#I really like the first drawing. why does he look like that

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[mirainwonderland]

When you care too much…

Tags: fluff, comfort, mentally heavy and sensitive reader, mental stuff because i understand his brain too well 😭 have a cookie 🍪 while you read and enjoy ☺️

Word Count: 1k

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Bones aching, muscles sore, and a really soft couch at the end of a long day. Leon Kennedy was a simple man really. He didn’t need much, just a little bit of peace every once in a while. No distractions, nobody shooting at him or ringing his phone off the hook. He was a popular guy. And even though to a degree it made him feel good to be so needed, eventually government requests turned into demands. And before he knew it, his life was more often dictated by federal dirty work than not.

He downs a few swallows of the cold beer he’d pulled out of the fridge. It’s later in the evening, and he’d been out nearly all day. You were asleep, napping in the bedroom and he didn’t want to come in and disturb you. The quiet monologue of the TV in the background keeps him company as his aching shoulders sink back against the couch cushions.

This is the kind of quiet he craves more than anything.

The door to the bedroom swings open soundlessly and a pair of bare feet shuffle across the carpet. Leon looks up as you rub your eyes, sleepy and a little puffy. You keep your chin down as you pad across the carpet to him, his t-shirt hanging loose on your shoulders.

“Hey baby.” His voice is low and gravelly as he moves the throw pillow beside him out of the way for you to come sit next to him. You curl up in the spot, without a word, laying down and curling up with your head on his abdomen. You lay perpendicular to his body, and his fingers come up to card through slightly knotty hair.

“Y’ okay?” He murmurs for a nod from you, oddly quiet and still against him. But you’re probably half asleep so how can he blame you?

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, turning his attention back to the TV and taking another sip from his beer. The slow rise and fall of his torso beneath you is soothing. It’s times like these where he really has to try not to think about the what ifs.

The subtle twitch of your shoulder doesn’t alert him the first time. But by the fourth time they begin to vibrate, and his attention draws back to you.

Shit, something’s wrong.

“Hey…” He sits up, leaning over you, trying to see your face while he sets the nearly empty beer can on the coffee table.

“Baby…” Hands gentle but firm, he pulls you back by your shoulder to roll you onto your back so he can see your face. His stomach drops at the tears he uncovers.

“Hey, hey… what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Callouses thumb away your tears, but more just replace them. He takes the side of his palm and swipes it over your whole cheek, letting a fingertip round the edge of your jaw, chin-ward.

“‘m not crying.” You whimper, swiping the back of your hand over your drippy nose.

“No? Your eyes just sweating?” The subtle tease isn’t delivered with any hint of mirth, just a focused optic sweep of your face.

“Yeah.” You snivel.

He sits there studying you for a moment, just letting his hand soothe over your cheeks as his other smoothes your hair. Soft. Slow. In no hurry to get you to stop crying. Just silent patience and presence.

“You wanna talk to me?” He offers after a minute. “I’m here.”

You sniffle, the tears having slowed a little. “Too many feelings.”

The corner of his lip quirks up, but only a hair. He knows how that is. He knows better than you think he does.

“Poor girl. You just feel too much, don’t you.”

His words stab you in the very center of your heart. You feel seen and understood and you nod your head.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” his hand continues to pet your hair. “I know that’s hard.”

Fuck, he’d probably be a completely different person if he didn’t feel and care as much as he does. But just for a moment, it lifts a burden off of him to understand for someone else. To be the one who’s seen it all and be able to tell you that it’s okay.

It’s a relief. Because then maybe all that suffering wasn’t completely senseless.

He continues to caress your face and hair, watching as you quiet under his touch. Your lashes are lowered as you stare at the arm of the couch. He can feel the way your mind churns with thoughts he can’t fight for you, as he smoothes over your forehead.

“You know…” He rumbles quietly after giving you a moment. “The world is full of people who don’t care.”

You lift your eyes to look at his face.

“Someone’s gotta care too much or there’ll be nobody to care at all.” His eyes trail down over your soft, tear-reddened features.

“Really?”

He can ignore and deny and turn his back on the fact all he wants, but that the guiding principle locks around his heart like a gold chain. He’ll always care, no matter how many times he tries to tell himself he doesn’t. No matter how many times it cuts him, beats him, leaves him to bleed out on the floor, he will always fucking care.

And it’s not fair. The rookie cop inside him might be bound and gagged, but he’s not dead.

“Yeah.”

You grow quiet for a long moment, turning his words over in your head. He knows he’s being a cynic and a little hypocritical, but he hopes for your sake, that you believe him. You’re not as cold and corrupted as he is. There’s still hope for you.

“C’mere.” He reaches out for you, and you sit up reaching for his neck. His arms lock around your back as yours wrap around his neck, and the way he squeezes you clicks something back into place a little bit more than before. One press of a button, and the TV goes dark.

“Thank you,” you mumble, soft voice falling over his shoulder as he stands with you in his arms.

“Don’t mention it.” It’s a low rumble against your body as he carries you back to bed.

[madridfangirl]

I'll run to you, always!

Jude Bellingham blurb. Happy 22, Jude

Jobe was usually not the planning type. It was Jude who was always in charge of vacations. So when Jobe pinged him to say he was planning a weekend getaway, just for the two of them, in the tiny window between international break & Club World Cup, it should have been a sign to Jude that something was up. Especially when the getaway was in Montana. But he was just too delighted to notice anything. 

He was flying straight from England camp and Jobe was going to meet him there. But when Jude reached the resort & their villa, it was empty.

He was confused. Jobe was supposed to have reached already & had pinged Jude 5 times for his ETA since he landed. He looked around aimlessly, reaching for his phone to call his little brother.

