same soft voice. 

Steve doesn’t respond, like he hadn’t heard Eddie speak at all. Mike’s three seconds away from reaching out and shaking his stupid shoulder just to make sure he’s still alive when Max calls, “I can do it,” and Steve levers himself back up with a groan and squints his eyes open. 

He blinks once, twice, three times, like he’s a television rebooting before he finally says, “Munson, you’re up.”

Eddie doesn’t hesitate to push the door open and crawl out of the backseat. Steve doesn’t move until his door’s open, and Eddie’s maneuvering him out with an arm around his waist, holding him up. 

He leads Steve around the front of the car, and Mike watches as he shuts his eyes against the blare of the headlights and leans on Eddie even more heavily. And when Eddie knocks on the passenger side window and orders Mike into the backseat, he does it without question. 

It has nothing to do with the way Steve slumps into the seat when Eddie drops him, curling around his ribs and head like they hurt. It’s just the fastest way to get the car back on the road, one step closer to seeing Mike and El again. 

It doesn’t mean anything.

Celebrating finishing the second to last part of this for WIP Wednesday by posting the next continuation!! Hope everyone enjoys, I had a hell of a time getting into Mike's POV. As always, effusive thanks to @queenie-ofthe-void for polishing this thing up <3<3<3

[jedi-enthusiast]

Except Yoda and the Jedi didn't do any of that and you're just making shit up, which tracks with pretty much everything anti-jedis say about the Jedi.

Anakin quite literally only told Yoda that he was having NIGHTMARES- (aka bad dreams) about someone he loved being hurt, which again is something that is very likely to happen in the middle of a war---to be clear: NO ONE WAS HURT OR DYING at that point in time. Literally no one. It was a nightmare that turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy because Anakin literally strangled his wife and murdered a bunch of people, just to be clear on who you're trying to turn into a poor little meow meow here.

And Yoda wasn't "telling Anakin to suck it up," he WAS supporting him! He told him the truth: that everyone will die at some point, and it will cause him pain when that happens, but that there's no changing the fact that people die and so he should focus on enjoying them while they're here with him and celebrating their lives rather than spending all his time worrying about if/when they're going to die. It was in typical Yoda-speak, so it sounded all sagey and crap, but that's quite literally what he was telling Anakin.

I mean, what would you have rather had him say at that point? Did you want him to lie to Anakin? "Oh, don't worry Anakin! No one is gonna die ever and nothing will ever change!" -because that's what Palpatine did, except he tacked on a lovely- "everything will be fine if you kill a bunch of little kids" -on the end. Like seriously, they were in the middle of a fucking war, odds are people Anakin cared about would get injured or die, did you want Yoda to pretend that that wasn't something probable? Again, did you want him to lie?

And like I said before: everything Yoda said is quite literally taught in grief counseling. You're basically told that, yes, the death of a loved one hurts and it'll never fully go away, but that it's better to focus on the time you had with that loved one and the good stuff you did together rather than focusing on the fact that you didn't do xyz with them or that you didn't get enough time with them. Because that's unhealthy and it only makes you feel worse.

And you can go ahead and shut up about the- "I'm neurodivergent and so was Anakin, the Jedi were all neurotypical bigots who Don't Understand Us Neurodivergents" -because that's really just a bunch of crap.

I am also neurodivergent and have trouble with my emotions, and I think that 1. trying to paint Anakin as the Singular Neurodivergent Jedi is a bad thing and 2. the Jedi Order is absolutely NOT built around neurotypicals, are you fucking serious, have you ever actually watched the shows or movies?

On the first point: as someone who's neurodivergent, I don't think our one point of "representation" in SW should be the genocidal baby murderer who is repeatedly racist, misogynistic, and a literal fascist who strangled his wife the moment she didn't agree with him, went along with/assisted in several genocides, and assisted the Empire in enslaving several other races. Call me crazy, but I'd rather that guy not be singled out as "the only neurodivergent jedi ever because the jedi are all Evil Neurotypicals," thanks.

Secondly: I'm convinced you either never really paid attention to the shit you were watching or you haven't watched the Prequels or TCW in a while because exactly WHAT is giving you the impression that the Jedi are neurotypical? Please tell me.

Their culture is in complete opposition to literally everything neurotypical and heteronormative about our society: the Jedi don't have any pressure to get married or have children, the Jedi don't pressure anyone to be physically affectionate with each other (although there are moments of physical affection that we see from them and there's a lot of verbal affection), the Jedi's relationships with each other don't fit into the typical heteronormative family structure, the Jedi place value on constantly learning new things and changing whenever you need/want (no need to stay stagnant);

The Jedi aren't separated from each other as they all live together in a community of friends and teachers, the Jedi quite literally a job for every specialization (hyperfixations, you can literally be a jedi and specialize in your hyperfixation), the Jedi don't have to wear the same thing 24/7 but you also can wear the same thing 24/7 (no need to worry about wearing "the right outfit") + all their outfits are made to be comfortable and easy to move around in, everyone contributes something and everyone takes care of everyone, there's no pressure to be overly emotional or expressive either (although you can be, if you want to), and the Jedi's teachings are quite literally based around DBT---Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, which is meant to help people with mental illnesses, specifically people with BPD!

So this whole- "oh they're Evil and Neurotypical and Oppressing Us Neurodivergents with their terrible Buddhist teachings" -is complete crap, you are just pulling this stuff out of your ass.

The Jedi do have empathy and do succeed in supporting each other, we're literally shown evidence of that EVERYWHERE in the movies and shows---quite literally the first episode of TCW is Yoda protecting his squad of clone troopers, showing them empathy, and telling them that there's more to them than just their appearances, and the episodes after that literally have Plo Koon showing empathy to his troops and telling them that they're not expendable to him, and there's so much more evidence that I could add JUST IN THAT ONE SHOW!

Anakin is the outlier here because he wouldn't accept help, and you can't help someone if they won't help themselves. Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Yoda, Luminara, Plo, Mace, Padme, EVERYONE gave Anakin every chance to change and do better and open up to them so they could give him more than just vague advice---but Anakin refused to change, refused to tell anyone anything, and refused to accept the help that was given.

And THAT is the point of the Prequels: that Anakin was selfish and refused help from everyone, which ultimately led him to Palpatine, the Empire, and the Dark Side.

He did that, no one else.

So why don't you stop making shit up to try and absolve Anakin of any responsibility for his actions.

If you like Anakin, go ahead and like him. If you think he's great neurodivergent representation, that's your opinion on that and no one can tell you otherwise. If you don't like the Jedi, okay that's fine.

But what we're not gonna do, especially on my page, is pretend that Anakin never did anything wrong and the choices he made were all the Jedi's fault. They weren't.

Anakin had options, many options, and he chose to do the terrible shit he did---and that is no one else's fault but HIS.

Ngl I think a lot of people, when they talk about Jedi and attachments and how "the Jedi should be allowed to have them," just plain ignore the single most important show of attachment in all of Star Wars.

Padme and Anakin.

Obviously people bring them up 24/7 when they want to bash the Jedi or pretend that Anidala is the epitome of a "healthy relationship" (lmao), but when it comes to the actual point of how their relationship is framed and how it highlights how attachment works/what it does---suddenly all the discussion around Anakin and Padme disappears!

Anakin's attachment to Padme and his unwillingness to let her go is LITERALLY what ends up killing her!!!

He has dreams of her dying, becomes convinced that those dreams are what's gonna happen (despite the unreliable nature of visions), and---instead of actually telling anyone anything in enough detail so they could actually help---he:

- Starts working with a Sith Lord

- Massacres a Temple full of children, the elderly, the injured, etc. and the people who were caring for them

- Helps commit a genocide

- Overthrows democracy

And then, once Padme won't support him vying for them to control the galaxy, he becomes convinced that she's betrayed him and attempts to kill her---then, later on, because of Anakin's actions Padme dies.

----------

THAT is what attachment is and what it does.

Attachment is being unable, unwilling, to let someone go, no matter what that might mean for you or them, because you don't want to go through life without them---and the people you try to hold onto so tight ultimately get crushed in your grip because of it.

Think of it like holding someone's hand.

Non-attachment would be, when the other person wants to stop, letting them slip away and being happy with what you had while you had it---being content whether they choose to stay by your side or run off to go do something else.

Attachment would be, when the other person tries to let go, tightening your grip or grabbing their wrist---hurting them because you don't want there to even be a chance that you would be without them.

----------

So no, the Jedi were not wrong to teach non-attachment and they should not have "changed their philosophies so they were allowed to have attachments" like some people have suggested, because attachment is unhealthy and selfish and all it does is end up hurting those around you.

[cursedbycrossovers]

Help Wanted ≠ Send Sacrifices (Pt. 5)

"Did you bring me your brother to be my secretary?!"

"Yes!" Jason answered enthusiastically, "He's the smartest person I know!" He said again, as if that explained anything.

It wasn't any less jarring to hear the second time. Jason… thought he was smart? And called him his brother? That whole presentation he'd given had sounded proud. Like Tim was worth bragging about. It was… kind of nice, actually.

It would've been nicer if Jason were not attempting to hand him over to a stranger for what sounded like it could possibly be eternal servitude.

"That's not- what I-" The glowing humanoid fumbled, putting his hands up as though he could physically stop Jason's words. "I meant that if you knew someone qualified, you could like, refer them to me, not-"

Jason tilted his head to the side. "Tim is qualified," he assured.

Tim kicked Jason in the knee, hissing at him through his teeth.

Jason shushed him. Freaking shushed him. Like a whiny cat. Tim's mouth dropped open at the indignity.

"Okay, yes, you've made that clear, BUT," The entity straightened and held up a finger, "You can't just- give me a guy! That's not how this works!"

"Why not?" Jason asked, in apparently genuine confusion.

"'Cause, aren't there, like, proper channels we have to go through? Contracts to sign? I dunno, I've never had anybody work for me before! I was expecting a little more time before anyone showed up!" He explained petulantly.

Proper channels? Contracts? Oh hell no. Tim narrowed his eyes and glared at the being in front of them with all the heat and defiance he could muster. He was not letting anyone's soul be sold today. Jason may be compromised, but Tim was still sharp as ever. He'd get them out of this mess, whatever it took.

— — —

Constantine entered the warehouse, and all the gathered bats turned to look at him in unison. His steps stuttered.

"Good lord, you lot are worse than a pack a' haunted dolls."

"Constantine," Batman spoke, his voice clear and echoing, "Come here."

"Ah, well, since you asked so nicely," the blonde grumbled, rolling his eyes. The sound his shoes made against the floor was the loudest thing in the room, the eyes of Batman's scattered brood all watching him like nervous hawks.

"Do you recognize this?" Batman asked without preamble, gesturing to the rough markings on the floor.

Constantine made a face and dropped into a crouch. He swiped a finger over the curve of the circle, then leveled it with his eyes. He hadn't picked up anything visible, but the skin was tingling intensely. After a moment of contemplation, he put it in his mouth and immediately gagged.

The fact that none of Batman's assembled children took the opportunity to heckle him was a testament to the seriousness of the situation.

Robin and Black Bat were stood close by each other, Robin shifting uncomfortably every few minutes with his shoulders noticeably tensed, and Black Bat constantly re-checking the shadows as though expecting an attack from them at any second.

Spoiler stood with her arms crossed, staring the magician down while Nightwing flanked him from the side Batman wasn't. It would have been intimidating, had John been literally anyone else.

A short sigh announced Babs's return to the comm line, the sound somewhere between annoyance and worry. "Jason's not picking up or responding to any of my messages. Anyone seen or heard from him tonight?"

A wave of silent communication passed through the Bats before Nightwing chose to respond. "Negative, Oracle. Can you take a look for him on cams?"

"Already on it." Babs responded, though it did little to reassure Dick.

A new concern had begun to pick at him, despite his best efforts to dismiss it; that Jason could've been involved in this mess, too. Jason did seem to have a preference for Tim over some other members of the family... But enough to call for him solo? And privately? For something that wasn't even in Crime Alley? Probably not. Still, Dick found himself doubting…

Constantine had been staring down at the floor for quite a few moments now, an expression of consternation on his face.

"So? What is it?" Spoiler asked, her patience finally having worn thin.

Constantine's next words sent chills down all of their spines.

"I have no fuckin' idea, mate."

— — —

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4

Masterpost

[sunsetmade]

could i please request #5, bucky, fluff with an enemies to lovers vibe? congrats on 500!!

Thank you lovely!! Enjoy!!

Holding Grudges

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Prompt: “Tell me you hate me one more time— look me in the eyes when you do.”

She was thoroughly convinced that Bucky Barnes’ sole purpose in life was to make sure she knew he hated her. Not in a subtle way, either—he wielded his disdain like a weapon. Whether it was the sharp flare of his eyes whenever she spoke, the dramatic sighs when she entered a room, or the way he physically got up and left like her presence offended him on a cellular level, the message was always the same.

Bucky Barnes couldn’t stand her.

At least, that’s what she assumed.

It hadn’t always been like this. When Sam asked her to join their efforts against the Flag Smashers, she’d said yes without hesitation. She admired Sam, trusted him, and was eager to help. But from the moment she arrived, Bucky had been nothing but cold stares and clipped responses. She hadn’t even made it through their first briefing before he started acting like she was some sort of parasite.

At first, she’d tried to shrug it off—maybe he was just guarded, maybe he didn’t like new people. God knew he had every reason to be wary. But the longer it went on, the more obvious it became: Bucky didn’t want to know her. Didn’t want to work with her. Didn’t even want to breathe the same air if he could help it.

Fine. Two could play that game.

She stopped trying. If he wanted to be an emotionally constipated, brooding mess of a man, she wasn’t going to waste her time pulling teeth just to be civil. The cold looks he gave her? She started returning them. The passive-aggressive comments? She fired back, sharper.

Now, anytime they were in the same room, it was a guaranteed argument.

Like now.

The inside of the jet hummed softly as they soared toward their next mission. Sam stood near the cockpit, walking Joaquin through the tactical briefing. She was only half-listening, distracted by the burning sensation of being stared at.

Again.

Bucky was in the seat directly across from her, arms folded, jaw clenched, his piercing blue eyes locked on her like she’d personally offended him just by existing.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “This whole staring contest thing? Getting real old.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just kept looking at her like she was the dirt under his boots.

She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms in mimicry. “Seriously, Barnes. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m not going anywhere. So maybe pick a new hobby.”

Still, silence.

But she saw it—the slight twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed over his vibranium arm like he was holding something back.

Good. Let him simmer.

“I just don’t understand,” Bucky snapped, his voice laced with that signature disdain he reserved especially for her. “Sam and I were working perfectly fine before you got here.”

His words landed sharp, like a slap in the quiet hum of the jet. She turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing as she met his glare head-on.

There it was again—that sneer, carved into his face like it belonged there. Like she was nothing more than an inconvenience he couldn’t wait to be rid of.

She huffed out a laugh, short and sharp. “Right. ‘Perfectly fine,’” she echoed, the sarcasm practically dripping from her tone. “Not what I heard, but okay.”

His jaw tightened, and for a second she swore his nostrils flared.

She leaned forward just enough to make sure he knew she wasn’t backing down. “If by ‘perfectly fine’ you mean ignoring every intel briefing Sam tried to walk you through and grunting your way through missions, then yeah, Bucky. Stellar teamwork.”

He bristled, shoulders tense beneath his black tactical jacket, and his vibranium fingers curled around the edge of the seat’s armrest like he was fighting the urge to say something he’d regret. Or maybe he wouldn’t regret it at all. He rarely did.

“You think you’re helping,” he said, low and cold. “But all you’ve done is insert yourself into something you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand just fine,” she shot back, eyes blazing now. “You’re not mad because I’m messing things up. You’re mad because I don’t tiptoe around your precious attitude like everyone else does.”

His brows lifted, a spark of challenge flickering in his stormy gaze.

