#[yelling from the rooftop] IF YOU GET REALLY GOOD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carnalcrows · 2 months ago

Text

A WHOLE NEW WORLD

summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than a thief. But a stolen bracelet, a runaway heart, and a single reckless wish change everything. Now the world is spinning out of control—and the boy you can't forget might be the only real thing left to hold onto.

pairing: princess jasmine!choso kamo x alladin!male reader

content warnings: 18+, ftm choso (she/her pronous are used in the first half bc nobody knows of this), mahito is a warning of his own, top male reader, drowning, reader is an unreliable narrator (sorry bro).

word count: 8.0k

best viewed in dark mode

The market always smelled like too many things at once. Spices. Sand. Fruit that’s a little too ripe. Sweat. You’ve been running these streets since you were old enough to steal your first loaf of bread—and dumb enough to think it was free. These days, you know better. You know which stalls swap their goods by the hour, which alleys to cut through when the guards give chase, which rooftops creak beneath your weight and which ones won’t even notice you’re there.

And today? Today, you’re hungry. Not just for food, though you could eat. It’s the other kind of hunger. The kind that scratches at the back of your throat and says don’t sit still too long. The kind that makes you pickpocket out of boredom, not desperation. Which is why you swipe the silver apple from the merchant’s tray with a grin and no remorse, tuck it into your sash, and disappear into the crowd like smoke.

⋆｡°✩

“Thief!” someone yells. You sigh. That was faster than usual. Megumi chitters from your shoulder, fur twitching, eyes sharp as ever. He flicks your ear like this is somehow your fault. You flick him back and keep moving. You don’t run. Not yet. You walk like someone with somewhere to be. Let the tension build. Let the guards get close enough to think they have you. And when the right corner comes—you bolt.

⋆｡°✩

You lose them after five turns, three leaps, and one stolen chicken skewer that you do, in fact, eat. You’re not sorry. Megumi squeaks his approval as you hop down from the awning and dust off your hands. The back street is quieter here. Fewer eyes. Fewer witnesses. And that’s when you see her.

⋆｡°✩

Dark cloak. Hood up. Shoulders tense, like she doesn’t want to be here. Like the world is too loud for her today. But her hands are delicate where they rest on the edge of a fruit cart—fingers trailing over a pomegranate like she’s trying to remember what sweetness is supposed to feel like. Her eyes flick up. Meet yours. There’s a flash of something you don’t expect. Not fear. Not scorn. Recognition.

And then the fruit seller turns, sees her fingers on the goods, and yells something sharp in a dialect neither of you speak. Her eyes go wide. You step in without thinking. “Hey!” you bark. “That’s my sister.” The man scowls. “She doesn’t talk,” you add quickly. “Head injury. Real tragic.” You loop an arm around the stranger’s shoulders, tug her away from the cart before either of you get hit with a broomstick.

She doesn’t resist. Not until you’re two alleyways over and laughing breathlessly, and then—

“Why did you help me?” she asks, voice low, cautious.

You blink. Her hood’s fallen back a bit. Her face is pale and fine-featured. Sharp eyes. Loose braid. A little too well-groomed to be anyone’s sister from the lower quarter. You shrug. “Didn’t feel like watching you get yelled at.” She studies you. Really studies. Then—“You’re a thief,” she says, like she’s not sure whether to be impressed or irritated.

“I’m a specialist,” you correct. “It’s different.”

⋆｡°✩

She walks like someone who’s used to silence. That’s the first thing you notice. Even in the backstreets—where the city’s heartbeat slows and the noise fades into sun-warmed stone and dust—she moves like she’s afraid to take up space. You pretend not to notice. You’re good at pretending.

“So,” you say casually, adjusting Megumi’s grip on your shoulder. “You always ‘almost’ steal pomegranates, or was that just for flair?” She glances at you. Dry. “I wasn’t stealing.” You raise a brow. “You had your hand on it.” “I was thinking.” “Dangerous hobby.” She doesn’t answer that. Just keeps walking.

She doesn’t belong here. Not just because of the cloak or the way her braid looks like it was combed by someone paid to do it. It’s the way she watches everything—eyes sharp beneath the hood, like she’s memorising the exits. Like you used to.

“Are you lost?” you ask eventually. “No.” “Running from something?” She pauses. Then: “Not anymore.”

⋆｡°✩

You lead her to a little archway near the edge of the district—just low enough to duck into, just quiet enough to feel safe. You toss her a piece of the stolen chicken skewer. She catches it. Megumi squeaks at you like you’ve betrayed him. You toss him one too.

She eats slowly. Not like she’s starving—but like food hasn’t made her feel human in a while. The light catches on something at her wrist—a bracelet, mostly hidden by her sleeve. Woven threads and silver beads. Not expensive, but loved. You can tell.

“Nice bracelet,” you say casually. She covers it with her hand. “It was my mother’s,” she says, too quickly. You nod. Say nothing.

The moment stretches. Softens. And then— Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Not guards. But not far off. You both freeze. You tug your hood lower. She pulls hers up. Your heart kicks once. Not from fear—from instinct.

“Come on,” you whisper. You grab her hand. She follows without hesitation.

⋆｡°✩

You split off near a vendor stall. “Go that way,” you tell her, gesturing to the alley. “Sharp right, then left again. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.” She hesitates. Then she nods. “Thank you.” You grin, backing away. “It’s what friends are for.” She rolls her eyes. Then disappears.

You wait until the coast is clear before slipping your hand into your pocket—and finding the bracelet you never meant to steal. Your stomach dips. You stare at the familiar weight. The tiny silver bead worn smooth in the centre. You didn’t take it to be cruel. You took it because… something about her made you want to keep a piece. Just for a little while. You sigh. “I’ll bring it back,” you tell Megumi, who just tilts his head. “I will.”

You’ve snuck into a lot of places before. Noble houses. Merchant vaults. One bathhouse, by accident (long story). But the royal palace? That’s new. It’s not the guards that make you hesitate. It’s not even the sheer size of it—white stone and winding corridors, too many windows and not enough exits. No, what throws you off is how clean it is. No dust. No noise. No secrets whispered in the walls. You hate it.

Megumi clings to your shoulder as you scale the garden wall, little claws digging into your shirt like he’s second-guessing your choices. You pat him once, then drop into the hedges. “I know,” you mutter. “But I promised.”

The bracelet weighs heavier today. Not just in your pocket. In your chest.

You don’t even know her name. But you remember the way her fingers curled over it. Like it wasn’t jewellery—like it was a memory. You’re not a good man. You know that. But you can be good for one thing. Even if it’s just this.

⋆｡°✩

You make it halfway across the inner courtyard before you see her. At first, you think you’re imagining it. The light hits just right—filtered through silk drapes and pale stone—and there she is, no hood, no cloak. Her braid is clean and tied back, her robes richer, darker, edged in silver thread. Two guards flank her at a respectful distance. Another man walks just behind her—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, well-dressed. Not a handmaiden. Not someone she reports to.

They’re following her.

Your heart stops.

She’s not just from the palace.

It’s her palace.

⋆｡°✩

You’re frozen in place, suddenly very aware of the bracelet in your pocket and the stolen way you’re dressed and the dirt still clinging to your boots. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t even know her name.

And she’s the princess.

You take a half-step forward anyway. You don’t know what you think is going to happen. Maybe you’ll give the bracelet back. Maybe you’ll say something—anything—before you vanish again into the city and pretend you never made a promise to someone you never should’ve touched.

And then—

“Caught you.”

⋆｡°✩

A hand clamps down on your shoulder. Hard. You twist. Megumi screeches and leaps off you. But it’s too late. You’re face-to-face with a man you’ve never seen before. Light blue hair, loosely tied. A smile that doesn’t touch his pale eyes. He’s dressed like a royal advisor. Gold trim, rich layers. But the look he gives you is sharp enough to slice.

He glances down at your hand. “Oh,” he purrs. “What’s this?” You don’t answer. “Breaking into the palace just to return a bracelet?” he asks, tone sweet and sour all at once. “How noble.”

You try to pull away. His grip tightens. “Come,” he says, and you feel your stomach drop. “Let’s talk.”

The desert doesn't begin the way you expect. It creeps in slowly—grain by grain, hush by hush. You don't even realize you've left the city until the horizon loses its edges and the color of the world flattens. Gold swallows grey. Stone gives way to sand. And suddenly you're small beneath a sky so wide, it feels like it's watching you.

Megumi is silent on your shoulder. Tense. You don't blame him.

Mahito glides ahead, his pale blue hair ghosting behind him like the tail of some ancient thing. He hasn't said much since dragging you from the palace. Just that there's a cave. That it's full of treasure. That you'll find what he needs at the center.

"You'll know it when you see it," he'd said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Now, as the wind picks up and the dunes shift under your boots, you're starting to think this wasn't one of your better ideas.

⋆｡°✩

The cave entrance yawns before you like a mouth. Massive. Monstrous. Carved from obsidian and gold in the shape of a jaguar—or maybe a lion, but wrong. Too sleek. Too alive. Its eyes glow. Its teeth form the archway.

Mahito sighs, almost bored. "Try not to touch anything but the lamp. The cave doesn't like greedy hands."

You stare at him. "That's it? No map? No backup plan?"

He grins. "Where's the fun in that?"

The moment your foot crosses the threshold, the ground rumbles.

⋆｡°✩

Inside, the air turns thick—warm with the scent of old incense and metal. The walls pulse with veins of gold that glow like trapped fire. And the treasure...

It's everywhere.

Goblets crusted with emeralds. Weapons wrapped in silk. Jewels in colours you don't have names for. You step carefully, avoiding the statue that watches with jewelled eyes—

—until Megumi squeaks.

You turn just in time to see the ruby in his paw.

Small. Beautiful. Terribly red.

"Megumi," you whisper.

The cave roars.

⋆｡°✩

Treasure collapses like water. The ground splits. You sprint, dodging falling stone, the lamp suddenly heavy in your grip as the entrance grinds shut behind you.

You make it out—barely—hands scrabbling at the ledge as your body dangles over nothing.

Mahito appears above you, framed by sunlight.

"Help!" you shout.

He smiles. "Pass me the lamp first."

You hesitate.

He stomps on your fingers.

⋆｡°✩

You fall.

For one terrible second, all you see is sky. Then stone. Then—

—Something catches you.

Soft. Woven.

A magic carpet sweeps beneath you, spiralling upward as Mahito's laughter fades. The lamp still burns in your hand.

You stare at it.

Wipe off the dust.

And give it one, tentative rub.

⋆｡°✩

The explosion of light nearly blinds you. Smoke pours out in brilliant blues and purples, the air buzzing like it's trying to become sound. Then—

A shape. A grin.

And a voice like laughter and lightning:

"DID SOMEBODY SAY WISHES?"

Standing before you is a man, glowing faintly at the edges, with white hair that sparkles like frost and a robe that won't stay one colour.

"Hi," he says, flashing teeth. "I'm your new favourite mistake."

You open your mouth. Close it.

Megumi faints.

The man catches him mid-collapse and coos, "Aww, that's fair."

You point. "What are you?"

He beams. "Genie. Name's Gojo. Wishes. Magic. Sparkles. Screaming exes. The usual." He tosses Megumi gently onto a cushion that wasn’t there a second ago. Then turns back to you.

“You get three wishes,” he says, lifting three glowing fingers. “No refunds, no substitutions, no wishing for more wishes, no bringing back the dead, and no, I can’t make your eyeliner sharper—that’s between you and your mirror.”

You stare. He waits. Then tilts his head.

“…You okay there, street rat?”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Gojo starts doing cartwheels in the air. Literal ones.

Glowing, twirling, smug-as-hell flips while conjuring a sparkling drink in one hand and a mini fireworks display in the other. Megumi clings to your shoulder like he’s ready to bite the next magical thing that moves.

“You okay there, sparkle-thief?” Gojo asks between spins. “Wanna make a wish? Something big? Bold? Perhaps shirtless with charisma?” You stare at him. Then down at the lamp in your hand. Then back up.

“…So you can do anything, right?” Gojo winks. “Three wishes. Anything your heart desires, babycakes.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, waving the lamp a little. “I mean outside the wishes. Just you. Can you do anything? Or do you need the wish to work your mojo?” Gojo puffs up immediately.

“Excuse me? Excuse me? I am the most powerful being in the known realms. You think I need permission to do a little trick like—” he gestures vaguely “—I dunno, get you out of here?”

You shrug, mock-casual. “I mean, this cave’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it? Magical, collapsing death trap and all that. Maybe you can’t.” Gojo’s eye twitches.

You lean back on your palms, baiting him harder. “I mean, I get it. Maybe that’s why you need the wishes. You know. Limits.” Megumi squeaks like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

Gojo freezes midair. Then slowly floats down, landing in front of you with arms crossed and a pout forming fast.

“You wound me.” You give him a little shrug and a smug grin. “Prove me wrong.”

⋆｡°✩

There’s a snap. A burst of wind. And suddenly, the world flips. The cave vanishes. The stone. The heat. Gone.

You’re standing in open desert again, beneath a pale violet sky, stars blinking into view one by one like they’re surprised to see you alive.

Megumi topples into the sand beside you. You blink. Then slowly turn. Gojo is frozen mid-strut, mid-celebration, one finger raised in triumph. And then—

His whole face drops.

“Wait.” You grin.

He stares at you. “You—”

“I didn’t wish for anything,” you say, smug and victorious. His mouth opens.

Closes. Opens again. “You tricked me!”

“You tricked yourself,” you say, dusting off your hands. Gojo slaps his forehead. “Oh my god, you gaslit a genie.”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘strategic flattery.’” He paces in a circle. “This is so embarrassing—this is like day one Genie Academy stuff—never let them goad you, Gojo—”

Megumi snickers. Gojo glares at him. “Don’t laugh. He’s your thief.” Megumi just grins wider.

You flop down in the sand with a sigh, running your fingers over the curve of the lamp. Still warm. Still yours.

Gojo eventually stops pacing and flops down next to you, kicking his sandals off mid-air.

“So,” he mutters, still sulking. “You've got three wishes left. Gonna wish for a palace? Infinite gold? A harem of emotionally damaged men?” You shake your head.

You pull the bracelet from your pocket. And you say, “I want to become a prince.”

Gojo raises a brow. “Oh? You royalty-curious now?” You smile a little.

“No,” you say. “But she is.”

⋆｡°✩

Gojo hovers upside down for a second. Then rolls onto his back in midair and kicks his legs like a teenager hearing drama for the first time.

“Ohhh,” he sings. “It’s a crush.” You shoot him a glare. “It’s not a—”

He floats closer, chin propped on one glowing hand. “She’s beautiful, mysterious, emotionally reserved, probably a little dangerous—”

You blink. “You’ve never even met her.”

“I’m magic, babe. I know things.” He spins once, flaring his sleeves with dramatic flair. “So! Wish number one: turn you into a prince. Let’s do this!”

You pause. Just for a second. “What’s the catch?” you ask warily. Gojo gasps. “How dare. I am deeply offended.”

“You said you’ve got screaming exes.”

“Yeah, but they’re mostly jealous I look this good in silk.”

“Gojo.”

“Fine, fine. No catch. But you have to be specific.” He floats down to eye level, suddenly serious—well, serious for him. “You wanna be a prince, I can do that. But a real prince? With history, backstory, legitimacy, social clout, a tragic origin story?” He wiggles his fingers. “You gotta be clear.”

You hesitate. Then say quietly, “I just need to be… enough. Enough for her to look at me like I belong in her world.”

Gojo softens. It’s barely there, but real.

“Got it,” he says. Then he claps his hands once.

And the world explodes.

You don’t know where you are.

There’s colour everywhere—glitter and silk, ribbons of light, sand turning to glass beneath your feet. Megumi yelps as he’s scooped into a flurry of golden fabric, then promptly drops out the other side wearing a tiny embroidered vest and hat.

You are also suddenly in new clothes. Many clothes.Too many. A turban appears, spins three times, and explodes.

A jacket snaps onto your shoulders, then vanishes, then reappears in a different colour. Gojo mutters to himself, throws a handful of stars into the air, and steps back.

The whirlwind fades. You stumble forward and catch a glimpse of yourself in the water.

You look like someone else.Not a stranger. Not fake.

Just… polished. Taller. Cleaner. Like a better version of who you’ve always tried to be. Gojo whistles.

“Damn. You’re gonna break hearts and laws with that face.” You stare.

Touch your chest. Then look up.

“…This is me?”

He grins. “For now.”

⋆｡°✩

It starts with music. Low and distant at first, like a heartbeat under the ground. Then louder. Brighter. Faster.

By the time it reaches the palace gates, the sound has become a parade. Drums pounding. Horns blaring. The ground practically shakes beneath it. People gather at the edges of the street, wide-eyed, murmuring, pushing to see what the noise is about.

The guards don’t even know what to do. One of them drops his spear. And at the centre of the chaos— You.

Perched atop an extravagant, over-decorated, too-sparkling chariot that Gojo conjured five minutes ago because, quote, “You need drama.” There are banners in colours you don’t recognise, dancers flanking your path, golden confetti swirling through the air like it’s trying to make up for your anxiety.

Megumi rides next to you on the magic carpet, arms folded and expression deeply unimpressed, wearing a crown Gojo forced on him.

You want to throw up. You smile instead.

⋆｡°✩

Choso watches from the upper balcony. He doesn’t say anything at first.

Geto stands beside him, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the spectacle below. “Another prince,” he mutters. Choso hums. This one’s different.

The way he smiles at the crowd—not too big, not too forced. The way he bows at the gates. The way he scans the palace—once, quickly, like he’s trying not to look for something he wants to see.

It tugs at something in his chest. Something familiar. He frowns.

⋆｡°✩

“Introducing,” Gojo declares from the front of the parade, spinning mid-air and throwing glitter like it's a legal requirement, “the dazzling, the dashing, the devastatingly single Prince of the Seven Sands and Fourteen Rivers and One Very Cool Monkey—”

You elbow him. Hard. Gojo coughs. “—I mean. Prince—”

The guards step aside. The palace gates open. And you step through.

⋆｡°✩

You’re led into the throne room with trumpets blaring, velvet swishing around your ankles, and Gojo whispering terrible advice in your ear.

“Don’t trip,” he mutters. “Don’t bow too low. Compliment her—them, compliment them. Say something about the tapestry. Or the hair. Or, ooh, eyes! But don’t say eyes first, that’s creepy. You know what, just—say nothing. Smile. Look rich.”

“Gojo.”

“Also, maybe mention your monkey. Everyone loves a monkey.”

“GOJO.”

He vanishes in a puff of smoke. You inhale slowly. And step forward.

⋆｡°✩

Choso is already seated. Elegant, poised, eyes unreadable behind thick lashes.

You bow too low.

Geto raises a brow. Mahito smirks from the side like he’s already smelling a lie. And the king—Gakuganji, crowned and ancient and only semi-awake—beams.

“Ah! Our guest!” he says, gesturing with a heavy hand. “Look at this fine young man! What a jawline!” You straighten. Smile. Try not to sweat. Choso blinks at you. You clear your throat.

“It’s an honour,” you say, your voice suddenly a bit too deep, a bit too dramatic. “To be in the presence of such radiant… uh, royalty.” Choso tilts her head.

You panic. “And of course,” you add, “to meet the legendary tiger. I hear it has an excellent sense of character.”

Yuuji, lounging beside the throne, bares his teeth. Loudly. Choso hums. “He usually growls at liars.”

“Ah,” you say, blinking. “How… loyal.”

⋆｡°✩

Mahito glides forward, all polite venom. “What kingdom did you say you were from again, Your Highness?”

You freeze. Think fast.

Gojo appears behind Mahito, invisible to everyone but you, making frantic throat-cutting motions. “Uh—the Eastern Expanse. South of the Glass Sea. Just beyond the Twin Cliffs of—”

“—Cringe?” Gojo mouths.

“—Valour,” you say tightly. Geto narrows his eyes. Mahito hums, clearly amused.

Choso sips from a cup and doesn’t even try to look interested.

⋆｡°✩

Gojo reappears beside Geto, this time visible, in a deep navy robe and too much jewellery, swirling wine and batting his lashes. “You must be exhausted,” he says softly. “All this watching. You should sit down. Or let someone rub your shoulders. Or maybe your ego?”

Geto blinks at him. Then smirks.

“Is this your first time attempting seduction?” he asks. Gojo grins, teeth sharp. “Would you like it to be my last?”

⋆｡°✩

You, meanwhile, are dying.

You’ve complimented the floor tiles. You’ve fumbled three metaphors. You’ve told a story about a camel that might not have landed. And Choso hasn’t smiled once.

Worse, she hasn’t looked at you the way she did in the alley. Not yet. But something in her gaze lingers now—longer than before. Like she’s trying to place a shadow she saw once. A voice she heard in a dream.

You shift, fingers brushing the inside of your sleeve where the bracelet still sits. And you think: Not yet.

⋆｡°✩

The palace quiets after dark.

Servants vanish behind doors. Lights dim. Voices hush. The music from the courtyard fades into nothing but wind moving through marble archways and the distant hiss of sand brushing against stone. You’re standing on the edge of the upper balcony, staring out at the stars, feeling like they’re too far away.

Behind you, footsteps. You turn. Choso steps into view, arms crossed over her chest, long coat pulled tight despite the heat. Her braid is loose. Her expression is unreadable.

“You’re out late,” she says. You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.” Choso doesn’t move closer, but doesn’t walk away either. You hesitate. Then smile, gentle. “Could say the same for you.”

“I’m always up late,” she replies. “Hard to rest when everything is so… quiet.” You nod. “Silence is loud, sometimes.”

A beat.

She glances sideways at you. “You’re different.” You tense. “Different how?”

“From the others,” she says. “The other suitors. You don’t walk like you’re owed something. You don’t speak like you believe your own story.” You glance down at the marble beneath your feet.

“I don’t.”

⋆｡°✩

Just then, Gojo appears beside you. Not fully visible—more of a glimmer in the air, like moonlight caught in motion.

He leans close. “Hey,” he whispers. “This is your moment.” You blink. “She’s standing there, all mysterious and gorgeous and complicated, and you’re just standing here like a guy with no game. You wanna impress her?”

You mutter under your breath, “I thought you weren’t supposed to interfere.” He winks. “I’m not interfering. I’m supporting. Now ask if she wants to see something cool.”

⋆｡°✩

You inhale. Then turn to Choso. “I know this sounds strange,” you say, “but… would you like to go for a ride?” Choso raises a brow.

You nod toward the balcony edge. “I have something to show you.” Her expression doesn’t change.

But after a beat, she says: “Fine. But if this is another metaphor, I’m leaving.” You grin. “It’s not.” You whistle.

And the carpet soars up from the shadows.

She steps back, startled. Then stares. The rug hums with magic, hovering just above the floor, tassels fluttering like they’re twitching with excitement. Choso blinks. “Is that—?”

“Sentient? Yeah. A little sassy too.” You step onto it first, then offer your hand. She hesitates. Then places her palm in yours.

Her fingers are cold. But her grip is strong. You help her up. She sits in front of you, eyes flicking to the edge of the balcony, then to the sky.

“…Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Nope,” you say, smiling. “But that’s the fun part.” And with a soft shudder—

The carpet lifts.

⋆｡°✩

The palace falls away beneath you. The night air rushes past your skin. Choso’s breath catches in her throat as the city unfurls beneath you—lanterns flickering in narrow alleys, domes gleaming under starlight, the world spread wide and glowing and endless.

She turns to look at you. You don’t say anything. You just hold on. And take her higher.

⋆｡°✩

You land softly, almost weightlessly, on the terrace just outside Choso’s chambers.

She’s still quiet, still wind-tousled, still flushed from the cold kiss of sky on her skin. Her braid is coming undone, and one hand rests on her chest like she’s trying to hold something in—something that might spill over if she speaks too soon.

You linger there a moment longer, letting the carpet drift backwards into the shadows. You watch her, eyes drawn to the way she turns from the railing to you. A slow pivot. Unreadable expression. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For that.”

You smile. “Anytime.” You step back, ready to take your leave.

And before you think better of it, you add— “Good night, princess.” It’s meant to be charming. Light.

But her smile falters.

Not in a way that says hurt, not exactly. More like she’s standing on the edge of a truth he’s been holding for too long. You notice too late. “I’m not—” she starts, then stops.

She takes a breath. Steadies herself. And says it clearly, steadily: “I’m not a princess. I’m not even... her.” You blink.

She lifts her chin a little, eyes burning with something fierce and fragile all at once. “I’m a man,” she says. “I always have been. Even if—" She swallows. "Even if not everyone believes it.”

There’s a silence after that. Not empty. Heavy. Alive.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

You just look at him—the way the moonlight brushes the sharp line of his jaw, the proud set of his shoulders, the tremble he tries to hide in his hands—and realise that somehow, he looks more royal now than he ever did in silk and jewels.

You find your voice. “I believe you.”

His next breath is shaky. “You thought I was someone else.”

“I didn’t,” you say. Quietly. Honest. He glances up. “I thought you were someone extraordinary,” you say. “I still do.” Something in his face cracks. Softens.

You step forward. Close enough to touch. But you don’t—not yet. “I don’t care about the title,” you murmur. “I don’t care about the rules. I care that you smiled at me once in an alley, and I haven’t been able to forget it since.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day he was born.

And then— He reaches for you.

⋆｡°✩

His hands find the front of your robe. Yours find the line of his waist. It’s not frantic. It’s not even heated—at first.

It’s something slower. Deeper. Something that hums between your ribs and makes your skin ache just to be closer. When he kisses you, it’s hesitant. Careful. Testing the shape of your mouth like he's still afraid he’s not allowed.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting to. Like you knew, somehow.

Like this has always been the truth.

⋆｡°✩

The bed is quiet. Soft. Too large, too royal, too untouched by real life—but you forget that quickly. Because he’s beneath you.

Because his hands are in your hair, and your fingers are trembling as you trace them down the length of his spine, over the curve of his ribs, careful with every inch like he’s something sacred.

He breathes out your name when you kiss the spot just below his ear. His legs part instinctively when your body moves between them. Your name again—this time shakier, needier, like he’s falling open for you without even meaning to.

You ask before anything changes. He nods. And you move together like something pulled by gravity.

The room glows gold and shadow. His skin is warm. Softer than you thought. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

You kiss down his chest, over his stomach, tasting every part of him that he gives you. He arches when you touch him—soft sounds spilling from her lips like prayers, like confessions, like things never said aloud until now.

He wraps his legs around your waist. Whispers your name again like it means something new. And when you press into him— Slow, careful, trembling—

He doesn’t flinch. He lets you in.

⋆｡°✩

It’s slow. Not quiet.

He gasps when your hips move. Moans when your lips return to his. You try not to fall apart at the sound—try to last just a little longer, to feel all of him, to remember this as the first time you were seen and wanted and welcomed all at once.

He holds you tightly. Kisses you deeper. Moves with you, against you, beneath you. You don’t rush. You can’t. It builds like a wave.

Like heat and ache and everything breaking open. And when it crests—

You fall together.

⋆｡°✩

Afterwards, you lie tangled in silk sheets and shallow breaths, the world narrowed to the space between your bodies. Your hand in his. Your thumb brushes the line of his knuckles. You press a kiss to his temple. He exhales.

And smiles for real this time.

You wake to the sound of birds. Soft, scattered, high in the distant trees.

The kind of sound you never hear in the lower quarters of the city, where the only music is wheels against stone and the creak of heavy doors. You let it wash over you. Let yourself believe—for one last, fragile minute—that the world outside is as kind as this bed, this morning, this boy sleeping beside you.