‘Looking for someone?’

Hearing that voice, Jude froze, then spun around faster than the speed of light. 

It couldn’t be. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him. It wasn’t new. In the last year, he had done many double takes, half-bewildered, when someone looked or sounded even remotely like her. Sometimes in the crowd during matches. Sometimes on the street. In the hope that maybe she was giving him a surprise.

But she was supposed to be in India right now. He spoke to her just a few hours ago. Then how could she be standing in front of him, looking like a dream? What sorcery was this?

‘Is it really you?’

Ananya was leaning against the door-frame, in a pose she thought was sexy. She rolled her eyes, holding the pose.

‘No. This is an AI generated clone, in your favourite jeans and the top you happened to send to your girlfriend on Valentine’s day.’

He burst into a classic Jude smile, opening his arms. She ran and jumped into them with practiced ease, knowing he’ll catch her, which he did. A standing version of their koala hug.

Both moved at the same time for a soft slow kiss, zoning out the world, letting the togetherness sink into their bones. This was the longest they had been apart, almost 3 months.

The kiss quickly turned into a hot make-out. She only realised he had carried her into the bedroom when her back hit the mattress, and she felt his weight on top of her.

‘Umm….Jobe is waiting for us. He’s..’

‘Later.’

‘But I told him you’re here and…’

‘LATER.’

He cupped her boobs with force to shut her up for good measure, moving swiftly to undress her.

She looked at him all doe-eyed, pulling his face up from her chest.

‘But…baby I’m down. Happened a few days sooner this time. Sorry.’

She almost laughed at the shock & sheer desolation on his face. Like a kicked puppy. Then couldn’t hold on any more & started giggling. Jude was surprised, then secretly pleased to see his deviousness had rubbed off on her. But she was still a novice; he was a master of this game.

‘Feeling proud, yeah? Someone needs some disciplining.’

Next second, she was flipped around & her face hit the pillow. He pulled down her jeans & underwear in record time, baring her bottom fully. Then spanked her left butt-cheek.

She yelped a little, biting the pillow.

‘Don’t you dare keep that from me.’

He went for the right one this time, harder. The resulting loud gasp was to his satisfaction.

‘Good girl.’

That hit her deep between her legs, making her mewl. But she didn’t have to wait much longer. Jude was on her, spreading her legs, lifting her butt to his desired angle with a pillow underneath, and impatiently sliding in.

She moaned, and he groaned at the sensation, loudly.

Jude paused half-way in & leaned over her fully, bringing his face next to hers, his breathy accented voice giving her goosebumps. 

‘So fucking tight, like our first time all over again. Not using what I got you?’

Despite his weight pressing her hard into the mattress, she somehow managed to shake her head in a no.

‘Why?’

When she was quiet, he pushed an arm underneath her, finding that spot at the apex of her thighs, rubbing circles, drawing sultry sighs from her.

‘Answer me.’

‘I…uh…don’t..umm…like anything…..else…inside…’

That turned him on more than 50 bottles of viagra ever could. 

‘Just me, yeah?’

She managed a weak nod and he sped up his fingers at her clit, readying her quickly, then pushed rest of the way in, giving her a second to adjust.

She found her wrists pinned to her side, as he licked the side of her face, keeping his strokes strong & steady, filling her completely. This is what she had missed dearly - not just the physical act of sex but this feeling of being thoroughly consumed by him - his passion, his strength and his whole being. 

As they were both about to peak, Jude flipped her again & locked their lips together in a fiery kiss,  wanting to see her fall apart, rendering her breathless, while his hands grabbed their favourite plaything, rubbing & pinching the tips. She screamed his name into his mouth as she came, the mind-blowing sensation driving him over the edge soon. 

While he plopped over her, all content & boneless, face buried in his favourite playthings, she slowly caressed his back & arms, noticing how bigger & buffer he had gotten even in the last few months. The lean boy she had met 1.5 years ago had grown into a big, strong, muscular man, who was still growing. He felt heavier too, especially when he wasn’t balancing his weight on top of her, like in his current blissed out state. She was tempted to point it out to him but she knew he’d turn the compliment into a dirty territory. So she stayed quiet, just enjoying his bulging muscles under her palm.

‘Dove?’

The said boy rested his chin on her, looking at her with wide eyes, a picture of sweet fragile innocence, a toddler look, radically different from how he was just mins ago. It was this side of him which was more lethal & pants-dropping than all his sexy charm & domination. Thankfully, he didn’t know that yet. 

‘Yeah.’

‘How?’

She smiled & proceeded to share the elaborate plan her & Jobe came up with - as an early birthday gift for Jude. How Roma, his parents & some members of his team were all active participants in bringing this plan to fruition. Jude was surprised he didn’t see it coming. But the result was so beautiful & lying in his arms right now that he didn’t give it much thought.

They cuddled peacefully while catching up, neither willing to break the embrace. 30 mins later, Ananya finally remembered Jobe again.

‘We should go say hi to your brother.’

‘Naah told him we’re busy.’

‘JUDE.’

‘What? He’ll live.’

‘But it’s rude. This was his plan.’

‘Urghhh stop trying to make me a better person.’

‘It’s a full time job.’

‘FINE. We’ll meet him for lunch. Not done with you yet.’

She tried to get it across to him to not leave any marks since she’d only gotten summer clothes  and she wanted to fully enjoy the lake-side resort. But her fiend of a boyfriend got her to lose coherence in the way he knew best and she had to leave her hair open afterward.

An hour later, they finally strolled over to Jobe’s room. Ananya wondered why he had picked one opposite their villa, while the one next door seemed to be available. Jude simply laughed, shaking his head in amusement and she got her response. It horrified her to think if he had ever heard them before but Jude distracted her out of it.