“And you’re not mad?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter—more dangerous. “Because you sure act like you’ve got something to prove.”

Her breath caught in her throat, just for a moment. That struck closer than she expected. But she didn’t let it show.

She leaned back in her seat, giving him a tight smile. “I’m not the one who started this pissing contest, Barnes. But if you want to keep playing, I’m more than capable of winning.”

They stared at each other, the air between them charged and tense—like a lit fuse just waiting for the spark.

From the cockpit, Sam’s voice broke through the silence.

“Can you two go five damn minutes without fighting?”

Neither of them looked away.

Not yet.

“If you’d just been polite when I got here,” she snapped, folding her arms tightly across her chest, “maybe we could’ve actually been friends.”

Her voice dripped with frustration as she leaned back in her seat, clearly done with the conversation—but not before getting her final jab in.

Across from her, Bucky let out a soft scoff, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. He turned his head slightly, tongue darting out to swipe across his bottom lip, slow and deliberate like he knew exactly how irritating she found that little habit.

“See,” he said, voice low and mocking, “that’s where you’re wrong. I never wanted to be friends.”

Her eyes rolled before she could stop them. “Yeah. I think I got that loud and clear.”

She tried not to let her gaze drop—but it did. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch the way his arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing under the thin stretch of his dark t-shirt, that damned vibranium arm gleaming faintly under the overhead lights. His biceps looked like they were sculpted out of stone.

And of course, the asshole caught her looking.

Bucky’s smirk deepened.

She quickly flicked her eyes back to his, unimpressed. “You can stop flexing. Nobody’s impressed.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath, resisting the urge to launch something at his head.

Before she could fire back again, Sam’s voice cut through the thick tension like a knife.

“Seriously?” he groaned, marching over from the front of the jet with an exasperated expression. “One minute. One. That’s all I’m asking for. No bickering. No glaring. No… whatever this weird thing is.”

Neither of them responded.

Bucky shrugged, not bothering to hide the smugness written all over his face. She just turned her head toward the window, jaw clenched, silently vowing that next time they were paired up, she was sitting on the wing.

The jet hissed as it landed, hydraulics groaning beneath them. The ramp hadn’t even fully lowered before the tension snapped like a rubber band.

“She started it…” Bucky muttered under his breath, his tone petty, like a schoolboy caught throwing spitballs.

She shot him a disbelieving look, letting out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Really, Barnes? Are you serious right now? How on earth did I start this? Are you, like, two years old?”

And just like that, they were off again. Voices rising, words tumbling over each other in a chaotic overlap of insults, accusations, and pure frustration.

“I’d rather get shot than spend another ten minutes with you—”

“Maybe if you actually listened during briefings instead of brooding in the corner like a knock-off Batman—”

“I do listen—”

“You literally told Joaquin that GPS ‘wasn’t your thing’—”

“Enough!” Sam’s voice cracked like a whip through the jet, booming with authority. It was rare he raised his voice, and it hit both of them like a slap.

They snapped their mouths shut in sync, heads jerking toward him like scolded children. Sam stood by the exit ramp with his arms crossed and an expression that clearly said I am one second away from ejecting both of you mid-air next time.

“Look,” he said, voice clipped with frustration, “I don’t care who started what. I don’t care if you hate each other or if this is some weird unresolved sexual tension—”

Both of them sputtered.

“There’s not,” she said quickly, eyes wide and cheeks flushing.

“Definitely not,” Bucky muttered at the same time, glaring at the floor.

Sam didn’t even blink. “Whatever it is, leave it on the jet. Because you two are going in that building, finding what we need, and getting it done. Together. As a team.”

They stared at him.

He pointed toward the ramp. “Go. Now. And for the love of God, please try not to kill each other.”

With a reluctant sigh, she pushed past Bucky and descended the ramp first, her boots hitting the pavement harder than necessary. Bucky followed a step behind, jaw clenched, metal hand flexing at his side.

The building loomed ahead—old, abandoned, industrial.

She didn’t turn around, but she could feel him there, just behind her. Like a storm cloud on her heels.

“Try to keep up, Grandpa,” she muttered.

“I’ve literally got a metal arm and a super solider serum, doll,” he replied coolly. “You’re the one who’s gonna fall behind.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“I’m growing on you.”

“In your dreams.”

Behind them, Sam rubbed his temples and looked up at the sky like he was asking the universe why he ever agreed to this.

⸻

The building was a skeleton of what it once was—dark, damp, and cracked open in places like it had given up trying to hold itself together. Every step echoed off the concrete floors, the sound of their boots bouncing through the empty corridors, swallowed by dust and decay. Mold crept along the walls. Wires dangled from the ceiling like veins torn out mid-surgery.

Definitely not S.H.I.E.L.D. standard.

She clicked on her scanner, the screen casting a dull glow on her face as they turned down the first hallway. “Blueprints say the server room should be in the east wing,” she murmured. “Sam thinks the Flag Smashers might’ve left behind a trail—data we can use to find their next drop point.”

Bucky said nothing.

Of course.

She glanced over her shoulder with a tight-lipped scowl. “You know, teamwork’s usually a two-person thing. You participating in this mission or just haunting the building like a broody ghost?”

He exhaled slowly, not bothering to pick up his pace. “I am participating. I’m walking, aren’t I?”

“You walk like someone headed to their own funeral.”

“I died, actually. So I’d know.”

She stopped mid-step and blinked. “…That’s not even remotely relevant.”

“Sure it is.”

She shook her head, moving on. “I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with whatever brand of sarcasm that was.”

The corridor narrowed, the ceiling sagging overhead like it might come down with the wrong breath. Up ahead, a metal door blinked dimly—a keypad barely holding onto life, its screen flickering in protest. She knelt in front of it, unhooking a small device from her belt with practiced ease.

“Cover me while I patch in,” she muttered, already working. “If this goes sideways, I’d rather not get a bullet in my spine.”

“Relax,” Bucky said, drawing his weapon as he turned to face the corridor behind them. “I’ve got you.”

The words slipped out so naturally, like muscle memory. She paused, her fingers freezing mid-connection. Slowly, she looked up at him.

“You’ve got me?”

He didn’t turn. “Don’t make it weird.”

Too late. Her stomach did a somersault before she could strangle it back into submission. Focus.

With a soft chime, the keypad clicked green and the door creaked open. She stood, brushing dust from her knees, and stepped into the room.

It was chaos. A graveyard of tech. Half the server racks were stripped bare, old terminals blinked uselessly in the corners, and thick bundles of tangled wires hung like webbing across the walls. But her scanner lit up the moment she moved inside.

“Jackpot,” she breathed. “Encrypted files. Traceable. Give me two minutes.”

She crouched low at the back of the room, plugging in with swift, calculated movements. Her fingers danced over the interface like she’d been born doing this.

Behind her, Bucky didn’t move far. He paced with slow, deliberate steps, the rhythmic click of metal fingers tapping against the grip of his weapon marking time like a metronome. The space felt smaller with him in it. Not cramped, exactly—just charged. Like the air had gotten thicker, warmer. Like every time he stepped closer, the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

Then—

Clang.

They both froze.

A sharp, metallic echo rang through the hallway outside. Not the building creaking. Not them.

“What was that?” she whispered, fingers tightening around the drive.

“Not us,” Bucky muttered.

A second clang. Closer. Then—boots. Fast. Heavy. Rushing.

“Shit,” she hissed, ripping the drive from its port and stuffing it into her belt pouch. “They found us.”

“Go,” Bucky barked, moving in front of her just as the first burst of gunfire lit up the hallway. Bullets sparked off the doorframe.

He returned fire instantly, metal arm raised to shield her as he blocked the entrance. “I’ll hold them—move!”

“No way,” she snapped, yanking out her own weapon. “I can handle myself. Plus Sam would kill me if I left you behind.”

He turned, eyes narrowing in something that said, I wouldn’t die even if you wanted me to.

But he didn’t argue.

They moved like gears in a machine—efficient, synced. He held the line, deflecting shots with brutal precision. She ducked beside him, aiming with steady hands and zero hesitation. Her shots were clean, sharp, no wasted movement. Bucky noticed that.

One attacker lunged through the smoke and chaos. She pivoted, slammed her boot into his chest, disarming him mid-air and sending him crashing into a wall of wires.

Bucky blinked, clearly impressed. “Where the hell’d you learn that?”

“Save the compliments for after we’re not almost dead,” she said, driving her elbow into another man’s jaw. He went down hard.

Together, they swept through the rest of the squad. Smoke choked the air, metal screeched as another panel tore loose from the ceiling. And then—silence.

It was over.

They stood in the hallway, backs against the wall, breath coming in shallow gasps. Her hands trembled slightly from the adrenaline still burning through her system. She turned to him, flushed, sweat-streaked, hair sticking to her forehead.

“You good?”

He gave a sharp nod, still catching his breath. “Yeah. You?”

“Still alive.” She offered a small, tired smile.

And then she saw it—he had a small smile on his face. Not that tight-lipped, sarcastic twitch he always wore like armor. No. This one was real. Fleeting, maybe. But real.

And for the first time since they met, it wasn’t bitter. It was… impressed.

But naturally, he ruined it.

“You sure you don’t have a little super serum in your DNA?”

She rolled her eyes annoyance back in her tone, “Nope, don’t be surprised. I’m just better than you.

He huffed and smirked, boyish and smug. “Keep dreaming.”

And for once, the silence between them didn’t feel like a wall. It buzzed, warm and restless. Like it might shift into something else if either of them dared to reach for it.

He finally nodded toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

She followed him back into the corridor, brushing ash from her shoulder.

“Maybe next time you’ll actually trust me to make a call,” she said as they walked. Her tone was dry, and had an edge that she couldn’t explain.

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe next time you’ll stop being so damn reckless.”

But there wasn’t as much bite in it as usual.

⸻

The mission was a success.

Technically.

They made it back to the jet with the drive secured, no critical injuries, and just enough traded sarcasm to keep up the illusion that everything was fine. But beneath the surface, her blood was still boiling. The second the quinjet touched down and Sam and Joaquin disembarked for debrief, that illusion shattered.

All she could think about on the flight back was him—his voice ordering her to run, his body blocking the door like she was a civilian, his eyes filled with something that looked an awful lot like doubt.

And the more she thought about it, the more the heat in her chest twisted into fury.

The ramp lifted behind them with a low mechanical groan. The hangar doors hissed shut.

And she snapped.

“What the hell was that back there?” Her voice ricocheted off the empty jet walls, sharp and cold.

Bucky stopped mid-step, didn’t even try to play dumb. He turned, arms folding across his chest like a shield. “What are you talking about?”

“You blocked the door,” she hissed, marching toward him. “Like I was helpless. Then barked at me to run like I was some rookie who couldn’t hold a damn line!”

“I was trying to keep you alive!” he shot back, stepping into her space.

“I wasn’t in danger!”

“You don’t know that!” His voice was low and rough, words laced with grit. “You were focused on pulling the drive. They were on you before you even—”

“I had it handled!”

“I made a call,” he snapped.

“No—you made your call. Without me. Again.”

They stood in the aisle now, toe to toe, breathing fast. The air between them vibrated with tension—rage, adrenaline, something else.

She shoved past him, pacing toward the back of the jet, fingers raking through her hair. “You act like I’m some liability. Like I’m a burden you got stuck with instead of a teammate.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Don’t lie to me, Barnes!” she spun, fire in her voice now. “You’ve been like this since day one. Cold. Condescending. Always talking to me like I’m just some kid playing dress-up in tactical gear.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Because I don’t trust you.”

The words hit hard, but she didn’t flinch.

She stepped toward him, chin lifted, eyes burning. “Really? That’s funny—because you trusted me with your back today.”

He froze.

Silence stretched between them like a live wire. His face didn’t move, but she saw it—the hesitation. The falter.

“That was instinct,” he muttered.

A sharp breath left her lungs—half laugh, half hurt. “God, you are impossible. You hate me so much you don’t even realize when you stop.”

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

But she was already walking forward, fast now, driven by weeks of tension and bruised pride and the raw ache of never being enough in his eyes.

“You spend every mission making sure I know I’m not welcome,” she said, voice trembling just slightly now. “You don’t talk to me unless you have to. You glare. You shut me out. You act like I’m dragging the team down just by being here.”

Her chest rose and fell with every word. She felt exposed, stripped raw, but she didn’t stop.

“And for what? What did I ever do to you?”

He looked away, jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle ticking in his cheek.

She stepped closer. “Go ahead. Say it. Tell me you hate me one more time—look me in the eyes when you do.”

He didn’t move.

“Come on,” she whispered, softer now but no less fierce. “You’re good at that part. The glaring. The walking out. The silence.”

Bucky didn’t move.

He stood there, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders rigid with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. His gaze was locked on the floor, like if he stared hard enough the ground would split open and swallow him whole.

And then—

He looked up.

Eyes sharp, stormy, unguarded.

His voice cracked open, raw and furious.

“Fuck, I don’t hate you!” he said, his brow furrowed, chest rising like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. “I never did! Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The words echoed in the jet like a gunshot.

She stared at him, stunned by the force behind it. His voice wasn’t cold anymore. It wasn’t controlled. It was real. It was wrecked.

And it wasn’t done.

“I push you away because you make it hard,” he continued, stepping forward. “Because you’re smart and fast and you never back down—and yeah, maybe I didn’t expect that. Maybe you scared the shit out of me today because if something happened to you, I—”

He broke off, jaw tight, words catching in his throat.

She blinked, chest tightening, throat thick.

“You what, Barnes?” she whispered.

His hands curled at his sides, like he wanted to reach for something but didn’t know how. His voice came quieter this time, low and shaking at the edges.

“I can’t watch you get hurt.”

That stopped her breath.

“I’ve lost enough,” he said, not looking away now. “Too many people. Too many times. I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, it wouldn’t get that far. That I wouldn’t care.”

He let out a hollow laugh and shook his head. “But I do. And that scares the hell out of me.”

Her lips parted, words on the tip of her tongue, but nothing came out. Her heart was racing and breaking and melting all at once.

The silence stretched long and heavy between them—but it didn’t feel sharp anymore. It felt fragile.

“Say something,” he murmured.

She stepped in close—closer than they’d ever allowed themselves to be. Her hand hovered near his chest, but she didn’t touch him yet. Her voice was barely a whisper now.

“You’re not the only one who’s scared.”

He looked at her like she was the first clear thing he’d seen in months.

Then, finally, she touched him. Her fingers brushed his arm, tentative, grounding.

His eyes dropped to her hand, then back up.

Her fingers barely grazed his arm, but Bucky didn’t pull away.

He just stood there, looking at her like he didn’t quite believe she was real—like every defense he’d built around himself had finally cracked and she was the only thing holding him steady. His eyes searched hers, wild and unguarded, like he was trying to figure out if he was allowed to want this.

Allowed to want her.

And for once, she didn’t look away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said quietly, the words more a promise than anything else. “So stop trying to push me out before I leave.”

His breath caught.

And then he moved.

Slow—so slow—like he was giving her every chance to pull back. His gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes, checking. Waiting.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t want to.

And when he finally leaned in, it wasn’t urgent or rushed—it was careful. Intentional. The brush of his mouth against hers was barely more than a breath, the kind of kiss that trembled with restraint, like if he gave in too quickly it might break something between them.

But when she kissed him back—softly, deliberately—all of that melted away.

His hand found her waist, gentle but grounding, like he needed to feel she was real. She tilted into him, one hand slipping up to the side of his face, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw. The kiss deepened, slow and aching, like it had been waiting to happen for a long, long time.

And when they finally broke apart—breathless, eyes dazed, lips still tingling from the kiss—he didn’t let go.

His hands stayed firm on her waist, like if he moved, she might vanish. And she didn’t step back either. Their foreheads hovered just inches apart, noses almost brushing, the air between them heavy with everything they hadn’t said until now.

She was the first to speak, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Well. That was… overdue.”