Choso lies curled on his side, braid undone, dark hair fanned across the pillow like spilt ink. One hand rests loosely against your chest, fingers twitching now and then with dreams he hasn’t woken from yet.

The light filters in slow and gold, turning the silk sheets into something almost holy. It slips over the slope of his shoulders, the faint line of a scar near his collarbone, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You could stay like this. You could forget the city, the lies, the borrowed name stitched into the back of your coat. You could forget the way Mahito watched you with a smile that never touched his eyes.

You could. But you don't.

You can't.

⋆｡°✩

You shift carefully, brushing your thumb over the back of Choso's hand. He stirs. Blinks sleepily up at you. His lashes catch the light. "...Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," you say, softer. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch. He just watches you for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, like he’s still waiting for you to change your mind now that the night is over.

You don't. You kiss his forehead. He exhales, a sound more felt than heard, and tucks himself closer. You let your fingers trail lightly down his back, tracing the spaces between his ribs, the small scars and marks of a life you haven’t heard about yet—but want to. You want to learn them all.

You think: I could stay. But footsteps echo down the corridor outside. A voice calls faintly—court summons, morning meetings, new dignitaries arriving. Reality creeps in like the tide.

You meet Choso’s gaze. Neither of you says it. Neither of you has to.

This world isn’t made for boys like you. Not yet.

You don’t realise you’re being followed until it’s too late.

The palace corridors twist like veins, familiar but shifting somehow in the heavy evening air. You’re almost back to the guest wing, to the safe warmth of Choso’s voice, when a shadow cuts across your path.

Mahito. Blocking the hall. Smiling like he’s been waiting for this. You freeze. Your fingers twitch toward the lamp hidden in your sash. Too slow.

⋆｡°✩

"You're clever," Mahito says, voice silk-slick. "I'll give you that." He steps closer. You don't move.

"But not clever enough." His pale eyes gleam. His hand lifts lazily—and before you can even reach for Megumi or the lamp— a sharp shove, magic crackling at your back—

You stumble. Arms grabbed. Ropes you can't see binding around your wrists, your ankles.

"Street rat," Mahito murmurs, almost tender. Then—

The balcony edge rushes up. He doesn't even watch you fall.

The air tears past you in a scream you can’t hear. The river below catches you in a brutal, crushing grip—icy and endless and roaring in your ears. You sink fast. Weighed down by silk, rope, and fear. You thrash. Fight. Try to scream for Gojo—but the water fills your mouth, your nose, your eyes, dragging you under.

You reach for the lamp with your bound hands. Mouth a desperate plea into the black. Please.

The lamp flashes against your chest. Heat surges in your lungs. And the world shatters.

⋆｡°✩

You’re gasping on the riverbank. Coughing so hard it tears at your throat. Gojo kneels beside you, drenched, furious, still sparking faintly with leftover magic.

"You—" he chokes, raking a hand through his wet hair. "You used your second wish." You can’t even answer. You just grip the sand, coughing, as Megumi clambers over your chest, clicking his teeth in frantic relief. "You’ve got one left," Gojo mutters.

Quiet now. Almost broken.

⋆｡°✩

But you don’t have time to think. Not yet. Because somewhere in the palace, Mahito still stands.

Still smiling. Still plotting. You push yourself to your feet.

And you run.

The guards are scattered. The throne room churns with confusion. Gakuganji—the Sultan—is slumped against his throne, eyes glazed, words slurring. At Mahito’s side, a tall staff gleams darkly, twisted into the shape of a cobra.

You don't need Gojo to tell you. The staff is the key. You charge.

⋆｡°✩

Mahito turns just as you reach him. He grins. "You just don’t know when to die, do you?" You don’t answer.

You swing— Hard. The staff cracks at the base, splintering under the force of your stolen sword.

The magic whines. Then— shatters. Gakuganji blinks. Shakes his head.And roars for the guards. Mahito snarls—lunges for you—but four soldiers tackle him before he can reach. They drag him toward the dungeons. He twists once to glare at you over his shoulder. "I’ll be back," he spits. "You’ll have to wait," you say, voice steady now.

And the doors slam behind him.

⋆｡°✩

Gakuganji turns to you. "You saved my mind," he says gruffly. "And my kingdom." You swallow. The lamp is heavy in your sleeve.He smiles.

A slow, approving smile. "And if my child wishes it," Gakuganji says, voice rising, "you shall have her hand."The room erupts in cheers. Choso stands stiff near the throne, eyes wide—face unreadable. And in that moment—

You realise the world would give you everything you want. If you kept lying.

Gojo appears by your side, quieter now. He doesn't say anything. Just looks at you. Waiting. Hoping. You tighten your fingers around the lamp. And you hesitate.

⋆｡°✩

The celebration fades around you.

You barely hear it—the clapping, the cheers, the way Gakuganji beams, and the royal guards stamp their spears in approval. All you see is Choso.

Standing a few steps away. Not smiling. Not rushing forward. Just… waiting. Hesitant. Hopeful. Fragile in a way that cuts deeper than anything Mahito could have thrown at you.

⋆｡°✩

Gojo stands at your side. Still shimmering faintly from the river. Still waiting. Not pushing. Not pleading. Just standing there like someone holding a string he already knows you’re about to let go of.

You reach for the lamp. Feel the weight of the final wish burning against your skin. Your throat tightens. You promised. When you first met him—lost and laughing in a puff of glitter—you promised you’d set him free. That was before you fell in love with the wrong name.

The wrong life. Before Choso looked at you like you were worth it. Before you knew what it felt like to belong.

⋆｡°✩

You close your fingers around the lamp. Breathe.

And you can feel Gojo’s gaze—steady and unbearably gentle. Waiting. Trusting. You falter. You think– Just a little longer. Just until the wedding. Just until you’re sure.

You need him. You can’t do this without him.

You can't.

⋆｡°✩

You lower the lamp. Don’t say the wish. Don’t say anything. The betrayal is small. Quiet. You don’t even see Gojo flinch.But you feel it.

In the way he goes, very still beside you.

In the way the magic in the air dims—like a candle guttering before it goes out. You glance at him. He smiles. Almost. A threadbare thing.

"Guess some promises are easier to break," he says softly. No anger. No accusation. Just… sadness.

⋆｡°✩

Before you can speak, before you can explain or apologise or take it back— Gojo retreats. The magic swirls around him, blue and gold and soft with resignation.

The lamp hums once in your hand. And he’s gone. Sealed away. Silent.

You stand alone in the throne room. Choso approaches carefully. And the crowd cheers again. But it sounds so far away. Like the echo of a door closing behind you.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t sleep that night. Not really. The palace celebrates around you—banquets and music and the rustle of gold—but it sounds muffled, like you’re hearing it through water.

You sit alone by the windows, staring out over the empty streets, watching the stars blur.

The lamp sits heavy in your hands. You haven’t touched it since Gojo vanished inside. You don’t know if he’s listening. Or if he even wants to anymore.

The knock at your door comes soft. You don’t move at first.

You think maybe it’s Choso—come to ask if you’re alright, to pull you out of your own head the way he did once with a single smile. But when the door creaks open—

You see blue hair. You see Mahito’s grin. And you know you’re too late.

⋆｡°✩

It’s not a fight– It’s a theft. A blur of motion—magic flaring cold and sharp in the small room—the lamp ripped from your hands before you can even shout. You stagger. Reach. Miss.

Mahito steps back into the shadows, lamp cradled against his chest like a prize he was always meant to have. "Thanks for keeping it warm," he says sweetly.

Then he’s gone. Vanished into the dark.

⋆｡°✩

The alarm rises seconds later. Too late.

Guards scrambling through the halls. Choso shouting your name across the marble. Geto throwing orders like knives. But none of it matters. Mahito has the lamp– And you know what comes next. You know because you know him—better than you want to.

He’ll wish for power. For the throne. For the kind of magic no mortal should ever touch. And no one—not even you—can stop him now.

⋆｡°✩

Unless. You run. You don’t think– you just move. Out of your chambers. Down the steps. Through the garden where the night air burns cold against your skin. You find Choso at the fountain, sword half-drawn, looking for you.

His eyes widen when he sees your face. "What happened?"You gasp for breath.

"He has the lamp." For a second—just one—fear flashes across Choso’s face.

But then he straightens. Grips his sword. "Then we take it back."

You reach the throne room just in time to see it happen.

Mahito stands at the centre of it all—grinning, wild, radiant with stolen magic. The lamp in one hand. Gakuganji slumped to one side. The guard kneeling with empty eyes.

He holds the lamp high. “I wish,” Mahito says, voice sharp with triumph, “to be Sultan!” The air twists. Magic slams into the walls, cracking stone and shattering chandeliers. The throne reshapes itself beneath him, black and gold and monstrous.

The room falls silent. Mahito—no longer an advisor, no longer anything human—turns his new crown in his hands. And laughs.

⋆｡°✩

You flinch backwards. Choso catches your arm. "Stay with me," he says, voice low. You nod. You draw your sword—cheap steel against magic. It feels useless.

But you raise it anyway. Because the alternative is letting Mahito win. And you’re not that boy anymore. You’re not a street rat sneaking bread from market stalls.

You’re someone worth fighting for.

⋆｡°✩

Mahito steps down from the throne with slow, theatrical strides. Around him, the corrupted guards start moving toward you. Choso draws his sword too. Geto appears from the side doors, slipping through the chaos, blade flashing as he cuts down two of Mahito’s enthralled soldiers.

Megumi—small and furious—claws his way up a guard’s leg and bites. You lunge forward. Steel against steel. Magic crackling at the edges of your vision.

⋆｡°✩

But you’re not winning. Not really.

Mahito’s too strong now. Too fast. Too twisted with power, he was never meant to touch. Every time you cut down a guard, two more replace them. You duck a strike, parry another, heart pounding, throat burning. You can feel the ground tilting—everything sliding toward ruin.

⋆｡°✩

And Mahito watches. Smiling. Like a cat watching mice tire themselves out before the kill. "You can’t win," he says lazily. "You’re nothing. You were always nothing." Your hand tightens on the sword hilt.

You think of Choso’s hand in yours. Of Gojo’s crooked smile. Of Megumi clinging to your jacket like you were something worth protecting. You raise your head. And you smile back.

⋆｡°✩

"You’re right," you say. You lower your sword. Mahito frowns– confused.

"You’re right," you say again, louder. "I’m nothing. Just a street rat. A liar. A thief." You take a slow step forward.

"You’re the powerful one now. You’re stronger than anyone. Smarter. Better." You meet his eyes.

"And it’s not enough, is it?" Mahito’s smile falters. The doubt creeps in. The greed. The fear that even with the world under his heel, someone somewhere might still look down on him. You step closer. Let him see the bait.

"If you’re really that great," you murmur, voice dropping to a whisper, "why settle for Sultan?" Mahito freezes. You smile, small and devastating.

"Why not wish to be the most powerful being in the world?"

⋆｡°✩

The silence snaps. Mahito whirls toward the lamp. His knuckles whiten around it. "I wish," he snarls, "to be a Genie!"

The magic screams. The world bends. The ground heaves beneath your feet as the lamp flares—blinding white and burning blue—and Mahito’s body twists, warps, shrinks.

He screams. Not in victory. In terror.

Because he understands, too late, what you already knew: Genies are powerful.

But they are never free.

Chains—gold and searing, lash around his wrists. The lamp yawns open like a mouth. And Mahito is dragged inside. Gone. Sealed.

Forever.

The throne room stills. You lower your sword. Choso catches you when your knees buckle, steady hands warm against your ribs. You close your eyes. And breathe.

⋆｡°✩

The throne room is a mess of broken marble and stunned silence. But none of it matters. Not the shattered columns, or the scorch marks on the floor, or the lingering weight of magic still trembling through the air. You’re still standing.

Choso’s hand is still wrapped around yours. And in your other hand— The lamp. Heavy.

Alive. Waiting.

⋆｡°✩

You lift it carefully. Thumb tracing the worn edge of the spout. You hear Gojo’s voice in your head—bright, careless, teasing:

"What would you wish for, street rat?" And you smile.

⋆｡°✩

You don't hesitate this time. You hold the lamp close. "I wish," you say, voice steady, "for Gojo to be free."

The magic bursts out like a second sunrise. Blinding. Joyous. Real.The lamp trembles in your grip—then stills.

And Gojo— Gojo appears in a cascade of light, blinking like he’s seeing the sky for the first time. He touches his own chest, stunned. No chains. No pull back into the lamp. Just him.

Just free.

He laughs—wild and hoarse and a little broken—and then turns and tackles you into a hug so hard you stagger back two steps. "You crazy, beautiful, reckless idiot," he breathes into your hair. You laugh too—wet and breathless and so full it almost hurts.

"You’re free," you whisper. "Yeah," he says, pulling back to beam at you. "Yeah, I am."

⋆｡°✩

Geto appears at his side, folding his arms and giving Gojo a once-over like he’s assessing a particularly troublesome stray cat. "So," Geto says dryly, "now that you’re not a mystical prisoner of cosmic servitude anymore…" Gojo grins, flashing teeth."You’re stuck with me," he says, leaning casually against Geto’s shoulder like he’s always belonged there.

Geto rolls his eyes. But his hand finds Gojo’s without hesitating. "S'pose I could do worse," he mutters. Gojo’s grin only widens. "Aw," he coos. "You like me."

"Don’t push your luck."

⋆｡°✩

The court regathers slowly. The king—Gakuganji—steps forward, the crown still slightly askew on his head, but his eyes clearer now than they have been in weeks. He looks at Choso.

Really looks at him. Like seeing him for the first time. And Choso—

Choso straightens. Takes a step closer. And says, quietly but firmly:

"I’m not your daughter." The words hang there. Heavy. Sacred. "I never was." A beat. A breath. And then— Gakuganji chuckles. Low. Rough. Like stone cracking. "Good," he says. "I never liked raising girls. Too much screaming." A pause. Then, softer:

"I’m proud of you."

Choso blinks. Then bows his head, just slightly, like he’s carrying something too big to hold all at once.

⋆｡°✩

"And," Gakuganji continues, voice carrying, "I suppose I’ll need a new law." You stiffen.

The king’s gaze sweeps the hall. "From this day on," he says, "royals may marry whomever they choose. No bloodlines. No borders."

His eyes settle on you. "Just hearts."

The hall breaks into cheers. You barely hear them. You’re too busy watching Choso. The way his mouth curves, small and shy. The way his fingers reach for yours again.

The way he shines.

⋆｡°✩

Later, in the garden where the stars first found you—

You stand with Choso under the heavy branches of a fig tree, the lamp finally quiet at your feet, and the moon turning the world silver. You take his hand. You feel it tremble. You let yours tremble too.

"You don’t have to say yes," you whisper. "You don’t owe me anything." Choso looks at you for a long moment. Then steps closer. Presses his forehead to yours.

"I’ve been waiting my whole life," he breathes, "for someone who sees me." You close your eyes. Breathe him in.

And the world—this strange, broken, mended world—feels like it might finally be yours. Together.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere above, Gojo and Geto bicker about constellations. Megumi steals a peach tart from the palace kitchens and almost gets caught.

And you— You kiss Choso under the stars. Not because a story told you to. Not because a wish demanded it.

But because, for the first time—

You can.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sa1ki-deactivated20250510@sooniebby @seomn

#male reader #top male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #gay #smut #choso x reader #choso kamo #choso x male reader #jjk choso #kamo choso

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buckyseternaldoll · 12 days ago

Text

Fireworks and Cuddles

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

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

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

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

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

It felt like the whole world was in celebration.

Inside your apartment, though, it was too quiet.

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

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

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

“Buck?” you called gently.

He exhaled slowly, but didn’t answer.

You hated this day for him.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Buck. C’mon. I have a plan.”

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

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

You nodded. “Yeah. For tonight.”

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

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

Your heart cracked a little.

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

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

“Bossy,” he muttered.

You grinned at him. “You love it.”

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

“Alright. Lead the way, sweetheart.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey. Lie back with me.”

He didn’t look at you.

“Doll…”

“Please?” you murmured.

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

“Yeah. Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I got you,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he rasped.

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

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

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

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

He let out a low snort.

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed another laugh, breath warm in your hair.

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head to press your lips to his.

“Always,” you breathed back.

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

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

#by elle.ᐟ #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fluff?#mcu!bucky fic #emotional comfort #bucky fluff #mcu!bucky fluff

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happy74827 · 11 months ago

Text

One Call Away

[Wade Wilson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: During one of his "jobs," Deadpool gets a call from his favorite gal [GIF Creds: jdsheart]

WC: 1970

Category: Fluff, Major Comedy {TW: Deadpool’s Humor/Nonfiltered Personality}

This man is so hard to write. I’m always stressing the noggin when it comes to planning and plotting 😔

『••✎••』

"And away we go..."

One neck crack and a couple of hip twists later, he was off like Aladdin and his fucktoy carpet, scaling the building similarly to a chameleon on LSD.

The only thing that was missing was some epic music.

He'd been chasing this baddie around the city for almost two days now. Some big-shot mob boss with ties to Hydra, or the Mafia, or the Yakuza, or some other three-letter-acronym organization. It was hard to keep track of them all at this point. They were all the same, except for the name.

They all had their own agenda.

Kill him, keep him prisoner, pay him off...

Wade never cared enough to listen because it was always the same. He just got hired to do the dirty work, and the pay was good.

The killing was better.

This one, however, was particularly good at eluding him. He'd been trying to get his hands on this man for a few days now. It wasn't as though he was trying to be stealthy or anything, either. He'd walked right up to his front door, knocked, and was greeted with a spray of machine gun bullets.

So, the usual.

But then the guy ran and didn't stop. It was like the fucking Roadrunner met Sonic the Hedgehog, and they decided to fuck around and find out.

Wade was getting real sick and tired of being a Roadrunner, too. He had a reputation to uphold. He wasn't known as the Merc with the Mouth for nothing. He was supposed to be the one doing the running and the killing.

Not the other way around.

Finally, finally, he managed to reach the roof where the guy was currently taking cover behind a small brick shack. The sun was rising, but it was still dark, and there were a couple of floodlights shining on the rooftop. It made him think of the night he'd had that heart-to-heart with Blind Al, even though all she really wanted was for him to bring her some of that special brownie mix.

What a night that had been.

But anyway, this monologue is starting to get too long, and we should probably move things along, eh?

Right.

So, the baddie.

His name was something long and non-English.

Salvatore, or Santino, or Salvation... Whatever the fuck it was, it didn't really matter. What mattered was that it was time to make him dead.

He stepped around the corner and was met with a spray of bullets, all of which lodged themselves into his Kevlar vest.

"Oh, come on!" he yelled over the sound of the gunfire. "This is real leather, you know. I'm tired of all the offscreen sewing and shit."

When the spray finally ended, he took a moment to catch his breath.

"…ow," he whispered to himself.

"You shouldn't have followed me here," the man said.

"Yeah, whatever," Deadpool replied. "Look, I'll make this easy for you. You drop down and give me fifty, and I'll let you keep that hideous mustache you're sporting."

The man's eyes widened in surprise.

"It's not that bad, is it?"

"Yes, yes it is," Deadpool assured him. "You got a squirrel living in it or something?"

"It's just a little bit of gray, you dick," the man argued. "What about you? What's with the mask? Are you hiding a mustache under there, too, or something? Maybe some acne scars?"

Deadpool shook his head and stepped forward, his guns drawn.

"Don't come any closer!"

"You know, this would be much more intimidating if you didn't look like a cartoon mouse."

"Stop it with the mustache!"

"Alright, alright," Deadpool said. "Enough with the mustache. But what is it about your hairline? I can't put my finger on it."

The man sighed in exasperation and pulled out his pistol, aiming it right at Deadpool's face.

"Hey now, don't point that at me," Deadpool scolded him. "That's not a very nice thing to do."

He ignored him and pulled the trigger, a loud boom ringing out as the bullet fired. It whizzed by him but missed its mark.

"You really are a dick," He grumbled before aiming his gun right between the man's eyes. And he was going to shoot, honest.

He really was.

But then his phone rang, and he was well-reminded of the current song playing through his head.

I'm a buff baby that can dance like a man. I can shake-ah my fanny, I can shake-ah my can!

Needless to say, he was distracted.

He lowered his gun and looked down at his pocket, where his phone was still ringing and still vibrating against his leg.

"Shit, hold that thought," He said to the guy, and he holstered his gun.

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?!"

Deadpool put his finger up to shush him before pulling his phone out of his pocket to answer it.

If you're an evil witch, I’ll punch you for fu—

"Heyyyy," he said in a sing-songy voice, "you've reached the phone sex hotline. For kinks and fetishes, press one. For booty calls, press two. For your favorite mercenary, press three."

"Ey, pendejo—" His opponent started, but he cut him off by snapping and raising his finger.

"Cut it, Tuco Salamanca. Breaking Bad called and wants its meth-cooking mustache back."

"Wha-I-you-"

"Anyways, this is your favorite merc speaking. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

"Is this a bad time?"

Wade's eyes widened in shock, and his jaw dropped open when he heard her voice on the other end of the line.

"Baby girl! Is that you? Oh, how I've missed your voice. It's like hearing an angel, or an angelic chorus, or a whole bunch of angels, but you're the most important one. Like, the lead singer or something."

"I literally saw you last night." Your voice was always drenched with the most amazing kind of sarcasm, and he'd missed it.

"And?"

"It's only been a few hours."

"And?"

"That's a short amount of time."

"And?"

You sighed, but he knew you weren't really annoyed.

"Anyways, you sounded busy," you continued, "so I'll just let you go."

"What?! No! Don't hang up!" He shouted into the receiver. "I've only fiddled with my pistols! Nothing interesting is happening right now!"

"Your pistols, huh?" You asked a hint of mischief in your voice.

"Well, yeah. They're the most important part of the mission, you know."

In the corner of his eye, he could see his target making his way towards the edge of the building. Quickly and efficiently, without dropping his attention from his conversation with you, he lifted his gun and fired a shot at the man's knee.

"Ah, fuck!" the man screamed in pain. "My knee!"

"Hey! Language!" Deadpool scolded him. "The lady of the house is listening!"

"Lady of the- what the fuck?!"

"I said language, you mustachioed rat!"

"Mustachioed rat?" You asked.

"Sorry, babe," he replied. "You know how excited I get when Downtown Abbey is on."

“There’s gunshots in Downtown Abbey?"

"Gunshots? Oh, no, no. That was… uh, a car alarm. Yeah, the neighbor's car alarm was going off."

"Uh-huh," you said, not sounding very convinced. And, of course, that was right around the time the guy's gun went off again, this time hitting him square in the shoulder. It made the phone fall out of his hand and clatter onto the ground, but the call was still connected.

"Dammit!" He yelled, looking at the fresh blood dripping down his arm. "That's gonna take forever to heal!"

"Who are you talking to?" The man demanded, his gun still aimed at Deadpool's face. "You're working with someone?"

"Hey, now, I don't remember giving you permission to talk," Deadpool told him, holding his bloody arm up to his face. "Look, I've gotta call you back, babe. I know it's been so heartbreakingly long—"

"Again, only a few hours," you said.

"—but duty calls. Love you, bye."

"Love you, bye."

With that, the line disconnected.

"Ugh," he groaned, his heart aching for the loss of your sweet voice. "I miss her already."

"Ey," his opponent growled, drawing his attention. He started speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, which Deadpool didn't really understand, but he didn't have to. The guy was just ranting and raving.

"Alright, alright, chill," Deadpool said. "Just calm down. It’ll all be over soon, little buddy."

"I am not little! I am a giant!" The guy protested, and Wade could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. "And I will not chill!"

"Well, can't argue with that, I guess," Deadpool said with a shrug, and he took aim. But before he could pull the trigger, the guy was running again.

"Hey, what did I tell you about running?!" He yelled, but his voice fell on deaf ears as the guy reached the ledge.

"I am a giant!"

"No, you're a giant asshat!"

"I will not be bested by some masked buffoon!"

"Buff? Me? Why, I never!"

"You're the biggest asshole I've ever met!"

"You know what? I am a big ass! A big, round, bubbly ass." He paused for a second. "Hey, what's your favorite flavor?"

"Fuck you, you red-clad imbecile!"

"You know, I'd ask you out to dinner first, but we're kinda past that now."

"Argh!"

"Alright, enough stalling," Deadpool said. "It's time to end this."

"Yes," the guy said, turning his gun back on Deadpool. "It is."

Of course, Deadpool being the smart-ass he was, he'd already taken a step to the side. As the bullet whizzed past him, he reached for his gun.

"Now, where did I put that thing? Oh, there it is."

He aimed the gun and fired, and the man fell back onto the ground. The bullet hit him right in the middle of his forehead, his blood splattering all over the concrete.

"Ha ha! Fatality. Deadpool wins!" He said, his voice taking on the deep, grounded tone of the narrator from Mortal Kombat. "Flawless Victory."

He stood over the body for a few seconds, reveling in his victory, before he felt the presence of another.

The gun on his right side got ripped from its holster, and the barrel was aimed back into his face, as it always seems to be.

But, he already sensed it was coming, so his fingers wrapped around his other and aimed that right in the golden spot… and let’s just say, The Golden Girls was a little less golden and a lot more crimson.

"Wow, this has got to be a record," He said as he bent down to stare at the new one’s anguish. "Two dead ugly mustaches in the same day. You can call me Sweeney Todd because shit… I just shaved you the fuck up."

He didn’t give the poor bastard a chance to even whimper before he fired another two shots into the man's head. All in all, this had been the easiest payday he'd had in a while.

He picked up his cell phone and slipped it back into its pocket before bending down and scooping up the mustache man's pistol.

"Ooh, lookie here, a nice, shiny new pistol," he said to himself. "Just what I've always wanted. Well, I don't actually need it. It's not like I have any other holes in my body, but you know what they say. The more the merrier."

He stuffed the gun in his holster and turned around, heading back the way he'd come.

"Time to get back to the good stuff," he said. "I have a date with my favorite girl."

He hopped up onto the ledge and looked down, his eyes locking on the window to his apartment.

And when he arrived, bloody and battered, you could only smile while holding up little ole Mary Puppins in all her drooling glory.

God, how he missed his girls.

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yanyandam · 3 months ago

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helloo! i hope you're having a nice day and you're doing well<33, is it alright if i request hcs for draken mikey being friends w sort of social recluse/lonely reader? i totally understand if you aren't super interested in writing this, take care!!<3

Hey!! Hope you're having a nice day/evening too! here, I hope it'll make you happy! love yaaa, as a pretty lonely person I recognized myself a lot in this lol Btw. i am ALWAYS interested in writing stuff to comfort people. Dont worry hehe

DRAKEN AND MIKEY WITH A SOCIALLY RECLUSIVE!READER

DRAKEN thinks you’re quiet. Not in a bad way; like ‘doesn’t talk if unnecessary’ quiet’, which he thinks is a good thing. He gets it, he also only speaks if needed. He watches, he notices small things, and he’s pretty sure it’s the same for you. Your eyes seem smart, and soft: which worries him. This world doesn’t go easy on soft things. Oh but if anyone tries to mess with you…they’ll learn pretty fast that softness doesn’t mean weakness. Not with him around.