Instead of thanking his little brother like a normal person with a handshake or a hug, Jude put Jobe in a headlock the moment he saw him. And the brothers giggled through how Jobe had pulled one over Jude now. Ananya watched from afar, too used to this dynamic now, which actually permeated from their Dad. Denise had told her secretly to not comment on their behaviour, it only encouraged them. The best way was to ignore, and she did just that.

After their show ended, Ananya & Jobe shared a warm hug as she congratulated him on the big move to Dortmund. It had all transpired so quickly. She remembered being on a conference call with both of them just a few weeks ago, when Jobe told her about the potential offer. She had sensed some hesitation on Jobe’s part, which he was not voicing out loud. The brothers, while similar in many ways (uncannily so) were different in personalities. Jude wore his heart on his sleeve (more so with his inner circle) but Jobe was more reserved, more in his head, a bit like Ananya. His close friends were Jude’s close friends. He wasn’t as flamboyant or expressive as Jude.

So Ananya had called him separately after the con-call and he opened up about his reservations on being compared to his brother if he makes the move. Ananya just heard him out - understanding why it would be tough for him to share this with his family, especially his brother. Jude constantly felt guilty for the undue pressure on Jobe because of him; Jobe didn’t want to add to that feeling or give out the impression that he resented his big brother in any way. It was a sensitive thing; she knew that.

But all said & done, it was a fantastic opportunity at a massive club - he didn’t know when he would get such a chance next. She saw the same passion in Jobe then that she often saw in Jude - of wanting to make a name for himself & his family, quickly. Jobe knew that despite all the obvious reasons to not go, he just couldn’t pass on this opportunity and had to deal with it head on. And he did just that, despite a small corner of his heart telling him not to. Plus his parents & brother were convinced this was the right way for him, and he trusted them blindly. 

The lunch conversation was very football heavy. After this weekend, both brothers were to head to their CWC training camps. She could see Jobe was excited about playing in the big league now, and she was super proud of him.

‘So Ananya, would you come for one of my matches too?’

She had never seen Jobe play & they had often talked about doing it soon. She was going to be there at some of Jude’s matches, the ones on the weekend, since her first year of MBA was over and her internship was not as heavy so she could travel now on the weekends. 

‘You could come with Mum & Dad, they’ll travel between both our matches.’

Jobe added helpfully. Ananya looked at Jude, who kept his head down, eating quietly, not reacting at all. He had told her that his training & meetings would get done by late afternoon, the team would have evenings free on non match-days so on the weekends they’d spend the time together. That was the plan. Roma & Chris were also going to be there for one match. Chris wasn’t a football fan but he wasn’t given much choice in the matter. She knew Jude would want her to stick to that plan but one day won’t hurt, right? She wanted to see Jobe play too.

‘Sure I’ll ask Denise & figure something.’

The younger Bellingham gave her a heart-warming smile while the older one pretended to be nonchalant.

‘So if it’s Madrid vs Dortmund who would you support?’

‘Don’t push it.’

Jude chose that moment to look up & speak up, before she could say anything. She would have said the exact same thing though.

‘You remember who you’re talking to right?’

She didn’t just mean Jude’s girlfriend, she meant the life-long die-hard Madridista that she was.

Both brothers smiled at the response, and Jobe raised his hands playfully in surrender.

‘Yeah she’s not even gonna support me if I ever play for another club, I’m pretty sure.’

Ananya swirled around to face Jude.

‘Why would you play for another club?’

‘I said if - hypothetically.’

‘But why would that thought cross your mind, even hypothetically?’

Jude looked at his brother in mock exasperation.

‘See what I have to live with?’

Jobe just laughed at the scene in front of him, wisely choosing to stay out of it.

‘Yeah, who’s asking you to?’

‘Oi, come here dolliee.’

He half-wrestled her into his lap, locking her legs, despite her significant physical protests, and nuzzled his face into her neck till she finally broke into giggles.

‘And I’m the youngest here?’

‘Oh shut it.’

Both said to Jobe at the same time, in the same tone, then looked at each other & laughed again.

‘Jeez you’re turning into each other. Can’t deal with another Jude.’

Jude stuck his tongue out at Jobe, while Ananya just smiled, stroking his cheek with her thumb, finding even that silliness cute.

‘It happens. Speaking of, what’s happening with you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell that to your face.’

Jobe shared a look with his brother, asking if he had blabbered to her, which his brother denied, and seemed genuine enough.

‘It's….complicated.’

‘Pls tell me that’s not the same code that THIS one used to have.’

She gave a dirty side-eye to Jude, still sitting in his lap while he caressed her knee, then swiftly turned her attention back to Jobe. 

‘Oh…yeah no…there is someone I like, I think…but with everything going on, don’t know if it’s the right time to start anything. Like, I’ve just moved countries and this massive club, massive fans, new language….’

‘There’s never a perfect time.’

‘Jude also agrees with me.’

‘Wait you’re taking advice from him? He’s still a massive work in progress.’

‘Fair.’

‘HEYYY.’

Jude protested, half-annoyed at not being given credit for how far he had come. Even more annoyed at how his protest was swiftly ignored by both.

‘Sooo tell me more about her. What’s her name?’

‘Isabel.’

‘Cute. Hope she’s not like the ones your brother dated…’

‘Not DATED. Told you a million times.’

Ananya rolled her eyes loudly. Him and his technicalities. Would he rather she said slept with? Maybe yeah - that’s more up his alley.

‘…surrounded himself with, coz then I’ll judge you. HARD.’

Jobe chuckled, half nervously. 

‘Nah, you’ll like her, I think.’

‘Thank god.’