A soft laugh escaped him, low and hoarse, as his forehead dropped lightly to hers.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Little bit.”

Her lips tugged into a small, breathless smile. “You gonna tell me you regret it?”

His brows pulled together, not in confusion, but like the thought physically pained him. He shook his head slowly, thumb tracing a gentle line along the curve of her hip.

“Not a chance,” he said, quiet but sure. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Their breathing was the only sound for a few moments—steady, soft, in sync. The tension that had buzzed between them for weeks, maybe months, had finally broken. Not with a blowout. Not with one of their infamous arguments. But with a kiss that felt more like surrender than victory.

The silence settled again—but this time, it was warm. Familiar. Safe.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt like they had to run.

Not from the mission. Not from each other.

Not from the way they felt.

[nsh-if]

NO SAINTS HERE is an 18+ interactive story where you step into the role as the newest recruit in a secret group of immortal agents, you're the wild card—exactly what this mess needs. Inspired by The Old Guard and Hellboy.

YOU DIED.

The gods, or whatever higher being watches from the heavens, have dealt you a shitty hand since adolescence.

Now, thanks to that bad luck that's attached itself to you like a leech, being at the right place at the wrong time, you've become just another name on a long list of casualties. There's no one to mourn you, leaving you with a whole lot of nothing but painful silence.

But when you're there bleeding out on the floor, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes—you're seeing things that've never even happened to you. 

Memories of happiness you never experienced, love you never felt, faces of strangers you somehow know but don't.

Then you wake up—in a body bag, surrounded by the very same strangers you saw in those memories.

You’re a part of something bigger, much bigger than you could ever bargain for. 

A team of misfit immortals drag you into their reality. They’ve been protecting mankind for eons against ancient cults, government nonsense, and demons looking for their next meal. 

You’re one of them now, whether you like it or not.

The clock’s ticking, and shit's about to hit the fan.

TIME TO RAISE HELL.

Customize your character with several different options, including but not limited to: gender and sexuality, physical appearance, weapon of choice, and more.

Try not to die—too much—while you're learning the ropes, or maybe you're just reckless, doesn't matter when you'll come back anyway.

Romance 1 of 3 options, all burdened with the shadows of their own unkillable demons.

CODE NAME: VISAGE [he/him]

As the involuntary commanding agent, Visage bears an oppressive weight on his shoulders that he doesn't dare speak of to anyone else. He's the eldest of the group, whatever good that does. Visage is sharp and silent like the blades strapped to his waist; he hardly ever sleeps, and he's wound up so tightly, like he's running from something, that every time you're alone with him, he looks like he'll snap—though in what way, you don't know.

CODE NAME: SERVAL [she/her]

The ever-teasing espionage specialist, Serval, cares little about being serious beyond her role in the team; she's as capricious as a feline and the shit she pulls sometimes makes you think she's anything but the elusive expert her job title requires her to be. The way Serval looks at you sometimes is unnerving, sizing you up like you're her next meal, and honestly, that doesn't sound so bad.

CODE NAME: ENOCHIAN [they/them]

Enochian is the team's resident bookworm and occultism analyst; they're the one usually making sure nobody gets their head chewed off by whatever demon decides to cause chaos, but if you manage to snag a sample for them without dying? Oh, they'll love you. Enochian isn't the meek bibliomaniac most think them to be; they aren't afraid to get down and dirty, only if it benefits them.

DEMO (TBA) | RO INTROS

@interact-if

[a99jazzybean]

What Happens in Vegas... (Part 2)

Part 1

synop: After your embarrassing morning, the boys say it's water under the bridge. Little do you know, Chance has been plotting. He offers a bet between your trio, which you ultimately accept. What happens if you end up losing?

words: 8.5K

includes: chancexafab!reader, parkerxafab!reader, chancexparker, friends to lovers, fluff and smut, gambling, drinking, masturbation, threesome, cuckolding

a/n: I learned the rules of craps and blackjack for this. Why does craps have so many rules??? Another thing, Brennan admitting he’s been cucked gave me the idea for this fic. 🤭 Also, very smutty. No minors!

Immediately, you jumped back from Chance and out of bed. Eyes wide as you were mortified. For a moment, the three of you stood there in silence. Darting between each other, unsure of what to say. 

“I’m so sorry!” You felt tears prick at your eyes.

As fast as you could, you sprinted to the bathroom. Slamming the door shut and locking it behind you. Pacing around you tried to calm down your labored breathing. Tears had now begun streaming down your face. 

Oh my God! I fucking came on his leg! How am I supposed to look at them in the eyes now?

Hands tangling in your hair, you let out a groan. This cannot be happening. Using Chance like that? Even if it was in your sleep, that was a terrifying boundary that you crossed. 

“What should we do?” Parker looked to Chance with concern. 

“I don’t know.” He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Apologize? Explain how it’s a physical response they couldn’t control and I hold no hard feelings?” 

“That seems like a good start.” Parker gave him an awkward thumbs up. 

Chance grabbed his glasses, then stepped out of bed. Quietly, he padded up to the bathroom door. Letting out a deep sigh, he softly knocked. 

Pausing your pacing, your neck cracked to the side at the sound. No, no, no, no…

When you didn’t answer the door, he called your name softly. 

“Are you okay?” 

You shuffled in place, unsure of how to respond. 

He knocked on the door again.

“C’mon, I know you’re in there. Let’s just talk.” 

“I don’t know what there really is to talk about.” He heard you muffled through the door. 

“For starters, I would like to apologize.” He leaned against the door frame.

“Why would YOU need to apologize? I was the one that humped your leg!” You let out a groan.

“I should’ve woken you earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t.” He bit his lip at the confession.

Your eyes widened. Bile rose to your throat, you felt like throwing up.

“How long were you awake for?” You asked quietly.

“A while. Like ten minutes.” 

“W-what?!” Oh you really were going to throw up. 

“I’m sorry…” He bit his lip. “You just seemed like you were enjoying yourself.” He slapped his head with his hand after saying that. 

“Chance! What the fuck? Why didn’t you stop me?” You could feel your cheeks heat up. 

“It felt rude to stop you?” 

“I was literally using your thigh to masturbate! In what world would it be rude to stop me from doing that?” Good lord, your friends were too sweet for their own good. Putting your wants and needs before their own. 

“Look, I don’t feel bad about it. If that helps?” He bit his lip, hoping to get a less frazzled response.

“It does.” You said quietly. “ A little.” 

Opening the door, you peeked out. Meeting Chance’s eyes, you felt your cheeks flush. With the opening, Chance managed to pull you from the bathroom into a tight hug. On instinct, you wrapped your arms around him. The move made him sigh. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled into his chest.

“It’s water under the bridge.” He pulled away to look at you. Worry furrowed his brow as he saw you had been crying. Wiping away your tears, he assured you. “It wasn’t a problem to begin with. Like I said, a natural thing that happens. Okay?” 

Looking away, you nodded. It was still going to take you a little bit before you could feel normal again. 

“Okay.” You said softly. 

Chance gave you one more tight squeeze, then let you go. 

After taking a few more moments to calm down, you decided to just forget it happened and get ready for the day. With disgust, you stripped off your sleep shorts. Throwing them in your laundry bag, and hoping that your other pair would avoid the same fate. 

When you were done, Chance and Parker appeared to have let the occurrence pass by. Both excitedly discussing their plans for the day. Which consisted of gambling, eating at a buffet, and more gambling. While the two of them were planning on hitting up various tables, you were planning on loading up a card and sitting around at the penny slots. Preferably with an overpriced cocktail in hand. 

Noticing you were finished up in the bathroom, Chance took his opportunity to get ready as well. Desperately needing a shower after the events that had unfolded that morning. There was also one more thing to take care of… his raging hard-on. 

He had remained hard since you had begun grinding up on him. No amount of your embarrassment had made it go down. He did his best to hide it from you and Parker, but the feeling was starting to become unbearable. 

Once in the shower, he looked down at his swollen cock. Tip red and dripping precum. God, why did you have to be so fucking hot? He wrapped his hand around his thick length, rubbing up and down with a tight grip. Biting his other hand, he muffled out a choked moan. He couldn’t get the picture of you fucking his thigh out of his head. The little moans and whines that escaped your lips replaying in his mind like a song stuck in his head. Oh, he would love to make you make those noises. 

He pictured what it would be like. To run his hands over your soft body, touching your most sensitive parts. Make you keen and whimper against him. He let out a groan at the thought, hand pumping faster. 

With how soaked he felt you on his thigh, he bet it was easy to get you dripping wet. What would it be like to sink into your wet heat? Fuck, he knew it would feel amazing. Having you wrapped up around his cock as he fucked into you. Oh, it would take a lot of willpower to not just cum in you right away. 

He flicked his thumb over the head of his cock. The thoughts of fucking you made it twitch in his hands. Closer and closer. 

Then he thought about Parker. They had spoken about sharing you, but Chance knew better. He wanted the man just as equally. What would it be like if he joined? He could tell Parker was just as turned on at the sight of you grinding on Chance's thigh. 

What if you and Parker both worked Chance? Talk about cumming quickly… He thought about the two of you on him. You planted on Chance’s face as Parker sucked his cock. Oh fuck, that would-

Chance bit onto his hand again. Streams of cum shooting out of his cock harshly. Through his teeth, he let out a low groan. Feeling the aftershocks of his orgasm pump out the final strands of his release. 

Slamming his hand on the shower wall, Chance caught his breath. Damn, if he came that hard with just the thought of you guys. How would he actually feel when he got with you? If he got with you. 

As he finished readying himself for the day. He couldn’t help but continue to think of you. Hearing the way you said his name over and over in his head. He tried his hardest, truly he did, but he couldn’t stop. Pausing, he came up with an idea. Something he had a feeling Parker would be on board with. All that was needed was your participation. 

“Wanna make a bet?” Chance asked as he sauntered back into the room. 

“Um, I’m pretty sure we’ll be making multiple today?” Parker raised a confused brow. 

“Yeah, yeah. But I mean a bet between us.” Chance motioned between you three. 

“What kind of bet?” You leaned your head on your hand, intrigued. 

“One that involves two winners, and a loser.” He gave Parker a pointed look. 

“Two winners?” You pondered on it. “Sounds different. Interesting.” 

Chance lit up at your words, nodding enthusiastically. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. What are we betting on?” You wanted to know where this was going.��

“We’re gonna see who can win back the most money today. Whoever loses has to do whatever the winners want.” Chance crossed his arms with a smug smile. 

Shit. You knew your friends were good at gambling games. Chance especially had a knack for all things luck-based. Parker, with his vast knowledge of rules, was extremely good at card games. Cheating the system without actually cheating. You, however, stuck to the simpler things. The thought of touching a card game that wasn’t Go Fish or Solitaire had you sweating. 

Still, perhaps Lady Luck would be in your favor today. Granting you the ability to receive a jackpot at all of the penny slots you would play at. Besides, even if you did lose the most the guys would do was make you embarrass yourself in some way. Right?

Looking up at them, you felt a shiver run up your spine. As they waited for your response they watched you with a glimmer in their eyes. Something you couldn’t quite name, but could feel. Hunger. 

If you made the deal,  that meant you were agreeing to them asking you to do anything. Anything. The implications were somewhat electrifying. But you shouldn’t dwell on those thoughts. 

However, part of you wondered what they would ask of you if you lost. What they would want you to do for them. To do to them. 

Nope, no. You shook your head. They were your friends. Silly, goofy, Parker and friendly, cheery, Chance. Both lovable as friends, but they couldn’t be more than that. 

“So, whaddaya say?” Chance held out an outstretched hand to you. 

“I’m in!” Parker swooped in, taking the hand and vigorously shaking. He shot a knowing wink at Chance. 

“And you?” Chance asked, his eyes now pleading like a puppy-dog’s. 

“You know using that face is unfair.” Still, you grabbed and shook his hand. 

Chance’s face lit up as you shook. Everything was going according to plan. 

He knew you didn’t stand much of a chance against him and Parker. While the two were willing to go high-risk/high-reward, you played it safe. It did earn you some cash, but not nearly as much as a singular win could get him at a table. 

“How much are we putting on the table?” You didn’t wish to put out more money than you were willing. 

“How much did you bring?” Chance asked. 

“$1,500.” You said. 

Chance put his fingers to his chin in thought. 

“And you?” He motioned to Parker. 

“$3,000.” That had your brows raising. 

“Really?”

“I like playing! Plus I wasn’t planning on spending it all. Just being safe.” He shrugged. 

“Well I brought $2,500. Since I know you’ll likely stick to the slots, let’s do $400.” Chance nodded at his thought process. 

“And the two who win the most win the bet?” You asked, despite knowing the answer. 

“Yup!” Chance gave you a bright grin. 

“Why two winners?” You questioned. 

Looking at Parker, Chance shrugged. 

“Thought it’d be fun to spice it up. Then two of us can be entertained by the loser.” Again, you spotted that hunger in their eyes. 

Grumbling from your belly interrupted your conversation. Both the boys snickered. 

“Let’s get something to eat before we hit the casino, yeah?” Chance asked. 

“Yes, please!” You agreed, hoping to fill up on something good. 

You managed to find a nice brunch buffet. Stacking up on waffles and bacon, along with some mimosas. Chance being, well, Chance went for a morning Bloody Mary. 

You cringed your face as a waiter served him the drink. 

“Tomato juice and vodka at nine am. Delicious.” You nudged Parker, sticking your tongue out in disgust. 

“It’s five-o-clock somewhere.” He said, taking a sip. “Ireland, for example.” 

“Of course you would know that.” You rolled your eyes, then pointed a finger at him. “And don’t you dare take the words of our lord, Jimmy Buffet in vain.” 

“Technically the phrase was coined before the song…” Parker was about to ramble when he spotted your narrowing eyes. “Ooooorrrr, I’ll find a way to enjoy a cheeseburger in paradise in his honor.” 

Crossing your arms with a proud huff, you nodded at him. 

“That's what I thought!” 

The three of you finished your meal. Enjoying more banter and conversation. When you wrapped up, you headed back to the casino attached to your hotel. All of you loaded up cards with your cash, then headed in your respective directions. 

Waggling your fingers with excitement, you spotted the penny slots. You wandered around the area, then your eyes landed on the most kitschy slot machine you had ever seen. Titled “Pawsome Fun”, it had a display of cats and kittens. Some cat themed items were strewn about like balls of yarn and paw prints. From the machine you could hear a tinkling jingle intermixed with various cat sounds. Oh, you were gonna be sitting at this one for awhile. 

You sat in front of it and swiped your card. Watching as $400 of credits popped up on the screen. With the keys on the machine you decided to be a bit risky, betting 10 on two lines. (Ooh, twenty cents. How scandalous.) 

Meanwhile, Chance had bet  his first $50 at the craps table. In no time he managed to quadruple it. Somehow winning in the first round, then rolling doubles multiple times in a row. The dice dealer had to check to make sure the dice weren’t weighted multiple times. To his chagrin they were not, Chance just had a certain something about him when it came to luck. 

Parker was doing alright. While he wasn’t bringing boatloads of cash in, he was fairing pretty well at the blackjack table. Though, his fellow players weren’t particularly enjoying his “small talk” of regaling the history of the game. While he technically wasn’t talking about the game itself, it still felt like a bit of a faux pas. Eventually the group’s glares managed to shut him up. Though he was very fidgety during the rest of the games. 

You continued to enjoy the penny slots. Even earning a jackpot from the cat one. A celebratory chorus of meows greeted you along with your credits going up by $40. You pumped your fist at your win. Who says you couldn’t win this bet? 

Chance was feeling really good about his odds. Now $300 richer than he was at the start of the day, he decided to gloat. Looking around the casino he spotted you. A content smile on your face as you continued to press the “spin” button. Occasionally adding more cents to your credit pool. 

Sliding in beside you, you pretended to ignore your friend. It didn’t help that he wrapped an arm around you and leaned over your shoulder. 