-He gives you quiet protection. You catch people backing off when you're near him, even though he doesn’t say a word. You once heard a guy mutter, “That’s the one Draken watches over. Don’t mess with them.” -He shares food with you like it’s nothing. You're sitting alone eating your lunch, and he silently places some warm food next to you, sits down, and says, “Yours looked sad.” -He lets you hide behind his rep. When a teacher tries to call you out for skipping class, Ken appears behind you. One glare from him, and the teacher just… walks away. -He teaches you self-defense (gruffly). He notices you flinch when people get too close. One day, he grabs your wrist (gently, despite his usual vibe) and shows you how to break out of a hold. “Next time, don’t freeze.” -He sits next to you silently until you open up. When you’re feeling particularly isolated, he finds you on the rooftop. He doesn’t talk, just sits, legs hanging off the edge. After a long silence, he says, “Let’s just not give a fuck about anything” like it’s the wisest thing he’s said -He deadpans with a sly smirk when you surprise him. You make a clever jab at someone, and he stares at you for a second before letting out a low chuckle. “Didn’t know you had fangs. Nice.”

You still remember that one day. The rooftop was empty when you pushed open the rusted door. You come up here a lot to avoid people, the way they stare, the way they expect things from you when you don’t even know how to exist properly. You don’t realize he’s already there until you hear the soft crunch of a chip bag. Draken.

He’s leaning against the wall, one leg propped up, eating shrimp chips like he’s been here forever. His eyes slide to you, expression unreadable, but he doesn’t say anything. Just scoots over slightly, barely noticeable, and goes back to munching. You hesitate. Then sit. Minutes pass.

“You come up here every day, is it for the dead plant over there?” he says, deadpan. You blink at the plant. “Trying to magically revive it or bury it?”

“Uh…Who knows…” you mutter. A beat. He leans back, tilting his head to the sun. “It’s stubborn. Like you.” You glance at him. “Is that a compliment?”

He smirks faintly. “Wouldn’t waste my breath if it wasn’t.” The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s calm. Like he’s giving you space without making it feel like space. Before you leave, he tosses a sealed juice box at you. “For the plant,” he says. But you know better.

Mikey thinks you’re like an XL cat! (A stray one. Who’s been through a lot.) You gotta sit real still and not make eye contact or they’ll run off. But when they do come close? Dude. It’s like winning the lottery. He thinks you’re super cool and wonders if you realize that! He wants to make you laugh more often. He thinks you really, really deserve it. Doesn’t care how many dumb jokes and games it takes. You’re like his friend forever, and ever. No choice.

-He treats you like a rare Pokemon. “You’re laughing!” he’d yell across the classroom. You hide your face, dying inside. While he laughs uncontrollably, it’s honestly cute. -He drags you everywhere like a backpack. “Come oooon, we’re going to the arcade!” Before you can say no, he’s already got your hand and is running, laughing like a maniac. No chance of escape. -He gets way too excited when you talk. You speak up in group convo, and he gasps like you just performed a magic trick. He fist bumps you so hard it nearly dislocates your shoulder. -He defends you without even knowing why. Someone tries to mess with you and he instantly goes full pitbull. “Got a problem?” Then turns to you like, “Were they your friend or somethin’? …Oops?” -He tries to make you laugh every chance he gets. Falls dramatically in the hallway, pretends to be dead. “This is how I die. Tell Draken I think all the women at his place are hot” You try not to smile. He definitely saw it. -He offers affection!! “You looked kinda down, so here!” He hands you a candy wrapper with a smiley face drawn on it. “It’s magic, it’ll keep bad vibes away!”

…

“Just trust me, okay?!”

Mikey’s dragging you through a glowing maze of arcade lights and screaming machines, his energy way too big for the narrow walkway. People move out of his way like he’s a tank. “I don’t even play games,” you protest.

“That’s a lie. You’re gonna DESTROY this one. I can feel it.” He plants you in front of a dance machine. “Go on. Just follow the arrows!”

You blink. “I’m not doing this.”

He gasps. “You have to. It’s life or death now.” You roll your eyes, but step up. He squeals like it’s Christmas. And when you stomp awkwardly through your first song, cheeks burning, he claps and yells, “THAT’S MY FRIEND!! LEGENDARY!!” like you just won gold. He laughs like a maniac again.

Somehow… you’re smiling.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev #tr #mikey #mikey tokyo revengers #manjiro sano #ken ryuguji #draken #draken tokyo revengers #manjiro sano x reader #manjiro sano x you #mikey x reader #draken x reader #ken ryuuguji x reader #draken headcanons #mikey headcanons

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pleasantlycrazyworld · 1 month ago

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this is weird but vigilante girlfriend and frank who needs her help with some mission and at some point he gets mad at her and scares her

weird but how do u think he'd act when he comes to find her again? just had this idea and i feel like you write really good and show his character well

That’s not weird at all I mean that’s Frank Castle in a nutshell! Thank you for the request too, I've been wanting to write for Frank but I had no ideas.

Summary: You’re a vigilante like him—just a little brighter, a little less bloodthirsty. You patch him up, you work together sometimes, and even though no one says it, you love each other in that aching, unresolved way.

The job had gone sideways. That wasn’t the problem, things always went sideways. What messed him up was you. The way you darted into the fire to cover his ass, reckless and burning with that same fury he saw in the mirror. You weren’t bulletproof. You weren’t him. But you acted like it. And when the dust settled and you stood there, breathing heavy, bleeding but grinning like the chaos was your oxygen, Frank snapped.

“You think this is a game?” he barked. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. You think that would’ve been worth it? Charging in like some goddamn idiot?” Your smile died instantly, the light draining from your face. You flinched like you’d been hit—not by his words, but by the way he threw them. His voice had been too loud. Too sharp. Too much like every man who ever tried to make you small. You stepped back. One, then two paces. The expression on your face cracked something in him he didn’t know could still break. “Just trying to help,” you said quietly, and then you turned and walked.

Didn’t yell back. Didn’t argue. You just walked. And he just let you go.

+++++++++++++++++++

Frank didn’t sleep that night. Not because of the wounds or the heat still aching in his fists but because your face wouldn’t leave his mind. The way your shoulders curled inward, the way your eyes widened and brows pinched, the way you stopped looking him in the eye. The way you left like he was just one more man who didn’t see you clearly.

You weren’t afraid of danger. But you looked like you were afraid of him. That was enough to make him hate himself.

“Fuck”. He groaned knowing he had to go find you.

He found you on a rooftop, wrapped in your own silence. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, watching your silhouette against the city lights. “I ain’t good at this,” he finally muttered. “Never really was” You didn’t turn. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added, voice lower now. Raw. Like gravel under water. He clenched his jaw when he still got no answer, no response at all from you. “I know what it’s like to be yelled at by someone who’s supposed to have your back,” he said. “And I-I did that to you. I—shit—I’m sorry.” That made your head turn, just a little. Frank Castle didn’t apologize. Not real apologizes, not like this.

You let the silence stretch between you, long and aching. Then, finally, “I wasn’t scared of you hurting me.” He nodded slowly, but he could feel his shoulder ease, feel his chest finally lighten after hearing that. Waited. “I was scared I made you hate me,” you admitted, voice tight. “Like I disappointed you. Like you finally got sick of me.”

His body tensed all over again, how could she ever think that? Frank stepped closer. Not all the way just enough that you could feel his heat at your back. “You’re not the problem,” he said gruffly. “It’s me. I saw you get hurt and I—” He paused. “I don’t have a word for what I felt. Just that it came out wrong.” Finally, you turned to face him. There were still bruises on your cheek, dried blood near your temple. But you looked at him with that same impossible soft heart, the one he didn’t think could still want him. And he saw it there, still.

Wanting. Loving. Trying.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he said, softer now. Like it hurts to admit it. You took a step forward, closing the space. “Then don’t raise your voice like I’m an idiot for caring if you live or die on me,” you said. “You don’t get to protect me and then punish me for doing the same.”

His jaw clenched. And then he nodded, “Okay, you’re right.”

Three words, honest and heavy.

You reached out first, fingertips brushing his wrist. “I’m not going anywhere, Frank. But I need you to stop treating me like I might break if you tell me you care.” He stared at you like you’d said something holy. And then, barely, he nodded. “I do care. I care too damn much.” You smile softly up at him, looking at him as if he was worthy of everything. “Then next time, lead with that.” And he would. He’d try at least.

It wouldn’t be perfect, not right away at least but Frank Castle would do it the only way he knew how: fiercely, protectively, like it scared him, but tonight he realized nothing could scare him as much as the idea of losing you did.

If you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Tagging:

@malfoys-demigod

@sweety18

@iamsofabulous

@luvrgirlsworld

@blackhawkfanatic

@methodgurl

@creptolli

@hellskitchens-whore

@confetti-cakemix

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adelliet · 2 months ago

Text

Joel Miller x f!reader

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Summary: You and your boyfriend Tommy have been having problems lately. You don't understand each other, argue a lot, but somehow you're still together. Everything change one fateful evening, when his brother comes to comfort you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, kinda toxic relationship, cheating, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), praise kink, rough, Joel talks you through it, creampie, nicknames

A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! It's kinda long again :( but, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It all started with your first real fight with Tommy.

For months now, something had been off. He was distant — emotionally absent, almost like he was just going through the motions. He used to come home and wrap you in his arms, tease you with that lopsided grin, ask about your day with genuine interest. But lately… it was as if work had swallowed him whole. He’d return exhausted, irritated, sometimes barely even looking at you. And when he did, the warmth was gone.

At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. Jackson needed him, and you understood that. You really did. But weeks turned into months, and you started to feel more like a ghost in his life than a partner. Every attempt you made to spark something — a touch, a kiss, an evening set just right — was met with excuses. “Too tired.” “Long day.” “Maybe tomorrow.”

You even wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he was cheating. The thought clawed at your gut, but there was never any real sign. No secretive phone calls, no lipstick on the collar, no changed passwords. Just… nothing. He wasn’t cheating. He just didn’t want you. And that, somehow, felt worse.

Then came the day. Tommy walked through the front door, shoulders slumped, boots muddy, a scowl carved deep into his face like it had taken root there. He didn’t even greet you — just grunted and collapsed into the armchair like his bones were too heavy.

“Grab me a beer, will ya?” he muttered, not even looking at you. Something inside you snapped.

“You know what, Tommy?” you began, voice trembling — not from fear, but from months of pent-up anger. “No. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, confused. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

And then it started. Words flying like arrows. You yelling. Him raising his voice in return. Neither of you laying a hand on the other, but the fight was loud. Emotional. Raw.

So loud that people passing by outside the house either crossed the street or hurried along, pretending not to hear.

You couldn’t take it. Not anymore. You couldn’t even look at him when it was over. Couldn’t stand being in the same room, breathing the same air. So you walked out. No plan. No destination. You just had to go. Had to get out before something inside you shattered.

He didn’t stop you. Maybe he knew you needed space. Maybe he was just too damn tired to fight anymore.

And you wandered through the quiet town, dusk settling like a blanket over the rooftops, the air cooling against your skin, until you realized — you had nowhere to go.

Nowhere… except for one place. One man.

Joel Miller.

Joel had always seemed like a good man.

Rough around the edges, sure. There was something intimidating about him when you first met — that deep voice, the scowl he wore like a second skin, the heavy silence he could summon with just one glance.

But beneath that tough shell, you’d found something else entirely.

You were nervous at first. Afraid he wouldn’t like you, that he’d think you weren’t good enough for Tommy. That he might act like the overprotective big brother and treat you like an outsider. But all those fears dissolved quickly, scattered like dust in the wind.

Joel welcomed you. Genuinely.

He talked to you, helped you without hesitation, offered you rides, fixed things around your place when Tommy was too busy. He made you feel like part of the family — someone he respected. Someone he cared about.

And tonight… he proved that once again.

You found yourself standing at his front door, breath visible in the cool air, knuckles trembling as you knocked. You didn’t even know how your feet had carried you there. Only that they had. That you needed somewhere to go. It didn’t take long for the door to open with a soft creak.

Joel stood there, blinking into the porch light, clearly roused from sleep. His hair was tousled, a little messy — grayer than you remembered, curling at the ends. His t-shirt was wrinkled, clinging to broad shoulders and thick arms, and his sweatpants hung low on his hips. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, softened the moment they saw you.

And just like that… something snapped inside you. Something you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding back. Desire.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should’ve. On the messy hair. The beard you secretly liked way too much. The tired lines around his eyes. The way his biceps flexed just from leaning on the doorframe.

And then it hit you and your core pulsed.

It was involuntary. A biological response. A full-body reaction to a man who had no idea what he was doing to you.

Joel’s brows furrowed. “Everything okay?”

You swallowed hard and managed a small nod. “I just… had a fight with Tommy. Needed some air.”

He stepped aside without hesitation. “Come on in.”

Inside, his house smelled like cedar and something vaguely smoky. The lights were low. It felt warmer than you expected — like a quiet cabin tucked away from the world. He offered you coffee. Tea. Something to eat.

You shook your head. “No but thank you.”

He nodded and said you could take the spare room. He even went to get you some clothes to sleep in — a soft, oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that were far too big for you.

And when he handed them to you, your fingers touched. The spark was small. Barely there. But it spread like wildfire through your chest, then your spine. You looked up at him. And for a moment, your eyes locked.

He said something, probably a simple “here you go” or “they’re clean” — but you didn’t catch it. Your ears were ringing. You were too busy staring into the deep brown of his eyes, too caught up in the way they seemed to study you back, like maybe he felt it too.

You took the clothes, mumbled a thank you, and retreated to the bathroom to change. But even as you stood there alone, the shirt hanging loosely on your frame, you couldn’t get him out of your head.

And that night, lying in a bed that wasn’t yours, wrapped in the scent of his laundry detergent, you realized something that made your stomach twist. You knew you were absolutely, completely, and irreversibly… fucked.

And now, it had been a week. A week since that night at Joel’s. A week since everything shifted — even if no one else could see it.

Things with Tommy hadn’t improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

You fought constantly now. About stupid things, about nothing, about everything. You didn’t even know what started most of them anymore — the toothpaste cap, the way he sighed too loudly, the silence at dinner.

It wasn’t explosive, not always. But it was endless. A simmering discontent that never quite faded, only circled back again and again, like waves hitting the same crumbling shore.

And worst of all — neither of you ever talked about it. No apologies. No meaningful conversations. Just this sad, quiet erosion of something that used to be whole.

But Joel…

Joel was different. Joel was the problem, wasn’t he? Because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not just that night, not just how he looked, standing there sleep-rumpled and warm and so utterly male, but every damn day since.

He was in your mind when you woke up. When you brushed your teeth. When you made dinner. When you argued with Tommy and wished he was someone else. You didn’t mean to. But God, it was getting impossible to stop.

You kept picturing his hands — the thick fingers, the rough calluses, the way his veins curved over his knuckles like they were sculpted with intention. You imagined how those hands would feel on your hips, gripping your thighs, sliding under your shirt with practiced ease.

You thought of his arms — strong and solid and made to hold. Of how his shoulders looked like they could carry the whole damn town if they had to. You thought about being held in them, your head tucked under his chin, your breath catching when he exhaled slow and deep.

You thought of his chest — broad and warm and lined with that dark, silver-streaked hair. Thought of laying your cheek there, fingers splayed across his heart, listening to it beat steady beneath your touch.

His face haunted you.

That strong jaw, always clenched like he was holding back a thousand words. The curve of his mouth, half-hidden under the beard but always there — lips you kept imagining pressed to your neck, your shoulder, between your thighs.

And his eyes… His eyes were your undoing.

Dark, deep, unreadable. They saw through you — not just your clothes, but your walls, your lies, your guilt. When you closed your own eyes, you saw his instead, full of lust. Or maybe that was just your own twisted fantasy. You shouldn’t want him. You knew that. He was your boyfriend’s brother.

But your body didn’t care.

Your body betrayed you every time you thought of him — a flutter low in your stomach, a tightening in your chest, a heat between your thighs that left you squirming in bed at night, aching for something you couldn’t name out loud.

You tried to drown it out. Tried to pretend. But the truth whispered like a lover in the dark:

You wanted Joel Miller. Desperately. And the worst part? You didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending you didn’t.

Becuase it’s not just a passing thought anymore, not something you can brush off like a stray cobweb in your mind. No, it's visceral, constant. It lives under your skin like a second heartbeat.

Every time Joel walks by, you feel it. That earthy, musky scent of his — a mix of sweat, cedarwood, and something deep and masculine that makes your thighs clench without warning.

You hate how much your body reacts. How just one whiff of him leaves your panties damp, how the air feels thicker when he’s near. And when he works… God, when he works, that's the worst.

You’ve seen him splitting firewood behind the house, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his tanned skin as the muscles in his arms ripple with every swing of the axe.

The tight line of his jaw. The way his shirt clings to his broad back. The grunt he lets out when the blade hits the wood just right.

You watch him from the porch like a starved woman watching a feast she’ll never be allowed to touch. And it drives you fucking crazy.

Most nights, you don’t sleep.

Most nights, you lay in bed, biting your lip, heart racing, one hand gripping the sheets while the other slides under the waistband of your panties, because thinking about Joel isn’t enough anymore.

You need to feel it.

You imagine him looming over you. That heavy, calloused hand wrapping around your throat — not tight, just enough to make you submit. His other hand spreading your legs, fingers rough and sure as he slides them between your folds, dragging through your slick heat like he owns it.

You imagine his voice — low, rough, dangerous.

“Look how wet you are for me.”

“You want this, baby? You want me to ruin you?”

And you do. You want him to ruin you. You want him to take you right there, against the wall, the bed, the floor, anywhere, as long as it’s him.

Your fingers move faster now, desperate and messy, circling your clit in tight, practiced motions.

You press your thighs together, arching your back, your breath catching in your throat as your slick drips down your wrist.

You picture his mouth on your skin. His beard scraping your inner thigh. His tongue pushing inside you — thick and hot and hungry.

You choke back a moan. Your body is burning. You’re grinding into your own hand now, fucking yourself on your fingers like he would, imagining how deep he’d go, how big he’d feel, how he’d stretch you open and make you scream his name.

“Joel,” you whisper into the dark, breathless.

It’s always his name.

You come hard — thighs trembling, chest heaving, sweat beading along your hairline — but the ache doesn’t fade. Not really. Because as good as it feels, it’s not him.

No matter how many times you make yourself come, no matter how vivid the fantasies get, no matter how soaked your sheets are in the morning, you still want more.

Every time Tommy lay down beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion and the scent of sweat and woodsmoke still clinging to his skin, guilt clawed its way up your spine like a cold hand.

You would lie there stiff, eyes open to the dark, heart pounding, not from affection or comfort, but from the memory of your own trembling fingers just an hour before, hidden beneath the blankets, gasping his brother’s name against your bitten lip.

Joel.

Tommy’s brother.

The man you couldn’t stop thinking about — not now, not ever. You hated yourself for it. You weren’t just betraying your boyfriend. You were betraying a family. A trust.

But the worst part? You didn’t want to stop.

Tommy hadn’t apologized. Not once. But that didn’t stop him from organizing a barbecue. Some way to press “reset” on everything, as if grilled meat and forced laughter could patch over weeks of silence, resentment, and half-finished arguments echoing off the walls.

You knew him well enough by now to see through it. He wasn’t trying to fix things. He just wanted to pretend they were fixed. And that… hurt more than the fighting.

So, you dressed for the occasion. Not for him — not really.

You put on the white lace dress that didn’t quite reach your knees, the one that hugged your hips, cinched your waist just right, and fluttered in the summer breeze like something soft and dangerous. You wanted to feel beautiful. You wanted to feel powerful. Maybe even cruel.

When you stepped out of the bedroom, Tommy was standing at the kitchen counter with a beer half-raised. He froze. Completely.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes locked on you like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You could feel his gaze moving, mapping, remembering.

And when you passed by him, deliberately brushing just close enough, he reached out — a firm grip on your wrist.

“You look… you look good.” He muttered.

You paused, turned to him with a small, unreadable smile. “Thanks.” Your voice was polite, detached. And the moment he released your hand, you slipped out the door like a whisper on wind.

Outside, the sun was still warm.

People were already gathering, familiar voices, laughter, clinking glass. The backyard glowed in golden hour light, casting long, soft shadows across the tables and swaying grass. You fixed your face into the practiced smile you’d worn so many times — the one that said everything’s fine even when your chest felt like it was made of glass.

Then you saw him. God.

He walked up the path like he owned every step of it, in that worn flannel shirt and rolled sleeves, arms streaked with dust and sweat. His hair was tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it instead of brushing it. His beard, just the right length to make your skin ache to know how it would feel. His eyes… they found yours.

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

He smiled, that subtle Joel kind of smile that only lifted one corner of his mouth, and stepped forward, arms opening as he greeted you.

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He pulled you into a hug, and the moment your body met his, you knew you were in trouble. His arms were strong. Warm. The scent of him curled around your brain like fog. You imagined his mouth, his fingers.

And your body… reacted.

But you smiled. You played innocent. You even laughed at something he said. And he had no idea that your panties were already damp and that your heart was beating like a drum against your ribs.

The barbecue continued like some slow, lazy dream.

Music floated in the air from an old radio, someone poured too much whiskey, and laughter echoed off the fences. The sun dipped lower, turning the sky into a watercolor wash of pink and tangerine. Kids played tag near the trees. The smell of grilled meat mingled with fresh cut grass.

And all the while, you watched Joel.

He leaned on a post, beer in hand, talking to someone with that low, gravelly voice that made your stomach twist. You weren’t really part of any conversation. You were too busy stealing glances.

Then came the moment with the salad.

It was almost a relief to slip away — an excuse to clear your head. You made your way back into the house, opened the fridge and pulled out the cold bowl of greens.

That’s when you heard footsteps behind you.

“I’m glad you wore that dress,” Tommy said quietly. You turned around. He looked more serious than he had in days. Weeks.

“I know I’ve been… distant,” he said. “Hell, maybe even a real asshole. I just… I’ve been stressed, but that’s no excuse. You deserve better. And I’m sorry.”

His eyes met yours, and for once, you saw something honest there. You didn’t say anything. You just nodded. And then he kissed you.

It was hungry. Desperate.

Weeks of tension burst all at once. His hands were on your waist, pulling you close. You kissed back. Maybe you wanted to forgive him. Maybe it felt good to be wanted again — by someone who should want you.

But just as his hand began to slide beneath your dress —

“Hey—”

Joel’s voice at the doorway.

“—where’s that salad, huh?”

You froze and Tommy stepped back, startled. You turned slowly, cheeks flushed, heartbeat thundering. Joel was standing there with a lopsided smirk, but his eyes caught yours — and lingered.

And just like that, the heat pooled in your stomach again. Not because of Tommy, but because of the way Joel looked at you like he knew.

You stood there in the now-quiet room, trying to steady your breath. Your hands were resting on your sides, clenched just a little too tightly. It wasn’t just what had happened—it was how it made you feel. Like you were a pawn in some game… only the rules were seductive, dangerous, and written by men like Joel and Tommy.

And Tommy took charge. Said something about the salad being on its way and vanished with the bowl like it was the most natural thing in the world. You needed to process it. Breathe. Think. Only… thinking wasn’t helping much.

Later that evening, the fire crackled, casting a warm flickering glow across familiar faces. You were sitting on a log, surrounded by others from the community, the sound of laughter, bottle caps popping, and faint guitar strumming filling the night air.

Joel sat directly across from you. Beer in hand. Legs spread slightly. Relaxed, but not unaware.

His gaze would meet yours every so often, and every single time it did… it felt different. Like something had shifted. The look wasn’t teasing—it was loaded. Heavy. Hot.

And each time your eyes met, your stomach would flip in that delicious, terrible way. You’d forget someone was talking to you, only snapping out of it when someone waved a hand in front of your face or chuckled at your distraction.

Then Tommy appeared, standing beside you with a crooked smirk.

“Up. Come on,” he said, motioning with his hand.

You blinked. “What?”

“Trust me,” he chuckled. “Just stand.”

You did, hesitantly. Tommy immediately dropped down onto the log in your place and patted his thigh with a smug grin. “Sit.”

You raised an eyebrow but obeyed. As you settled on his lap, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. The warmth of him, the calm strength in his hold—it brought a sense of peace you hadn’t even realized you needed. Things with him were okay again. That mattered. That grounded you.

But…Joel was still in your head.

You looked up, just as he shifted in his seat. A subtle movement, but enough to draw your eyes. He adjusted the way he sat, lifting his hips ever so slightly, and the motion was enough to ignite something deep inside you. You could feel your breath hitch.

You shifted on Tommy’s lap, just a little. Just enough.

Your underwear—already damp from earlier—felt traitorous against your skin. This was the fourth time tonight you’d caught yourself being wet… and always because of Joel.

Tommy felt it.

He tightened his grip on your waist, leaning close so only you could hear. “You tryin’ to tease me, darlin’?”

You didn’t even realize you were doing it. But your body had been responding to Joel all night. And now, it was affecting Tommy.

You shifted again without meaning to, and this time, you could feel Tommy’s erection pressed firmly against you. It made your breath catch. The air around you was thick. Electric.

Tommy leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “We’re goin’ inside. Now.”

You gave a small nod, barely able to speak, and stood up with him. You mumbled an apology to the group, but your eyes found Joel one last time. He was watching.

Not speaking, not smiling, just watching.

And that look, God, that look, it followed you even as Tommy took your hand and led you into the house.

The door slammed shut, and everything exploded.

Tommy didn’t wait. He had waited long enough. Weeks. Maybe months. His mouth crushed yours before you could even say a word, hands already under the hem of your dress, grabbing at your thighs like he had every right to claim them.

And in that moment—you wanted him to.

You moaned into the kiss as his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before he bit, just hard enough to make you gasp. He swallowed the sound hungrily.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer. The kiss was messy. Hot. Tongues colliding, teeth clashing, breaths heavy and desperate. It wasn’t slow or sweet, it was starved. Like both of you had been dying for this.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he growled against your lips.

You nodded blindly, breathless. “Me too.”

His hands slid up under your dress—rough, impatient—and found bare skin. Touching, exploring every inch of your body, like a reminder of what skin feel like. His knuckles grazed the inside of your thigh, then higher, until his fingers found how wet you already were.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, eyes dark. “This all for me?”

You didn’t answer.

You watched his expression change, something wild flickering in his gaze as he gripped your ass hard with both hands and lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around him as he pressed you back against the wall, grinding against your core through the fabric of his jeans. You could feel how hard he was. How badly he wanted to be inside you.

He bit at your neck now, harder than before, leaving a mark. You cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“God, Tommy—”

You were soaked. Panting. Desperate.

And then—he dropped to his knees.

There was no teasing. No build-up. He pushed the dress up around your waist and shoved your legs apart, spreading you open in front of him. You braced yourself against the wall, heart pounding as you looked down at him, eyes blown wide with lust.

His mouth was on you in seconds. Hot. Wet. Greedy.

He licked you like he was making up for every day he’d gone without it. His tongue worked you in tight, focused circles, alternating speed, pressure, rhythm until you were writhing. His nose was buried against you, breath hot, beard scratching your inner thighs in a way that made your knees threaten to give out completely.

You moaned his name, over and over, gasping for air. “Tommy… fuck, please… just like that…”

Your hand buried itself in his hair, yanking, tugging as your hips rolled into his face without shame. You could feel his groan vibrate through you, sending another jolt up your spine.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, hard, and your vision went white for a second.

“Tommy—oh God—I’m gonna—”

You were so fucking close, teetering right at the edge, every nerve screaming. You could feel the pressure building, tight and unbearable, ready to break—

“…Joel…”

So soft. So breathless. So honest. But the effect was immediate. His mouth froze. Then his hands. Then the heat. Silence slammed into the room like a fist. You opened your eyes and met his. And his face looked like someone had gutted him.

He stood slowly, like every second hurt. The warmth, the fire, the hunger from just moments ago—gone, replaced with silence.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you and you looked at him, breathing heavily.