‘AGAIN, I’M RIGHT HERE!!!’

His agitation made his girlfriend turn her attention back to him, while he huffed and bounced his foot on the floor. Throwing a proper fit.

Jobe went to answer a call and Ananya leaned in to peck his cheek & whisper in his ear.

‘Wanna take me back to ours?’

She wrapped her arms around his neck.

‘WHY? Thought you’d wanna hang with your BEST MATE all day.’

‘Naah I wanna head back. And I may have a new bikini that I could model for you.’

That caught his attention.

‘Can’t wear outdoors. Just with you.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Victoria secret. Animal print. Basically a thong.’

‘Ya let’s go.’

An eventful jacuzzi session later (where she did wear the new bikini, briefly), both settled down for a nap. Jude had this habit of cracking the AC up in summers so he could use a heavy blanket. Seeing her emerge from the washroom, he lifted the blanket & she snuggled next to him, her head curved into his neck, her arm & leg over him. Jude pulled her closer, relishing the feeling.

‘Your hair’s smelling different.’

‘New conditioner.’

‘I see. How’s the internship going?’

‘Good. It’s a hedge fund so we mostly work during market hours only, which is different from investment banking. Don’t think I like trading desks as much though, just did it for a new experience. Or maybe long-only strategies or buy-out strategies are a better fit for me.’

‘I understood about 3% of that.’

She smiled & kissed his jaw lovingly. Then proceeded to explain it to him in the context of acquisition of certain football clubs like United, and how that was an example of capital allocation strategies. That took his understanding up to 20%, which she figured was good enough.

‘Sometimes I forget how smart you are.’

She preened under his praise, but when his hand tried sneaking up her back, under her tank top, she quickly batted it away.

‘Behave.’

‘What? Just admiring my sexy girlfriend.’

‘Later, I’m sleepy.’

‘Wore you out, didn't I?’

‘Hmmm.’

She muttered, already half drifting off to sleep under his comforting scent.

‘Dove?’

‘Ummm?’

‘Who’s Alex?’

Her eyes flew open. Sleep was long forgotten. Why did he ask that? How could he possibly know?

‘My reporting manager at my internship. Why?’

She raised herself on her elbow. Trying to read his face.

‘You said his name differently while talking about your colleagues just now.’

‘I don’t think…’

‘I can tell. You know I can tell.’

She settled back on his chest again, not wanting to meet those piercing eyes.

‘Did he hit on you?’

She took a deep breath, collecting herself.

‘No.’

Ananya would have told him if he did. That was their agreement.

Jude didn’t say anything, letting her speak next, when she was ready. And it took her a beat.

‘It’s nothing. I….I think I might have a little crush on him.’

She said in a low voice, like she was confessing to a violent crime. Fully expecting a backlash from him. But he was silent. Which unsettled her more. She hugged him tightly, spilling her guts into his chest. Stuff that she shouldn’t really be saying, even that came out too. No filter. 

‘He’s just very polite. Helped me get comfortable at work. Super smart. Harvard grad. Kinda cute. Easygoing. Everyone likes him. A thorough gentle…’

‘…Gentleman?’

Yeah, Jude knew her type. It wasn’t very different from that leech back in Madrid. Jude wasn’t really her type, far from it rather, which he also knew very well. 

‘…Exactly. And then after a few days I felt a little giddy when he smiled at me. So then I was like WTF is this? I called Roma and she said it's nothing. That I’m overthinking this. Which maybe I am. Coz I do do that, you know? Then I got assigned on the same team as him and I wondered if he did that knowingly? And I didn’t wanna feel that way, I swear. It was all so fricken confusing, I hate it…so so badly. And I felt so guilty, I feel so guilty. Coz I’m the one who gives such big lectures on moral compass and now do I even have a leg to stand on? Like what’s this even supposed to mean? And all this while I was thinking what to get you for your birthday, and I was talking to you everyday, but still this was happening? Felt so shitty….feel so shitty. I’m a horrible person, right?  RIGHT? And then Jobe came up with this birthday surprise trip for you and I jumped on it. Cut my India trip by a few days because I NEEDED you. NEEDED to see you, hold you, be with you to end this madness. So yeah, that’s another reason why I came here. And here I am ruining your birthday weekend by telling you all this. When this is the first time we have been together in ages. God I’m so so sorry Jude! It’s ok if you hate me I deserve it.’

She ranted in one breath, trying to crawl under his skin so not to face him. Or face herself. That’s how far she had fallen in her own eyes. A hypocrite basically.

The Jude from earlier would have reacted very differently here. Would have turned this into a proper showdown by now. Like when he had heard about the Arjun proposal. It nearly ended them even before they properly began.

Yes he was shocked. Coz he thought she was perfect. Flawless. Never erring. Always right. 

But no one could be that, right? That’s what she always said. World didn’t work that way. What he did know was she was as close to those traits as was humanly possible.

So he tried to break it down in his head. Yes he was hurt. Badly. But, for a change, he had to be the responsible one here to navigate the treacherous mess they were in right now.

‘Look at me.’

That was the last thing she wanted to do. But he moved them so she was now lying on the same pillow as him, on her side, looking at his hurt face. Which he was trying to mask, which made her feel even shittier.

‘I’m gonna ask you something, and I need a yes/no answer.’

She nodded, bracing herself.

‘Have you thought about him kissing you?’

She shook her head rapidly in a no.

‘Touching you? Fucking you?’

An even more vigorous shake of the head. She knew how gut-wrenching it would be for him to say that about her & someone else, and the guilt made her wanna puke.

‘Never?’

‘No, I swear Jude. Since I met you I….I haven’t….no one else.’

He believed her. Every word. His girl did’t lie about these things.