“Are ya winnin’, son?” He chuckled, a hot breath hitting your neck. 

“I sure am!” You waved at your credits. “I got the jackpot!” 

Chance eyed your amount with an amused smirk. 

“Good job!” He said patronizingly. “You keep doing that and you’ll beat me in, I dunno… five days?” He gave you a toothy grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“If you’re so great, how much have you won?” 

“Oh just $300.” 

You whipped your head, staring at him with wide eyes. 

“There’s no fucking way! We’ve been here for maybe an hour!” 

“Which means I have even more time to win!” With that, he left you with a wink and a wave. 

At your seat you sat open mouthed and dumbfounded. Your measly jackpot was nothing. You watched as Chance wandered off to the craps tables again. 

“That your boyfriend?” An old woman with a ragged voice had sat at the machine beside you. 

“What? Oh, um, no.” You rubbed the back of your neck, cheeks red. 

“Really? You seem like you’d be a cute couple.” She swiped her gaze card and punched in her bet. 

“You gleaned that from our brief interaction?” What was it with these old ladies and questions about your relationship?

She just shrugged.

“I’m old. You’ll learn about these things someday.” 

With that she turned to playing on her machine. You did the same, but felt a pit growing in your stomach. With each press of the button it grew bigger and bigger. After losing another round, you let out a groan.

“Everything alright?” The woman next to you asked. 

“No.” You sighed. “That friend you saw with me made a bet and I’m so going to lose it at the slots.” 

“What’s the bet?” She was intrigued, likely someone interested in gossip.

“The loser has to do anything the two winners want them to do.” You grumbled.

Cackling, the woman startled you. Her laugh eventually turned into a cough that she pulled out a kerchief for. 

“Oh dearie, are you sure you aren’t dating?” 

“Um, yeah? I don’t understand what that has to do with the situation?” You looked at her, confused. 

“It has everything to do with it!” She giggled. Oh the youth. 

“No, it doesn’t?” 

“Did you have any stipulations around what “anything” means?” She looked at you over her glasses. 

Her implication dawned on you, you had thought about it earlier. There was no way they would though, right?

“No, they wouldn’t do anything like that. The most would be embarrassing me.” 

“Whatever you say.” She eyed you, then leaned in. “If I were you I’d move from the slots to the tables. Better chances for you to win.” 

You glanced toward the area of the tables with a gulp. She was right. There was no way that you would win without betting higher. Sighing in acceptance, you geared yourself up to play games you had no idea how to play. 

You put the credits back onto your card, then made your way to the craps tables with Chance. He was leaned over the table, watching someone roll the dice with enthusiasm. Practically bouncing on his toes as he watched the dice roll to a stop. Then he let out a small cheer, pumping his fist. With sparkling eyes, he noticed your presence. Smiling brightly at you, he motioned for you to come over.

“Done with the penny slots?” He asked.

“Uh, yeah.” You said sheepishly. “There’s no way I’m going to compete with you guys doing that.” 

“Smart cookie.” He ruffled your hair. 

“So how do you play this?” You eyed as people set their chips down in spots listed with numbers. 

“It’s kinda a lot, but easy enough to get. I think, at least.” You watched him place a chip in the spot with an eight. 

“Right now we’re in the middle of a round. I just bet that he’s gonna roll an eight this next one.” 

“Okay…” You watched the man rolling kiss his fists, then released the dice. They clattered, both facing four side up. 

“Hell yeah!” Chance exclaimed. “You can basically win at any point in this game. Mostly, unless he rolls a seven. Well, you can technically bet against him to get a seven, so…” 

“This sounds very complicated.” You could feel yourself start to sweat. 

“Here, next round I’m shooter, so you can bet on me. Kay?” He pat your hand reassuringly. 

“Okay…” 

“Sweet!” 

When it was Chance’s turn to be the shooter, he had you get some of your credits transferred to chips.

“So at this table you have to make a minimum bet of $20.” Oof, while in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t a high number, penny slots had changed your perspective on wagers.

You placed the minimum bet on the table. This time you would be wagering in Chance’s favor. Which he seemed pleased about. 

With bated breath, you watched as he rolled. It landed on a six. He gave a nod to the dice, then prepared to roll again. You watched as other players put their bets on the table. For now you would stick with hoping he got a six. 

He made three more rolls without hitting a six, but you noticed others winning with their respective bets. Testing your luck, you put ten on nine. 

Luck appeared to be in your favor, Chance’s next roll was a nine. He gave you another classic bright smile. The look in his eyes made your stomach churn with butterflies. 

“Nice job!” 

Eventually, Chance rolled a six once again, earning you another win. 

“Looks like you’re getting it! At least a little. Wanna shoot?” He asked.

Biting your lip you looked over the table. The dealer eyed you expectantly. Shrugging your shoulders, you again decided to test your luck. You and Chance placed your bets on the table. With a deep breath you grabbed the dice. Praying to the gods of luck, you shook the dice. Upon release, you watched as they landed on fours. Alright, you could work with this. Chance watched you, a smirk on his face. Looking at the board, you realized he had placed his bet on the “don’t pass bet” spot. A look of disbelief was on your face. 

“You bet against me?” You asked incredulously. 

“Just don’t roll a seven and you’ll be fine.” He crossed his arms with a smug smile.

You placed down ten on two, hoping you could make him lose. Unfortunately, your next roll was a bust. The dice landed on four and three. You let out an audible groan as you watched your chips be taken away and Chance received more. 

“Damn, sorry sweetheart. Maybe next time.” He pat you on the back.

“There won’t be a next time.” You huffed. “I’m gonna play blackjack.” You practically growled. 

You wandered over to the table Parker was sitting at. The man doing his best to chat up a neighboring player. When he spotted you, he lit up. 

“Oh, ho ho! What do we have here?” He teased. “Come, join us, we’re just about to start a new round!” He pulled out an empty seat beside him.

“Thankfully, I actually know how to play this one.” You said as you plopped down. 

Technically you did, but you had never played in a casino before. Hopefully you could manage to win at least something. 

“Deciding to come to the tables now? What made you change your stubborn little mind?” Parker asked, poking you on the forehead for emphasis. 

“Chance told me he already won $300.” You grumbled.

“Sounds like our Chance!” He cracked his knuckles, then his neck. “Well, hope you’re ready!” 

You all placed your bets. Going for the minimum, you placed down twenty. Parker placed down 200. Sucking in a deep breath, you prayed to the luck gods once more. If Parker won, you were totally fucked. 

Cards were shuffled, then the dealer began handing them out. Parker received a Jack and a two. You got a seven and a five. Doing quick mental math, you knew you needed to get at least one more card. Parker was the first person at the table, so the dealer faced him.

“Hit.” He received an eight. “Stand.”

Gulping, you watched as the dealer turned toward you. 

“Hit.” The dealer pulled out a Queen. “Shit.” You said under your breath as you watched the dealer collect your chips. 

Parker patted you on the back.

“Better luck next time.”

When it was all said and done, Parker had managed to beat the dealer. Earning him more winnings. You let out a groan as you watched him receive more chips. He gave you an apologetic look. 

Deciding to stay, you managed to win a couple rounds of the game. However, you were nowhere near as close as Parker. You needed to up the ante. 

You placed down $200 in chips, making Parker’s eyes widen. 

“You sure about that?” He asked.

“Positive.” 

“I like your style!” He exclaimed as he set down $200 as well. 

You were dealt your cards, and cursed under your breath as you saw Parker’s hand. An ace and a King. Parker bounced in his chair, waiting for the dealer to flip his other card over. Parker had won. 

It was then that you admitted defeat. There was no way you were going to be able to match their winnings. Letting out a frustrated grumble, you left the table to cash in the chips that you had. Parker decided to follow you, excitedly talking about how much fun he had at the table. How he was looking forward to poker tomorrow. He stopped when he realized you weren’t engaging with him

“Are you okay?” He asked softly.

“I’m fine.” You said bluntly, not looking at him. 

Spotting the two of you heading to cash in your earnings, Chance jogged up to you. When he saw your expression his brows furrowed with worry.

“Is everything alright?” Chance’s eyes darted between you and Parker.

“Peachy.” You said. 

“Are you sure?” Chance reached out for you, but you swiped his hand away.

“I told you, I’m fine.” You sighed. “I just wanna get my cash and crash in the room. Then deal with the inevitable embarrassment you two are going to plot.” 

“Oh. I take it you didn’t win much?” Chance bit his lip nervously. 

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“How perceptive.” 

Chance and Parker shared a concerned look, hoping that they could change your mood back at the room.

When you returned to the room, you plopped face first onto the bed. Letting out a long muffled groan. You lost, you lost!

“You know, we can just drop the bet if it’s bothering you this much…” Chance didn’t want you to be this distraught. 

Without lifting your head, you sharply pointed in his direction.

“No! I am a person of my word!” You lifted up, turning yourself to face them. “I will complete this bet!”

A surge of confidence burst through you. So what if they asked you to do something embarrassing? You were friends, they wouldn’t hurt you. 

“That was a sudden change in mood.” Chance noted.

“A mood that has me filled with confidence and energy. Lay it on me! I can take it!” You gave them a grin. Surely you could have fun with it too. 

“Tell us what you were dreaming about last night.” Parker sat on the couch, looking at  his nails nonchalantly. 

As if on autopilot, your mouth slammed shut. There was NO WAY you could tell them about that. You thought maybe they would make you embarrass yourself in public. Telling them the intimate details of your very intimate dream, no, you couldn’t.

“Um, I’m sorry. I don’t remember.” You scratched at your head.

“We’ve known you for forever.” Parker stood up walking toward you. Leaning down, he booped your nose. “Which means, I know when you’re a fucking liar.” His voice was low. 

“I-I’m not lying?” You stuttered out. 

“Is that a question, or a statement?” Chance chimed in, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“A statement?” You squeaked. 

“Oh c’mon, your dream couldn’t have been that bad.” Parker sat on the bed then slid himself next to you. 

“Yeah. You know you can tell us anything, right?” Chance followed Parker, sidling up beside you. 

Heat flared to your cheeks at their proximity. In your peripheral you could see them smirking mischievously. That hunger had returned to their eyes. 

“Guys, you could choose something else…” 

“We could.” Parker said. 

“But we don’t want to.” Chance finished.

Sitting between them, a realization dawned on you. You jumped off of the bed, spinning to look down at them. 

“You planned this!” You exclaimed, red in the face. 

The two of them shared a look, then shrugged. 

“So what if we did?” Parker asked. 

“You still lost.” Chance tapped his chin with his fingers. 

Letting out a frustrated noise, you tapped your foot. Trying to figure out some way to not tell them anything. 

“So, your dream?” Parker brought you back to them. 

Sighing, you dropped your head. It was no use, you lost, you had to tell them. Gearing yourself up, you took in a deep breath. 

“Idreamedaboutyoufuckingme.” You said quickly and quietly. 

Parker did his best to not laugh. 

“What was that?” His voice held a teasing lilt.

“I said… Idreamedaboutyoufuckingme.” Though it was louder, you still said it quickly.

“I didn’t catch that.” Chance cupped his ear with his hand. 

You let out a strained groan. 

“Fine.” You said through gritted teeth. “I dreamed about you fucking me.” 

“There it is!” Chance said. 

“Took you long enough.” Parker chimed in, nudging the other man. 

“Ugh, you two are insufferable.” You tried to deflect the conversation, red blooming on your cheeks. 

“Did you like it?” Chance asked, eyes dark.

“Ah, um…” 

“That wasn’t an answer.” Parker joined in again.

“Maybe.” You blurted.

“Only maybe?” Chance stood up, walking up to you. He leaned down, nose to nose with you. Your breath hitched. “Didn’t seem like it when you came on my thigh.” He said lowly.

Softly, you let out a whimper. The sound sent chills through Chance. 

“Well?” He asked, the heat of his words against your lips. 

“I did. Like it. A lot.” Your eyes darted away from his.

What was happening? Sure, the boys teased you, but never like this. Was it some cruel joke? All because of what you unconsciously did to Chance?

A warm hand on your chin brought you back to the present. Chance turning you to face him, his gaze filled with adoration. It had your heart swelling. 

Perhaps this was something else entirely.

“If it helps, I liked it too.” He said softly. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

Clearing his throat, Parker caught both your attention. He was leaning back, enjoying the show you two were putting on. However, he wanted more. 

“I’ve got something else I want you to do.” He said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“What would that be?” You asked. 

“I want you to let Chance fuck you. In front of me.” He seemed giddy at the thought. 

Both you and Chance’s eyes widened. Did he really just say that?

“Y-you want to be cucked?” You spat out without thinking. 

Parker giggled at your shock, bouncing against the bed.

“Of course I do!” Parker looked between you expectantly. 

You looked at Chance, looking for any hesitation. 

“Do you-” Chance cut you off.

“Yes!”

Suddenly, you felt soft lips press against yours. A shocked noise escaped you before you allowed yourself to fall into the affectionate action. Your eyes fluttered shut as you pressed back against Chance. His tongue lapped at your lower lip and you opened your mouth for him. Your tongues tangled, making Chance groan.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted this.” He breathed against you, before pressing against your lips once more. 

Warm hands caressed over your body. One curled into your hair, allowing Chance to control the kiss. You moaned as he nipped at your lip, then slid his tongue against yours again. Pulling away, Chance took in your state. Hair mussed up, lips wet and kiss bitten, the cutest blush dusting your cheeks. Fuck, you are adorable. He kissed you again, then trailed his lips down your neck and jaw. 

“Fuck.” He said your name lowly. “I need to taste you, please.” His eyes pleaded with you, shooting heat straight to your core. Oh, wow. This was not how you imagined this would go, but boy were you loving every second of this. 

You nodded, and Chance took his opportunity. Pressing a deep kiss against your lips, he wrapped his arms under your thighs and lifted you up. Your legs locked around his torso as he lifted you. He carried you to the bed, setting you down gently. 

As he looked down at you, he tore off his shirt. Revealing a somewhat toned body. A tight broad chest with a lovely bit of a lower tummy. You kind of wanted to bite him. It looked like Parker did too.

The other man had moved to the couch to get a good view of the show you and Chance were putting on. His eyes were drinking in all of the sights as his cock grew hard in his pants. Fuck, you two were so hot. 

Planting his hands on either side of your head, Chance leaned down. Capturing your lips with his once more. Your hands trailed up and down his back, then scratched at his scalp, earning you a low groan. 

“That feels good.” Chance said against your lips. 

Warm hands slid under your shirt, then pulled it off. Your pants and underwear followed. The articles falling unceremoniously onto the hotel floor. 

Both Chance and Parker groaned at the sight of your naked body. Between your thighs, your glistening pussy peeked out. The sight made them groan again. Chance spread your legs, making sure Parker got a good look at your needy cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” Parker moaned out.

Chance slid two thick fingers between your pussy lips, making your hips jolt. 

“Ah, fuck!” You keened. 

It had been a bit since you had been touched by someone other than yourself. Your pussy was extremely sensitive. 

The fingers teased around your entrance before plunging in easily. Biting his lip, Chance moaned at the feeling of your cunt sucking up the digits. So soft and warm. His cock jumped at the thought of him finally sliding into you. Curling his fingers, Chance pumped in and out of you. The push of his fingers pressing up against your gummy sweet spot. 

“Ah, C-Chance!” You cried out. 

“Look at you…” He breathed out, eyes trailing over your writhing body and landing on his fingers pressing in and out of your cunt. “So fucking perfect.” The compliment shot sparks of pleasure through you. 

He pulled his fingers out, making you whine at the loss. Walking over to Parker, he offered his soaked fingers to the man. Parker opened his mouth, gladly taking the offering. He moaned around his fingers, eyes rolling back. Chance let out a moan of his own at the feeling of Parker’s tongue.

“Fuck, you taste good.” Parker said, face already fucked out. “You should taste her too, Chance.” 