Then, finally:

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to explain, to say anything, but your voice cracked before a word came out. Tears were already stinging your eyes.

Tommy backed away from you like he couldn’t stand to be near you. “That’s who you were thinkin’ about? While I had my fuckin’ mouth on you?”

Your hands trembled as you tried to pull your dress back down, cover yourself—shield from the weight of his voice, his stare. “Tommy, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” he barked. “Don’t bullshit me.”

His voice broke on the last word. That hurt more than if he’d yelled.

“I’ve been waitin’, hopin’ we’d get back to how we used to be, and this is what I get?”

You reached for him, desperate. “Please—”

But he jerked away from your touch like it burned.

“I can’t fuckin’ look at you right now.”

And with that, he turned and stormed out. You didn’t even hear where the door slammed. Maybe it was the back one. Maybe the front. It didn’t matter.

He was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch like the strings holding you up had been cut. The sound that left your throat wasn’t even human. A sob, raw and wet and broken. You curled in on yourself, dress still hiked halfway up your thighs, chest heaving. Tears soaked your cheeks and the fabric of the pillow you gripped with white knuckles.

The fire pit was still glowing outside. You could hear distant voices, laughter, clinking bottles—life happening while yours felt like it had just imploded.

You didn’t know how long you sat there. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Everything was numb, except for the ache in your chest. Like someone had reached in and twisted your heart until it bled.

You wiped your face, tried to breathe, tried to calm down—but your body refused. Every time you thought the tears had stopped, another wave hit.

Then the door opened.

“Hey… I’ve been lookin’ for—”

Joel stopped.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him. You just pressed your face into your hands, body trembling, barely able to breathe through the mess of it all.

“Shit,” he said softly. You heard the door close again behind him, slow and careful.

“Hey. Hey—what happened?”

You felt the couch shift as he knelt in front of you, warm hands hovering just inches from your knees, not touching—waiting for permission.

“Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?”

That voice—rough, low, full of concern. You shook your head slowly but didn’t lift it.

Joel exhaled, his hand finally brushing lightly over your calf. “You’re shakin’. Jesus… What happened?”

Joel’s eyes searched yours the moment you looked up at him, and he froze.

Your face was soaked, lashes clumped with tears, lips trembling. Your eyes—glassy, red-rimmed—looked like they were still breaking in real time. And they were. The tears didn’t stop. They just kept coming, welling up and spilling over in fresh waves.

He could see you didn’t have the strength to speak. So he didn’t ask again. Instead, he moved.

He gently, slowly, pulled you into him. The moment his arms wrapped around you, you caved.

You collapsed into his chest, breath hitching, sobs stuttering out of you again as he held you tighter—arms strong and sure, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed over your back, pulling you into his warmth like he could glue your pieces back together.

“Shhh…” he whispered into your hair. “I got you. I got you…”

And he meant it. You could feel it.

His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, calm and steady, grounding you. His shirt smelled like sweat and firewood and something so purely him it made your throat tighten. His skin radiated heat, and his arms were solid around you, unmovable, like nothing in the world could get to you if he didn’t let it.

Being in his arms felt like safety. Like home. You sank into him fully, shaking, letting the quiet take over. The tears kept coming, soaking through the fabric of his shirt until it clung to his skin.

After a long silence, you mumbled, voice rough and small:

“…Your shirt’s wet…”

Joel huffed a soft breath, like he almost smiled. “I don’t mind.”

A few more tears slid down your cheeks, and you could tell he felt every one of them against his skin. He didn’t push. But the question was still there, unspoken, hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, his voice rumbled low beside your ear.

“You don’t gotta talk if you’re not ready… but if somethin’ happened, I need to know. Did Tommy…?”

You shook your head quickly, breath hitching again.

“No—no, not like that,” you whispered. “We just… we had a fight.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

You hesitated but he waited. The truth sat like glass in your throat—jagged and dangerous. So you shook your head again.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Joel shifted just enough to look at you, hand still holding your shoulder.

“I get that,” he said softly. “But if it’s somethin’ serious… maybe I can help. You two are close. Whatever it is, maybe it ain’t as bad as you think.”

You almost laughed—almost. But it came out choked, hollow.

“It’s bad,” you whispered. “It’s… really bad.”

Joel’s fingers gently traced up and down your arm now, soothing, grounding.

“What happened?” he asked again, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to give me every detail, just… talk to me.”

You stared at the floor for a long moment, lips pressed together, heart pounding.

“…I said something,” you murmured, “during a moment and it hurt him. A lot.”

Joel was quiet, but you could feel the tension under his touch now. Like he was trying not to read into it.

“What did you say?” he asked carefully.

You looked up at Joel.

Straight into those beautiful, kind, heart-wrecking eyes. The light from the living room lamp hit them just right, made them shimmer, like they were made of something more than just brown. His brows were drawn, lips softly parted, that usual scruff shadowing his jaw in the most familiar way.

God, his face.

That face, all concern and comfort and that damned puppy-dog softness, it made everything worse. It made the truth burn inside you like acid.

You looked away again.

“…You can tell me anything, you know that?” he said gently. And you knew he meant it. That was the problem, he meant it. But if you told him, how could he ever look at you the same? How could anyone?

Your heart was hammering. You could barely breathe. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. If you said it, everything between you and Tommy would definitely be over. And maybe it already was.

Because of you.

Because you couldn’t even keep your mouth shut during something that was supposed to be intimate, sacred. You said his name. Joel’s name. And now all of this—the tears, the fight, the possible end of your relationship, was because of that.

Because of you.

The weight of it hit you like a truck, and your throat clenched all over again. More tears flooded your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fresh, helpless waves.

Joel was still rubbing your shoulders softly, whispering gentle reassurances. “Hey… hey, you’re alright. Just breathe, okay? Just talk to me.”

You were shaking now, fists clenched. He didn’t stop. He stayed with you. But you couldn’t hold it anymore. The guilt erupted from your lips—maybe louder than it should’ve. Maybe desperate.

“I said your name.”

The words dropped like glass onto hardwood and you couldn’t even look at him. Instead, you buried your face in your hands, trying to hide from the horror of your own confession. The shame curled in your gut like fire. Your breath was shaky, lips pressed to your palms, heart thundering like it wanted to escape your chest entirely.

Joel froze. Completely.

Even his hands, which had been so gently stroking your shoulders, stopped mid-motion. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Every second it lasted made your stomach twist harder.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a moment. Just… stared.

You didn’t dare look up to see what was on his face. You were scared to see the same thing Tommy had shown you—hurt. Shock. Disgust. Your head spun. You wanted to disappear.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “This was stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

You stood up, desperate to escape, to do something other than sit there and drown in your own shame.

But before you could take a step, his hand closed around your wrist. You froze.

Joel stayed seated, his grip firm but not rough. You turned to look at him—and when your eyes met, everything in your chest just stopped.

The silence that passed between you in that second felt like a storm. His expression had shifted. Gone was the softness, the worry, the quiet patience.

Now there was something else.

His eyes burned into yours. His jaw was tight. His brow furrowed in a way that felt almost… territorial. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then shot back up, and that heat in his stare made your breath catch.

And then—he stood. Slowly. Purposefully.

He was close now. Too close. The kind of close where your body tensed and your skin tingled, and every nerve screamed that something had shifted in the air.

His voice came low. Rough. Like gravel soaked in heat.

“Did Tommy ever make you come?”

The question hit you like a slap. Your lips parted. Eyes wide. Breath caught in your throat.

You were so stunned you couldn’t even answer right away. A nervous sound slipped out, barely a word—just air and panic tangled in your chest.

But Joel didn’t wait. He asked again, sharper this time, more intense, his voice scraping down your spine like thunder.

“Did he ever fuckin’ make you come?”

A shiver ran through your entire body. You swallowed hard, the air suddenly dry in your throat. Your gaze dropped to the floor, heat rushing up your neck.

You couldn’t lie.

You just shook your head once.

Joel exhaled a bitter, humorless sound—almost a laugh. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek as he looked away, shaking his head in disbelief. His hand let go of your wrist, but he didn’t step back. He turned slightly, pacing two short steps before running a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like he was trying to keep himself from saying something worse.

The room felt too quiet again. Your heart was hammering. You didn’t know what was happening, what this was turning into.

“Joel… why did you ask that?” your voice comes out quieter than you intended, almost a whisper. “Why would you—?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just turns away from you for a second like he needs to breathe, like looking at you makes it harder. His hands settle on his hips, fingers curling in frustration.

You watch him like he’s something dangerous. Not because you’re afraid — but because you don’t understand him. You don’t understand what he’s thinking. Why he cares. Why it felt like something cracked in him when you shook your head.

Finally, he speaks.

“‘Cause it ain’t right,” he mutters, but the words are too quiet. He says it more to himself than to you.

You blink. “What isn’t?”

He turns to you again, and his eyes lock with yours. There’s something burning there, low and slow and intense. You feel it before he even says a word.

“That you’re with someone who doesn’t even know how to take care of you.”

Your breath catches. The words hit you straight in the chest — like they weren’t just meant to be heard. Like they were meant to be felt.

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You’re frozen, not by fear, but confusion. Confusion that somehow carries a pulse deep in your stomach.

He takes a step closer. Not much, just enough to make your heart pick up. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t prepared for — and the air between you and Joel is different now. Thicker. Charged.

You whisper, “Why do you care?”

He stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he should tell you the truth. Or maybe he already has.

He looks at your face, your mouth, then your eyes again. His voice is lower now, almost rough.

“…Don’t ask me that unless you wanna hear the answer.”

Your throat feels tight. You can feel the tension rolling off him like heat, and suddenly you’re not just confused. You’re scared — not of him, but of what’s happening. Of what you want. Of what might come next. But that fear is mixed with anticipation and excitment.

The guilt is still there, still whispering into your ears, trying to convince you to just leave and don't get yourself into any more trouble than you already are. But one side of you, the one that is leading you these past days is screaming at you not to leave, to cross the line and break the ice, to gamble with your fate.

He takes another step closer.

There’s something in the way he moves now — slower, deliberate. Like he’s stalking a moment that’s been building for far too long. His eyes never leave yours, and it’s not just a stare — it’s a pull, dragging you in with each second that passes.

The air in the room thickens. It wraps around your body like smoke, warm and heavy, and it settles deep in your chest. You can feel your own heartbeat between your thighs now, each beat like a silent cry. The thin fabric of your dress brushes your skin, soft and ghostly, no underwear to muffle the feeling. Just you. Bare. Vulnerable. And aching.

Joel’s voice cuts through the silence, low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he murmurs. “This thing between us?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak. You just nod, barely.

He takes another slow step, his boots scraping softly against the floor. He’s close enough now that you can smell him — leather, sweat, something masculine and heady. It makes your head swim.

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, softer now. “The way you breathe when I’m this close.”

Your breath hitches. He’s right. You’re breathing faster now, shallow and sharp, chest rising with every gasp.

His gaze drops to your mouth, to your throat, then lower. His eyes darken when he sees the outline of your breasts through the thin fabric, the curve of your thighs where the dress has shifted. And he knows.

He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

You watch his jaw clench, the muscle ticking — a flash of restraint. He shifts his weight, and for a moment, your eyes fall to the hard shape beginning to press against the front of his jeans.

You swallow. Heat pools low in your belly, hot and thick. Your pulse pounds louder between your legs, insistent and wet and wanting.

Joel moves closer. There’s barely a foot of space left between you now. One move, one breath, and you’d be touching.

He tilts his head slightly, voice barely audible.

“You wanna kiss me?”

His words slice straight through your self-control. You feel your whole body clench in response, as if your muscles themselves are answering for you.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Just air. Your lips part and your breathing quickens — faster now, raw and shallow. His eyes flicker between your mouth and your eyes, over and over again, and you realize… you’re doing the same.

The moment stretches. Neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing fills the space, fast and hot and frantic. His hand twitches — not quite reaching for you. He wants you to move first.

Everything burns.

Your thighs are pressed tight together. You can feel the slick heat between them growing with every second. The ache is sharp now, desperate. You clench around nothing, your whole body begging for contact, for relief.

His chest rises and falls quickly, and the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss. His jeans are tight now, that hard bulge pressing against the zipper, throbbing. Waiting.

He licks his lips. You do the same. Your gaze locks again, the silence screaming between you. Someone has to break and you can’t take it anymore.

You move — fast, hungry, like something inside you finally snapped. You grab the front of his shirt, drag him down to you, and crash your mouth against his.

He groans, deep and low in his chest, and his hands are on you instantly — gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. You straddle him, your dress riding up your thighs, the heat of your bare skin grinding against the bulge in his jeans.

Joel groans into your mouth like he’s been waiting years for this. His hands slide under your dress immediately, rough palms dragging up the bare skin of your thighs.

There’s nothing coy left in you. You’re past that. You’re on fire, desperate, your whole body pulsing with need. His fingers grip your ass tight, pulling you flush against the hard line in his jeans. You gasp when it presses right between your legs, through nothing but heat and skin.

Without blink, Joel suddenly picks you up and both of you crushed on the sofa, you on top of Joel. You squeak in surprise and he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are blown, dark, pupils wide. He looks like he wants to ruin something.

“Bet my brother never made you feel like this,” he growls, voice low and thick. “Did he ever touch you like this, huh?”

He trails one hand up between your bodies, over your stomach, under your dress, stopping just below your breast.

“You gonna lie to me, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No. He didn’t. He never—”

Joel doesn’t let you finish. His mouth finds your neck, and suddenly he’s sucking, biting, dragging his teeth along your pulse. You moan loudly, fingers fisting in his hair. You feel the bruise forming instantly, heat and sting and possessiveness all in one.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m gonna mark you up so good. Let him see what he lost.”

His hand finally cups your breast — firm, rough, claiming. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, slow at first, then harder. You arch against him with a whimper. You’re so sensitive, the touch sends lightning down your spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he mutters. “So perfect for me.”

Every word he says goes straight to the ache between your legs. You’re soaked now, thighs slick, grinding slowly on his lap because you can’t stop yourself. You’re past shame, past hesitation — you’re riding the edge of something, and Joel knows it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, leaning in close again, kissing down the hollow of your throat. “Just needed someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

He thrusts his hips up, just a little, grinding into you. You let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a plea. He’s so hard it’s unbearable. You can feel the outline of him perfectly through the denim. You want him. All of him.

“You wanna feel me, baby?” he asks, eyes burning into yours. “Wanna know how I fuck you? Not him, me.”

Your breath stutters, hips rocking without thinking. You nod again, frantic now.

“Use your words,” he growls.

“Y-Yes. Joel, I want you,” you whisper, voice cracked and breathless.

“That’s my girl.”

He pulls you even tighter against him, his mouth on yours again, teeth clashing, tongue deep. There’s nothing soft about this — it’s raw and rough and real. You can feel every inch of him between your legs, every heartbeat thudding through your core.

And when he whispers, “I’m gonna make you forget his fuckin’ name,” you believe him.

His hands tighten around your hips and he moves — fast, fluid, strong. In one motion, he lifts you off him and guides you back onto the couch, gently, but with a command behind every touch.

You’re sitting now, alone on the couch. Chest heaving. Legs still parted from how wide you were straddling him. The thin summer dress is bunched up around your hips, your bare skin exposed to the warm air of the room, and his dark eyes drinking in everything.

Joel doesn’t sit back down. He sinks to his knees in front of you.

The sight alone makes your stomach flip — Joel Miller, broad and burning, down on his knees between your legs, eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed.

“Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice low, but not asking. Telling. You obey without hesitation.

The second your thighs part, his breath catches and he smiles. That slow, crooked, devilish smile that makes your whole body throb.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, gaze dropping between your legs. “Look at you. Already so wet for me, baby.”

You squirm, cheeks hot, heart pounding. You’ve never felt so seen — so shameless and completely desired. He leans forward, slow and reverent, placing a kiss on the inside of your knee. Then another. Then higher. And higher.

Each kiss burns into your skin. By the time his mouth is ghosting over your inner thigh, your hands are clutching the fabric of the couch, nails digging into the cushions. Your legs are trembling.

Joel pauses, looking up at you — his face so close you can feel his breath on your skin. His hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your dress.

“You ever have someone devour you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Not just touch you. Not just fuck you. I mean really take his time — make you fall apart over and over again ‘til you forget how to speak?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You shake your head, trembling.

“I didn’t think so,” he murmurs. His lips brush the inside of your thigh again. You let out a soft whimper.

He chuckles, a dark, dangerous sound.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs. “That ends tonight.”

And then, finally, he leans in. His mouth meets your folds like he’s starving. And not just for anyone. For you.

His tongue is slow at first — lazy, teasing — just enough to make you cry out in frustration. Your hips buck toward him instinctively, but his grip is firm. He holds you in place.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, pulling back just enough to breathe against you. “You take what I give you. Nothin’ else.”

Your legs tremble. You nod, lips parted, breath ragged. Then he really gets to work. Long, slow licks — deep and thorough. He moans against you, like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. He eats like a man possessed, tongue and lips working together to unravel you completely.

You cry out, head falling back, hands flying to his hair.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Just like that. So fuckin’ sweet. You feel that? That’s me. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

You’re already close. Embarrassingly fast. Your body is burning, shaking, legs threatening to close, but Joel doesn’t let you. He grips your thighs tighter, spreads you wider, and keeps going.

“Bet my brother never had you beggin’ like this,” he mutters against your soaked skin. “Never even knew what to do with you, huh?”

You sob out his name. “Joel—!”

“That’s it. Say it again.”

“Joel—oh god, Joel, please—!”

“That’s my girl.”

You’re falling apart, unraveling under his mouth, praise and hunger and heat flooding through you like fire in your veins. And he doesn’t stop.

Joel has you trembling, gasping, clutching at his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your legs are draped over his broad shoulders, your dress bunched up to your waist, and his mouth is working you like he wants to ruin you forever.

You moan his name again, voice breaking as your body convulses, heat flooding through you in sharp, hot waves. He doesn’t stop, not even as you twitch and cry out, completely undone. He groans into you like your pleasure is his, like he needs it, feeds on it.

Then, finally he pulls back.

He’s panting, lips glistening, eyes locked onto you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He looks completely feral. Wrecked. Controlled only by some last shred of restraint.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still staring at you, and whispers:

“Told you. Didn’t I?”

You’re still catching your breath, trying to remember how to speak, how to think — and then he moves.

He stands in one fluid motion, towering above you, and then bends to scoop you into his arms like you weigh nothing. You let out a soft sound, somewhere between surprise and surrender, and he carries you back down to the couch — but this time, you are underneath him.

His body covers yours, solid and warm, and you can feel the sheer size of him — every hard muscle, every sharp breath. His jeans are still on, but the bulge pressing between your thighs is undeniable.

Your pulse pounds. You want him. You need him.

Joel braces himself on one arm, eyes flickering down to your swollen lips, your flushed chest, the mess between your legs. He growls softly, the sound vibrating through you.

“Christ, look at you,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ gorgeous. Can’t believe he had you and didn’t worship every inch.”

He leans down, mouth grazing your jaw.

“But I will.”

He kisses your neck again, slower this time — no rush. His lips move down, finding the bruises he left earlier, tongue tracing the marks like he’s proud of them.

You arch into him with a soft moan. His free hand slides up your dress again, palm dragging along your thigh, your waist, your ribcage — until he cups your breast once more.

“You feel that?” he whispers, rolling your nipple between his fingers again. “This is mine now. All of you. Mine.”

His hips grind down, slow and hard, and you cry out — it’s too much and not enough all at once.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, needing skin — needing him closer. He helps you, yanking it off over his head, revealing every broad muscle, every scar and freckle. He’s so warm, so solid. You can barely breathe.

Joel lowers his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“You tell me when to stop, and I stop. I mean that,” he says. “But if you don’t stop me now… I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes flash.

“I want it all,” you whisper.

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, deeper than before, as his hand slips between your thighs — possessive, sure. You gasp into his mouth as his fingers slide through the slick heat he left behind, teasing, preparing, claiming.

He growls again, lips brushing your ear.

“Gonna make you scream my name. Again. And again. Until you forget his ever left your mouth.”

And then, with a sharp, dark smile, he finally undoes his belt. His eyes don’t leave yours as he tugs the belt free with one rough pull — the click of the buckle makes your stomach flip.

You bite your lip, chest heaving, heart hammering. Your dress is still hitched high around your waist, breasts rising and falling with every breath, nipples hard and aching from his touch.

You’re completely bare under him. And he knows it. He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, and whispers, “Still wet for me?”

You nod and he groans against your lips.

“Good,” he says. “Keep that pretty little pussy ready. I’m not gonna be nice.”

You shudder, hands sliding over his chest, nails dragging down his ribs. He growls low, then kisses you again — deeper this time, hungrier, like he needs to taste every breath you take.

You reach down, desperate, shaking, and he grabs your wrist, holding it still.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs darkly. “You just lie back and take what I give you. You hear me?”

Your thighs tremble as you whisper, “Yes.”

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

His eyes ignite.

“That’s right.”

He pushes the fabric of your dress off your shoulders — slow, deliberate — until you’re completely naked beneath him. His eyes drink you in, pupils blown wide with hunger, reverence, and something else… something almost possessive.

He kisses down your collarbone, your chest, stopping to suck a dark bruise just above your breast. You gasp as his teeth graze your skin, and he pulls back with a wicked smile.

“Mine,” he mutters again, almost to himself. “You feel that? That ache in your belly? That need?”

You nod quickly, dizzy.

“I put that there.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers sliding through your slickness with practiced ease. You cry out, back arching — and he grins.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls. “You hear me? I want you to remember this. Every time you think of me. Every time you lie in bed alone. No one else is ever gonna make you feel this way. Not even close.”

You’re gasping, trying to keep up, but he overwhelms every sense — the scent of him, the weight of his body, the deep rasp of his voice in your ear.

He lines his hips up with yours, breath ragged.

“You ready?”

“Yes—please—”

He pushes forward. Slow, steady, relentless, and you both groan at the same time.

The stretch makes your eyes flutter. You cling to him, digging your nails into his arms, and he holds still for a second, letting you feel everything.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “So tight. So good. Bet my brother never even got you halfway there.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, tears prickling behind your eyes from the intensity. Joel leans down, kisses your temple, and murmurs:

“You take me so well. Just like you were made for this. For me.”

And then he moves. Long, deep strokes. Slow and unforgiving, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to every single inch. He watches your face, hungry, like it’s the most addictive thing he’s ever seen. And maybe it is.

“Look at you,” he pants, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’re already falling apart, and I’ve barely even started.”

You whimper, legs tightening around his hips, fingers clawing down his back. He hisses, but doesn’t stop, if anything, he thrusts harder, deeper, dragging a loud cry out of your throat.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fuckin’ town know who’s making you feel this way.”

He kisses you — messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth — then moves to your neck again, sucking another bruise just below your jaw. You moan his name, breathless, shaking.

“You ever scream like this for him?” he mutters, voice sharp against your skin. “Did he ever make you beg?”

You can’t even answer — just whimper, nod, then shake your head. Joel chuckles darkly.

“That’s what I thought.”

One hand grabs your thigh, throwing your leg higher around his waist, changing the angle — and you scream.

Your back arches off the couch, vision going white. He grunts as you clench around him, and leans in, forehead to yours.

“You close already?” he whispers. “Fuck, baby, you gonna come for me?”

You nod wildly, too far gone to speak.

“Then do it. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

He slams into you harder, faster, relentless now. The praise, the pressure, the heat — it all builds to a breaking point, and then you shatter.

It’s too much. Too deep. Too Joel. You cry out, body shaking under him, clutching at his shoulders like you’ll float away otherwise.

He groans, deep in his chest, and then follows — thrusts turning rough, erratic, as he loses control. His body stiffens, then you feel the heat of him inside, pulsing with every last roll of his hips.

He collapses against you, both of you drenched in sweat and still trembling. For a long moment, there’s nothing but your rapid breathing, your fingers in his hair, and the pounding of two hearts against each other.

Then, finally, he speaks. Low and gentle.

“…Damn.”

You let out a breathless laugh. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

You nod. More than okay. You’re wrecked. Raw. Full. But you manage a soft smile.

“Better than okay.”

Joel kisses your forehead, arms still wrapped tight around you. You’re still breathing hard, lips swollen, skin hot — but your body’s no longer trembling from pleasure. Now it’s trembling from something else entirely.

Joel is quiet above you. Both strong arms draped around your waist, his forehead resting against yours as he tried go catch bis breath. His chest rises and falls, rhythmically with yours. But your own breath… it’s hitched. Tight. Shaky.

And of course he notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers softly through your hair. “Talk to me.”

Your stomach twists. It hits you — full force. The weight of it. Not the sex or the lust, but the reality. You just had sex with Joel. Your boyfriend’s brother. Right there — on his couch, in his home. While he was gone.

You push yourself up slowly, Joel sits up with you, eyes narrowing, instantly alert.

“What is it?”

“I… I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “I just…”

And then you burst. The tears start falling before you can stop them. Big, hot, painful tears. The kind that come from your chest, not your eyes.

Joel moves fast, cupping your cheeks, holding you like you’re something fragile that could break if he squeezes too tight.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispers, caressing your face. “I’ve got you.”

“No,” you sob, burying your face into his neck. “It’s not okay. I just slept with you. Joel, what did we do?”

He holds you tighter, jaw clenched as he tried to search something in your eyes.

“We did something that we both wanted,” he says. “And yeah… it was messy. But it was real.”

“I cheated on Tommy,” you whisper. “With his own brother.”

Joel flinches at that — just barely. But he doesn’t let go.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I can’t bring myself to regret it. I’ve wanted you for so long, darlin’. I don’t know if that makes me a bastard… but it’s the truth.”

You cry harder. He rubs your back, murmuring things you can’t quite make out — gentle, soothing things. He kisses your shoulder. Your temple.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Don’t carry all the weight by yourself. I was there too.”

You sit in silence for a long time, curled against him, your tears finally slowing. The room is quiet except for the occasional sniffle, and Joel’s steady heartbeat

Eventually, you both dress in silence.

The air is heavier now. Like you’ve both stepped into a different world — one where consequences have finally caught up.

Joel leans on the edge of the couch, watching you. Guarded. Protective. You wipe your face again, still fighting the tremble in your chin. “What… what happens now?”

Before he can answer—

The front door creaks open. Click. Thud. Boots on wood. Your heart stops. Joel straightens instantly. You freeze. And there he is.

Tommy.

Walking through the doorway, wiping sweat from his brow, rifle slung over his shoulder. He stops when he sees you, then looked at Joel. You were shocked, nervous, your face still swollen from all the crying, while Joel played with his fingers, dropped by his sides.

“Could you leave us alone?” Tommy said, looking at Joel. He clearly had no idea.

Your chest falls and your body relaxed, closing your eyes in relief. Joel just nodded and before he fully left, he gave you one last look. Look, that clearly said:

it's gonna be okay.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day!

BYEE🦋🌀

369 notes · View notes

forthebrokenheartedthings · 26 days ago

Text

Right Then, Wrong Time (One Shot)

Pairing: Thunderbolts Bucky x Thunderbolts Reader

WC: 7k +

Summary: You’re a Thunderbolt now. Bucky Barnes is your teammate, your rival, your biggest mistake—and your best friend’s other best friend. You were never supposed to fall for him. And he was never supposed to let you.

TW: Fighting, Blood, Angst, Bucky

Your knuckles are bleeding again. You hadn’t noticed until the third punch landed, knuckle-deep in the guy’s throat, and came back slick.