‘So you’re killing yourself like this over an infatuation?’

‘No, you don’t understand. You’re not hearing me. It’s worse. Emotional straying is worse. When your heart is full with love you don’t have any place for these thoughts. About someone else. It doesn’t happen. It’s never happened with me before. Not with you and not with my….ex. What if this means something? What if….’

‘Shhhhhhh, don’t go there baby, it’s not that.’

‘But what if it is Jude? What if this is the universe telling us….that…that….’

And that’s when her tears spilled out. 

‘Dove no don’t…’

‘I can’t help it pls, pls just let me….’

So he did. He let her sob into his neck, keeping her close, swaying her in his hold. 

‘I’m a horrible person, Jude.’

‘You’re not, stop saying that.’

‘Why aren’t you mad at me?’

‘I tried, but I can’t.’

‘You should hate me.’

‘Not capable of it.’

When her sobs subsided and only little sniffles remained, he cupped her cheeks and looked into those beautiful glassy eyes.

‘Listen to me, ok? God knows I’ve done much worse many times before, but you understood me. Gave me a chance. Stood by me. Loved me. Now I don’t now why this…..instance happened. Maybe coz we’ve been apart for so long. Maybe because he’s the kinda guy you thought you’d end up with. And I know you’d keep coming across such twats, I can’t help it. But I also know us being together couldn’t have happened without some stars aligning up there so they’ll look out for us, yeah? Not just that, we’ve worked BLOODY HARD to make it work this past year. Maybe this is a data point that we need to do more. Cut down these long gaps. Find a way, and we will.’

Last year had been hard. They had only met a few times, too few for their liking. The distance & hectic schedules got in the way. Once Jude had flown in for a quick weekend surprise, after Carlo gave him 2 days off coz he was moping too much, but Ananya got mad at him for slacking like that, as did his Mum. Even FaceTiming got tricky on more than a few occasions due to the time difference. 

‘We’ve done the hard part. First year was always going to be tougher but we made it. You said second year schedule is not as hectic for you, so I can fly you in more. We got this, baby. I know it.’

He finished his thought with a long, deep kiss, lifting a weight from her chest. A weight that otherwise would have crushed her, and them.

Slowly, she moved her hand to his cheek, stroking it tenderly with the back of her fingers.

‘When did you get so mature?’

‘Had to work on it to keep up with you. It’s a full time job you see.’

He flashed her a classic Jude grin. She smiled, in between her sniffles, and he gave her another quick peck.

‘I don’t deserve you.’

‘WRONG. It’s ME who’s never deserved you. Everyone says that - my family, my friends, my teammates, my GUT. But I love you. Always loved you. And I know you think love doesn’t solve everything & life gets in the way blah blah blah. But Dove, there’s a reason we keep running to each other. In good times & bad times. That’s how I know we’ll be fine.’

She burst into tears again, alarming him.

‘Heyyyy what happened I thought…’

‘No these are happy tears. When did you get so romantic, so deep?’

‘That’s not fair. I was always romantic.’

‘With actions. Now you’re beating me on words? What’s happening?’

‘Not just a pretty face, you see.’

‘But a VERY pretty face nonetheless.’

She moved closer and peppered butterfly kisses all over his face, punctuating them with ‘I love you’. 

‘Love you too, my Dove. More than you’ll ever know.’

‘I think I know now.’

More lazy kisses ensued, as they lay entangled with each other.

‘Anyone else I should know about?’

‘Nope.’

‘What about that dickhead who kept chasing you around campus?’

‘We only had two common classes last semester. And he never ‘chased’ me.’

‘Yeah right. And that Prof?’

‘Oh please. Profs generally like me. Coz of my grades. And it’s a disgusting thing to ask btw.’

‘Is it now? You didn’t find it disgusting when we did that role play.’

She tried to push his smirking face away with her palm, as memories of that night trickled in, but he was too strong for her.

‘Such an obedient, pliant girl you were, in that tight uniform, remember?’

‘ENOUGH about me. What about YOU? Anything you wanna tell me?’

‘You already know everything.’

He had gotten into a habit of giving her timely heads-up, say when an interviewer was too friendly or when a fan got too close. He had learnt from experience she took that a lot better coming from him, instead of seeing photos show up in her feed.

‘Nothing interesting in Ibiza?’

‘Again, you know everything.’

‘Hmmm.’

Soon, the emotional exhaustion took over & they fell asleep, glued to each other. Only waking up when Jobe banged at the door later that evening, asking if they were dead or kidnapped, coz they hadn’t answered their phones in ages.

Dinner was an interesting affair. The trio chucked the lake-side plan, deciding to eat indoors and watch a movie later. Ananya was appalled to hear the brothers hadn’t seen Baby’s Day Out and vetoed their idea of a random action movie to watch what she declared an evergreen classic. 

While they teased her to say they weren’t 5, they actually quite enjoyed the movie. More than they admitted.

Ananya was still feeling particularly affectionate towards her boyfriend though, after the deep chat a few hours earlier. Half a bottle of wine in her system gave her the liquid courage she needed. The brothers couldn’t drink much because of the camp day after but that didn’t stop her. Not one bit. 

She surprised both Bellinghams by voluntarily climbing into Jude’s lap and half-feeling him up throughout the movie. Jude welcomed the role reversal, participating actively in the love fest, while Jobe sat there wondering what the hell happened here.

‘So my brother HAS rubbed off on you. CLEARLY.’

Jude was about to say something snarky but Ananya beat him to it.

‘Oh he’s done a lot more than just rubbing.’

Jude guffawed loudly, proud of his girl, while Jobe gagged on his Mojito. He looked at Ananya as kind of an older sister he never had. Jude being perverted was normal but her shape-shifting was too much for him to stomach.