Nodding, Chance returned to you. He kneeled at the foot of the bed, then pulled your body to him. Without hesitation, Chance dove into your dripping heat. Large, warm tongue lapping through your folds making you let out a loud moan. His tongue flicked at your clit, earning him a cry of pleasure. Fuck, he was good. He felt so fucking good. 

Chance moaned against you, loving how good you taste. Oh, he could just stay between your legs forever. Die in the closest thing to heaven he had discovered. He continued to lap at your heat, pressing hot kisses to your thighs. Occasionally he would wrap his lips around your clit. You cried out at the pleasure that coursed through you. That familiar heat building up in your belly. He had barely been going at you and you could already feel your orgasm growing. 

Watching you from the couch, Parker pawed at himself over his pants. His hard-on straining against the fabric almost painfully. Oh, but he loved the feeling. Edging himself over and over till he could finally cum. 

“C-Chance! Ah!” You cried out at a harsh suck on your clit. 

Chance hummed contently against you. The vibrations of his voice making you shiver. That heat continued to build. Just a little more, that’s all you needed. 

His tongue flicked at your clit quickly. He watched you writhe under his ministrations. Moans escaping you faster and faster as he forced your orgasm build. So close. Each lick against you had your thighs flexing. The heat in you growing hotter. 

One final lap against your pussy had you gushing. Throwing your head back, you came with a loud moan. Thighs clamping around Chance’s head as your release coated his lips and chin. He moaned against you. 

As you shook with aftershocks, Chance stood up. Pulling his pants and boxers down, he revealed his cock. It was even better than your dream. Large and very thick, you shivered at the thought of him inside you. Soon enough you would feel it. First, Chance wanted to feel your mouth. 

The man shifted your body around, making your head droop over the edge of the bed. Pressing his cock to your lips, he spoke.

“Open.” 

Complying, you opened your mouth. He slid between your lips with a groan. The feeling of your mouth and tongue around him made him shiver. Softly holding your head, he began to thrust down your throat. Making you choke on his cock in the most delicious way. 

“F-fuck, you feel so good.” He groaned. “If I knew you took cock so well, I would’ve done this sooner.” 

He continued to fuck your mouth. Loving the way you moaned around his length. Yeah, he could get used to this. Though, he didn’t want to cum down your throat. Not yet, at least. 

Pulling out, he crawled onto the bed with you. Warm hands manhandled your body as he pressed tender kisses over your sensitive skin. He pressed your back against his chest, his cock sliding between your wet folds from behind. The head pressed against your clit, making you jolt against him. 

“Want me to fuck you? Yeah?” He breathed against your neck before kissing our sweet spot. 

“Mmph! Yes!” You keened. 

Over your shoulder, Chance locked eyes with Parker. The dark look in Chance’s eyes made Parker shiver. He followed as Chance’s fingers slid down your front, spreading apart your pussy lips. In one fluid motion, he thrust his cock deep inside you. A choked sob left you. 

Parker moaned at the sight. Chance shoved deep inside your tight, wet heat. Your pussy drooling over his cock as the man began to fuck into you. Slick sounds filled the room along with your moans and whines. Just like your dream, Chance’s thick cock pummeled into your sweet gummy spot. The pure pleasure made tears prick at the corner of your eyes. 

Parker couldn’t stand being on the sidelines anymore. He needed both of you. 

As he stripped down, you watched with anticipation. Licking your lips as Parker approached you and Chance. He pressed a deep kiss to your lips, capturing your moans as Chance continued to fuck up into you. Turning from you, he pulled Chance into a kiss over your shoulder. The two tangling tongues with a groan. 

Parker’s fingers tweaked at your nipples, causing you to cry out. Then he trailed his hand lower, fingers dancing around your sensitive nub. You squirmed as he played with you, gasping as pressed harder. Chance hissed as he felt you clench around his length. 

“F-fuck! Make them do that again.” He groaned, looking at Parker.

The other man listened, continuing to play with your overstimulated pussy. Your soft walls pulsing around Chance’s length as your clit was brutalized by Parker’s fingers. Each squeeze against his cock had Chance moaning louder and louder. Balls growing tight as you clenched around him. Oh you were going to make him cum so hard. 

“I think they’re close.” Parker smirked as he continued to touch you. 

Loving your fucked out face. Eyes glazed over, mouth hung open, tumbling out a stream of moans and whines. The men force you to take every pleasurable touch. Leaving you shivering as another orgasm was building up within you. 

“God, you’re so fucking tight.” Chance kissed up your neck. “I bet you’re close, huh?” Fuck, he needed you to cum around him. 

“Mmm, make them cum. I bet they’ll squirt again.” Parker joined in, teasing you with his words. 

All you could do was let out a pathetic whine, your pussy fluttering at their words. 

“Mmph, keep going. They like it.” Chance groaned. 

“You like it?” Parker’s lips captured yours in a heated kiss. “You like us using your perfect body like this?” Parker’s hand slid down your front back to circling your clit. 

Pleasure courses through you, your orgasm just on the edge. 

“Ah! Mmm…Parker!” You moaned as sparks of pleasure shot through you. 

Parker grabbed your cheeks making you look at him. His eyes hungry as he smiled down at your ruined state. 

“You gonna cum? Make Chance fill up this pretty pussy?” He pressed a hot kiss to your lips. 

Both you and Chance moaned at the thought. 

“Fuck yes! I’ll cum in this perfect little cunt.” Chance groaned and kissed up your neck. Occasionally sucking against the sensitive spots. 

That heat in your belly was growing and growing. Ready to burst at any moment. 

“Please,” Chance huffed against you, “please cum for me. I need you.” He practically whimpered. His cock so sensitive. Needing to unload in you. 

With his plea you shattered. Cumming around his length with a scream. Your pussy clamped around him, forcing him to release inside you. A flood of warmth filled you as Chance shot hot ropes of cum. Each twitch of his cock had him moaning. He rut into you as you came down, making you whine at the overstimulation. 

Pausing, Chance caught his breath. Keeping you pressed against his chest as his cock stuffed you full. He left trails of sweet kisses along your neck and shoulders. Whispering “thank yous” over and over against your skin. 

Eventually, he slid out of you with a groan. Both of you slumped down. With your legs spread, they watched as Chance’s spend slid out of you. 

Parker couldn’t contain himself. Suddenly, you found yourself on your back. Parker pressing a quick kiss to your lips, then kissed down your torso. Reaching his destination, he began to lap at your overstimulating pussy. Licking up the mix of you and Chance and moaning at the taste. Oh, he could get used to this. 

“You both taste sooooo gooood…” He looked at you and Chance, a fucked out daze had his eyes glazed over. 

Parker returned his mouth to your cunt, desperately needing more of you. His tongue flicked against your clit, making you cry out. It was too much. You tried closing your legs, but Parker forced them back apart with a growl. He dove back into your heat, licking up and down your folds. Mouth encircling your sensitive nub, making you cry out. 

The scrawny man was surprisingly strong. A vice-like grip on your thighs. Making sure you took everything he gave you. He was going to have you cum on his face, he needed it. 

Between your legs your eyes caught his hungry stare. The sight had you shivering and moaning. 

All it took was a harsh suck on your clit and you were falling apart once more. Spraying your release on Parker’s face as your hips thrusted against his lips. He moaned, lapping at you greedily. Tongue abusing your swollen clit. 

When he had his fill, Parker crawled over you. Slowly, he pressed a deep kiss to your lips. Tongue meeting yours, making you taste yourself and Chance. Sitting behind you, Chance tugged at Parker’s hair. He pressed his lips against his. Tasting what you had, making him groan. Already he was growing hard again. 

First, however, it was Parker’s turn. His cock, red and beading with precum. He wondered how long he would even be able to last. It didn’t matter, he needed to feel you. 

Sliding his cock between your folds, the man’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy. 

“Oooh gosh, you feel amazing!” He moaned. 

Both of you moaned as he slid into your heat. Your pussy sucking him in despite how overstimulated you were. Parker didn’t start slow, opting to pummel into you quickly. As if he couldn’t hold himself back. 

He couldn’t, you felt so fucking good. Your sopping cunt pulling him in over and over again. Warm, wet, and so soft. He didn’t want to leave the feel of your pussy. 

With the little wherewithal he had, Parker reached for your swollen clit. Fingers circling around it once more. Every touch making your hips jolt. Your body matching with his thrusts as Parker forced your body to build up another orgasm. You sobbed as the pleasure grew and grew. 

Above you, Parker was in a daze. Loving how fucked out you were beneath him. Your writhing body just taking everything he was giving you. Eyes shut tightly as you gasped out moans with each of his thrusts. Soon enough you would be clamping down on him, making him join Chance with cumming in you. 

He leaned down, mouthing the crook of your neck. Leaving love bites down the column of your throat. Each bite made you tighten around Parker’s length. He whined at the feeling, continuing to leave bites and kisses against your skin. Needing to feel the way you clenched around him.

“Gosh, oh, oh, f-fuck.” He stuttered out. There was so much he wanted to say, but your body had him in pure bliss. Coherent thoughts were out the window with the way you felt around his cock. 

His fingers continued to work at you as he pumped in and out of you. Biting your lip, you whined at the feeling. The pleasure growing almost unbearable, yet you felt as if you needed it. 

“P-parker, mmph! It’s t-too much!” You managed to gasp out. 

“You can take it! P-please!” He cried out. Just a bit more, that’s all he needed. 

Locking your legs around his hips, you pulled Parker’s body flush against yours. Grabbing his hair, you gave him a hot open mouthed kiss. Your tongues tangled as you groaned. Out of nowhere, you felt your orgasm slam into you. Pussy clamping down and pulsing around Parker’s cock. A wave of your release gushed onto his lower half. 

“Oh! Oh!” He whimpered, feeling his balls tighten before unloading into you. 

With eyes shut tight, he pumped in and out of your wet cunt. Cock twitching as he shot ropes of his cum into you. Each thrust sending shocks of pleasure coursing through his body. Your pussy continued to pulse around him, making him moan. 

He pressed a long deep kiss against your lips, slipping his tongue against yours. Lazily, you wrapped your arms around him. Fingers tangling in his colorful hair, lightly tugging. His hands ran up and down your sides soothingly, helping you come down from your high. 

Looking up at Parker, you felt a swell in your chest. He was staring down at you in awe, adoration sparkling in his eyes. As if he couldn’t help himself, he dived toward your face. Peppering you with light kisses all over your cheeks and neck, the sweet action made you giggle. As if he hadn’t just fucked you silly.

“Mind if I join in?” Chance asked sheepishly, his cheeks dusted with red. 

“Come here, big guy!” Parker opened an arm to him, dragging Chance into a kiss. 

After a moment, Parker pulled out of you. Both of you groaned at the loss. Chance and Parker stared down between your legs, appreciating the collective mess they made of you. Sheepishly, you pressed your thighs together. 

“Awww, nooo.” Parker whined, pulling your legs apart.

“You guys are making me self conscious.” You huffed.

“You shouldn’t be.” Parker said matter-of-fact. “You’re really fucking hot.” 

Despite everything, that had your cheeks flaring red. 

It seemed like the men weren’t done with you. Chance was hard again, eyeballing your overstimulated cunt with that familiar hunger. While you didn’t know if you could truly take anymore, another part of you felt a rush at the thought of being fucked into a puddle. 

And fucked you were. Chance putting you in a mean mating press, his cock making you cum around him two more times before he came in you again. Parker pushing you facedown on the bed and taking you from behind. Fucking into you like no tomorrow. Every part of you becoming jello as they repeatedly used your overstimulated body. 

Eventually, everyone had tired themselves out. Both of them curled up on either side of you. Snuggling against your naked form. Multiple hands trailed over your body, leaving you shivering. Chance pressed soft kisses up your collarbone and neck, and planted one on your lips. Giggling, you felt Parker nibbling at your neck. Yeah, he sure liked to bite. 

“What now?” You asked, turning your head between the two. Head hazy with the bliss of your orgasms. 

“We take care of you.” Chance pecked your cheek. “It’s the least we can do, considering…” He motioned to your boneless state. 

“Ooh, how about a bath? Since we can all fit in the tub!” Parker’s eyes sparkled with excitement. 

You loved the man’s enthusiasm for even the most mundane of things. Something you hoped you could learn from him. 

“I like the sounds of that. How bout you?” Chance rubbed his thumb lovingly along your cheek. 

“Mmm, a bath sounds wonderful.” 

Parker helped get the bath prepped, while Chance took care of you. Wiping you down, then making sure you drank water and had a bit of a snack. As the tub was filling, Parker came back into the room and hopped back into bed with you. He snatched a chip from the bag Chance was sharing with you. 

“Did I miss anything?” He snuggled back into you.

“Just Chance babying me.” You teased. 

“It’s called aftercare, because you know, I’m not an asshole.” He teased back, pecking your cheek affectionately. 

“Bar. In. Hell.” You poked at his chest.

He grabbed your hand, pulling it to his lips. 

“And I know you’d follow me all the way down.” This time he placed a kiss to your lips, making your heart swell. 

When he pulled away, Parker stole a kiss from you as well. 

“Don’t want to be left out?” You teased your other partner. 

“Of course!” He blushed. “Plus, I really like kissing you.”

“May I have a turn as well?” Chance asked Parker with a quirked brow. 

“Why of course!” He leaned over you to kiss the man deeply. 

When the tub was full, Chance helped carry you to the bathroom. You had attempted to walk, but found that your legs were way too wobbly to do so. Perks of having a strong man that enjoyed manhandling you, you supposed. Parker slipped into the tub first with a content sigh. Gently, Chance placed you in, then slid in behind you. Pulling you to his chest, Chance placed a sweet kiss to your forehead. His hands caressed over your body. Parker ran his hands over your legs, occasionally massaging your calves and feet. 

“Mmm, I could get used to this.” You sighed with content, closing your eyes and leaning back against Chance.

“Yeah?” He asked softly.

Peeking an eye open, you felt your heart swell. Both Chance and Parker were gazing at you affectionately. 

“Yeah.” You sat up, giving each of them a kiss. “So, would you mind not leaving this in Vegas?”

“You can bet on it.” Chance pressed another kiss to your lips, then gave one to Parker. 

“Oh, I love you guys!” Parker teared up, embracing the two of you. 

“I love you too!” You smiled brightly. “Both of you.” 

[xiaprint]

the five love languages

quality time

xavier was tired.

that was a given. he was always so low on energy but especially so after a full week of being in high demand. it felt as if he were just a piece of string, being pulled at between colleagues and higher ups and wanderers. just the thought of touching his blade made him grimace and since returning back to his apartment, he’s been glued to his bed.

being a hunter was rewarding. he liked who he worked with, he liked having an excuse to stay in good physical shape, he liked doing what he did. this sudden influx of wanderer activity had him on autopilot, the days of overtime turning into an entire week. he truly had no intention of showing his face to the public until he had to return to work, relieved to receive the email of his time off on his way home tonight.

naturally, he had figured that you’d be just as exhausted. you were there every step of the way, working side by side like you always did. he enjoyed times when he was stationed at the same place that you were, the two of you struggling through the heavy workload together. faint dry humor mixed with living off of vending machine snacks had to have been just as tiring for you, too.

that being said, the last thing he had expected was for you to creep into his apartment. you had your own key, knew your way around— it wasn’t out of character for you to show up out of the blue. still, it was a grueling week and he hadn’t planned on doing a single thing but drinking some freshly pressed juice and sleeping for twenty hours straight. he was so stuck in his tired mind that he failed to catch the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut, ignored the dip of another added weight into his bed.

a soft noise of acknowledgement leaves his lips only when your arms circle around his waist. they’re tender, pressing into his body heat that seeped through his white sweater. his head felt like a brick, stuck to his pillow. he was lucky that it was only you who snaked into his bed and not some armed intruder, feeling rather defenseless as his heavy lids refuse to open. he knows it’s you, he can smell your scent.

your cheek nuzzles into the back of his neck, holding him in a way that could almost send him right back into his sleep. the thick blanket covering the both of you confined so much heat inside, enough to make anyone the faintest bit drowsy. everything was so warm and he couldn’t help but relax back into your arms, no complaints about being the little spoon.