You shift your weight, duck, pivot—fist meets jaw, and he crumples. That makes five.

Behind you, glass shatters and someone yells in Russian. The alley stinks of garbage and cordite. Somewhere overhead, a drone buzzes, circling. You don’t look up.

Instead, you roll your eyes and shout, "Could really use that arm right about now, Barnes!"

From the rooftop above, Bucky swears. “Give me two seconds—!”

You don’t have two seconds.

Another rounds the corner with a stun baton crackling blue. He grins like he’s got you figured out. You grin back harder, duck the first swing, grab his wrist, and ram his own weapon into his ribcage. He screams. You don’t flinch.

"One second would've been better," you mutter, straightening as the body drops.

Bucky finally lands beside you, silent as sin, black tactical gear smeared in ash and blood. He looks at the bodies. Then at you.

His mouth twitches.

"You always leave me the fun ones, (Y/N)."

"Try moving faster next time," you say, brushing hair from your face. Your hands are shaking. You hope he doesn’t notice.

He does. Of course he does.

"You alright?" he asks, low, a crackle under his breath like he doesn’t really want to ask.

"I'm great," you lie. Then, more sharply, “The intel?”

He reaches into his vest, tosses you a drive. You catch it one-handed.

"We got it. Ghost is already exfil. Yelena’s covering the rear.”

You nod once, stuffing the drive into your belt. The two of you start walking—silent, in step. It’s weird, how easy that part is. The rest? Not so much.

As you cross the empty street, sirens start up in the distance. Prague police. Military maybe. No time to linger.

"Good job back there," he says finally.

You glance at him. “Trying to be nice now?”

"Trying to not get stabbed again,” he mutters.

That makes you snort, despite yourself.

"One time," you say.

"You broke two ribs."

"Should’ve kept your hands to yourself."

He glances sideways at you, half a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, eyes shadowed in a way that makes your stomach pull tight. You hate that smirk. You hate what it does to you.

You hate how close you came to missing him when he didn’t show up for the last mission.

The two of you duck into a side street, headed for the safe house.

You don’t say another word. You don’t have to. You can feel his eyes on you the whole way there.

The safe house is an old hotel, gutted down to barebones. One flickering hallway light, one working shower, and a couch that might’ve witnessed a war crime or two.

You head straight for the kitchen—if you can call a chipped kettle and an expired protein bar stash a kitchen.

Behind you, the door slams. You don’t look back.

You dig through a drawer until you find gauze and disinfectant. The sting distracts you, just enough.

You're bruised and bleeding. And doing a shit job at hiding it.

Bucky looks at and tries to take a calming breath. It doesn't work.

“Jesus, you’re really just gonna keep pretending that was fine?” Bucky’s voice behind you, low and pissed.

You don’t answer.

He keeps going. “You almost got gutted out there. If I hadn’t—”

“If you hadn’t what?” you snap, turning. “Showed up late? Stood there posturing like it’s still 1943?”

His jaw flexes. “You’re reckless.”

“You’re slow.”

“You’re impossible.”

You throw the gauze roll on the counter. “Don’t pretend this is about the mission.”

“Oh, so it’s about you dragging your ass into every suicide job on the roster like you’ve got a death wish?”

You stiffen.

Bucky sees it. Regrets it. Doesn’t back down.

“I’m not trying to die,” you say, flat. “I’m trying to do the job. Not everyone gets to make amends by petting stray cats and going on apology tours.”

His eyes narrow.

You lean in. “Some of us still bleed for it.”

That hits. You watch it land—just for a second, the way his mouth tightens, the flicker in his eyes before he puts the walls back up.

He steps forward. Too close.

“You don’t get it,” he says, voice lower now, more dangerous. “You think you’re the only one still bleeding? You think this is easy for me?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

It’s always like this—rage that circles something else. Something worse. Something neither of you wants to name.

You break first. You always do.

“I’m going to shower,” you say. Cold. Final.

He lets you walk away.

But his eyes stay on you the whole time.

You’re drying your hair with a towel when the knock hits the door.

Three sharp raps. Familiar rhythm.

You groan. “Go away, Barnes, I swear to god—”

“It’s me,” comes Sam’s voice.

You pause. Wrap the towel tighter and crack the door open.

He’s standing there in jeans, a bomber jacket, and a grin that tells you this is not a business trip.

“Miss me?” he asks.

“Like a rash,” you reply, and he laughs like he missed that.

You let him in. The place still smells like smoke and bruises. He eyes the busted coffee table and mutters, “Jesus, you guys still decorating with trauma?”

“Homey, right?”

He glances toward the hallway. “Where’s your emotional support war criminal?”

“Pouting, probably,” you say. “He’ll come out when he smells attention.”

Right on cue, Bucky rounds the corner in a black t-shirt, looking like a regrettable dream.

“Wilson,” he says, mildly surprised.

“Barnes,” Sam replies, nodding. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Thank your girl for that.”

You roll your eyes and head for the kitchen. “We’re not doing this.”

Sam follows, tossing a takeout bag on the counter. “I brought dumplings.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You trying to bribe us into a therapy session?”

“No,” he says. Then, “Yes.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath. You hear "hell" and "nope."

But the food smells good, and it’s been a long time since you sat at a table with someone who didn’t want something from you.

So you let Sam talk. He fills the silence like he always does—smart, soft-edged, pretending not to notice how far apart you and Bucky sit.

“You two always this fun now?” he asks after a beat.

“Define fun,” you say.

“Define you two,” he says back.

There’s a pause.

You sip your drink. Bucky doesn’t look up.

Sam doesn’t press. He just leans back in the chair and tells a story about some mission that ended with him stuck in an elevator with three goats and a crying baby.

You laugh. For real.

It’s the first time you’ve seen Bucky look at you without a shield up in days.

Just for a second, his eyes soften. Just for a second, he looks like he wants to say something.

He doesn’t.

But Sam sees it. Of course he does.

Sam’s long gone. Took the last of the dumplings and the warmth with him.

The safe house is quiet now, humming low with distant traffic and the occasional creak of old pipes. You're perched on the counter, knees pulled up, a chipped mug of tea warming your hands. It’s weak and bitter. You sip it anyway.

Bucky’s at the sink, rinsing plates like it matters.

You watch him for a while. Not saying anything. You don’t really need to.

He finally speaks, voice quiet.

“You always drink that garbage?”

You shrug. “Helps me sleep.”

“That’s what whiskey’s for.”

You glance at him. “Thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t. But if I did, it wouldn’t be that tea.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks for the feedback, grandpa.”

His mouth quirks.

You catch it. That tiny smile. The rare kind. The dangerous kind.

“You and Sam seem good,” he says after a beat.

“Yeah. He checks in.”

He nods, gaze dropping to the counter. “You need that.”

There’s a pause.

You tilt your head. “You checking in too?”

His eyes flick back up. “You make it really hard to care, you know that?”

You slide off the counter, slow, setting the mug down with a soft clink.

“I make it hard?” you echo, voice low.

He watches you come closer. Doesn’t move.

“You throw yourself into every fight like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he says.

You’re close now. Inches. “Maybe I don’t.”

His jaw tightens. His voice drops. “You do.”

The air is thick. The kind that crackles just before lightning.

You should walk away. You don’t.

He leans in a little. Just slightly. “(Y/N)...”

Your breath catches.

His hand twitches, like it might reach for your waist, your arm, your anything—but he doesn’t touch you.

You tilt your face up. Not breathing.

The moment stretches. Long enough to break.

Then—he pulls back.

Barely. Just enough to ruin it.

You laugh once, sharp and joyless. “That’s what I thought.”

You brush past him.

Your boots slam the hallway floor harder than you intend.

You should go to bed. You should lock the door and shut your mouth and stop giving a damn about a man who only ever pulls away when it counts.

But you're halfway to your room when you hear him behind you.

"(Y/N)."

You don’t stop walking.

"(Y/N), wait—"

You spin. "What, Bucky?"

He's standing there, hands clenched, mouth tight, that same infuriating wounded expression like you’re the one who did this to him.

"You can’t just run every time something gets—"

"Gets what? Real?"

He doesn’t answer.

"You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me?" you demand. "You think I don’t feel it, every goddamn time we get too close and you disappear like a coward?"

His jaw ticks. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"No?" You step toward him. “Then say it. Say it’s nothing. That this is all in my head.”

He doesn’t say anything.

You shake your head. “Right. Because you can fight Hydra soldiers, take a bullet for me, rip someone's spine out if I blink wrong—but god forbid you deal with an emotion.”

He steps forward, voice rising. “You think it’s easy for me? You think I want to feel this—this—”

You shove him, hard. “Then do something about it!”

He shoves back. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to hold his ground.

“I’m not the one crawling into bed with strangers every time I get scared.”

You flinch. Just slightly.

He sees it. Regrets it. Immediately.

But it’s too late.

Your voice drops to ice. “At least I’m not dragging someone through hell with me because I’m too fucking scared to admit I care.”

You stare at each other. Breathing hard.

If someone fired a gun, neither of you would blink.

You whisper, “You don’t get to do this, Bucky.”

And then you turn.

And this time, you don’t stop.

The bar’s too bright. Or maybe you're just too tired.

You’re slouched in a booth across from Sam, nursing a whiskey you don’t want. Your hair’s still damp from the post-mission shower. You didn’t want to come out tonight, but Sam insisted. “You need to stop sulking in shadows,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Come out. Eat fries. Pretend to like people.” You agreed. Not for the fries. Not even for Sam. You agreed because you knew he might show up. You didn’t expect him to bring someone. You spot them the second they walk in. She’s tall. Blonde. Probably a model. Definitely not someone who’s ever seen a war zone. She laughs at something Bucky says as he helps her out of her coat. You stiffen. Sam notices. “You alright?” he asks, voice low. You force a shrug. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Sam doesn’t answer, but his eyes follow yours across the room. He sighs. “Again?” he mutters. “Again.” You watch as Bucky leads her to the bar, hand resting low on her back. It’s casual. Thoughtless. Cruel. Because it’s not about her. It never is. It’s about you. About what he doesn’t say. About what he won’t do. He looks good, of course. Black jacket, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back. Smirking like he doesn’t know exactly what he's doing to you. Or maybe he does. You turn away. Sip your drink. Try not to taste the bitterness. Sam leans forward. “You know he’s not serious.” “That makes it worse.” Sam’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You want me to start a bar fight?” You smirk, barely. “You really think you’d win?” “Not a chance,” he grins. You clink your glass against his. “Thanks, though.” You don’t look back at Bucky again. But you feel his eyes on you for the rest of the night.

The morning hits hard. You’d blame the whiskey, but it’s not the hangover that’s making your stomach ache.

It’s the image—Bucky leaning in close, murmuring something to that girl. Her laugh. His hand on her knee. Like it costs him nothing.

You left before midnight. Told Sam you had a headache.

Now it’s noon, and you’re crouched next to your beat-up SUV on a quiet D.C. side street, staring at a tire that’s flatter than your love life. You curse under your breath and kick the rubber, accomplishing absolutely nothing.

“You need a hand?”

The voice is warm. Smooth. Unthreatening in a way that makes your body instantly lower its guard.

You glance up.

He’s crouching a few feet away. Worn jeans, paint on his sleeves, coffee in one hand. Smile like it comes easy.

You narrow your eyes. “Unless your name is ‘Spare Tire,’ I’m good.”

He grins. “Close. Jesse.”

You stare for a beat.

He holds up his hands, placating. “I work across the street. I’m not a serial killer. I do, however, have a jack and an unreasonable sense of chivalry.”

You sigh. “Fine. But if you kill me, I’m haunting your plumbing.”

“Deal.”

He gets to work beside you, competent and quiet. You hand him tools without needing to ask. He doesn’t ask about your day, or your bruised knuckles, or why you look like you haven’t slept. He just hums a bit as he works.

When he’s done, you straighten up and wipe your hands on your pants.

“You do this for all the sad girls with tire problems?” you ask.

“Only the ones who look like they could snap my spine if I said the wrong thing.”

That earns a real smile out of you.

“You wanna grab lunch?” he asks, almost shyly. “There’s a taco truck nearby that doesn’t totally suck.”

You glance toward the sky. You could say no. Should say no.

But something about Jesse feels like a quiet place to rest. Like maybe he doesn’t need to be anything but kind.

And for once, maybe you want that.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure.”

Jesse doesn’t push.

He texts you good mornings and doesn’t double-text when you don’t answer for eight hours. He learns your order at the Thai place on 7th. When you show up at his door with a busted lip and the wrong kind of silence in your eyes, he doesn’t ask. He just puts on a movie, hands you a hoodie, and lets you borrow the stillness of his world for a while.

You start to like that. Too much.

Yelena notices first.

“He looks like a baby deer,” she says, squinting at a photo of him on your phone. “Soft. No instincts. You will eat him alive.”

You don’t disagree.

Wanda, of course, just smiles. “He’s sweet,” she says, stirring her tea. “But you’re not in love.”

“Give it a minute,” you say. “He’s growing on me.”

Sam? He just raises his eyebrows and says, “Well, damn. You’re dating someone with zero trauma. Are you okay?”

You fake a punch. He laughs. You’re starting to.

The real test comes a few weeks later—team debrief. You show up late, coffee in hand, wearing Jesse’s jacket.

Bucky’s already there. Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, scowl locked in.

You try not to look at him.

He definitely looks at you.

Ghost gives the rundown. You nod along, toss out a few strategic corrections, keep it strictly professional.

Until the mission file closes and the tension in the room shifts from tactical to personal.

“So,” Yelena says, leaning her chin on her fist, “how’s civilian boy?”

You smirk. “Still alive. Still tolerating me.”

“That’s an achievement,” Ava mutters.

You roll your eyes. “He’s nice.”

You feel it before you see it—Bucky stiffening across the room. Like the word nice is a bullet.

“He got a name?” John asks.

“Jesse.” You say it soft, but clear.

Bucky says nothing. Doesn’t move. Just keeps his arms folded like his chest might break open if he breathes wrong.

Later, in the hallway, he corners you.

Not close enough to touch.

But close enough to hurt.

“Jesse,” he says, like the word tastes sour.

“Yeah?” you bite back. “Got something to say?”

He hesitates. Just for a second.

“No,” he says.

You nod once. Cold.

You walk away before he can watch your hands shake.

The team dinner is Sam’s idea.

He calls it "casual bonding," which is code for: "I’m trying to keep you psychos from emotionally combusting."

You don’t tell Jesse it’s a test. Just say it’s a friendly dinner with work people, mostly harmless. He agrees without hesitation. Wears a button-down and brings a bottle of wine.

The second he steps into the restaurant, you know Bucky’s already clocked him.

Yelena spots Jesse first. “Oh, no,” she whispers dramatically. “He’s adorable.”

You shoot her a look.

Wanda gives Jesse a warm hello. Ava nods. Sam claps him on the back and says, “Welcome to the circus.”

Bucky just looks at him.

Not says hello. Not offers a handshake.

Just looks.

Jesse doesn’t notice. He’s too busy pulling out your chair, resting his hand on your lower back, saying something that makes you laugh.

Bucky notices that.

The meal’s decent. The conversation is light. Jesse holds his own—asks questions, makes them laugh, doesn’t flinch when Yelena tells a story that ends with three bodies and a flaming dumpster.

But Bucky?

He doesn’t smile once. He barely eats. Every time Jesse reaches for your hand, every time your shoulders brush, Bucky’s jaw tightens like it’s wired shut.

When Jesse excuses himself to take a call, the table goes quiet.

Bucky stares down his drink.

Then says, to no one in particular, “Guy’s got no idea what you really do, huh?”

You stiffen. “That supposed to mean something?”

He shrugs. “Just funny. Watching you play house.”

You laugh once, hard and cold. “Funny, coming from a guy who plays dead inside every time someone touches him.”

That earns you a look. The kind that could level buildings.

Jesse returns. You smile like everything’s fine.

When you leave, he kisses you on the sidewalk—soft, easy, nothing dramatic.

You let him.

Behind you, Bucky doesn’t move. Just stands there, watching, like something in him is calcifying.

That night, you find him at the bar two blocks down. Alone. Whiskey in hand.

You slide onto the stool beside him.

“You’re drunk,” you say.

“Maybe,” he answers.

There’s a beat.

“Just say it,” he mutters.

“Say what?”

“That it’s fake.”

You stare at him. “You think I’m pretending?”

His eyes meet yours. Glassy, but sharp. “You don’t look at him the way you used to look at me.”

You say nothing.

He leans in, voice low and slurred. “You don’t laugh like you mean it. Not with him.”

You stare back.

And then you leave.

Because if you stay, you’ll say something you can’t unsay.

The ring is simple. Gold, understated, no stones. Something you could wear on a mission without breaking it. He picked it with you in mind—practical, smart, subtle.

He asks you on a Wednesday.

You're both barefoot in his apartment, the one with creaky floorboards and plants that won’t stop growing. He’s cooking pasta, badly, and laughing because he burned the garlic again.

You’re leaning on the counter when he turns around, suddenly serious.

“I love you,” he says.

You blink, surprised by the shift in tone. “I love you too.”

He takes a step forward. Then another. Then—

Drops to one knee.

You stare.

Your heart isn’t racing. That’s what gets you first.

Jesse smiles, small and sure. “(Y/N), I know your life is chaos. I know it’s dangerous, and messy, and full of secrets. But when you’re with me... it’s not.”

You blink again.

He opens the box. It’s the exact kind of ring you would’ve picked for yourself.

“I want to be that part of your life. The quiet part. The safe one. Marry me?”

And then—

Bucky.

His face crashes through your head like a bomb.

Your throat goes tight. Your hands start to sweat. Jesse’s still smiling, still waiting.

You try to picture a future. You try to see it clearly.

But Bucky’s shadow is everywhere.

Still—this man loves you. This man has done nothing wrong.

So you force the word out, soft and hollow.

“Yes.”

Jesse exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. Pulls you into a hug.

You hold him back.

But your eyes are wide open over his shoulder.

You don’t tell anyone.

Not right away. Not Sam. Not Yelena. Definitely not Bucky.

You wear the ring on a chain around your neck instead of your finger. Tell Jesse it’s because of the work. The missions. You don’t say it's because of the man you can’t stop thinking about.

You stare at it sometimes in the mirror. Like it might blink back.

A week passes.

Sam invites everyone to a low-stakes rooftop hangout. Pizza, cheap beer, folding chairs. The air smells like summer. Bucky's there, sitting on the edge of the railing like he doesn’t care if he falls.

You keep your distance. Try to laugh at Yelena’s nonsense. Try to focus on Wanda talking about weird wedding traditions in Sokovia.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

Until Jesse shows up.

You didn’t invite him. Sam did. Thought he was being sweet. Thought he was helping.

Jesse shows up smiling, carrying a six-pack and a bag of tortilla chips. You meet him halfway down the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” you whisper.

He laughs, confused. “Sam invited me. Is it okay?”

You smile too fast. “Yeah. Of course. Just surprised.”

He kisses your cheek. You flinch. Barely.

But Bucky sees it.

Of course he does.

You stay on opposite sides of the roof the entire night.

Until Jesse—sweet, oblivious, not him Jesse—pulls the chain from your collar and says, “You should wear it properly.”

And slides the ring onto your finger.

The whole roof goes silent.

You feel the shift in the air. Wanda’s hand tightens around her cup. Sam’s jaw tenses.

Bucky?

Bucky stares.

Not at the ring. At you.

And then he stands up.

Walks straight past you.

Down the stairs.

Gone.

You don’t hear from him for a week.

No texts. No missions. No sarcastic jabs over breakfast. Just... nothing.

It’s worse than the fights.

Worse than the silence that used to mean not now but never never again.

This silence feels like absence. Like abandonment. Like punishment.

You try not to care. Try to focus on Jesse, on the venue his sister recommended, on the absurd number of cake samples you pretend to enjoy. You nod. You smile. You say “whatever you want” a lot.

You don’t tell him you’re checking your phone under the table between bites.

Sam corners you three days into Bucky’s disappearance.

It’s early. You’re at a training facility. You’ve just knocked a combat dummy flat on its ass.

He walks in holding coffee. Tosses one to you.

“You and Barnes planning on speaking again this decade?”

You wipe sweat off your neck. “Don’t know. Ask him.”

“He won’t answer my calls either.”

You sip your coffee. “Maybe he’s just done.”

Sam raises a brow. “You really believe that?”

You stare at the wall. “He found out about the engagement. What else is there to say?”

Sam shakes his head. “He’s a disaster with feelings. Doesn’t mean he wants you gone.”

“He’s had plenty of chances to say that.”

“You’ve had chances too.”

You don’t respond.

Sam sets his coffee down. Looks at you like he’s deciding how much of the truth to offer.

“You think Jesse’s the one because he’s safe. Because he won’t wreck you.”

You stiffen.

“But that’s not love,” Sam says gently. “That’s avoidance.”

You toss the coffee in the bin and walk away.

You don’t cry until you’re alone in the locker room.

It starts with the missions.

The Thunderbolts are back on rotation—low-risk cleanup, mostly. You and Bucky get paired again. It’s inevitable. You’re too efficient together. Too good at pretending none of it hurts.

The first mission back, you don’t speak until someone’s already bleeding. The comms are dead quiet until Sam’s voice crackles in: “Y’all good down there?”

You answer with a clipped, “Clear.”

Bucky just grunts.

At base, it’s worse.

He acts normal. Too normal.

Makes coffee. Offers you a cup.

Doesn’t look at your hand when you take it.

Doesn’t flinch when Jesse drops by to pick you up in his sensible car with his nice smile and his “Hey, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky just nods. “Hey, Jesse.”

Jesse doesn’t notice the tension. Or maybe he does and chalks it up to Cold War trauma. Either way, he kisses your cheek and wraps an arm around your shoulder, and Bucky—

Bucky doesn’t blink.

But when you glance back, his knuckles are white around his coffee mug.

You try not to let it mean anything.

Later, Jesse asks you if Bucky’s okay. “He’s… intense,” he says.

You laugh. Too sharp.

“He’s fine,” you say.

You want to believe it.

But that night, you dream about Bucky.

Not the broken one. Not the one who left.

The one who almost kissed you in a kitchen once.

And when you wake up, Jesse’s hand is warm around yours, and you feel like a liar.

It’s a celebration.

Mission success. Minor op, but everyone made it out un-broken, which is rare enough to count as a win.

Sam drags everyone out for drinks—some no-name dive bar with sticky tables and an aggressively nostalgic jukebox. Yelena’s already hustling pool games. Ava is silently nursing tequila.

You’re leaning against the bar with Jesse, sipping something too sweet, laughing at something he said that you already forgot.

Then Jesse kisses you.

Not deep. Not needy.

Just simple. Public.

Bucky walks in two seconds later.

Stops in the doorway like he’s hit a wall.

You don’t see him at first.

You’re still smiling when your eyes land on him.

And he’s looking at you like you just pulled a trigger.

The air shifts. Your stomach drops. The warmth of Jesse’s hand on your waist goes cold.

Bucky doesn’t say a word.

Just turns and walks straight to the back booth. Orders a drink. Down it in one go.

You make your way to him half an hour later, after Jesse disappears to chat with Yelena and your nerves start crawling under your skin.

He doesn’t look at you when you slide into the booth.

“Drink?” he asks, not bothering to hide the bite.

“You okay?”

He laughs. Short. Ugly. “I’m great. Love watching you play house with your little boyfriend.”

You stiffen. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he sneers. “Tell the truth?”

“You don’t get to judge me.”

“I’m not judging,” he says, voice rising. “I’m mourning.”

That stops you.

He’s drunk. Slurring just slightly. But the way he looks at you—sharp, haunted—he’s never been clearer.

“You don’t look at him like you used to look at me,” he says again. “You smile, but your eyes don’t follow.”

You stand.

“Go to hell, Barnes.”

“Already there” he says quietly.

You leave before he can see your hands shake again.

He finds you on a bench outside the training center.

You’re in workout gear, but you haven’t moved in twenty minutes. The sky’s overcast. Your coffee’s cold. You don’t care.

Sam doesn’t say anything right away. Just sits beside you, stretches his legs out in front of him, watches a squirrel attack a granola bar wrapper.

Then, quietly: “You gonna tell me what’s really going on, or do I have to guess?”

You glance at him. “I’m fine.”

He snorts. “Right. You’re getting married. To a nice guy. Who loves you. And you look like you’re mourning a homicide.”

You exhale, slow. “It’s complicated.”

“Uh-huh. Well, lucky for you, I’m fluent in ‘complicated.I've got you AND Barnes as best friends.”

You shake your head. “He’s good to me, Sam.”

“I know.”

“He makes me feel safe.”

“I know that too.”

You stare at the pavement. “So what the hell is wrong with me?”

Sam doesn’t answer right away.

Then he leans forward, elbows on knees, voice calm and devastating. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

You glance at him.

“You keep saying Jesse makes you feel safe,” he says. “But have you ever asked yourself if you’re happy?”

The silence sits heavy between you.

Finally, you whisper, “I don’t know.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

He stands.

Before walking away, he turns back.

“For what it’s worth,” he says gently, “if you were happy... I don’t think Bucky would still have this much power over you.”

He leaves you there, staring at your hands.

You don’t move for a long time.

The bachelorette party was Sam’s idea. That should’ve been your first red flag.

“It’ll be low-key,” he promised. “Just some drinks. Some food. Minimal emotional trauma.”

Liar.

The Airbnb is too nice for this crowd—glassware that’s definitely going to get broken, a rooftop hot tub, mood lighting. Yelena arrives first with three bottles of questionable vodka and zero intention of behaving.

Wanda floats in next, already sipping from a travel mug you’re certain contains something ancient and dangerous.

Ava shows up last. No gift. Just a long, appraising look at your ring and a muttered, “Huh.”

And then there’s you.

Nursing a cocktail, grinning on autopilot, cheeks already sore from fake smiling.

They’re mid-toast when Bucky arrives.

Late, of course. In all black, of course. And looking like he hasn’t slept in days, which—also on brand.

You catch your breath and immediately hate yourself for it.

He gives you a nod. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t say anything about the dress you’re wearing, even though it’s the kind of thing he used to joke about stealing from your closet just to piss you off.

The room shifts around him. Everyone feels it.

Sam breaks the tension. “Alright, alright—who’s ready to embarrass the bride?”

Yelena yells, “Shot time!” and begins pouring with terrifying enthusiasm.

You shoot back one. Then another. Then a third.

Bucky watches. Doesn’t drink. Just stays perched on the edge of the couch, eyes always on you, like he’s waiting for you to crack.

You don’t. Not yet.

But it’s coming.

You’re three shots past sensible and one tequila away from emotional disaster when Yelena puts on music that definitely wasn't in the original playlist. Something loud. Pulsing. A little too sexual.

You don’t protest. You grab Wanda’s hand and start dancing like it doesn’t feel like your whole life is a countdown.

Wanda twirls you. Ava doesn’t dance, but she watches. Sam claps off-beat.

But your eyes keep drifting to Bucky.

He’s not drinking. Still.

But he’s watching.

God, he’s watching.

You lose count of how many times your gaze meets his. How many times you look away first. How many times your chest tightens like he’s got a string wrapped around your ribs and he’s just sitting there, pulling.

Someone spins you. Someone else hands you a mystery drink. You’re warm, flushed, laughing. And then—

He’s in front of you.

Bucky.

Not close. Not touching.

Just standing in your orbit. Watching you sway. Eyes unreadable. Hands in his pockets like if he moves wrong, he’ll break something.

“You’re gonna fall over,” he says, barely audible over the music.

You smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “You offering to catch me?”