‘Yeah I’m out of here.’

‘Call Isabel. Then we can double date.’

She yelled after him but he ran so fast he was already in the courtyard by then.

The love-fest continued later that night, quite late into the night. 

Next morning, Jude woke up to her blissed-out sleeping face. He watched her quietly, then adjusted the blanket around her naked form when he saw some goosebumps on her arm, adjusted the AC, kissed her forehead & left the room quietly to let her get some much needed rest.

Ananya woke up an hour later, stretching lazily, feeling the soreness in her limbs. She found him in the living room, doing push-ups, wearing just his gym shorts. 

He saw her bare legs first, then slowly titled his head up to find her in his shirt. Just his shirt.  Barely buttoned. Messy hair tied up in a loose bun, groggy face, but she was up to something, he could tell.

She strolled towards him innocently, then slowly laid on top of him, pecking the back of his neck. His muscly, sweaty neck. While he laid flat on the floor, waiting for her to settle.

‘Better exercise this way, no?’

She whispered in his ear, sending a jolt of current through his body. The girl was on fire, an absolute live wire right now. And he was loving every second of it.

‘C’mon, show me how strong you are.’

She whispered again, while dragging her lips over his bare shoulders, hitting all the right buttons.

‘Fuckin’ hell.’

He cursed under his breath, but was up to the task, balancing himself on his arms again, while listening to her giggles on his back.

After 10 odd pushups, he stopped abruptly.

‘You know what, I have a better idea.’

Before she could react, she was pulled down on the floor, landing on her back, right under him. He tapped her butt and she spread her legs on cue to let him settle in between. His hands went on either side of her, and he resumed the pushups, punctuating each one with a kiss on different parts of her face.

Ananya was convinced she was having a minor stroke in that moment. Watching him from this close, all focused, sweaty, muscles ripping, veins popping, broad shoulders straining with each push, abs glistening. And that face. That goddamn face. Chiselled by God. The effect it still had on her needed to be studied. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She just looked, stared, ogled rather, drowning in his surreal sexiness.

Jude was revelling in her absolute devastation, it was rare to see her this turned on. So he made the most of it. 

‘Need something, princess?’

She vaguely noticed his lips moving but couldn’t register a word. Lost in the pounding of her heart and clenching of her lady parts. 

The touch of his hand broke her out of her trance. She found her (his) shirt fully unbuttoned, pushed to the sides, leaving her almost bare under him. He slid down, resumed his push-ups, kissing her torso now, paying special attention to his favourite playthings. But he didn’t stop there,  moving further down to her belly button. She moaned & her back arched in response, but he pushed her down, moving further below, chasing the warm heat between her legs. She tried to close them but he was right in between, pulling them apart, in no mood to let his prize slip away.

He lapped at his prize, and she let out a broken scream, on the brink of insanity. He kept her there, looking up from between her thighs.

‘And here I was….trying to be a good boy…letting you get some rest this morning…but look at you…..all randy for me.’

‘Who..uh…said I wanted…a good boy?’

He crawled up her body, shoving his tongue in her mouth for a sloppy yet demanding kiss.

‘Don’t you?’

The under current in his voice made the fog lift from her brain a tad bit, and she opened her eyes to gaze into his waiting ones.

‘I just want YOU. All shades of you.’

Given how his lips spread into a wide smile, she could tell it was exactly what he wanted to hear. And it was the truth. Gospel truth.

He kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, surrendering to him. Jude lifted her bridal style, carrying her to the shower, bathing her slowly (she did the same to him), letting the hot water soothe her aching muscles. Then he moved them to the bath tub, sneaked in a quickie, then let her nearly pass out over him from how relaxing the bath salts felt.

They were too blissed out. Too comfortable. Too much in love. And neither would have moved if they didn’t have the day out on the boat planned with Jobe.

Ananya took her time to get ready, putting on a nice deep-blue swimsuit & a white kaftan, letting her hair flow. She tried all of Jude’s shades to see which one suited her look the best, while her boyfriend gave expert opinion from the side.

The setting was perfect. A serene, quiet lake, in the middle of mountains, perfect moderate weather. She didn’t even crib about why they splurged on a fancy, big yacht when it was just the three of them. 

The food was lovely, as was the water. She wasn’t a great swimmer so she stuck to Jude’s side, and he always kept her within reach. 

‘At least no sharks here, yeah?’

She looked at Jude, who was barely controlling his laughter. Jobe couldn’t hold on though.

‘Go ahead. Mock me. But those things show up anywhere in the open sea.’

‘Yeah. In Jaws.’

‘Not JUST in Jaws. There are videos all over the internet. Even at sea shores. But be my guest and become shark food. See if I care.’

They laughed some more and she hit them with a floater.

Later, out of nowhere, the brothers got into an argument on who’s a better swimmer. So they decided to race from the jet ski to where Ananya was sitting, on the edge of the boat. Jude won that, by a whisker, and Jobe blamed the current for it.

Jude & Ananya retired to the deck, sprawling on the loungers, while Jobe continued with some water sports.

‘That one’s a fish.’

‘Clearly.’

Jude pulled her lounger right next to his, while she tried to apply more sun-screen on him, despite his loud protests. She won eventually, commenting how careless and tanned he already was, and how he still had to play a month in scorching heat.

‘All set to join the team tomorrow? No break sucks though.’

‘Yeah, but looking forward to it honestly.’

‘I’m sure. New coach, new set-up, would be fun.’

When he didn’t say anything, she held his cheek and turned it to face her.

‘Last year was an aberration. Forget about it.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘I know. But it was the end of a cycle, which can be hard. You know that better than me.’