“you didn’t answer my text,” you start, a small explanation as to why you brought it upon yourself to sneak in. even so, you knew he never minded. xavier may be very socially drained after upholding formalities for a full week but he’d always have space for you. “figured you’d be tucked away already.”

all you receive in reply is a sleepy grumble, barely audible over the electric hum of his central air unit keeping the room nice and cool. it’s a familiar sound that pulls a faint smile out of you. your hands are soft as they run along the fabric of his sweater, soaking up the warmth against your palms. you snicker to yourself when the tip of one of your fingernails gets caught on a loose thread, tugging on it gently before letting it go.

“aren’t you tired too?” he manages in reply, a grumble that morphs into a quiet yawn. the thought of getting cuddled to sleep only makes his mind fog up, his foot lazily locking over one of your ankles in a silent plea to stay still. “you’ve worked just as hard as i have.”

sure, the past week had been loophole after loophole. your feet still ached from how many steps you got in, needing to invest in some better patrol shoes. with the busy schedule came less time to sleep as well as less time to tend to your needs. there was an undeniable pool of warmth that had settled in the pit of your stomach, trying and failing to sleep it off.

that’s where xavier came into play. he was your usual fix when you were struggling to get some rest, needing some sort of sexual relief before a nice and deep slumber. it was more often than not that you were slipping into his bed at odd hours for a quick fuck, just one of those habits that strengthened the physical aspect of your relationship. a perfect work-life balance.

so when your hand begins to take pity on his poor loose thread and trails up the thick white fabric instead, he can’t be bothered to flinch. your palm grazed his navel, caressing the very light happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. nails scraping his skin, touch lighting a similar fire in him. he couldn’t stop his dick from growing to life even if he wanted to.

the more xavier thought about it, albeit slowly, the more it made sense. that text that he accidentally ignored must’ve been your attempt of a booty call, why else would you have invited yourself in and crawled into his bed like you were stalking your prey? he was beyond tired and although xavier was nothing but a pile of bones against his mattress— he couldn’t deny the desire there too.

the playful hand feeling up his stomach snaked lower, dipped into his waistband like clockwork. he gripped your wrist with light but firm strength before it could travel any further, bringing it up to his face. his lips nuzzled against your palm for a moment before you felt a fat glob of spit land right in the center, a substitute for lube.

“still haven’t gotten around to buying another bottle,” he dismisses with a murmur as he senses your slight confusion, turning his head only a fraction to get a glimpse of your face. his eyes, deeper in color than usual, scan your face. “too much to do. just not enough time to do anything.”

your hand immediately returns, smearing the thick coat of spit around his cock. it’s hot and heavy in your gentle grasp, clearly just as pent up. the thought of him so worked up yet refusing to take care of it without you leaves a flutter in your panties. he lets out a sigh of relief, a broken groan following as your hand slides down to the base.

“i know,” you soothe with a whisper and a nod, leaning your face forward to peck at his lips. your wrist flicks at a slow pace, pumping him from shaft to tip with the kind of pressure that has his hips chasing a faster rhythm. it never failed to surprise him just how well you knew him, effortlessly giving him what he needed. “we have time now. just calm down.”

that reassurance is the only thing that allows him to fully melt right back into your touch, his grunts and breathing mingling with your own quiet moans. moments like these where you seemed to know how to relax his racing mind better than he ever could were his favorite. having you around did wonders to his soul, to his mental health, to his physical being. you were a goddamn gift.

his floaty feeling of utter adoration was cut short with the sensation of your sticky fingers cupping his balls, pawing at them in a way that had him choking on his breath. it sent electric shocks up his spine, had him gripping the top sheet beneath him. it was more than enough to bring him to that high, cursing as cum oozed out of his cockhead.

“oh, fuck,” he drags out his words, light and easy despite the heaving of his chest, unsure if he should finally let sleep take him after such a strong high or if he should propose on the spot. regardless, he was too spent to care about how embarrassingly fast he finished.

your giggle of satisfaction overlaps the ringing in his ears, leaning in to press a quick kiss against the hot skin of his lobe. “my turn?”

physical touch

the world of a doctor was particular. numbers, technique, precision, counts. the scent of hand sanitizer lingers with him at all times and after a while, he started to overanalyze and think deeply about things that others view as simple. he knew it wasn’t an easy route but was anything, really?

working with patients and colleagues, nurses and aides— it was incredibly hands on. zayne was constantly touching others whether it be to reposition their bodies on an exam table or get a nice and clean stitch. he knows the human body inside out but generally, he doesn’t like to be touchy with others. part of him believed that it was just his instinct as a medical professional but it never seemed to matter if it was you.

you were the exception, as always. you bring his smile out even when his face physically hurts with how tense it gets, you put him in situations others couldn’t even picture him in. it was only natural that you’d pull this uncharacteristic desire for touch, for warmth, for skin to skin out of him.

his house is equipped with a gym, something he made a personal goal back before he decided to pursue a doctorate. with the financial stability came the opportunity to furnish his place without any bounds, thus bloomed a home gym that could be accessed as early as his schedule allowed.

the first time you used it was after an impulsive stay that had only worked out thanks to the overnight bag you kept tucked away in his closet for emergencies. it had just enough to get showered and upkeep hygiene. thinking ahead served you well, a nice two piece set tucked away for dawn workouts that zayne had a habit of persuading you into.

it was an impressive setup, to say the least. his basement was fully furnished with machines that he had bought over the course of many years, slowly but surely collecting his own equipment. a treadmill, a stairmaster, a smith machine. some benches, plenty of weights, resistance bands. the perfect build for full body.

doctor’s orders are stretches before and after exercising. he’s particular about it, always guiding you through the basics and looking out for you the way he knows best. nothing feels better than making zayne proud and giving him peace of mind, so you’re always happy to follow his guidance.

this time around, sweat clings to your forehead. he’s off in the cardio corner of the basement, steady pants leaving his lips as his feet hit the treadmill belt in a rhythmic manner. his workouts always end with a jog, nearing the end of his own routine. the room is quite spacious and breathable for a basement, the only sound following the electric hum of equipment being the calm music coming from the sound system hooked up to the mounted flatscreen. it plays smoothly, yet not loud enough to bleed through headphones.

despite a good and productive leg day, there’s an undeniable cramping in your calf. dull yet tolerable, causing the faintest scrunch of your nose. it distracts you enough to miss the way zayne’s light jog has slowed to a stop, only noticing him standing before you once he presses a cold water bottle to your forehead in invitation.

“what hurts?” he reads you like a book, more than knowledgeable about you. it’s clear as day when something is bothering you and he’s nothing if not a nurturer, eager to get to the bottom of it. zayne’s knee hits the edge of the yoga mat you’re settled on, crouching to your eye level where you’re sat with your knees tucked to your chest. “your calf?”

a nod is all he needs before he scoffs softly under his breath. not mockingly, he’d never mock you for a thing. it all stems from the amusement it brings him when you do a poor job at following his professional advice. his fingers work to position your leg outward, guiding it to rest flat on the grey mat.

“point your toes,” he instructs softly, brows furrowed slightly in focus as he gauges the soft wince you give as you extend your toes to the air. “someone needs to drink more water.”

“you always say that.” you shoot back in reply, a bit too proud to admit that his technique has been working like a charm and the cramp is nearly gone.

he can only chuckle under his breath at the immediate eye roll you give him, a gasp ripped from your throat in surprise as he shifts to pick your leg up himself. he guides it over his shoulder, scooting on his knees until his pelvis meets your ass through your clothes. his hand remains flat behind your knee, aiding in keeping your leg straight. his free one cups and massages your aching muscle, stone-faced aside from the twinkle of enjoyment in his green eyes.

“i’m always right,” he muses with a subtle shrug, unable to resist that urge to scan your figure in such a compromising position. your athletic wear damp with sweat, your scent surrounding him. it only takes a heartbeat before his body hovers over yours, satisfied with the way your legs spread to accommodate him. he presses his lips to yours sweetly, guiding your leg around his waist to free up his hands. they work at the zipper of your jacket, pushing the tight fabric off of your shoulders as soon as it loosens.

his tongue is hot when it laps at the salt clinging to your neck, obsessed with even the most natural flavor of you. you mewl and it pushes him to recline your body, using his hand tucked behind your head to shelter you from the floor beneath you.

the warmth builds in your gut fast, already worked up with energy after lifting weights. he feels your heartbeat and it makes him smile to himself, hand snaking between your legs to cup your cunt over the nylon fabric. your heat seeps through and it’s enough to make him chub up in his own shorts, swallowing a groan as he pecks your chin.

“does it still hurt? do you need me to help you think of something else?” he questions with a heavy huff, thumbs dipping underneath the stretchy waistband to peel your shorts and panties down your legs in one swift go. “you can be honest with me.”

“please,” your whisper meets his ear so gently. how could he ever deny you? he’s always been a weak man when it came to you, unable to turn you down when you had that look in your eyes as if only he could tend to the hurt.

so he helps. he assists. he fucks you slow and easy on the natural rubber of the yoga mat, shrugging off your whiny protests because it’s bound to be an expensive mat that you don’t want to ruin. the last thing on his mind is a yoga mat. he french kisses you until the words die down in your throat, until your mind shuts down and all you can do is whimper his name into his mouth. as raunchy as it may be, he’d be happy if all of his belongings could be stained with your essence.

one of his hands leaves your hips, trailing blindly behind his back to find your aching calf that put him in this position to begin with. he soothes it with a gentle massage to the sore muscles, multitasking in time with the rolls of his hips. its tender and sweet and so him that you can’t help but pump cream all over his thick base with a scream.

it makes his pace falter, huffing in amusement under his breath as he leans forward to plant a kiss on your wrinkled brow.

words of affirmation

he could sense something off the minute you came up the stairs. maybe it was the weight of your steps, maybe it was the pout gracing your lips, maybe it was the way you didn’t exactly greet him. rafayel was an expert of everything pertaining to the love of his life so it was never hard to pinpoint when the mood wasn’t right for his usual antics. something was wrong and it caught his attention instantly.

the day was rather hot, just like the day before. summer was coming in full swing around whitesand bay, the ocean waters busy with fisherman looking to catch what was in season. unlike the repetitive commotion of seagulls and the boat action outside, it was rather quiet and peaceful in the confines of rafayel’s studio. it was the way he liked it, ceiling fan on high as it regulates the temperature mixed with the salty air.

painting has been a miss for rafayel today, the inspiration tank in his brain on empty. he had spent his day treading between the downstairs and the upstairs, mixing colors and trying his hardest to strike even the faintest hint of an idea. he was delighted when he heard the gate creak open only for his excitement to deflate at the seemingly upset aura that followed you up the stairs like storm clouds.

“a frown that deep is definitely going to leave a few wrinkles,” his voice pulls you out of your thoughts, your gaze shifting from the floor length mirror settled beside his dresser to where he was lounged against the headboard of his bed. even if his words hit a bit of a sensitive nerve, they hold that soft tone he only ever uses when he senses a vulnerable attitude on your end. it’s evident that he means well.

his suspicions are confirmed the minute you cross your arms and look away without much of a word, eyes trained back on your dampered reflection. the outfit you’re wearing looks nice and breathe-able for the sweltering heat beyond the studio walls yet rafayel realizes quickly that he’s never seen it on you previously. it must be new.

“not now,” you huff back in late reply to his poking and prodding, unimpressed and certainly not in the mood to come up with an equally playful comeback. it was obvious that his words weren’t meant to dig but he could practically taste the sourness of your mood, studying you carefully for a quiet moment. he watches you turn left, then right. eyes barely blinking when you adjust the strap of your top along your collarbone.

a few moments pass before he puts the puzzle together, humming softly to himself. he’s behind you within seconds, unable to stifle a laugh at the way you jump as soon as you catch his figure behind you in the mirror. a pair of arms link lazily around your hips, his silent affection that always goes a long way. there’s love and curiosity in his eyes when they find yours, raising a brow.

“i’m gonna guess that a certain silly girl did some online shopping,” he starts, slow and sarcastic with each syllable that falls from his tongue, hooded eyes soaking up your figure from head to toe. “and is very unsatisfied with her purchase. did i get it right?”

it wasn’t exactly hard to piece together, considering how your attention has been glued to your own reflection since you stepped foot in his studio. he was hoping for some cuddles yet you didn’t get to reach the bed, instead engrossed in what you were wearing. how you looked, the sensitivity and unhappiness radiated off of you in waves. your lack of response was enough of an answer, a dramatic sigh leaving his lips paired with a shake of his head.

a kiss plants itself on your cheek, featherlight yet speaking volumes. at the end of the day, you were rafayel’s lady and he never wanted that mind of yours to wander too far away. you could feel your feelings and he loved to give you that space to do so, but he’d only ever let you stray so far. he would always pull you right back eventually.

“it’s a shame that you feel like it doesn’t suit you,” he murmurs, reading your mind in that scary way he always seems to do. a gentle tug leaves you to stumble back into his hold, knocking your gaze from yourself to meet him instead. your eyes find his and he smiles, guiding you to recline onto the bed. the back of your knees hit the edge, buckling just to give. he kneels to plant a kiss on the hand you have resting on one of your thighs, embarrassment clear as day on your face. “i think everything suits you. i don’t know how you do it, but you pull it all off. every material and color.”

his words sound honeyed, voice strained just a bit. it was right of him to believe that you weren’t a fan of the new two piece set that you ordered on a whim off of a sketch site to begin with, the summer outfit not fitting how you planned in your head. rafayel was nothing if not good at speaking his mind, worshipping the ground that his girl walked on. it was hard to even remember what you didn’t like about the clothing when he had so much to say, kisses smearing along your thighs down to your knees.

soft breaths of defeat and desire mix on your tongue, leaving into the air. his hands guide your legs over his shoulders, his mind on autopilot to fix what was damaged. it’s what he was good at. his thumbs make quick work of sliding your bottoms off, letting the material fall to the floor in a small pile. the scent of you hits his face like a treat, mouth salivating on instinct.

“you’re gorgeous,” he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss against your twitching clit. it’s a form of torture that has your toes curling against the blades of his shoulders, twisting into the sheets and shifting your face to the side to stuff in his comforter. it smells like him, only making you wetter. “every inch of you. pretty down here too.”

that weight of insecurity dissipated into the air within seconds, especially with rafayel’s face between your legs and stuffed against your pussy. he kisses and sucks as if he needs the taste of you to breathe, tongue working to press into your sloppy entrance. it’s divine, just like it always is when it’s you.

he groans into your juices, face gently shaking side to side. if he were being honest, he was waiting for this. it was meant to be for your pleasure but he ate you for his own at the same time, indulging in what has been plaguing his mind for days now. you flood his face, glossing his lips and chin.

days like these were inevitable. it was impossible to not feel down, to ignore that nagging voice in your head that fed you lies. no matter the noise, no matter the clothing— you’d be his definition of art. you embody everything that he lives for and stands for, you catch his eye like no other. all that ever mattered to him was making it known that you were a dime piece he’d be forever happy to hold, proud to show off, the first to appreciate.