He shrugs, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “You’d claw my face off if I tried.”

“Probably.”

Another beat.

“You’re drunk,” he mutters.

“You’re observant.”

“You’re engaged.”

You stop moving.

His voice is too steady. Too quiet. Too full of all the things he’s not allowed to say.

You look at him.

Really look.

His eyes are glassy. Not from booze.

From everything he’s been swallowing for months.

“I’m not doing this,” you whisper.

He doesn’t step back. “You already are.”

And suddenly, the room’s too loud. Too bright. Too full of people who don’t know what’s really happening here.

You walk away.

He lets you go.

Again.

But not for long.

It starts the same way—in the hallway, low lights flickering, the echo of bass-heavy music thumping through the floorboards.

You turn the corner and nearly slam into him. Bucky. Leaning against the wall like gravity doesn’t apply when he’s angry.

He doesn’t even blink.

“You always do this,” he says, voice low and ragged.

You try to keep walking. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Yes, you fucking are.”

You stop. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

His voice cracks. “Something real.”

You laugh, sharp and mean. “Real? This?” You gesture between you. “This is just pain on a loop.”

“You think I like this?” he snaps. “Watching you with him? Pretending it doesn’t kill me?”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” Your voice rises. “Why didn’t you stop me when I was slipping away and begging for you to say something?”

He steps forward. “Because I thought you were better off without me.”

“Then why are you here?”

You’re toe to toe now. Both of you shaking. Breathing like it hurts.

His voice drops to a whisper. “Because I couldn’t stay away.”

And then it happens.

The kiss.

No build-up. No hesitation.

Just your mouth on his, like punishment. Like relief. Like every missed moment between you is clawing to the surface and demanding to be felt.

His hand finds your waist. Yours fists in his shirt. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re air. You kiss him like you’re falling and he’s the only thing that ever caught you.

It’s everything.

It’s years of tension snapping like glass.

It’s perfect.

And it’s so, so wrong.

You pull back first, gasping, eyes wide.

His hand lingers on your cheek, but the look in your eyes stops him cold.

“No,” you whisper. “We don’t do this. We can’t.”

He flinches. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You did.”

He looks gutted.

You take a step back. Then another.

“You’re not a mistake,” you say, soft. “But this? Was.”

And you’re gone.

Just like that.

Not because you want to be.

Because it’s safer than what would come next.

The first thing you feel is your throat—dry, raw, like you swallowed glass.

The second is your chest.

Not pain. Not exactly. Just pressure. Like someone’s pressing their palm against your sternum and whispering, you did this.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Don’t remember getting back to Jesse’s place. But you’re here now—lying in his bed, hair tangled, wearing a t-shirt that doesn’t smell like him.

You slide out from under the sheets like a thief.

In the bathroom, the mirror confirms everything: mascara smeared, bruised lip, and eyes that look too much like truth.

You kissed Bucky.

You kissed him like it was your last breath.

And then you ran.

The ring on your finger glints under the harsh light. You almost yank it off.

You don’t.

Jesse knocks once. “You up, babe?”

You clear your throat. “Yeah.”

He walks in with coffee and a grin. The kind that says he’s planning your whole damn life already.

“I was thinking we should check out that florist my sister mentioned. The one with the stupid name—Petal to the Metal? You said you liked their colors.”

You nod.

Smile. Small. Fragile.

“Sure,” you say.

He kisses your forehead.

And you feel like a liar.

You check your phone when he leaves the room.

No messages from Bucky.

You’re not surprised.

You wouldn’t have messaged you either.

You don’t remember putting the dress on.

Someone zipped you up. Wanda, maybe. Maybe Ava. Yelena made a joke about combat boots and garters, but you were somewhere else.

The mirror shows you a woman in white.

You don’t recognize her.

The ring on your finger feels heavier today. It presses into your skin like a bruise.

Voices murmur beyond the door—Jesse’s mom asking about seating. Someone laughing. Sam trying to keep things moving.

You sit still, perfectly still.

Like if you move, the whole thing will break.

And then—

A knock.

Soft. Three raps.

You look up.

Wanda stands by the door. She opens it two inches, peeks, then turns to you.

“It’s him,” she says.

You don’t need to ask who.

Your stomach drops. Your heartbeat forgets its job. For a second, you just sit there.

Then you nod. “Send everyone out.”

She doesn’t argue. Just moves.

Two minutes later, the room is empty.

Except for you.

And him.

Bucky steps in like he’s afraid to break something. Maybe he is.

His eyes land on you—and you swear he forgets how to breathe.

He stops walking.

His mouth parts. Just slightly.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Because the moment he sees you in the dress—

He dies a little inside.

He doesn’t speak at first.

He just stands there, staring at you like he’s trying to memorize everything—your hair, the dress, the trembling of your hands.

You shift under the weight of it. "Bucky—"

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

The words drop out of him. Soft. Reverent. Like he didn’t mean to say them aloud.

You go still.

He takes one slow step forward. Then another. Stops when he’s just out of reach.

“But the dress...” he says, almost to himself, “it’s a lie, isn’t it?”

You swallow hard. “I said yes.”

“Yeah.” He nods once. Swallows harder. “You did.”

“But the second he asked... you were the first thing in my head.”

His eyes shut. Briefly. Like it hurts to hear it.

Then he exhales. “Don’t marry him.”

Your heart stops.

He steps closer. “Don’t marry someone safe because I didn’t have the guts to tell you what you meant to me.”

You whisper, “You think it’s that simple?”

“I think it’s always been that simple.”

He looks at you like he’s falling apart in real time. Voice shaking. “I have never wanted anything more in my life than you. Not redemption. Not peace. Not even my goddamn freedom.”

You close your eyes.

“Run,” he says, desperate now. “Run with me. We’ll figure the rest out.”

You look up. And the look in his eyes? It’s real.

No games. No fear.

Just Bucky.

Finally.

And you—(Y/N)—you’ve never wanted anything more than this moment.

But the next move?

It’s yours.

You don’t remember your feet moving.

One second you’re in the bridal suite, ring still on your finger, veil slipping from your hair.

The next, you’re slipping it off, tossing it on the counter and you're running.

Down the stairs. Through the corridor. Past Sam, whose eyes widen but doesn’t stop you. He just smiles and nods, once.

He knew.

Out the front doors.

Into the light.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

Leather jacket. Helmet in one hand. Motorcycle rumbling behind him like thunder on the edge of something new.

He sees you.

You’re breathless. Wild-eyed. The dress hitched in one hand, train dragging in the gravel, heart about to detonate.

His lips part, stunned. “You really—?”

You crash into him.

You don’t say yes.

You say everything with your mouth on his. A kiss like ignition. Like every wrong turn finally snapping back into place.

He drops the helmet. Wraps both arms around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You clutch his jacket, the leather creaking, his heart pounding like yours.

When you break apart, gasping, you whisper, “Drive.”

He doesn’t ask where.

He just swings a leg over, kicks the engine into gear.

You hitch your dress up, climb on, wrap your arms around him.

And together, you leave everything else behind.

The bike cools behind you, ticking in the hush of pine trees and wind.

You’re on the dock. The lake’s so still it looks painted on.

You hear his boots on the wood before you feel him beside you.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just stands there, looking out at the water like it holds the answers.

Then—

“I almost told you once.”

You turn your head.

He’s still staring straight ahead. “Back when we were in Prague. After that alley. You had blood on your knuckles and fire in your eyes. And I thought—God, this is it. This is the moment I say it.”

You wait.

He doesn’t look at you, but his voice softens. He runs his fingers up and down your spine.

“But I didn’t. I got scared. Of what it meant. Of what I am. Of not being enough. So I let you walk away. Again.”

You swallow hard. The wind brushes your hair back from your face.

He finally looks at you.

“You’re not safe. You’re not easy. You’re everything.”

You blink.

“You don’t make me feel calm, (Y/N). You make me feel alive. Like the world’s not just something I survived—but something I still want to be part of.”

He steps closer.

“I’ve loved you since the day you called me out in front of Fury and didn’t flinch when I growled at you.”

You let out a breath. Wet, shaky.

“I love you now. More than I know what to do with. And if you give me the chance—if you stay—I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that I should’ve said it sooner.”

You whisper, “What makes you think I’m staying?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Because you ran to me. And I’ll never let you run alone again.”

You stare at him.

Your voice cracks. “You’re an idiot.”

He nods. “For you? Always.”

You grab his jacket and pull him into a kiss that tastes like absolution.

When you pull back, you press your forehead to his.

“I’m staying.”

His hands tighten around your waist. “Good.”

And there, by the lake, with your past still behind and your future in his arms—

You breathe.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes

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henley-reeves · 1 year ago

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"The Runaway Bride" is such an iconic episode, really. It was just Donna in her wedding dress appearing in the TARDIS while the Doctor was in the middle of a heartbreak, and she immediately changed his life, and hers in the process, from the second she started yelling at him to TAKE HER TO THE CHURCH.

This woman came up with a whole variety of pet names for the Doctor in a span of a few hours, some of which (SPACEMAN) would become legendary and character defining and would be remembered fondly by the Doctor.

This episode is full of iconic scenes, like Donna getting kidnapped by a robot Santa and the Doctor trying to save her by encouraging her to jump out of a moving car on a motorway, and while Donna is refusing to jump arguing that she is in her wedding dress, the Doctor's best response is to compliment her look like "girl, you look perfect for a jump out of a moving car on a motorway."

And the next scene on a rooftop solidifies the silly tone of this relationship by the Doctor putting a biodamper ring on Donna's finger cracking a wedding joke, which Donna immediately joins in on.

This scene right there was the start of their friendship and that bond that would last for the rest of their lives. It all started with a robot Santa, a wedding ring and a silly joke which hilariously continued into the next scene with the Doctor and Donna standing under the "Just Married" banner. Comedy gold.

A very underrated moment of the Doctor continuing the affectionate insults tradition between them by calling Donna a 4H pencil, trying to explain to her how she got transported into the TARDIS.

There were these small moments throughout the episode that showed exactly how this friendship of a lifetime started. Like the Doctor taking Donna to see the creation of Earth right after the moment her fiance betrays her and admits he hates and wants to kill her. The Doctor sees all that and tries to distract her by showing her something so extraordinary and beautiful that no other human saw before her. And it works. This woman who has been so unimpressed with him calling him SPACEMAN (derogatory), was now cracking jokes and laughing with the Doctor and very much enjoying his company.

The Doctor and Donna who spent the good portion of the episode trying to get rid of each other, were now ride-or-die besties.

The Spaceman and Earthgirl are now imprinted on each other so much that this little Christmas adventure will become a life changing event and a start of a relationship so meaningful and deep that it will end up changing the Doctor's and Donna's lives fundamentally and save this world and a multitude of others.

The Doctor started the episode with "I don't want you here anyway" and ended it trying to make Donna laugh and making it snow when he heard she didn't like Christmas, and openly telling her he would be lucky to see her again and inviting Donna to come with him.

And Donna who starts the episode yelling at the Doctor and being so unimpressed with him, ends up understanding him on such a deep level and leaving him with the words that he would carry for regenerations to come. And failure to remember these words would lead to the death of this incarnation.

Donna is asking the Doctor to find someone, and she doesn't yet realise that he already found that someone he needs, a platonic soulmate, a friend, a partner, and that someone is her.

"The Runaway Bride" was a start of a many years (for Donna) and many centuries (for the Doctor) road from that rooftop to the garden where they will sit together with a bright shared future ahead. Best mates having the best of times for the rest of their lives. TOGETHER.

#doctor who #donna noble #ten #meta #long post #text #dw diaries

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yamysunmoon · 4 months ago

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Karaoke Night

Pairing: Jenna ortega x fem!reader

Summary: you find yourself at a Karaoke bar celebrating your best friend's birthday. Little you know it's gonna be a wild night.

word count: 5k

Warnings: MDNI +18, switch!Jenna, switch!reader, fingering, oral. Fluff.

MASTERLIST

It had been a while since you last went to a karaoke bar.

You really liked to sing shitty songs with your friends, but life had gotten in the way for the past few months and you all just didn't have the time to hang out for more than a coffee date for a couple hours.

But tonight, it's your best friend's birthday and the miracle has happened: the whole gang is here. You've known eachother since teenagers but adult life gets messier; some of you have found jobs, others are trying to finish their studies— So yeah, life gets in the way but you still get to share special dates like this.

You enter the bar already laughing your asses out and catching up. The birthday girl asks for a round of shots.

"Girl, don't! I have to work tomorrow" you complain giggling, feidging outrage.

She waves her hand, dismissive. "Just a shot" she says glancing at you, her eyes glimmering with complicity. You both know it could land to something more, but the vibe is too good to say no.

Couple of beers later and some shots, you're all really into the mood for some karaoke.

They give you the main scenario, where the main bar is. They have several separate rooms too. They're all taken, the speakers in one of the rooms are specially blasting out, the door is even shaking as everyone in there sings the chorus of "Shallow" from the rooftops.

Your friends choose Nelly Furtado, the introduction of "Say it Right" starts playing. Your bestfriend is singing the first verse when you decide to go to the bathroom, planning a epic entrance right before the chorus.

As you head there, the door from the loud room opens and this gorgeous girl steps out of there. She's heading to the bar, and your arms brush as you walk the opposite way.

"Woh, sorry" she apologizes, staggering slightly. She grazes your arm with her hand, smiling sheepishly. Your eyes meet, and you find yourself momentarily hypnotized by those big, sparkling brown eyes.

"Oh— no problem. Don't worry about it" you stammer, your eyes briefly darting at her lips before looking up at her eyes again.

Your eyes lock for a hot second, neither of you know what to do next. "Well... See you around!" you manage to say, finally breaking eye contact and heading to the bathroom. You roll your eyes and rub your forehead. "What the fuck..." you mutter, fully aware that you sounded weird.

You take a piss, the chorus of "Say it right" reaches your ears. You get out of the bathroom as quick as you can.

"Oh you don't mean nothing at all to meee" you yell between chuckles as you past the bar to the monitor where your friends are. The pretty girl is standing there, her elbows resting on the bar as she props her chin on her hand, chatting with the bartender.

When you realize she's still there, the damage has already been done— she has seen you screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs, out of tone and choked in chuckles.

Your cheeks blush pale pink, you briefly glance at her before focusing on your friends; your best friend shares her microphone with you as the song reaches its end.

"Who's the sexy girl?" she asks to your ear when the song is over. Your friends are choosing the next one, the microphone is off.

Even now that the club lights help hiding your flushed state, she sees through you. "I... Don't know" you mumble shrugging.

"Well, you might want to" she says playfully, wiggling her eyebrows, a smirk curling up her lips.

You swat her shoulder playfully. "Shut up", you giggle.

"What? She's gorgeous" she looks at her shamelessly.

She's sitting there, still talking with the bartender. She takes a sip of her bottle of beer as she listens to her. She's wearing black jeans, old good adidas and a white shirt that could use a good ironing. She has short hair grazing her shoulders and her back. For a moment you're envious of a bottle of cheap beer.

"Go talk to her or I will" your friend warns. Your eyes dart to her, wide.

"Don't you dare" you warn too, knowing she can be painfully obvious when she tries to find someone for you.

She giggles, "You know what to do then... She's been there for too long now, she's obviously waiting for her chance to talk to you."

You huff. She can get really annoying when she's right about something.

Sighing deeply, you steel your nerves and walk towards her. She glances at you briefly but her eyes flicker to the waitress again, feidging been oblivious to you.

This makes you regain confidence. You take a seat right beside her. "Hey, you" you lean in closer so that she can hear you over the blasted music.

Your eyes meet, but just for a moment before you look at the waitress and ask for a drink. You can feel her gaze lingering on your profile side, and your smile grows wider as you speak to the waitress.

"Hi" she says at last, watching you while you sit more comfortably. "Having fun?"

You glance at her. Small talk, okay, you can do small talk.

"Yeah, it's my friend's birthday" you point at her with your thumb; she looks behind you and smirks when she finds your friends wailing "My All" by Mariah Carey.

"Yeah, they seem cool" she comments. Her eyes are flickering between your gang and you; she seems distracted.

She doesn't add anything else, so you give her a sly smile and ask, "so why are you here?" She jolts a little, realizing her mistake.

"Oh! I'm here with my friends too. Also a birthday, in fact" she gestures with her hands, one of them holding the beer bottle.

You look at her intently, noticing the laid-back way in which she carries herself; her easygoing body language immediately catches your eye.

The chorus of the song repeats again, and you have the impulsive thought of dancing with her. "Come on, let's dance", you find yourself speaking before shyness takes the best of you.

You dare to take her hand and lead her to the dancefloor next to the spot where your friends are. You notice their playful glances but decide to ignore them, instead you only have eyes for her.

"By the way, what's your name?" you lean in really close to her ear, she turns her head after hearing you; your faces being just some inches away.

"Jenna" she gives you the charmiest of smiles, "what about you?"

You tell her your name, she says it suits you; which makes you laugh. Your bodies swing getting closer and closer as you exhange some silly jokes and small talks.

The beat of the song guides you closer to her. She can't take her eyes off you, and you find adorable how she tries to have a conversation when it's clear she's being distracted by you.

Her big brown eyes are a bottomless pit, like a sparkling black hole that drawns you. You feel absorbed, intoxicated, enchanted.

You decide to place your hands on her shoulders, swinging before her. This time she's fast; she grabs your arms and readjust them so that they are wrapped around her neck.

This makes you get closer, your clothes graze her white shirt. One of her hands settle on your waist, the other cups your cheek. You smile warmly and lean into her touch, admiring her face; her gaze slides to your mouth.

"What a feeling" by Irene Cara is blowing the speakers up when you finally kiss. She tastes like beer and ment, a combination that seems odd at first, but turns addictive very quickly.

A hot make out session and some heavy petting later, you find yourself on her couch.

Your friends were heading home anyways, you say to yourself. Hers were gonna stay there a little longer, but "I wanna take you home", she had whispered in your ear after leaving a soft kiss there.

You couldn't say no.

And so here you are, with this stranger in her fancy apartment. "You have a sense of style, huh?" you comment as you look around.

She comes back from the kitchen and sits by your side, handing you the glass of water you asked for. "Yeah, I guess? I hired an interior designer, and my parents helped me too."

You squint at her and tilt your head, curious and confused. "An interior designer? Fuck" you can't help but to sound impress, which you are.

She freezes momentarily, then chuckles nervously. "Yeah, uh, well..." she shrugs and looks down, playing with the new bottle of beer between her hands.

You notice the shift in her demeanor, your tipsy mind trying to think.

"Wait. Are you, like... A celebrity?" you ask warily, leaning closer to her.

She glances at you. "I guess you could say that" she admits, "I'm an actress."

You sit up straighter, nodding slowly. "Oh." You deliberate whether to ask further or not, coming up with the solution in a second.

"And why would you act all shy about it?" you tease, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

She relaxes instantly and gives you a playful stare. "Shut up," she swats your arm softly "It's just that I thought you knew" she adds in a murmur.

You wiggle your eyebrows. "Oh, should I know?" you lean closer, leaving the glass on the table. You reach her sides, your hands wandering making her squirm.

"Ugh, no" she refutes sulking, but her smile gives her away. She settles her bottle aside too; she faces you and lets her hands roam over your sides too, tickling.

You both giggle softly, getting closer and closer till your lips meet again.

After some seconds making out, your breathing gets heavier and your clothes are bothering you.

"I've never done this before" you mutter on her lips.

She was staring at your mouth, but her eyes flicker to yours. "You mean like, with a celebrity?" she asks warily.

"No," you chuckle softly "I mean, like hook up like this. With a stranger."

She trails off a little, only to smirk. "Oh, a classic girl" her gaze is wandering all over your face now, admiring each detail.

You snort, smiling and shaking your head. "Don't be all smug about it" you roll your eyes, then you lean in again.

She nods softly. "Okay, okay" she whispers before parting her lips and capturing yours.

Soon after, both of your pants end up tossed somewhere on the floor, and she leads you to her bedroom.

You both lie down on your sides as you keep kissing. Her lips are soft and full, you can feel her hands cardling through your hair and a shiver runs through your spine.

You hum and whine quietly against her mouth, she scoots closer and parts her lips in response. You lick her bottom lip slowly before sliding your tongue into her mouth, caressing hers.

Your tongues mingle together, lips fully parted, brushing in the process. The kiss turns sloppy and passionate. Your hands grip her shirt eagerly, grasping onto her.

You tilt your head up slightly as you trail off, giving her lips a gentle lick. "Fuck, you're so hot" you whisper. She grants you a breathy chuckle.

"You're so gorgeous" she murmurs in a husky voice, tilting her head to lean in again. You kiss her readily, letting out a soft moan as you feel her teeth capturing your bottom lip and tugging at it playfully.

Her hands sneak down, leaving soft squeezes in its wake, feather-touch tracing your curves.

She breaks the kiss softly and rests her forehead on yours. "Can I?" she whispers, her breath hitches as she waits for your response.

You can see her eyes gleaming under the dim light. Her parted lips are reddish and swollen from making out with you, and her chest raises and falls with each ragged breath.

"Yes" you sigh, reaching down to grasp her wrist and guide it lower. "God, yes."

You nuzzle against each other, brushing your noses softly and you both gasp as she makes contact with your damp panties.

She traces your slit through your panties with two expert fingers, applying gentle pressure. You instantly roll your hips. "You can... Press harder" you mutter sheepishly, cheeks flushing crimson as you watch her lips curling up into a smirk.

"Yes ma'am" she teases. You let out a noise between a chuckle and a gasp.

"Oh, shut up—" you press your lips stifling a high-pitched moan that dies in your throat. Her digits are stroking harder now -yet still teasing-, and you can feel your cheeks burning from embarrassment; you feel stupid for reacting like this when she's not even touching you yet.

She bites her lip, gauging your reaction. Her breathing gets heavier. "God, you're so cute..." she mutters, brushing her lips against yours.

The blush creeps onto your ears. "God, just shut your mouth" you grumble pathetically, hiding in the crook of her neck. Your hips don't stop, though. You keep rubbing againts her fingers through your panties.

"But you are," she continues, her voice thick and velvet, "you already feel amazing and I'm not even..."

You grab her wrist again and lead her under your panties. "Just..." you interrupt her with a breathy whine, squeezing your eyes shut as you finally feel her fingers against your skin.

A groan escapes her lips as she feels your slick folds enveloping her digits, coating them with your fresh arousal. She traces your slit slowly and relentlessly, from your clit to your entrance and back to your clit, applying just the right pressure depending on the spot she's exploring.

You hitch one leg over her thighs, allowing her more access and giving yourself more room to move. You start grinding deeper, your stomach brushing against hers through your shirts with each thrust; fabric grazing your skin makes you both shiver.

You trail off and your half-lidded eyes meet. She leans in and kisses you passionately, whispering sweet words between kisses as her touch turns more firm.

She changes the pace, rubbing the base of her fingers against your clit as their tips massage your entrance in circles. You stifle a whimper, you capture her bottom lip and suck it gently; she moans in response.

You pull your hips forward deeply, one of her fingers sliding inside you easily. She gasps in surprise, "oh fuck—".

You start bucking, riding her finger slowly but steadily, pushing your hips forward eagerly with each thrust. She curls her finger slightly, tapping that sweet spot inside you that makes you shudder.

You grip her shoulders and rest your forehead on hers, panting against her mouth. She´s panting too, watching your every move with hooded, hazy eyes.

Her free hand is hovering over your torso, not quite deciding where to stay; so she spreads gentle caresses over your boobs and stomach.

At a given moment, she presses her palm against your lower stomach, making you quiver.

"F-fuck, don't do that" you snap in a hot whisper, biting her bottom lip as a scold.

She lets out a grumpy, playful whine. "Why? God, you're tough" she teases, but she rubs your stomach softly instead.

You huff, your breathing becoming laboured already. "Because I don't wanna... Yet" you admit in a mutter, avoiding her gaze by looking at her chin. You notice the mark she has there and can't help but nip it lightly.

She widens her eyes at your admission, but when she's about to complain, her words die in her lips in the shape of a quiet moan at your playfull bite.

"Okay, okay" she concedes breathily, lighting her touch further. "Can you... Get rid of those, though?" she looks down at your panties, her hand underneath them being an obscene bulge that distracts you for a second.

"Yeah. Yeah of course" you whisper back. She removes her hand making you stiff for a second as you feel the sudden lack of her inside you.

You sit up, taking them off. You watch her for a moment— they way she's laying there, just in her panties and that wrinkled shirt.

Without saying a word, you grab the hem of your shirt and also take it off. You're not wearing any bra, and her eyes sparkle and widen as she looks at you fully naked.

"Jesus christ" she pants out, and now she's the one blushing. She sits up slighty, her hands reaching up to cup your breasts. "God, you're so beautiful" she says, transfixed.

You scoff trying to maintain any sort of control. "And you're such a sweet talker" you murmur.

Her eyes were on your chest, but they meet yours as she leers at you. "Haven't been more honest in my life." she says in a low, husky voice. She leans in closer, "But instead of speaking, I can just show you" she adds before kissing you again.

You melt into the kiss, letting her make you lie down as she gets on top of you. You wrap your legs around her waist, she gasps against your lips and peeks down admiring how you've spread for her.

Her hands roam your sides, down to your thighs, which she squeezes eagerly before sliding one hand between them again, resuming with her previous touch.

You throw your head back, choked moans escape your lips as she dips into you again. You feel her curled finger sliding in and out deliciously, hitting all the right spots as she rubs your clit with her thumb.

"Like this?" she whispers in a thick voice, hooded eyes focused on you. You glance at her; her short hair falls like a curtain, spreading her scent. She smells like fresh shampoo and tequila.

You tuck strands of hair behind her ears and grasp the sides of her head pulling her closer. "Yes" you hiss breathlessly, your hips rolling against her finger relentless. "More" you add, brushing your lips against hers as you speak.

She leans in and leaves a messy top lip kiss as she pulls out only to add a second finger. You frown in pleasure and moan, tilting your head to leave wet kisses along her cheek, down to her neck.

"Oh— my god" she whines, deeply aroused by your sultry kisses and the way your body responds to her. She can feel your inner walls pulsing rhythmically around her digits, making her wanna plunge deeper.

She doesn't even has to ask— you shove your hips further, feeling your body acommodate to the intrusion easily. Soon enough, you can feel her knuckles brushing against your outer lips.

You peek down, then back at her. You find her glancing down, amazed. She looks back at you, "Wow, that was easier than expected" she says in a breathy chuckle.

You wiggle your hips experimentally, smirking. "Meh, your fingers are not that large" you tease, although you visibly writhle as she rubs that spot inside you.

She rolls her eyes, a sly smile tugging at the side of her lips that makes her dimple enhance. "You're truly impossible" she mutters shaking her head before going for your neck, nibbling it playfully as she resumes her thrusts.

You meet each one with renewed vigor, secretly proud of how perfectly she feels inside you. Your hands slide to the back of her head, pulling her closer and tilting your head to give her better access to your neck.

Squelching noises fill the room, making you shove harder, fucking yourself with her fingers. You nip her right shoulder, leaving reddish marks on her exposed skin, her shirt sliding down her shoulder as you unbutton it.

You look at her, admiring her beautiful face contorted in pleasure and concentration. You slide one hand to cup her left cheek, and you drag your thumb across her lips. These part and nip at the tip of your digit, only to lick it soothingly afterwards.

This drives you to the edge, your hips stutter as you roll them against her more purposefully, grasping onto her shoulder as you feel it coming.

"fuck fuck fuck" you mutter desperately, the delicious tension building inside you.