‘It WAS hard.’

‘I know babe.’

‘There were days when I didn’t want to speak to anyone. Didn’t want to get out of bed. Never happened before.’

‘Understandable. I’ve always said this - your first year was extra-ordinary. Beyond any plausible expectations. So the second year hit harder. Coz of the impossible expectations you set, not just for others but in your own head too.’

‘We were shit. DOGSHIT. On so many days.’

‘Don’t disagree at all.’

Jude always liked the tough love she gave him on all football related stuff. She didn’t sugarcoat her astute opinions at all, which was a fresh change in his world.

‘I was horrendous too, wasn’t I?’

‘On some days, yes. I couldn’t recognise you. But the shifts you put in while playing out of position mostly, with that abhorrent shoulder brace, on top of the team clearly not clicking & lacking reinforcements, all that’s not on you. Like you aren’t scot-free in this but it’s mostly on the board, coach and some other players. You weren’t the biggest problem, nowhere close to it.’

He played with the fabric of her kaftan, lost in the nightmare that was last year.

‘Felt like my good luck charm went away.’

‘Oh baby, I’m always with you. Look at me. My gut says this is a new beginning, fresh ideas, fresh system. It will work, and I know you can feel it too.’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘See, now go with an open mind. We’re Real Madrid after all. No force in the world can keep us down for long.’

‘Seriously, you should meet Perez. He’d love you. Probably hire you in the PR team or something.’

‘He’d be lucky to have me.’

‘Oh, a 100%.’

‘Looking forward to playing with your ‘bestie’, aren’t you?’

He was, but something in her tone piqued his curiosity.

‘Am I missing something here? Don’t you….like him?’

‘He’s a good player. And your ‘bestie’ after all.’

‘But?’

‘But…just….don’t overdo your bromance, y’know?’

That made him even more curious. She had never said that about Vini or Cama or Brahim or anyone else in the team before. In fact, she found it cute, he knew that. Surely there was a nuance  here he hadn’t caught on yet.

‘When you’re there on one of the weekends for CWC, we could hang together. You’d like Estelle, I think.’

‘Yeah, she seems fine. The others are so….you know..’

He did know. Coz Ananya had not held back on her opinion on some of the other WAGs, at all. In one party, she was about to lose it on one of them, when Jude swiftly pulled her away.

‘Yeah, like, why can’t they get a life of their own? Especially the girlfriends. It’s either ‘let’s do a TikTok’ or ‘let’s talk about make-up’ or ‘where did you get this dress from’ or ‘let’s hit the gym’ or ‘let’s go shopping’ or ‘look what my guy bought for me.’ It’s soooo dull. And STUPID actually. Zero brain cells. All cut from the same cloth. Can’t handle them, sorry.’

‘Isn’t that a bit…harsh? And judgemental?’

‘Sorry. I have very low tolerance for uselessness combined with dumbness combined with lack of self respect. Deadly combination. Don’t expect me to be pally with this lot, never gonna happen.’

‘Fine. But you did like some of them.’

‘I did. Toni and Luka’s wives, so nice & classy. You hear me? Classy. That’s something these girls can learn from. Mina is nice too. Love that family actually.’

‘Yeah, coz they are hardcore Madridistas?’

‘Always a plus in my book.’

‘Fine. But give Estelle a chance, yeah? Trent says you’ll hit it off with her.’

‘Oh Trent says that? Must be right then.’

If it wasn’t clear before, now Jude was convinced something was up. He made a mental note to dig into it later, and she also decided to change the subject.

‘When’s the surgery set?’

‘Figuring out the date but soon after CWC.’

‘FINALLY.’

She had been begging him to get it done for over a year now. 

‘I was thinking, I could stay here, with you, during recovery.’

Her face lit up at that, which warmed his heart.

‘Really? But what about the club? Won’t they want you there, with the medical staff?’

‘The first two months will just be rest. The rehab starts after that, with the medical team. So yeah I can be here for that.’

She threw her arms around him, already giddy with joy. Jude pulled her on his lounger, settling her on his side.

‘I can’t wait, seriously.’

‘Yeah, would be like an early honeymoon.’

‘Excuse me? Someone (she poked his chest) needs to rest in this period. And follow doctor’s orders to the T. No exertion. I won’t let you stray an inch.’

Jude believed that fully. She was a tough taskmaster when it came to these things. Just like his Mum.

‘Oh I will rest. But we’ll still have the honeymoon. For a change, SOMEONE (he poked her shoulder) will have to do all the work, instead of me.’

‘You’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?’

He shrugged, but the shit-eating grin gave it away.

‘In fact, the honeymoon starts now. Great setting, don’t you think?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘Why do you think I picked this bigger boat, with a proper bedroom downstairs?’

‘You are OUT of your fricken MIND.’

‘What you wanna do it here? Fresh air’s good I don’t mind.’

‘We’re not ANIMALS. The answer is no.’

‘Really? I thought you’d wanna make it up to me after the heavy stuff yesterday. Guess I was wrong.’

She stared at him dumbfounded. Gobsmacked about the fact he’d use THAT for THIS. Oh she was so wrong for feeling so shit, when he just wanted to use it as a card for sex. For satisfying his kink of public / semi public places. Just when she gave him SOSO much credit for his growth yesterday. 

‘What happened to the maturity?’

‘It comes and goes. Not steady.’

‘Clearly.’

Why was she surprised? He was a guy after all. A horny, idiotic, soon to be 22 yr old guy.

‘Now c’mon. Jobe will be back soon. I don’t mind but you….’

‘STOP TALKING. Oh you’re so insufferable.’

She stood up & walked back to the cabin, stomping her feet. He followed right behind her.