“i wanna make you cum,” he pulls back, replacing the tongue that was delving into your walls with two fingers. they curl, thrusting inside of you at a messy and sloppy pace. his ears develop a red hue, successfully entranced and focused on making you feel as good as you look. “let me taste you.”

all it took was a gentle suck of your clit for your body to spasm in the way his brain had remembered so vividly. legs lock around his head as if you never wanted him to leave, fingers scratching at his shoulder. he could only moan in delight, his hands gentle as they run up and down your thighs in an act of quiet reassurance.

after all, words were medicine after challenging days.

gift giving

sylus thinks you look the best when you smile. it never mattered how big or small it was, he was happy as long as it was genuine. it brought a glow to your skin, it made him feel funny in his chest. there was something so intimate about being the one you choose to share your happiness with, something he takes rather seriously.

he was the type of man to let the world burn to ash all for you. his love ran deep and truly knew no bounds, anyone was fair game to him the minute that they crossed you. the need to protect what was his drove him to great lengths but he couldn’t say that he hated the thrill. he was never one to be shy with spending copious amounts of money but when he was doing it for you? it felt more rewarding.

his spending wasn’t in a superficial sense. he liked the high life and only ever knew the finer things, but none of it was driven by an ego or utilized to show off. he simply preferred luxury, quality.

that being said, he never needed an excuse to splurge on you. he does it without much of a thought, feeling that urge to give you what you wanted without worry. he liked that you’ve gotten used to it, that you now accept it with open arms. the initial reluctance died down with time, soon coming to the realization that it was an expression. passing on his love to you.

the hotel room that had been arranged for the night is a big one, no surprise there. spacious, california king, floor to ceiling windows outlooking the N109 zone in all its glory. champagne rests on ice in the kitchenette, walls decorated with a minimalistic vibe. it was simple and held a nice atmosphere, an entire opposite of the exhilarating day you’ve joined him on.

your gaze trails from admiring the luxury to your own hand, a few small cuts decorating your skin from earlier. the mission had taken a turn for the worst but sylus had a way of always spinning things in his favor. you were safe and sound, yet there was still the faintest apologetic look in his red eyes as they find yours from across the bed.

“put some ointment on those scratches, sweetie,” he urges with a sigh, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders with a stretch. “there should be a medical kit in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet. some clothes from the boutique on the fourth floor, too. i’m sure you’ll find something to suit your tastes.”

there’s almost a teasing lift to his last words and it coaxes an eye roll out of you, but you stand from your spot on the bed nonetheless. the sting is dull, caused by a few stray hits that you had been in the way of.

you return to a glass full of sparkling champagne and a tray of neatly assorted chocolate covered strawberries. sylus has since changed into a silk robe that he had brought with, dark red in color. it sits nice on his broad shoulders and ends mid thigh. his glass is nearly empty and he chuckles at the sight of you, dressed in the nightgown from the boutique. a single finger beckons you like a siren’s call and who are you to ignore?

crawling onto the sizable mattress, it feels soft as clouds under your knees. he watches with eyes full of mirth as you settle on your stomach, face beside his propped knee, the only thing separating the two of you being the silver platter of dessert.

“i see someone ordered room service,” your teasing breaks the ice, smiling up at him with a hand holding your cheek up, eyeing the strawberries with curiosity. they were clean, fresh, plump. just the kind of treat that the two of you deserved after such a rogue mission.

a laugh echoes against the walls, a bit deeper than usual thanks to the excitement that’s died down. only sylus could feel that thrill of being hunted down and almost murdered over a bounty. his body shifts on the bed, reaching forward to pluck a strawberry off of the plate. he presses it to your lips, eyebrow cocked in challenge.

“eat up. what good are you if you’re not taking care of your needs?” he murmurs, the only sound filling the silence coming from the crackle of the electronic fireplace in front of the bed. it lights the room with a dim orange hue, effectively setting the mood. “i hope they live up to their price. they were a pretty penny for just a few strawberries dipped in some chocolate.”

his smirk widens as your eyes find his, watching carefully and studying the way your tongue pokes out to kitten lick at the hardened chocolate shell. it’s milk, sweet against your tastebuds that drag from the bottom up to the crown. seductive in every sense of the word, arousal stirring in his gut. sometimes he really does hate how easy it is for you to get a reaction out of him, whether it be physically or emotionally.

you bite and it’s loud, a crunch as the chocolate breaks and you’re met with strawberry and juice. it drips down your chin, a soft moan leaving at the taste. it was textbook teasing yet nothing weakened sylus quite like that smile you flashed him afterwards, lips blooming a pink tint with the fruit. you were his achilles heel and within seconds, he was on you.

“are you enjoying yourself?” he breathes against your lips, sweet treat long forgotten as he slots himself between your spread legs. the hot rush of his kisses trailing along your neck creates a sticky mess in the lace of your panties. “are you getting the reaction that you wanted? tell me.”

your response is cut off before it can even be given, thick fingers nudging the wet lace to the side. cool air clings to your hot cunt and the sweetest of mewls are swallowed down by his mouth, smearing some of your slick along your folds. his free hand releases your wrist, trailing to slip the strap of your down down your shoulder. the leeway of the fabric gives him space to slip one of your breasts out, tongue immediately finding your nipple with a filthy flick.

slippery finger pads dance with your swollen clit, circling in a painfully slow rhythm before trailing back down to meet your drooling slit. the sound of your moans ricochet off of the walls in a way that leaves pride in his chest, suckling a mark over your nipple in time with the fingers he dips into your pussy. there’s no resistance, just overflowing wetness that wraps around his knuckles like a glove.

“good girls take it upon themselves to answer when they’re asked a question,” he murmurs against the swollen skin of your areola, ruby eyes conveying a dangerous message as he stills the fingers pumping into your walls. the lack of sensation has you whining, resisting the urge to tug with the fingers you have tucked in his silver locks. “don’t make me regret treating you with those sweets. i don’t reward bad behavior.”

“yes,” you manage to form a coherent word even if it’s through a breathy pant, so full even with just his fingers warming inside of you. sweat clings at your brow, the taste of chocolate still faint on your tongue. “i got the reaction i wanted. i’m happy, sylus.”

a chuckle of satisfaction is all that follows, sylus supporting his weight with his elbow as he lifts to press a chaste kiss against the tip of your nose. he was just too fond of his weak spot.

“there you go. i knew you could be a good girl.”

acts of service

bad days simply didn’t exist in your world, not if caleb had a say in it. the smallest frown always told him more than any of your words ever could— little details always mattered the most. you’ve been at a rough patch for the better half of a week, stressed beyond belief with the highs and lows of wanderer hunting. devices were always beeping, lunch breaks rudely interrupted. there was no catching up and caleb watched in real time as your shoulders tensed more and more.

he noticed. even if he was silent about it at first, he noticed. those purple eyes have always been sharp and they never stop when they’re on you. it was clear that you were in dire need of a break and that’s exactly why he brought you along on a late night ride.

darkness envelopes what can be seen outside of the private aircraft, the interior as neat and empty as it always is. there’s been splashes of coziness since he first introduced you into his humble abode, your own touches bringing some life to it. perfume bottles here and there, a spare coat of yours hung on the bare coat rack by the entrance. for the first time since he purchased it, the cabinets were actually full and stocked with snacks. before long, it felt like home away from home.

caleb watches quietly as you stand at the tall window, aircraft flying on autopilot. it moved slow, floating around and giving you the familiar view of stars and planets alike. the sight made him smile, two of his favorite things right before his very eyes. it’s like you can feel his stare, turning on your heel almost immediately. it only makes his grin widen, silent as he pats his thigh and leans back into the sofa with a hum.

your feet press into the rug, crossing the distance without a word. he still thought you were beautiful, even if your face was twisted up with disdain after a stressful week. you feel like dead weight as you settle down in his lap, caleb’s hand immediately cupping your face. the hectic schedule left little time to be spent with him and your heart melts, suddenly feeling guilty for the radio silence between the two of you.

even if the replies have slowed down on your end, he still went out of his way to take you to the sky for some peace.

“sorry,” you murmur with fluttery eyes. his brows furrow at your gently mumbled apology, using his thumb to brush a stray eyelash off of your cheek. the last thing he had expected to hear was an apology, the exact opposite of what he had hoped for.

instead of accepting or denying it, he chooses to guide your head forward. your nose bumps into his with the sudden tug, clumsy in the way your lips meet his. they connect, sweet and short, caleb pulling away before you could indulge in a few more.

“don’t apologize. you know better than that.” he chastises quietly, successfully fogging your brain up with desire that you had been neglecting. the second his free hand travels down the skin of your arm, you become pliant. he’s always been very meaningful with his touches and his caresses, fingers brushing along the band of your watch before he’s undoing it. in his eyes, it’s just another piece of work that you haven’t abandoned yet. that just won’t do.

your eyes roll at his soft scolding, watching with tired eyes as he leans the two of you forward momentarily to place the watch into the bowl settled in the middle of the coffee table. he pulls you back, your chest falling to rest against his own. he stares down at you with eyes full of love, silent and wishing there was a way to physically remove the worry clouding you.

he pulls again, delighted that you aren’t pushing. his hands in your hair, soft kisses filling the comfortable silence. he smells of candy apples and aftershave, a combination that has been following him since the seventh grade after he learned how to shave his face. the nostalgia floods you, soon replaced with lust when his needy hands trail down to grip your ass through the material of your sleep shorts.

“gonna make you cum,” he murmurs in decision between hungry kisses, tongue running flat against your own in an intimate and deep exchange. it’s been too long since he’s had a chance to devour your moans, the pressure of his lips on your own leaving you limp the longer you sit in his lap. his hands are sweet, delicately running down the length of your back. free roam like they were always granted. “i’m gonna make you cum and then i’m gonna make us some dinner. get you full and taken care of, how’s that sound?”

all he ever does is talk and talk. it annoys you just as much as it fulfills you, heart pounding so hard that you can hear the bass echo in your ears. it almost masks his whispered words but you catch them just in time to nod and moan all the same.

the stars surround the two of you, atmosphere quiet— as alone as you could ever be. no one to call your phone up for a late night mission because there was no cell service. caleb strived to give you that safe little bubble where you could let your hair down and unwind, using his resources to get you lax. all he ever did is nurture and care and oh, was it the greatest testament of love. your protector, your rock. the only person who can shut you away from the world and take you to the moon. all you ever had to do was ask.

ask, you did. you took his words to heart and asked for what you wanted, learning slowly that he could grant your every wish. his time was spent catering to you, working with your wants and needs.

it doesn’t take much effort to peel your flimsy shorts off and down your legs, kicking the fabric off of your ankle and letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

his cock drags slow against your slick folds, the pure wetness seeping through the thin cotton of your panties. he wanted to tease about the polka dot pattern decorating your cunt but he bit his tongue, preferring to rut against your throbbing mound and chase friction instead. his tip nudges your clit in the best kind of way, your fingers curling into the blanket folded neatly over the back of the sofa.

“my poor girl,” he coos against the shell of your ear, hands shifting from holding you to guiding you. rocking your hips with a steady hold, taking the reigns so that you had nothing to focus on. the point was to help, to assist— make you free of worry. “you’re all burnt out. didn’t i tell you to call for caleb when things got tough?”

of course he did. he’s made it his life’s mission to provide, his broad shoulders built for holding a heavy head. his support is undying and you were a fool to think you couldn’t lean on him sooner, before you ran yourself ragged.

“i am,” your voice catches his attention, laced with need in the way he loves so much. your arms cling around his neck for leverage, cheek slumped against his. the speed of his hips bucking against yours increases the faintest bit, ripping gasps from your swollen lips. nothing has felt as right as this, cunt clenching around air, hungry for him.

the softest laugh leaves him, struggling to quiet down his own hisses and groans.

“sooner next time.”

[binmeister]

Unprofessional

Saja Boys x Producer! Reader

Yearn for wholesome and goofy Saja Boys and this song just, FITS so well I swear. Feels like the voices of this group kinda match up to the singing VAs a little - not exact tones but like, general vibes are there (i’m coping)

CW: not proofread, fem pronouns used occasionally (primarily gender neutral otherwise) - may be edited and corrected over time

Wordcount » 4.8k approx.

Track » If I say, I love you - BOYNEXTDOOR

Having worked in the industry for a few years now, you’ve had your fair share of overly confident idols and even some rude idols that thought they had more say in song production than they actually did. What you didn’t really account for is that some idols, could be a little too flirtatious and seemingly unprofessional.

When Lance - a long time co-producer of yours, had asked you to assist him with the up-coming comeback for the Saja Boys he so endearingly loved to call ‘his lovely lil fellas’, you had assumed everything would be okay and that things would go well. You’ve worked with them a few times now for various drama OSTs and they’ve been great, relatively professional, wary of being overly familiar. Respectful even.

But now they were anything aside from those things.

It finally occurred to you now that you hadn’t actually worked with all 5 members of the group in one session aside from the very first one where you got to know their vocal skillset, every other session after that was usually one of them or a much smaller group of them coming in to get the job done.  But all of them together? Oh boy.

You weren’t very physically gifted, hell a flight of stairs can wind you on a bad day but you’ve suddenly come across your innate talent to swat at overly friendly hands and your body is a lot more flexible than you thought as you actively matrix your way out of any unwanted hugs. They were getting too friendly too fast, at least a few particular members were. 

Which lead to many instances like today where you’ve had to actively swat at Romance’s curious digits as he tries to worm his way closer to you in the studio, or when you have to push Mystery away with a rolled up piece of paper because he’s getting too close even though he means well, or even when you have to berate Baby for playing his mukbang ASMR too loudly on his phone. Jinu tries his best to help get the guys in line but Lance doesn’t help because that man encourages it. Embraces it whole heartedly.

Currently you’re seated in the relatively comfortable ergonomic chair in the studio with your face in your hands as you listen to the chaos that is Abs and Mystery rolling around rough housing, Jinu yelling at them to stop whilst Lance and Baby cheer and hype up the chaos. You can feel Romance trying to get closer to you at the moment so you remove one hand from your face to slap him, a loud satisfying smack that makes everyone in the room pause for a moment.

“Agh-” Romance yelps in pain as he rubs at his hurt arm, he’s not even mad - you got him good. He can’t help the little sly smile worming it’s way onto his face as he’s about to say a flirtatious remark and you look up for a moment with a glare that would make even Gwi-Ma’s flame go cold. The two that were previously rolling around on the floor had stopped their movement too and you hear Lance cough awkwardly as he tries to play it off like he wasn’t part of this mess.

“I’m going to take 5,” You say through gritted teeth as you get to your feet, grabbing your face mask and cap so you can go for a quick walk. “When I’m back, I expect all of you to be on your best behaviour.”

All 6 men are scared stiff as they take nervous glances at each other, even Jinu is a little thrown off at your anger but he understands. Mostly. They watch as you walk towards the studio door and as you close the door behind you they all audibly gulp at your last muttered words. “I’ll kill you if you keep fucking around and waste anymore of my time.”

Lance is the first to break the silence, nervously chuckling as he goes and sits back down at the other available chair and pulls up the instrumental he’d been working on for the guys’ upcoming comeback. Maybe it’s time to actually get to business. He puts his business boy pants on and gives a quick breakdown on the title track, briefing the boys on the expected tone of the song to match their comeback and that when you would return they’d get to business in recording some demo lines and check who would suit which part.

They’re all nodding along to the explanation but Jinu can’t help but keep looking at the door, would it be too much if he went out after you to check if you’re alright? He thinks against it as he’s handed a piece of paper with the lyrics on it, retraining his focus back on the task at hand.

“I probably should’ve warned her that it can get chaotic, kinda forgot.” Lance mentions off-handedly as he laughs to himself, apologising to the group for not warning them that you would prefer a more reserved working environment and that he did admittedly beg and grovel at your door at 3am one day because he wanted your input on the song. A little TMI but Lance wasn’t exactly the biggest rule follower when it came to professionalism anyway.

On the other hand, you’re out on a quick walk around the block to clear your head. The song that Lance had shown you was pretty good, had a lot of room for improvement instrumental wise and the overall vibe of the song could be fun so you had agreed. Though you did get a little too much enjoyment at watching him beg on his knees for you to ‘please work on the song’ with him, long time co-workers - long-er time friends after all.

You’re relieved to feel the familiar shape of earbuds in your pocket as you pull them out and pop them into your ears, just a set of IEMs (In ear monitors) that you invested in years ago that made listening to music on your phone better. You quickly plug it into your phone and bring up the sample instrumental that Lance had shown you so you could refresh yourself on what could be worked on and if you had any additional notes to give him, he was adamant that he wanted the song to sound ‘fresh’ and ‘youthful’.