She was propping herself on her free hand, but now she digs her knees on the mattress so that she can sneak down her hand and press her palm against your lower stomach in that way that almost sent you earlier.

That's what finally makes you snap. The combined sensation of her fingers curled inside you, tapping at that spot; her thumb rubbing your clit relentlessly and now her other hand pushing down, makes you utterly lose control; milking her fingers for all they're worth.

You let out a shuddering final pant, writhering beneath her. Your legs are still trembling with aftershocks as she keeps moving inside you but slower and gentler, helping you ride out the waves.

She hears you hiss quietly, the sensations feeling like too much, so she gives your inner walls one last touch before she withdraws her hand, sliding it up your mound and side.

"Fucking hell..." you murmur wrapping your arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

You whine as you feel her relax, laying her body on yours. The pressure of her stomach against your mound is soothing. "You're so sweet..." she says in a husky voice as she peppers kisses along your neck.

"Ugh," you huff, rolling your eyes playfully and also in contentment for her touches, "stop it already." Your voice is hoarse from the moaning.

She chuckles against your skin, making you shiver. But you roll over, making her lay down before she can complain.

"Oh!" she lets out a startled laugh, "Okay, that was unexpected" she sprawls back comfortably beneath you, giving you her best smirk as her eyes sparkle with mischief.

You narrow your eyes, smiling. "You're such a yapper, aren't you?" you lean in, exploring her neck and lower.

Her playful giggles turn breathy. "I... Maybe..." she tries, slowly getting lost in sensations. You can feel her hands splayed out on your back, caressing kind of eagerly.

Now is your turn to giggle as you unbutton the buttons left tied on her shirt and trace her collarbone and cleavage with your tongue. "Oh, so there is a way to make you shut up."

She clicks her tongue, but her back arches before she can even process how her body is reacting. The fabric slides off her arms as you undress her, she sits up slightly to help you.

Her gaze is intense as she stares at you with half-lidded eyes; a soft pale pink tone is coloring her cheeks. When your eyes lock, she instantly spreads her legs wider around your waist.

You feel a sudden urge to feel her, to taste her.

Your breathing becomes ragged as you take off her panties, finally having her bare before you. You let out a whiny sigh, eyes darting everywhere.

You don't have to say a word. She lays down again, pillows behind her back keep her slightly sat up. She bends up her legs and spread them again, presenting herself to you.

You stare at her bluntly, mouth ajar. Even under the dim light you can see how excited she is.

You curse to yourself as you lay on your stomach and dive into her without further delay.

Her fingers slide into your hair as you hover over her wet folds, inhaling her scent. You graze her slit with the tip of your nose, making her squirm slightly. Stirred up by her contained reaction, you drag your flattened tongue from her entrance to her clit.

She writhels more now, her nails scratch your scalp lightly. "Hmph... Fuck..." she whines in that husky voice that's been driving you insane all night.

You find yourself surprised and obviously aroused by hearing her unrestricted noises for the first time. She's been so focused on you until now, and now she can let go to her own pleasure.

You start lapping with renewed enthusiasm, tilting your head up and down slightly; and forward when you want to apply more pressure.

Her hips start rolling in response, fucking your mouth deliciously as she tugs at your hair lightly.

You moan against her, encouraging her grip. "Yeah? You like that?" she asks breathless, and the way she sounds makes you suck harder.

Obscene slurping sounds fill the room as you work on her entrance, tasting her shamelessly. Then you lick up and wrap your lips around her swollen clit, sucking it in the perfect pace as you tap it with your tongue.

She's sloppy, warm and genuinely tastes amazing. You roll your eyes a little, enjoying yourself as she gets off thanks to you.

You release her clit trailing off slightly, she whines pathetically in complain "Hmm, gorgeous...?" she purrs running her fingers through your hair, as in trying to seduce you into resuming.

You peek at her briefly, smirking mischievously. Your eyes have a cheeky glimmer in them that makes her feel dizzy. She Bites her lip, ogling at you as she notices her fluids all over your mouth and chin.

You part your lips and drag them along her folds, going lower. She hisses and throws her head back, lifting her hips.

"Fuck, I don't know what are you up to, but you can do it" she drawls, her voice strained as she tries to hold back.

A breathy laugh escapes your lips, turning into a warm puff against her wet folds. She whines and squirms, restless. You decide to have some mercy, and finally slide your tongue inside her steadily.

She lifts her hips further immediately. "Fuck— yes!" she chants, her hands gripping your hair firmly.

You plunge inside her more firmly; as far as you can go, her inner walls stretching around you. She bucks against you, rolling her hips in a pace that makes you moan; your sounds muffled against her flesh.

Her words turn incoherent, her legs tremble, it's obvious she's making an effort to not drap them around your neck.

You scoop the back of her thighs, supporting them and encouraging her to wrap her legs around your shoulders. She takes the hint and scoots lower; you feel her warm skin around your neck.

"Damn it feels so amazing" she manages to pant out in a low, hoarse voice.

You double your efforts, bobbing your head so that your tongue slides in and out of her. The change in position allows you to delve deeper, brushing your lips against her folds with each thrust. One of your hands gropes her right side and buttcheek as your other hand reaches her neglected clit, rubbing it in circles.

Her eyes snap open at the dual stimulation of your mouth and fingers, her body twitches, hips rolling frantically. You can tell she's close, which makes you wanna act up on your dirty thoughts quickly. You pull out your tongue and drag it firmly upwards, replacing your fingers on her clit with it.

She moans louder, and her grinds become impatient, her pussy aching for further penetration.

You pant against her between laps, and slide your hand between her legs. She shudders in anticipation. "Yes. Yes yes yes, please. Please do it" she hisses and begs, her voice husky and high-pitched.

You slide one finger in without further hesitation. The moan she grants you with makes you press your flat tongue against her greedily.

She bucks against you at a frenzied pace, your muffled moans against her skin as you suck her and the wet thuds of your finger pounding into her create a lustful symphony.

Her movements turn erratic, and the moment you curl your finger and tap her g spot repeatedly, she loses it.

With a final choked keening noise, she comes undone, her release gushing, coating your finger and chin. You lick her eagerly, pulling your finger out to lap at her entrance, tasting her.

"Oh my..." aftershocks wrack through her and she quakes misserably, glancing at you with her head tilted as you feast on her.

You leave a final long lick before lifting your chin smugly. You glance at her, so proud of yourself that makes her laugh. "If I'm a yapper, then you're such a cocky girl".

Her fingers are combing through your hair in such a gentle way that makes you bite your lip to suppress a warm smile.

"Maybe I am" you murmur as you cling up. You roll onto your sides, facing eachother. She hooks one leg over yours and covers the both of your naked bodies with a blanket and a duvet.

You shiver slightly under the fresh fabric, a sharp contrast to your warm bodies covered in a thin layer of sweat.

She leans closer and her leg squeezes you keeping you near. "Oh, the smug girl finally admits her flaws" she teases. She reaches up and cleans your face with the back of her hand.

You lean back in feidging outrage, brows furrowed. "Flaws?" you repeat, a smirk tugging at your lips, "my stubborness is definitely one of my biggest strengths".

A hearted-laugh escapes her lips, she throws her head back and her shoulders bounce as the heavenly noise fills your ears, and you have this thought— that you could get used to that laugh.

"Yeah, sure right?" she looks back at you, her expression so relaxed it's even sultry. "I'd like to find out" she adds quieter, almost shyly.

There's a comfortable pause where you observe her and lean in closer. Your hands explore her sides and stomach under the warm blanket, and that thought keeps hovering your mind.

"Uh, so..." she hesitates, she licks her lips. "Do you wanna spend the night?" she finally blurts out. She blushes afterwards, realizing how desperate and nervous she sounded.

You smile warmly. "Yeah, I'd love that" your voice coming out soft and genuine, no jab this time.

She smiles back at you. "Sick" she murmurs before kissing you, tasting your wry smile as you roll your eyes playfully and kiss her back.

*some days after*

You get a text

Your friend: hey so i binged some random show on netflix the other day, and guess who fucking showed up

Your friend: *sends a screenshot*

you: girl WHAT THE FUCK

a/n: i think it's pretty obvious i used a playlist for this one lmao

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x you #fanfic #lesbian

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dado-quadriculado · 5 months ago

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Ok, I've seen some (A LOT) of fanfics about "Peter Parker in Gotham," and something I can't get out of my head is: "What if Tony was there?"

No, not in the way that he survived and is there with Peter, but more like he left an AI with his personality and memories in E.D.I.T.H. so Peter wouldn’t be alone. Yes, he still died sacrificing himself against Thanos. Yes, Peter still carries all the trauma he accumulated in every MCU movie he's in. But now, he’s in another universe with an AI acting as his mentor.

Like, Peter accidentally activated this function in the glasses—it wasn’t supposed to appear until he turned 18, but since he’s a nosy spider, he somehow made it happen.

Now, imagine how messed up Peter’s head is, to the point where he sometimes forgets that Tony isn’t actually there but just an AI. He ends up breaking down every time he remembers, having flashbacks of the man’s death. Traumatizing, right? Especially considering he’s now in another universe where he knows almost nothing and has to deal with vigilantes constantly chasing him.

If you want more chaos, throw in the classic "Dick Grayson is Richard Parker" / "Dick Grayson is Peter Parker’s biological parent" theory, and boom! Pure chaos and trauma. Dick is freaking out over having missed most of his son’s childhood and not being able to protect him from all the trauma. Part of the Batfamily is convinced Peter is from the future. And Peter? Peter is absolutely losing it while trying to cope with everything!

"Underoos," Tony’s hologram form calls out in its usual blue hue. "I’m not great with advice, but you should talk to your dad—"

"You’re not my dad! You’re not Tony! You’re just an AI pretending to be him!" Peter yells back, crying as he throws a pillow at the hologram.

"Wow, finally breaking down, roos? I was actually talking about your biological dad, who is currently on your rooftop dressed like a bird in a suit as tight as your old vigilante one," he replies, watching as the pillow passes through his translucent form. "But if you wanna ignore my first good piece of advice, go ahead, kiddo."

Meanwhile, Dick is on the rooftop with a pizza in hand, waiting for his possible future son to show up so he can make sure he's okay.

"You, Grayson!" Damian calls out to Peter, scowling.

"Uh, I’m a Parker," Peter corrects, confused by the nickname. "You know? Peter Parker?"

"..."

"...I said it wrong on purpose," Damian replies.

"Nephew," Cass says, giving Peter a few light pats on the head.

"???"

"So, how are your parents?" Dick asks Peter while still in his Nightwing suit, eating a sandwich with him, trying to learn about his relationship with his supposed future self.

"Uh, not sure, they died when I was about five, I don’t really remember them," Peter answers as he takes a bite of his sandwich.

Dick makes a wounded puppy noise, leaving Peter confused.

That’s it, I just wanted to share a random and dumb idea that popped into my head. If you write a fanfic with this idea, please tell me the name in the comments!

#prompt batfam #spider man #mcu peter parker #peter parker in gotham #fanfic #fanfic prompt #fanfic ideas

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sassycheesecake · 1 year ago

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MEET AND GREET ✨MSBY JACKALS 🐺✨ in one post <3

Atsumu Miya #13

Man’s flirtin' with ya nonstop

The moment you step up to the M&G, it’s like the heavens have send him an angel

Usually Atsumu has a problem with shutting his mouth, but when he saw you, he was lost for words

He calls you lots of nicknames and you’re almost a melting puddle at hearing his Kansai dialect in person

Atsumu keeps giving you this look with his hooded eyes, along with his lazy smirk(YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHICH ONE I MEAN)

Of course, Atsumu’s teammates are used to his flirty nature with some people, they know it’s a show he puts on in front of the world

A cocky, arrogant and overconfident bastard can actually be a funny, loving and protective person in private

They watch with high interest from the sidelines, because the usual confident smartass is actually nervous and gives out an honest smile, not the usual fake ones he uses with the press

But they obviously wouldn’t be teammates if they don’t tease each other once in a while

"Tsum-Tsum it’s been almost 15 minutes since the game, why is your face still so red?" Bokuto’s comment turns Atsumu’s face a couple more shades red and the Setter wishes to sink into the next hole in the ground

ANYWHO

With one unfortunately not too long lasting hug, you say your goodbyes and without your knowing, the sandy-blonde Setter looks longingly after you, like he just said goodbye to his lover

It’s like almost there was a voice inside his head, telling him to run after you

Get a full name, a number, an email, anything he can get so he can contact you

So when the Setter runs after you, ignoring the staff team’s shouts and yelling, he still can see the back of your outfit and he calls after you

Hearing your name being called out in a deep familiar voice, you turn around and find the sandy-blonde Setter halting to a stop right in front of you

Atsumu rambles on about feeling his heart beat faster whenever you speak or look at him and the sandy-blonde has never felt this way before

After a bashful goodbye and an exchange of numbers, the two of you part ways with exciting smiles on your faces

As soon as the blonde twin enters the locker room, he can’t contain his excitement anymore

"Guess who just got himself a number by a gorgeous fan!" 😍😍 Atsumu is so happy he could shout it from the stadium’s rooftops

Despite getting a good chewing out by his captain, coach and PR team, Atsumu doesn’t hesitate to contact you that same night, asking you out on a date ❤️

Kōtarō Bokuto #12

Energetic owl 25/7

So imagine how hyper he still is after a winning game

He’s a living bouncy ball, along with tangerine boy

When you came up to the table to get your jersey signed, you can almost feel his bright energy surrounding you, feeling like it’s pulling you into a hug

He smiles brightly at you, sweat clinging to his jersey, defining his well-built body

You’re trying not to stare but it’s highly obvious that you like the hyper horned owl

You get his autograph, an almost bone-crushing hug and one last beaming smile

You’re feeling a sort of rush of adrenaline mixed with something else as you go home, looking up the next home game of the MSBY Jackals, excited to see Bokuto play again and hopefully have another M&G

Even though you can see your bank account shrinking more and more, each time you feel so much excitement whenever you see Bokuto play on court

His beaming smile, his chest receives, his exciting expression whenever he scores and the way he celebrates with #13 and #21

You’re going to their last game before your bank account goes on strike so you make it count as you go to the M&G

Bokuto sees you coming up again and smiles at the sight of you

So you try your shot

"Hey, I have been to some of your games and I really love the way you're driven by your passion in volleyball and I really like you and I wanted to know if you'd be happy or willing to go out with me sometime?"

The whole table is silent and truth to be told, shocked that someone was asking Bokuto out

Bokuto never really thought much of dating until like his retirement but ever since you started coming to the MSBY Jackal games, Bokuto feels like he wants to show you what he can do, you can say in some sort of way he's trying to impress you

You're standing in front of him, sweating buckets in nervousness, when Bokuto gets up from his chair with a neutral expresion

You're already imagining the worst rejection ever when he stands a mere inches away from you

Looking into his golden eyes, his expression changes from neutral to bashful

"I'd love to"

Kiyoomi Sakusa #15

Fresh-out-of-the-shower-Sakusa Kiyoomi was standing a little bit off to the side in his MSBY tracksuit, hands in his hoodie pockets, black medical mask partly covering his scowl when he was watching some of his still sweaty, disgusting teammates talk and hug fans after their win

He was scrutinizing his teammates in his head when an almost very quiet voice interrupts his judgment towards his teammates

When Sakusa was about to tell the fan off, he turned and saw you

A white mask is covering your face and you have a small jersey shirt in your medical gloved hands

That’s right. GLOVED HANDS

You look unsure, almost scared as you keep your distance between the Outside Hitter and yourself

"Can you please sign this for my little brother? He’s in the hospital and couldn’t come to your game due to a broken leg."

You hold out the jersey and watch as the ravenette’s calculating eyes switch between you and the small jersey

"Don’t worry. It’s not from the hospital, I brought it from home, it’s freshly washed because I know you don’t like unclean things"

And then the most unexpected thing happens

Sakusa comes a bit closer, like a cautious cat and takes the small jersey from you, which has his number on it

"Meian. Hand me your pen please."

The taller man and captain of the team looks confused for a second but hands him his sharpie anyway

Sakura signs his signature and you can roughly see him writing something else on it

You thank him with a respectful bow and leave the M&G area

Sakusa looks after your retreating footsteps, curious and intrigued by your mysterious face and personality

All of sudden, Sakusa feels an elbow hitting his side gently a few times with a clicking noise of a tongue and the Outside Hitter knows that annoying ass noise all too well

The blonde Setter waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive way as he just witnessed the interaction between you and his teammate

"Damn Omi, quite the looker fan ya got there."

Sakusa just gives him a pissed side glance, yet looks back immediately to the spot where you just stood, hoping you will read his message

As you head back to your little brother, you see the message the ravenette has left you

"Meet me at Fumin no mori Narukawa enchi on Sunday, 9am."

In the end, you got his number and got promoted to best big sister ever

Shōyō Hinata #21

Hinata is such an easy guy to get along with. He makes friends everywhere he goes

Even though you were nervous, the M&G went really smooth, as if you have known each other for years

the longer you two talked, the more stuff you realized you have in common

It went from talking about One Piece and volleyball to if the cereal or the milk should come first into a bowl (you did receive a few strange looks from the staff members but Bokuto and Atsumu are gleefully proud of their youngest teammate talking and flirting with you and actually succeeding at it considering his teachers were idiots)

You part your ways after the M&G and you're excited to see the next game (big kudos to your best friend for gifting you season tickets)

"Was I seeing this right? Was Hinata actually flirting with someone?" Shion asks Meian in a whisper in the locker room after the game, still shocked that their youngest kouhai is highly interested in someone or something else besides volleyball

Hinata is more cheerful than usual in training sessions and work out

He tells his teammates all about his excitement every day

"Have you guys seen their smile?". "Aren't they the most beautiful person alive?" "I can't wait to see them again, I look for them wherever I go, hoping I would randomly catch a sight of them on the street.", "I am telling you guys, I am going to marry this person!"

The next time Hinata saw you at the M&G of the game, he asked you out, resulting in you two going out for dinner at a small Brazilian restaurant and Hinata tells you all the stories from Brazil, about his old roommate Pedro and how he has known some of his current teammates since high school, etc.

Yet even if Hinata is a big storyteller, he asks you about you as well, learning things about you and falling for you deeper and deep, the more minutes he spends listening to you

You spend the night at his place and for the next morning, he prepares some different types of açaí bowls, since he still needs to follow his diet plan, but unsure about what you like to eat, he also made some pão de queijo and some tapioca pancakes

It was so good and Hinata confessed that he really likes you and wants you to be his s/o

When Hinata had training again, he first told Bokuto and Atsumu about his date with you, and later his other teammates, to his opponents, to his family to his friends from Brazil

That man is so proud to have you as a romantic partner and cheers you up with his smiles and jokes on bad days, makes you feel like the only person in the world

Shūgo Meian #4

Meian can't remember the last time he had some peace and quiet

A crazy team to keep under control honestly requires a medal for patience

But lately, his mother is getting on his nerves as well

Telling her son to find a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a partner to finally settle down with

She calls him almost every day and whenever she would bring up his love situation, he automatically rolls his eyes at her annoyed tone

Meian is currently tying his shoes in the locker room, ready for the upcoming match against the Tachibana Red Falcons, when his mother called again

"Son, I have found you a compatible match! They're--"

"Mum, I have a game in a little bit, can we do this later?"

"Just promise me, you will go out with them tomorrow! They are very nice and I am not getting any younger here and neither are your reproduction tools!"

Meian is now at his limit, his mother mentioning his private parts is just getting too much for him

"Okay fine! If I go out with this person tomorrow, will you PLEASE stop bothering me about it?"

"Yes. Have a good game my son!" She hangs up and Meian is relieved, now he can focus on the game

"Miya! Stop using my deodorant! Buy your own!" "Give me my shoes back!" "WOOOO! GAME TIME!" "MEIAN! TELL THAT ASSHOLE TO GIVE ME MY SHOES BACK!"

Aaaaand off we go to the next problem

Luckily enough, the Jackals won by 5-4, so Meian is in a good mood the next day

As he waits for you by Komeda's Coffee around noon, according to the details his mother has texted him early in the morning

Honestly, Meian just wants to go back home and sleep, maybe if he's lucky enough, his blind date has both a terrible personality and terrible looks and he can just leave and go back to bed and finish the third season of Bridgerton

As he waits in front of the café, scrolling through Instagram, he hears the sweetest voice his ears have ever encountered

"Are you Meian?"

As he turns to look at you, his eyes widen at the sight of you

Like wow

The way your body moves, the way eyes your shine, the way your skin glows in the sun

When you are close enough to him, he gets an intoxicating scent from you, like gosh he wishes he could just hug you and inhale your fragrance for days

He internally slaps himself for thinking such intrusive thoughts on your first date

You keep talking, Meian guesses how happy you are to meet him because his heart is doing somersaults and his brain feels like it's constantly restarting

"You okay? You look distracted."

"No, no, I am fine I promise. I just have never seen such a gorgeous person before."

And now it's your turn with the somersaults

You both go inside the café, him holding the door open for you, pulling the chair before you sit down (sigh, a true gentleman)

Honestly, when your mother told you you would be going on a blind date with a professional athlete who plays volleyball, you honestly expected an arrogant ass who only talks about how great he is and how this sport is the greatest in the world

Meian is not what you expected

Sure, he is very good looking: tall, muscular, broad mouth-watering shoulders, a body that looked like it was carved by Myron himself

His personality is sweet, a bit inexperienced sure but he solely focuses on you and gives you compliment after compliment

He tells you about his profession, about his team and invites you to his next game in a week

Meian's teammates of course notice the constant smiling looking at his phone and the small nod of his head into the VIP section

Yet the ravenette doesn't care, already planning on marrying you in the future

Shion Inunaki #6

The Libero watches as big groups surround his very popular teammates, like Hinata or Atsumu, screeching, giggling and being excited to be able to talk to the star players

Don’t tell Bokuto

All of sudden he wanted to walk into the direction of the players’ locker room when you stopped him

"Hi." You give him a little wave and a shy smile and Inunaki thinks that you must have switched him up with one of the other players

Sure, he has fans of his own but usually they’re kids and not hot and young people like you

You ask him for a picture and an autograph on your jersey which has his number on it

He’s really enjoying the sight of you wearing his last name and number, it’s almost as if you’re married

You’re beautiful and you play volleyball in your college whenever you have spare time as you both start talking together

Funnily enough, Inunaki went to the same college as you before he joined a professional volleyball team and you actually live close by together!

The two of you agreed on having a coffee date together next weekend when Inunaki has some time off

As you both meet up more and more, your friendship begins to grow stronger, more deeper

On game day, Inunaki walks from the locker room into the large stadium when he checks into the VIP section

His eyes immediately caught yours in the family and close friends section and his heart beats even faster, knowing he has a beautiful partner by his side, always cheering him on

Alexandre Joffe #7

Seven foot frame, rats along his back

Seven freakin' foot soldier

A giant with a heart of gold

When you saw his big stature and his beautiful green eyes, it was like you forgot what to say

Alexandre sees that you’re struggling with your words as you come up to the M&G, your face extremely red as you look at him and wanting for him to sign your small jackal plushie’s shirt

The Middle Blocker feels flattered by your behavior, because mostly people are just very intimidated by his height

But not you

You look amazed, almost like you're envious of him

To be fair, you look incredibly small compared to him

In Alexandre's mind, there's singing birds and talking animals around you, like a Disney figure

He takes the jackal plushie into his large hands, signs it and hesitantly gives it back to you

"Everything okay? Did I do something wrong?"

"What are your plans Friday night?" His smile is dazzling, green eyes shining with excitement

"Uhm I don't think I have anything planned yet, why?"

"How about you and me go to Yakiniku King? I think you're really pretty and I would like to get to know you better."

Wow, well you certainly didn't expect this tonight

Yet, you agree, ignoring nasty looks from the fans behind you and beside you as you exchange numbers

Who knows, maybe it will turn out to be something serious

Adriah Tomas #9

Tomas has known you ever since he can remember

You both grew up in the same hometown and have been inseparable ever since

Until you moved away to pursue your dream career, Tomas stayed to improve himself in his volleyball career

Unfortunately due to your busy schedules, texting became less and less and all of sudden, it stopped completely

At the age of 25, Tomas got a sponsorship from the MSBY Black Jackals, a Division 1 team in Japans V. League

He packed his things, moved to Higashiosaka and is now finally part of a professional volleyball team, like he always dreamed and told you about

There wasn't a day that went by when Tomas thought about you

Wondering what you are doing, how you are doing, and most importantly for him, if you're in a serious relationship with anyone

Yeah classic childhood friend crush developed into something deeper for Tomas, he just always wished he either confessed before you left or at least tried to tell you while you were teenagers

After training, his Japanese teammates Atsumu and Bokuto were talking about their recent hook ups when they asked Tomas about the last time he has hooked up with someone

Even though you both have never been intimate with each other, you immediately came to his mind when they asked

He tells them off, saying he hasn't been interested in it, because he was focused on training and 'didn't have time for distractions'

Thankfully they leave him alone after this yet he can’t help but feel like fate is going to be messing with him

Just one day later, when Tomas is taking the subway home, there is a person that looks just like you

The same color of hair, skin and scent that

When he look-a-like of you turns a bit to the side, Tomas can’t believe his eyes

It was you

You’re here

The same country, the same town, the same subway at the exact same time

He doesn’t hesitate to walk over to you

You’re just listening to your music with your headphones on your way home when a tall man makes his way over to you out of the corner of your eye

Stopping in front of you, you look up quickly and you can’t believe your eyes either

What is he doing here? Is that really the little dimple smiling boy who would always chase you with bugs and share his waffles with you?

My God what has he been eating that he’s this tall? He certainly didn’t have to grow this tall

You both can’t believe it and Tomas looks unsure as he looks at you

You have always been the one to initiate conversation first so you take the lead and Tomas goes along smoothly with it

Before the subway stops, you quickly exchange numbers and stay in contact after you depart

Catching up on the phone about each others lives, Tomas eventually builds up the courage to ask you out over face time while he’s making breakfast

Out of shock of you yelling excitedly, he drops his French toast but can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline going through his body as he knows that fate gave him a second chance in trying to ask out his best friend and crush

Oriver Barnes #10

Barnes was stretching on the gym floor when he heard his three-year old daughter calling his name

She is a perfect mix of him and his divorced partner

Sigh

It's already been a year since your guys' divorce and Barnes has not been taking it well since day one

The two of you constantly fought over his busy schedule, about Barnes forgetting to pick up your daughter because training went on too long too many times

You finally had enough when your daughter had to stand in the rain, waiting for her father for over an hour, only to end up sick the next morning

Oriver and you fought so much, after that incident you finally had enough and you filed for divorce

Both of you settled for an agreement on when to take your daughter and now it's been going on for about a year now

The Middle Blocker tried to move on but he simply can't

He still loves you since the first time he laid eyes on you

When she hugs her father tight, he sees you walking over with slow steps, holding her Bluey backpack with a tight smile on your face

"Hey." You both say in sync

"What are you doing here? I thought she was staying with you this week." Barnes asks you, trying to make some small talk as your daughter uses him as a playground device

"I know, but she really wanted to come and see you. And I can't keep her from seeing her father."