L: » im sory, we’ll b good now : ( 

You scrunch your nose a little at the notification, you’ll grill Lance at a later time but for now you’re busy rapidly typing out notes on your phone as you loop the minute long demo a second time as your eyes catch the building’s entrance fast approaching. There’s still another hour or so of your allotted time with the Saja Boys and you’ll be damned if the session is wasted with no sample recorded even if it’s just some half-assed adlibs.

The glass doors slide open in front of you as you near the entrance, your ID hanging loosely off the lanyard around your neck as you make sure to scan back in at the small gates that block off the main entrance to the elevators that would lead you back to the studio. A hopefully peaceful studio.

As you hear the elevator ding, you wrap your earbuds up into a neat little bundle and tuck them back into your pocket as you step in. You click the button for the 5th floor as you step towards the back of the small space, leaning against the back wall as you quietly hummed the melody of the song to yourself - still trying to think of any potential adlibs you would want the group to record.

L: » we r behaving now 

You snorted at the notification as you pocketed your phone, the doors of the lift opened smoothly and you were steadily making your way back to the studio. What you didn’t expect to find in the hallways was Mystery looking a little unsure of which door he needed to return to. He spots you, bows a little and then attempts to crack open the nearest door to check if maybe that was the correct studio. The mask you had on your face hides the whisper of a smile trying to worm it’s way onto your face as you walk by him, tapping him briefly on the shoulder as your little own ‘this way’ gesture as you walk a couple doors down from the supply closet he was about to enter.

He looks slightly embarrassed, at least that’s what you assumed based off the small ‘oh’ that escapes him that’s barely audible but he follows you diligently to the correct door now and as you open the door and crack it open, you gesture for him to enter first. He does so with the same small bow and a quiet ‘thank you’ to which you simply hum out a sound of acknowledgement before following in after him and closing the door quietly behind you.

When you enter you’re greeted with a calmer environment, there’s two Saja Boys on the couch and two in the booth being instructed by Lance on what sound they should be aiming for this attempt. Mystery goes and sits between the two on the couch, Baby seated with his arms resting on his thighs as he’s concentrating on his phone whilst Abs is seated on the opposing side with an arm thrown lazily over the back. They both give you a quick glance, nodding their greeting as you give a small wave and make your way back over to your chair and take your cap off while pulling your mask down off of your face.

“Okay Jinu, hit that first verse again and Romance I want you to harmonise in a lower key. Just see where it takes you this time.” Lance says calmly into the mic in front of him before he cues up the instrumental again and hits record to get the sample, he briefly waves at you as you settle down and you quirk a smile at him in his element. Least he’s gotten to work now.

“Setakgineun gadeuki,” Jinu starts out, his tone playful and Romance loosely comes in for a moment with a lower melody - just barely audible, “Millyeobeorin ppallaereul tohaenaego.”

Your eyes narrow a little, ears perking up and you look at Lance as he’s tapping a finger against his cheek as he focusses solely on how the two sound right now.

“..Beotkkonmajeo bappeugo.” Jinu finishes the first verse with a bit of an airy exit, pleasant on the ears and the overall tone of the first verse is giving that flare of playfulness that he seems comfortable with doing. Lance is nodding his head slowly as he stops recording for a moment and replays the short verse over the speakers and through the headphones that both idols have on their head so they can listen back to it. 

“We can bring Romance’s low harmony on the second line, drop it for the rest of the verse.” You pipe up as it plays over a third time, not particularly liking the full harmony the entire time and Lance nods a little as he asks Jinu and Romance to run it back again with the adjustment. Now Romance’s lower harmony melds in with Jinu’s on the second line, enriching the sound so the line delivered had more weight to the tone without much effort needed from the main vocal.

“Better.” Lance mumbles under his breath, still dissatisfied with something but he tells them to continue to the chorus for now since it’d be a waste of time to keep slamming their heads into a brick wall when they could simply revisit it. The remainder of the session is spent simply getting some lines recorded, enough for a demo and at least two attempts from all of the members at each of the lines to see who would best suit what when listening back to it.

“Jinu sounds good on the first verse.” You’d commented as you and Lance are sat side by side, quickly scrubbing through the first minute of the song. The singer in question perks up at that but tries to play it cool as he and his group members are left sprawled out on the couch or on spare chairs that had been brought in a little while ago so they can listen to the critique.

“What about Baby for the intro?” Lance asks you as he scrubs through Baby’s attempt on the full intro, you hum as the both of you continuously repeat that portion. “What if we split the intro lines? Get Mystery’s voice on the second half.” As you’re talking you’ve pointed at the audio tracks on the screen in front of you, the two of you calmly offering up rough suggestions on the first intro and first verse.

The boys are left twiddling their thumbs, not too sure how much input they should have right now for the initial recording of the track but it gave them some comfort that there was apparently enough audio for either of you to be making these calls. Lance leans back in his chair as he splices the audio to get the intro and verse stitched together per your request, he lets it play on the speakers as he turns in his chair slightly to catch the expressions and reactions from the group.

“Thoughts so far?” He throws out and expectantly looks at the men scattered around the room. Jinu’s deep in thought as he listens to the snippet, forearms resting on his thighs lightly before he shifts to sit back in his chair and cross his legs. Romance shakes his head - he’s not too sure what input he can give on this since it all relatively sounds the same. Mystery is intently listening to the spliced audio but isn’t sure what to say and Abs is also a little confused, struggling to find anything he could point out that would make sense but he’s got nothing.

“I have a suggestion.” Surprisingly Baby is the one to pipe up, his phone still in his hand but he’s muted the device whilst he listened in on the critique and sound bites. His thumbs pause, hovering above his screen as he contemplates how to word what input he had to say before he drops his hands to his lap and looks up at where you and Lance are. “Put Romance on the first intro line, then use me in the second half.”

It’s simple, no overly complicated instructions and after he says that it’s you that ends up resplicing the audio and taking his feedback into account. Now the small half minute has Romance opening the song, melding into Baby and then immediately followed by Jinu for the first verse. Your head had started to nod along as your ears catch the flow of the song better, you don’t turn as you say it but it’s audible once the song snippet ends and it’s quiet in the room. “Huh.. nice catch.”

There’s a small smile on his face at that, not overtly smug or sinister just a little one that appreciated the indirect compliment, he simply lets himself melt back into the couch as he idly starts up his game again. Jinu pipes up next, his words a little hesitant as he offers up his thoughts. “Maybe for the first verse, we lower the harmony? Keep the harmony for the chorus instead..”

You nod at his suggestion and quickly change the volume of Romance’s first verse harmony so it’s no louder than a soft hum in the background, it still enriches Jinu’s tone by melting into his second line but it lets Jinu’s voice shine more this way. Lance’s face is serious, before he cracks into a wide grin and cheers a little at the updated demo. He spins fully in his chair to face the group now as he claps his hands together with a ‘nice work guys’, the scheduled session was coming to a close and he wanted to finish it up with debriefing as well as answering any potential questions or requests any of them had until the next session rolled around.

“If you guys have anything you want to bring up at any point, you can send either of us a text.” You finally turned around in your chair at that, just enough to talk to them directly but not enough to be fully away from the audio interface in front of you. “If you have adlibs, harmonies, anything else you want to add you can send it as a voice memo to me and I’ll make note of it.”

“Thanks guys for coming in, Jinu let me know what best works for your schedule so we can pencil it in.” Lance ends the session with that, as you both stand up and bow at the group as they leave for the day and thank them for a job well done on the first session.

You didn’t think you’d given them that much power by giving them permission to send direct messages.

Surprisingly the boys were quite respectful in their messages with you, those who actually had audio samples they wanted to submit had sent over a simple audio message with what they wanted to share or even had Jinu direct a large email with all the voice memos attached so you could better hear it.

What you didn’t really expect was to get notifications at varying hours of the day. Jinu would send messages and requests for feedback at any point of the day, Mystery was surprisingly consistent in the early mornings, Abs would be midday or in the early afternoon, Romance would be consistently in the evening and at night but Baby? It was a little surprising that he was consistent in sending in potential adlibs at 3am-6am.

You were admittedly a little concerned that he may not be resting properly, though you’re well aware that most idol schedules often lead them to have some unhealthy sleeping habits you can’t help but still be a tiny bit concerned. When you had questioned him on it the first time he just mentioned it’s easier to think during the scattered hours, similar to Jinu allegedly but you didn’t care enough to dive deeper.

At 4am on a Tuesday, you hear your phone ping and you look at it already knowing who it would be. Why were you up at that time? Who knows, aside from you wanting to slave away at personal projects in between other deadlines it was your ‘you’ time that meant you could do whatever you want.

B: » would this work? B: » 🔊 0:01 - 0:08

You’d slipped your headphones off your head, steadily raising the volume of your phone as you play his audio message out loud. It was a simple adlib, Baby’s voice a little gravelly as he sings out ‘dum, dum, dum , yeah’ with the ‘yeah’ elongated with a tinge of vocal fry. It’s a lot lower than you were expecting and you blinked rapidly as you replayed it a few times.

[N]: » can you do it in a higher octave? B: » k B: » 🔊 0:00 - 0:06

You listen to it, then listen to it again and you hum out a sound of approval as you let him know that this works. He sends a thumbs up at that and you try not to snort, his texting style is a lot more blunt and straight to the point than you expected. With such a cute baby-face you thought he may lean into that with his messaging style but he texts like an out of touch dad. Wait cute?

Before you can think about it too long you hear your phone ping again, you think it’s going to be another audio sample or something similar but instead it’s just an innocent question.

B: » y are u up? [N]: » working B: » go sleep B: » workaholic

As you’re about to reply to him you see a notification pop up from Jinu, your eyes glance at the time on your phone and you’re surprised to see him awake as well at this time but also not that surprised. He seems to always be active and doing something.

J: » Hi, just wanting to check if something like this could work? For the chorus harmonies. J: » 🔊 0:00 - 0:30 J: » Also sorry about the time. Please respond when you’re awake and have some spare time.

Your thumb hovers over the play button, about to hit play and listen to what audio recording Jinu had send you when your phone pings again from said man in question.

J: » Baby said you’re awake, I take back what I said before please look at this after you’ve slept. Goodnight :)

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you as you re-read his message a couple of times. You got ratted out by their supposed maknae? You shake your head as you let the both of them know that you’re headed off for the night, letting Jinu know that you’ll check it when you’re awake later to respect his wishes of you not listening until you’ve slept.

A white lie as you proceed to play his audio sample as you prep for bed, brushing your teeth and listening to the various harmonies he had recorded in the half minute snippet and when you’ve tucked yourself into the comfort of your bed you play it once more. There’s a good few harmonies that would work for the bridge, maybe not so much for the chorus and you let him know in a response.

J: » So you lied about sleeping [N]: » you caught me :^) J: » You should get some rest [N]: » I feel like we’re not close enough for you to be judging my sleep schedule J: » I don’t think proximity should stop me, I can come over right now to judge you, if you really want

You giggle a little at his dumb joke, not expecting him to take your ‘close enough’ comment in the literal way to mess with you.

[N]: » Not very idol like of you to invite yourself to a producers house J: » I’d say it’s pretty on par with what other idols get up to

Jinu was surprisingly a lot more sly than you thought, a little on the sarcastic side but endearing enough that it’s attractive rather than asshole-ish. You hadn’t even realised an hour had gone by of you and him exchanging messages and banter, when you realised finally that you hadn’t actually been talking about the audio snippet anymore you tried to derail the conversation and get it back to a professional manner.

J: » I don’t think texting an idol at 5am is very ‘professional’ [N]: » are you turning this on me??? J: » If a scandal gets out, I’m taking you down with me [N]: » wtf

Jinu had a dumb grin on his face as he messaged you, sat on his bed with his back against the headboard and tiger nestled into his side as he wishes you a good rest as you finally tap out first. He re-reads the chat log, a little flustered as he goes through all the messages since initially working with you. It’s nice to see that he got through a little. Messages ranging from extremely professional - recording sessions and debriefs scheduled in nicely, notifications on ETA when asked, to steadily becoming personal in a way that was inquisitive and not overly invasive before slowly transitioning to little snippets of banter here and there. A comfortably steady turn around.

It was agreed upon that the guys had to be on their best behaviour again when they were next scheduled in, one that you heavily pushed for because having 6 children (including Jinu and Lance) running around a studio and getting too hyped up on non-existent sugar was not what you wanted to deal with. This wasn’t even your project, you’d been tagged in as a late edition so why were you forced to babysit?

“Try it again, I dare you.” Your voice was essentially a low growl as you sense Romance’s approaching hand as he tried to bother you for the umpteenth time in the last hour, his hand immediately returns to his side and he whistles innocently. He took another step back when Jinu gave him a pointed stare and even Lance had eyed him warily for a moment before focusing back up on Abs and Baby who were currently in the booth.

Mystery was seated on the couch, polite and mindful of himself as he listens to the feedback you and Lance had actively been providing the duo in the booth. Jinu was seated beside him and Romance finally drifted away from you to sit down as well so he doesn’t get chewed out later for being a nuisance, it’s just so hard to resist messing with you when you give such fun reactions.

Baby is surprisingly locked in, his posture is relaxed but he’s taking into account every piece of feedback he’s been given and the same could be said for Abs. Though the bulkier man is a little unsure on some things he’s quick to ask questions so he can get a clear direction of what he needs to do. Currently they were recording the potential rap demo for the second verse, Baby had just finished his version so now it was left for Abs to give it a go and you gestured for him to try it out.

“Wanna tell ya,” There’s a slight hesitance in his voice but Abs quickly recovers and falls back into the rhythm of the song. “Yeonggameul badeun cheokago-”

His body relaxes a little as he raps with his hands, trying to ride the rhythm and not commit too harshly on the tune as he goes. As he continues the verse he starts to play around a little with the melody, straying off from Baby’s prior version and something about it just works. You sit up at that, turning to Lance as Abs switches from a rap to a singing tone.

“Saragagetji oneul,” He switches the melody, dragging out the last words before continuing on and letting his voice bounce up and down like a smooth little wave in between notes, “Naeil tto more jigyeopjiman.”

Everyone is stunned and you fumble to save the recording as Abs looks at you all with a little smile on his face, a bit nervous as he waited for the impending feedback or critique clearly expecting a bad response. Baby nudges Abs, a barely audible ‘nice’ heard through the mic and Lance is absolutely gobsmacked as he stares at Abs with pure wonder.

“Where the hell were you hiding that?” He finally spits out, laughing to himself as he starts clapping and you’re staring at Abs now as well with amazement clear in your eyes. You hear him chuckle into the mic as he brings a hand up to rub at the back of his nape, a little bashful as he brushes off any further comments.

“That was sexy.” You blurted out accidentally, the duo in the booth snapped their attention to you and you don’t register the words until they’re out of your mouth and you panic a little as you overexplain yourself. “Like- Like it was perfect I mean like, y’know not in the sensual way it’s supposed to be a positive comment-”

You’re fumbling as your progressively feel heat rise up your neck and to your face, stammering to try and explain yourself before Lance full out cackles beside you and takes over. “No she’s right, that was sexy man. Actual hot stuff.”

Your head is dropped in shame at this rate and you bring your hands up to rest your overheating face, you can’t bring yourself to look up at this moment as you want the ground to swallow you up and devour your shame. You don’t catch anyone’s expressions, but Abs has a little smile steadily sneaking onto his face at the compliment you’d given him and Baby’s got a little smug smirk at how embarrassed you’re acting.

The three guys on the couch aren’t much better, Jinu’s trying not to laugh at you, Romance is chuckling to himself and has a hand over his mouth so it doesn’t leak out too much and even Mystery’s got a little smile on his face as everyone in the vicinity except you finds this hilarious.

Maybe you’re the unprofessional one.