Your daughter sees Tomas and runs to him, being the Godfather of her, leaving you and your ex-husband alone for a bit

Meian knows how much his teammate misses you, Oriver is constantly talking about you, has pictures of your daughter and still of you in his locker and looks completely heartbroken whenever he sees you leaving with your daughter after it was his turn to have her stay at his place

Oriver looks over at Meian and the ravenette gives a silent nod in return, keeping your guys' daughter occupied as planned

Oriver begins to stand up and you still shocked at the 6'7 height of the massive Opposite Hitter

He looks unsure into your direction, asking if he could talk to you in private

You are surprised and a little bit unsure to be honest but agree nonetheless

He takes you into the meeting room, whenever they talk about after game strategies

After the door is closed for some privacy, your former partner-for-life turns to look at you with a face full of sorrow

"Listen, I know this is extremely shit timing but please listen to what I have to say. I-I know it's already been almost a year, but every day is torture for me. I miss you by my side. Your smiles, your laughs. Just everything about you. Our daughter tells me that you cry almost every night and it breaks my heart, knowing that I can't be there to hold and comfort you. I still call you 'My (Y/N)' because you are my everything. You are my light, and you've shown me more love than I've ever known. You have graced us with a beautiful, gorgeous, smart daughter. She takes after you in so many ways and I am reminded of what I should have fought harder for. I lost my other half, my soulmate. I feel like there is an empty hole inside my heart that can't be filled with something new. I need you, I want you back in my life. If you'll have me, please give us another chance."

By the time Oriver finished talking, you're both crying

You're taking fast steps towards the Wing Spiker and he doesn't hesitate to pull you into his strong arms

The dark-haired man rests his chin on top of your head, caressing your back while you're trying to control your sobs

Oriver comforts you by just holding you, caressing you and you realise how much you needed it, needed him

Maybe it was a rushed decision after all

You're both in there for a while, until Meian tells him that it's time to start the warm up because the game will start soon

Oriver and you both agree to take it slow, wanting to build up again what you used to have

But out of everyone, your daughter couldn't be happier

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puck-luck · 5 months ago

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baby boy hughes (1) | beaquinn

saturday, july 13, 2024 12:17 A.M.

“If you had a baby right now, what would you name it?” Bea asks.

Quinn snuffles out a little laugh. “‘It,’” he repeats. He blinks his eyes open, looking at Bea the way he does only in bed together, late at night or early in the morning. It’s the most special look ever and no one has seen it– not Honey, not Quinn’s brothers, not anyone. Bea kind of wants to shout out from the rooftops that Quinn likes to look at her like she’s an angel, but it sounds crazy and she doesn’t really want to share it. She wants his fond little regard to stay special.

“Sorry,” Bea apologizes. “Not ‘it.’”

Quinn smiles. “It’s okay, baby. I know what you meant. I’m just teasing.”

Bea pats his chest and he catches her hand, holding her wrist so her palm is pressed against his skin, fingers splayed over his heart.

“If I had a baby boy right now, I’d name him after Luke,” Quinn says. “We have a system– I name my son after Luke, Luke names his after Jack, and Jack names his after me. Then the other brother will be the godfather. So Jack would be the godfather of my son, and I would be the godfather for Luke’s, and Luke would be Jack’s son’s godfather.”

“Sounds like you guys have thought this out,” Bea says.

“We had to,” Quinn says. “I want to name my son after my brothers, but if Jack was my son’s middle name, Jack would throw a tantrum. He always wants to be the number one pick. Going first in the draft really sent his ego through the roof.”

“But you would rather use Luke as a first name,” Bea says.

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees. “Luke is really special to me. I love them both, but Luke looks up to me a lot and always has. Sometimes I feel like I can’t fulfill his expectations of me. Sometimes I feel like I don’t treat him as well as I should. Ever since I was a kid, I was trying to be the best role model for Luke. He was like my first kid, in a way. He wanted to be just like me, the same way I wanted to be just like Dad.”

saturday, march 1, 2031 10:42 P.M.

“Is he here yet?” Quinn asks frantically, dropping the two duffelbags in his hands on the chair in the corner of the hospital room. “Did I miss it?”

“Do you see a baby in this room?” Bea snaps. “Seventeen hours later and this gremlin won’t get out of me.” She directs her cutting tone towards her stomach. “Get out! Get out!”

“Sweet Bea, don’t yell at the baby,” Quinn chides softly, grabbing the water from Bea’s bedside table and bringing the straw to her lips. “You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”

Bea takes a sip of the water, then raises her hands to tuck a few strands of hair back into her braided pigtails. “I am going to lord this behavior over my child’s head for as long as I want,” Bea replies, tone grave. “He is taking his time, so much so that I have not eaten in twelve hours, because that’s how long I’ve been in active labor. Our doctor said that he would probably be here around seven and you managed to play an entire hockey game in the time since seven.” She tilts her head towards Quinn’s and glares menacingly. “I want him out.”

Quinn leans forward and plants a kiss on her lips. “I can’t take him out for you, babe. He’ll come when he comes. Do you want to try walking around a bit, see if you can loosen up?”

Bea narrows her eyes. “Conveniently, I already did that. I spent the entire second intermission and third period pacing around this room and all I got out of it was one lousy centimeter.”

“Okay, Crab-Bea,” Quinn says with a chuckle. His use of the nickname is warranted. Bea is being crabby. Seventeen hours of labor will do that to you. “Do you want some good news?”

“I’m dying for some.”

“Jack and Luke got special permission to fly out a day early and Mom and Dad are already on the way too,” Quinn says, kissing Bea’s cheek. “So you get to see Luke’s reaction in person.”

“If the baby even comes by then,” Bea grumbles. “You never know, he might still be in there by the time the ‘Hughes Bowl’ is over.” Her voice adopts a mocking tone when she quotes the media-given name to the Canucks/Devils game, eyes rolling. She really loves the Hughes Bowl, but not when there’s a baby stubbornly camping out in her uterus.

“He’ll be here by then,” Quinn assures her. “I bet he’ll be here by midnight. Now, scoot forward. Let me give you a back massage. It’s the least I can do.”

Bea scoots forward as best she can, providing Quinn enough room to climb onto the bed and situate Bea between his thighs. “The least you can do is right,” Bea agrees. “It’s your fault we’re in this mess.”

Quinn laughs. His hands fit over Bea’s shoulders and his thumbs dig into the tense space at the top of her spine. He massages the area and Bea feels herself relax immediately. The skin on her neck rises when Quinn fits his lips next to her earlobe and reminds her, “You were there too. I seem to remember you begging for your husband to fill you up.”

sunday, march 2, 2031 2:15 P.M.

A knock sounds at the door. Quinn peeks his head in the room, finding Bea on the bed with their little boy on her chest. “Are you ready for some guests?” he asks, grinning at Bea.

She’s in a much better mood than she was last night, having finally birthed their first child and gotten some food in her system. Little Luke is fed, changed, and is having a nap on her chest. One of his hands is balled up in the spaghetti strap of Bea’s tank top, holding her close. He’s been cuddling with Bea for over an hour and a half now, so he should be waking up any minute. Bea nods, biting her bottom lip and beaming at Quinn, trying not to jostle the baby too much.

Quinn retreats from the doorway and pushes the door open, letting his family walk in ahead of him. Ellen is first, eyes already teary, and she presses a hand to her mouth when she sees Bea with the baby on her chest. The hormones catch up with Bea and she tears up too, her lower lip pouting slightly even as she smiles.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ellen murmurs, coming to Bea’s bedside and touching her hairline daintily, brushing a kiss on her forehead. “You did it.”

Not for the first time in this whole process, Bea wishes her mom was here. Her entire family is trying to plan a trip out to Vancouver over the next few months, staggering their arrivals so that Bea always has someone helping her with the baby until Quinn’s season ends, but she would love it if her mom was able to be here right now. They’d called the McLeans earlier to introduce little Luke to his Mimi and Poppop, but it wasn’t the same. Having Ellen’s presence isn’t the same either, but it’s just as comforting– Bea has always been accepted as one of the Hugheses, even before she and Quinn were officially together.

“It took him long enough,” Bea jokes, both laughing and welling up further at the same time. God, the post-partum rollercoaster of emotions is no joke. “It was eighteen hours of labor before I reached ten centimeters.”

“The first one is always the hardest,” Ellen tells Bea, cradling her face in both hands and kissing her forehead again before her attention turns to the tiny little human nestled against Bea’s skin. Ellen’s smile softens and her head tilts. “Oh, Bea, he’s beautiful.”

“Do you want to hold him?” Bea asks, already bringing her hand to the back of little Luke’s head and gently changing his position so that she can hand him off. She has to pry his fingers off of her shirt, which unsettles the boy and makes him twitch, although he stays asleep.

“You gotta wash your hands first,” Quinn interjects, tugging his mom away and guiding her towards the sink in the room.

Jim claps Bea’s shoulder and squeezes. “Good job, Bea. We’re so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Bea replies. She tilts Luke’s body so that Jim can look down at him. “I thought you’d walk in here with a stick or something.”

Jim lets out a little chuckle, speaking under his breath like he’s sharing a secret with Bea. “Between you and me, it’s in the back of the car. You’ve got the number one pick of the 2049 draft in your hands there.” He winks and heads to the chair in the corner of the room, making himself comfortable and lacing his hands over his stomach.

Jack sits at the foot of Bea’s bed. “I brought the little guy a present,” he says, holding up a small gift bag. “Go ahead and open it.” He balances the gift bag precariously on Bea’s knees, his eyes darting to Ellen as she comes back to Bea’s side and carefully takes the baby in her arms, cooing and shushing him gently as he reacts to the transition and lets out a short wail.

Bea reaches for the present and pulls at the wrapping inside. A tiny black beanie falls on her lap when she pulls the tissue from the bag and Bea has a feeling she’s going to start laughing as soon as she turns it over. Her eyes go to Quinn as she picks up the beanie and flips it in her palm. She looks down and finds the Devils logo branded on the cuff of the article and releases a honk of laughter.

“We thought he could wear it to the game tomorrow,” Luke adds with a crooked grin, standing at the end of Bea’s bed and patting her shin over the covers. “Show his support for the winning team, right?”

Bea holds up the beanie for Quinn to see and continues giggling as his face morphs into an angry frown. “Absolutely not,” Quinn says. “He’s already got gear for the ‘winning team.’ Boes got him a Canucks onesie that looks like Fin.”

“Yeah, and I don’t know if we’re going to the game,” Bea says. “I’m probably going to have to stay home with him. He’s less than a day old, Jack.”

“What’s his name?” Jim asks, tapping at his phone. His reading glasses are balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. “I want to add his birthday to my calendar.”

Bea and Quinn share a look. Bea presses her lips together and raises an eyebrow quickly, signaling for Quinn to go ahead.

“His name is Luke,” Quinn reveals, his face glowing with pride. “Luke Charles Hughes.”

Bea almost starts crying again when Uncle Luke’s eyebrows knit together and he whips his head from Bea to Quinn, then back to Bea. He looks at the baby in his mother’s arms, then back to Quinn. “What?” he asks. “Are you serious?”

Ellen clicks her tongue, her face crumpling a bit at the reveal. She touches baby Luke’s face, then wipes her thumb beneath her eyes.

“We had a deal,” Quinn says with a laugh.

Luke takes about two strides across the room and crashes into his oldest brother, wrapping him in a hug. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it, are you kidding? He’s actually named Luke?” Luke releases Quinn and makes his way to Bea, his arms surrounding her tightly and robbing her of some of her breath.

“Yes, actually,” Bea says when he pulls away. “Luke, after you, and Charles, after Honey.”

“That’s awesome, guys,” Jack says. He pinches the soft spot under Bea’s knee between his thumb and forefinger. “Really. That’s so great.”

Luke touches Bea’s arm. “I can hold him, right?”

Bea laughs. “Yeah, bud, you can hold him,” she tells Luke. “He’s going to look so tiny when you do, I want a picture.”

Quinn pulls Luke to the sink before he can reach Ellen, who has stood and is now bouncing the baby slightly. When she turns to look out the window in the room, Bea can see baby Luke’s squinty eyes blinking open and peering out at the room around him, only the top half of his head visible since he’s mostly resting on Ellen’s shoulder and unable to hold his head up on his own, being only 14 hours old.

Luke is gentle when he takes his nephew and cradles him in his palms for the first time. “He’s so little,” Luke marvels.

“Seven pounds, ten ounces,” Quinn brags. “21 inches tall.”

“We gotta get this guy bulking,” Jack jokes with a big grin, standing up and looking at the boy in Luke’s arms. He touches baby Luke’s little foot through the onesie, gently moving the appendage back and forth and whispering a quiet, “Hi, Little Lukey.”

Quinn grins next to his brothers, hand on Luke’s shoulder and smiling down at his first son.

Bea’s careful to stay quiet as she reaches for her phone– so she doesn’t break the moment– and snaps a picture of the brothers together, all of their attentions rapt on the newest member of their family.

#puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#small town girl x tz #beaquinn!!#quinn hughes #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes fanfiction #parent quinn hughes #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes x oc

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meanderingwistera · 3 months ago

Text

Loser

Masterlist

Summary - On the first night of your band’s new tour everyone is excited for what the new tour will bring. After an incident on opening night you and Suguru get pulled into Satoru’s orbit but how will the three of you handle this new relationship?

And the scandal just around the corner.

Pairing - Guitarist!Suguru Geto x Singer!Reader x Fanboy! Satoru Gojo

Content - Fluff, humour, SMUT, oral (m & f receiving), exhibitionism, fem implied reader, secret relationship, Geto and reader call Gojo pretty boy because they don’t know his name yet lol

Word count - 3.3k

A/N. - Walk into random rooms at your own risk

Art credits - (Geto) @-to_Ofu, (Gojo) @-su2kuna on X

Divider credit- @enchanthings

Satoru is not a very sociable person.

He much prefers the safety of his house. In there he can let the masks drop and be himself without any prying eyes. Sure, he can play the smooth business man like a pro but he isn’t like that in reality.

And reality is often disappointing.

Satoru’s drive to climb high in the company he works for and his ability to flirt his way into deals has gotten him very far.

But as soon as he is in his house he drops the act that is his outside life. He switches his contacts for more comfortable glasses and lets his unruly white hair do its own thing. Satoru is a nerd to his very bones; Digimon, anime and music are all very important to his lifestyle.

Music is a big cornerstone of Satoru’s life, he needs it to do almost anything. Most of the time his music taste shifts and is composed of all songs with good beats or lyrics. He never really had one band he followed.

That was until he came across your band.

It had been a clear autumn day when one of his friends had shared an earbud with him and one of your songs came on. Your voice was clear and loud in his ears. He had been almost mesmerised by the riffs on the guitar that accompanied it.

Satoru has all of the albums that your band has ever released. Even a few additions that were rare. They were his babies, he even has a few signed. He had bought your new album and the tickets for the tour the day it was announced.

When Megumi’s band had been announced as your opener he was ecstatic. He had practically yelled that his son was famous from the rooftops. Satoru told everyone about it and how he was going to support his son. He is ecstatic to have the opportunity to not only watch you perform in person and also meet you.

He fusses over his appearance for hours in the mirror to make himself not as recognizable as usual. It works for the most part and he will also be in the crowd so he lets it be for now.

It’s insanely crowded as he enters the venue. People push and shove to get a better spot. He feels a bit thrown around as he walks, like a ragdoll being tossed back and forth. But he gets a good spot in the crowd to wait for Megumi’s band to make their debut.

He has his camera ready to film his son and to send a video to Tsumiki who couldn’t make it because of work. She had been so upset that she couldn’t make it and Satoru had promised to film the entire thing. He doesn’t plan on letting her down.

Satoru cheers the loudest when the band begins to play. Yuji’s voice and energy gets the crowd clapping and cheering. He was always the best one with the crowd, his sunny demeanour has always drawn people in.

Megumi looks slightly less grumpy than usual. His frown upturned more than normal as he plays his guitar with practiced ease. He looks a bit miffed when he finds Satoru in the crowd with his phone recording but he can’t say anything about it now.

Nobara matches Yuji’s energy well and sings backup vocals. She jumps around the stage almost as much as Yuji does. Junpei looks nervous behind the drums as if they hadn’t practiced it a million times but halfway through their set he gains his confidence.

It was fun to see them evolving from the teens who practiced in Satoru’s basement.

“Thank you Tokyo!” Yuji yells into the crowd with his trademark grin as they end their set. The crowd cheers back in return to his words.

After they exit the stage there is a period of about twenty minutes until the lights dim and the main band enters the stage. Satoru feels his heart beat out of his chest as you walk up to the mic and begin your set.

He can never go back to just listening to the recorded version of your songs after this.

The first show of a tour is always the best.

Everything is new; new songs, new choreography and the screaming fans. It’s electrifying to experience, all those people and all that noise. Like a drug that you want injected into your veins.

When Yuki, Nanami, You and Suguru had first started the band that is now selling out stadiums you would never have guessed how popular it would get. It started in the basement of Suguru’s parents house when all four of you were only teenagers. Now you hear every person in this sold out stadium sing the lyrics to your songs.

“Come on! You guys can sing louder than that!” You exclaim with a wide grin and hold out your microphone to the crowd.

The best thing about being a singer is interacting with the crowd. You know how to make the crowd laugh, go wild and enjoy their experience. It’s arguably the best job ever.

You have long left your previous stage fright behind in the early days of your guys’ fame. For the longest time you could not handle the crowds but now you can’t get enough of them.

“Do you think we could reward the crowd for being so kind to us Yuki?” You cozy up to your bassist, an arm around her shoulders and point the microphone at her.

Yuki laughs brightly, “I think we could make that happen! What about you Suguru?”

The man in question gives you a smirk and a wink before obliging the two of you. His guitar playing the opening to one of your older songs. You cheer with the crowd and get them jumping again.

As you sing your eyes roll over the crowd. For a moment your eyes catch on a tall white haired man. He is watching you move around the stage like you have him in a trance. All too happy to give him something to look at you send a wink his way before moving on.

When that song is over your set is over.

You guys say goodbye to the crowd and go backstage.

“Who wants to go drinking after the meet and greet?” Yuki asks with a grin.

You hum in contemplation as she takes off her base to put it in its case. She stretches her arms above her head lazily.

“I will have to decline-” Kento replies quickly.

“Come on!” Yuki pouts at him, “Have fun for once in your life!”

“You should let loose Kento.” Suguru says with a grin.

Hopping up onto one of the gear cases you swing your feet lightly as they pack their stuff up.

“I have to agree! Remember that night in Vegas-” You are cut off by a sharp glare from him and hold up your hands in surrender. “Fine! I was just saying that you could have a bit more fun Kento.”

“Besides you Yuki will be by herself.” Suguru says and you giggle as he stands behind the case you are sitting on to put his arms around your waist.

Kento rolls his eyes at the both of you. Yuki just chuckles and continues to pester Kento to go out drinking.

“My tongue ring should be healed now.” He practically purrs in your ear.

Your relationship with Suguru has never been official in the public light.

You have been in a relationship since you were twenty. Even before that there was a magnetism to him that drew you in. Kento, Yuki and both your inner circles knew but outside that it was private.

Suguru preferred a more private relationship and you didn’t want to deal with the constant questions about your relationship that would come with it being out in the open. And it being a secret made it all the more fun.

You clench your thighs as you remember what he could do with tongue before the piercing and think of all the thing he can do now. He is doing this on purpose to make you all hot and bothered before the meet and greet. This is to get back at you for this morning but this is purely sadistic.

“You're so mean!” You whine as he chuckles and lets go of your waist.

“Come on let’s go.” Suguru nods his head toward the door that Kento and Yuki have already begun to walk out of.

You huff and get off the case to join them.

The lines are long for the event and you can’t even see to the end of the line. You shake so many hands and take at least a hundred pictures. It is surprising that you don’t feel too worn out after it.

There are only a few people left in the line. A group of four teenagers and a man behind them. The teenagers walk up and you recognize them instantly.

“You guys are the openers right!” You ask excitedly as the approach.

Yuki looks interested and leans in closer to have a better look at the group.

“You remember us?!” A girl with a brown bob exclaims and points to herself.

You throw your head back with a laugh.

“Of course! We try to know every one of our openers and their music.” Yuki says and holds out a hand to her.

She squeals and takes it. You smile fondly at them then turn to the other kids. The one closest to you has spiked black hair and a frown on his face. He is talking with Suguru about something, a light in his bored eyes.

The lead singer, you think his name is Yuji, walks up to you and you hold out a hand.

“Yuji right?” You ask and watch his face light up.

“Yes! I am a huge fan of your work!” He exclaims with a wide grin.

“I’m a fan of yours,” You shake his hand with a smile, “that crowd work is good.”

He blushes a bit at your complement, “Oh that’s nothing!”

What a humble kid. You will have to keep contact with them even after the tour because they are on a good track to be on the same level with your band.

“Crowd work is important, don’t discount yourself like that. And your vocals are amazing too.” You continue.

After that you talk with the girl, Nobara, the boy, Megumi and their drummer, Junpei. All four of them are sweet and you can’t help but feel that the next generation will be in good hands with them around.

The last guy is the man you winked at in the crowd. He is cute up close, his walk is a bit awkward considering his height. He is tall, about as tall as Suguru if not taller. His glasses fall down his nose to reveal the bluest eyes you have ever seen.

Looking him up and down you grin and hold out your hand.

“Hi~” You greet him sweetly and watch as his cheeks grow red.

“Hello,” He shakes your hand, “nice to meet you.”

“Do you want something signed,” You lean forward to get closer to his personal space and to push your chest against him, “or a photo.”

The poor man looks down at your chest then back up to your eyes with an expression close to fear in his blue eyes.

“Both!” He practically squeaks out and you want to continue to tease him, how far can you push until you break him?

“I can do that, Suguru!” You call out to Suguru who has been staring at him too.

He saunters over to you with a smirk on his face, “I heard you wanted a photo?”

The man nods sheepishly and you want to coo at his expression. He is so shy and you can’t help but want to play with him. Suguru raises an eyebrow but he seems to catch on to your game and smirks

“Come on then pretty boy.” Suguru says and the three of you take a photo.

The man’s cheeks are red the entire rest of your interaction. He hurries off soon after and you pout at his skittishness. You would have loved to taste him but guess not.

Realizing that there is no one in the line you grin and pull Suguru behind you by his collar. He doesn’t fight you on it, just follows behind you with a smug expression. Suguru has long since told you about his possessive streak when it comes to you.

So you two started to fuck after every show, it was your little tradition.

You must have fucked in every venue in Japan by now. The idea of getting caught with him turns you on like nothing else. It wasn’t really big news to the rest of your inner circles who have known about your relationship for years now but someone else catching you is hot.

Now Suguru has teased you enough, he can put his money where his mouth is. And you are going to put his mouth to very good use.

Satoru almost had a heart attack seeing you in person.

His exit had been so swift because you and Suguru Geto almost made his brain shut down. His brain keeps repeating ‘pretty boy’ like a mantra.

He walks down the halls of the venue looking for Megumi. Satoru wanted to say goodbye to him before he went back home and he doesn’t want the night to end yet.

A faint noise from one of the rooms catches his ear. He can’t really hear it but it sounds like a laugh or a sigh. Maybe Megumi was with the rest of his band in this room. He knocks on the door once, twice, then decides to just open the door.

What he sees in that room is straight out of a wet dream. You are leaned back on one of the plush black couches, your head thrown back. His eyes trace the column of your neck as a low moan is drawn out by Geto who is in between your thighs.

“Like that- good boy.” You say and run your hands through his thick black hair.

That goes straight to his dick. He wants you to praise him that way. Satoru doesn’t want to push Geto out of the way, no, he wants to join him in between your legs. His mouth waters at the sight of your exposed pussy.

Your eyes slide over to him.

He expects you to get angry or embarrassed because he caught the two of you. But you don’t do that, instead a smirk forms on your red lips as you look at him. One hand gestures for him to come closer while the other pulls Geto closer to your cunt.

“We have company Sugu-” You say to him in a teasing tone, “hmm- pretty boy walked in on us.”

Geto pulls back to stare at his face then his eyes look down at the obvious tent in his pants, a smirk on his lips. “Shut the door pretty boy, unless you want others to see us.”

Satoru feels like he may not make it out of this room alive.

One thing you learn about the guy who walked in on you is that he is so sensitive. A small touch from you or Suguru has his dick twitching in his pants. It is so cute.

“You are doing so good, baby.” You coo at him as you continue sucking on his neck.

“Too- much!” He whines and bucks his hips into Suguru’s hand.

A little giggle escapes your lips as tears prick his pretty blue eyes. He looks so ruined like this and you are very into that. His glasses are esque and his cheeks are a shade of red you have never seen before.

“Just wait until he gets his mouth on your dick, he has a talented tongue.” You whisper in his ear.

As if on cue Suguru licks up the length of his cock before taking it into his mouth. His lips stretch around it and you can’t deny how hot that is.

You both had talked about inviting others into both your bed and relationship. Suguru had said that he wouldn’t mind it but nothing had ever come of it. Until pretty boy came along. You can already see all the fun you could have with him.

His moans get even louder and you can’t have anyone finding you in here, not that it wouldn’t be hot but you don’t want him to get tangled up in your fame unless he wants to.

“Here,” You tap two fingers on his bottom lip, “suck on these so we keep the noise down.”

He gives a shaky nod before he begins to suck on your fingers. His lips look so pretty wrapped around your fingers. He must like it because his hips buck into Suguru’s mouth.

“We should take him with us on tour,” You muse out loud with a grin, “he would be so good for us.”

Suguru releases his dick with a slick pop, “He is being good so far, besides walking in on us.”

“Fuck-” He curses around your fingers but it trails off in a high whine as Suguru continues sucking.

Your free hand trails under his hoodie to play with his chest. His breath hitches as you pinch one of his nipples between your fingers. You roll it and he squeezes his eyes shut, his whines growing more desperate.

He must be close.

“You can cum pretty boy-” You coax him softly.

He snaps his hips up and cums. You take your fingers out of his mouth to hear his soft moans as he cums hard. Suguru keeps going through his orgasm and you watch his eyes well with tears as he is overstimulated.

You wonder if you could ride him to tears-

A loud ringing interrupts your thoughts.

Your phone buzzes on the table next to you. Groaning you reach over to grab it to see Kento’s contact on it. With a pout you answer the phone.

“What’s up Kento?” You ask in the nicest tone you have right now.

There is loud music and yelling voices in the background of the phone call before he begins to speak.

“Yuki is drunk and I need you two to come help me with her.” He explains and you hear Yuki’s laughter in the background.

Suguru, who has long since swallowed, stands up and looks at you with an interested expression. You huff and roll your eyes. He gets the message that you two probably won’t be staying much longer.

“Can’t you handle her? She can’t be that drunk this early.” You grouse.

“Imma’ call my ex!” You hear Yuki slur in the background and stand up.

Damn it.

“We will be there soon, take her phone. I don’t want to deal with her getting back with her ex for the millionth time this year.” You tell him and hang up.

Pretty boy is just coming down from his high as you wipe the tears from his eyes and readjust his glasses. He looks between the two of you with a confused expression.

“Will you be okay to get home?” Suguru asks him gently.

“Yeah- I should be fine.” He says still a little out of it.

“Here-” You grab his phone and put your number in it, “If you want to continue this text this number and I will text you the address and room number of where we are staying, we fly out the day after tomorrow.”

He looks at you in disbelief, like he never thought that you would offer him more. You laugh at his expression and press a kiss to his red cheek.

“Hopefully we will see you tomorrow pretty boy!” Suguru says over his shoulder as you two exit the room, careful to shut it behind you to give him privacy.

You really hope he shows up because you haven’t gotten to ride him yet.

Tags <3 - @linny-bloggs

#Gojo is so subby in this one #this is just you and Geto terrorising him fr #i love pathetic men #blue’s fics <3 #jjk x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo smut #geto smut #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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