‘Wait, is that a yes?’

He was pretty sure it was, after the card he played. And even if it wasn’t, he knew how to change it to a yes. THAT was his superpower.

And suddenly, those few months away from football post his surgery didn’t feel so bad after-all!

....................................................................

There you go folks!

2025 has been tough on Jude fandom, for many reasons. I didn't feel like writing for a long long time, but something clicked here & I enjoyed this one. Hopefully, the coming year is better for us, and for him :)

As always, would love to know your thoughts :)

[megumismyhusband]

you’ve always looked up to nagi.

back when you were just a wide eyed kid sweeping ash off your coat in rainy alleyways, you’d sneak copies of the morning paper from the butcher’s stand. every front page that bore his name had a circle around it. seishiro nagi cracks arson case in under three hours. detective nagi solves string of disappearances no one else would touch. you’d read them so many times they stayed burned behind your eyelids, reappearing in the haze of sleep or when the night shift dragged too long. he was brilliant. always just a few steps ahead. a soft-spoken, disheveled genius who couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair or tie his shoes but could find a missing person by staring at a map for five minutes.

that’s why you’re here. well. partly.

you’d worked hard. harder than anyone else in your unit. took all the cases no one wanted. talked your way into witness interviews, stayed up all night dusting glass for prints, memorized floorplans. you earned your name. and lately, you’ve been hearing that name more and more. some say you’re the next nagi, except less lazy. some don’t even mention him at all anymore.

and now you’ve been asked to work a case with him. a real collaboration. two detectives, one mystery, a high profile locked room murder with too many suspects and not enough time. it’s the kind of thing you would’ve dreamed about back when you were young. so imagine how you feel when you first meet him and find out he’s a lazy piece of shit.

he shows up to the crime scene half an hour late, dragging his feet like someone’s forcing him to walk. his coat is only halfway on. there’s a coffee stain on his shirt. he yawns through the introductions and leans against the doorway of the drawing room like he’s about to fall asleep standing up.

“hey,” he says. that’s it. no handshake. no nod. just hey.

“detective nagi,” you say, trying to sound like your lungs haven’t turned to ice. “i’ve read all your—”

“can you tell me what happened so i don’t have to read the file?” he interrupts, blinking at you like you’re the boring part of his dream.

you clench your jaw. give him the rundown. short, professional, clipped. he doesn’t write anything down. he doesn’t even pretend to be listening. just stares past your shoulder, then down at his own hand like he forgot it was attached to him.

“huh,” he says at the end of it. “sounds annoying.”

you think he’s going to follow that up with a question. or a theory. or anything. he doesn’t.

the other officers exchange looks. this isn’t new to them. but you? you’re spiraling. is this really him? the man who’s solved killings in a single night? the one who once found a body buried beneath a well just by the texture of the dirt? is this what he’s become?

you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. you’re the one with the sharp mind now. the one who doesn’t sleep, who gets results. he’s a relic. an old headline. and it doesn’t matter if he slumps in chairs or gets distracted by moths or starts eating licorice halfway through your suspect interview.

except it does matter. because even when he’s doing nothing, somehow he still gets it right. he’ll mumble something under his breath, and it’ll be the one detail you missed. he’ll ask a question that sounds stupid, but it’ll turn the whole case on its head. and you hate how fast your heart starts beating when that happens. like it used to when you saw his name in bold ink.

you admire him. you still do. but now it’s quiet. like a secret you keep in your coat pocket. you tell yourself it’s just curiosity. maybe pity. maybe professional interest.

it’s not. and every time he yawns through your theories or scratches his head and accidentally gives you the final piece of the puzzle, you feel it settling in your chest.

this is going to be a long case.

you end up in the study with him after hours. two cups of lukewarm tea between you. crime scene’s cleared out, but neither of you’s left. you’re sketching out timelines on a napkin and he’s lying sideways on the settee like he’s at home.

“you don’t have to be here,” you tell him. “i can finish the layout.”

“i’m bored,” he says, like that’s a perfectly reasonable excuse to insert himself into your perfectly structured logic map. “besides. you missed the bit where the maid took her break ten minutes early.”

you blink. “how do you know that?”

“she smoked. matches in the flowerpot outside. old ones and one fresh.” he shrugs. “people always hide them in the dumbest places.”

you stare at him. “you never mentioned that.”

“you didn’t ask.” he yawns. “you’re really intense, huh?”

you bristle. “i work hard.”

“i know,” he says, almost too casually. “it’s kind of interesting. haven’t seen someone work this hard since… well. ever, really.”

you try not to let that register. not out loud, anyway. “i grew up reading about your cases.”

he rolls onto his back, arms behind his head. “ew. don’t say it like that. makes me sound old.”

“you are old.”

he huffs, but you catch the small smirk he tries to hide under his sleeve.

the weird thing is… you kind of start liking talking to him. once you stop expecting him to act like a proper detective, it gets easier. he’s easy to talk to when he’s not being a pain. he doesn’t judge your theories. he doesn’t interrupt you unless he has something important to say. and when he does say something, it’s usually helpful. like, annoyingly helpful.

you start bringing extra pens and snacks. he starts showing up on time. not all the time. but enough to notice. one day he actually ties his shoes.

“you’re rubbing off on me,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of disease. “i stayed awake all of yesterday. didn’t even nap.”

you arch a brow. “want a medal?”

“yes. but also a nap.”

you roll your eyes. but you hand him the spare coffee anyway.

you don’t say it out loud, but there’s a rhythm now. you work better together than you’d expected. and maybe you don’t look at the papers anymore. maybe you don’t circle his name. maybe now you look up when yours is next to his.

maybe that means something.

tags: @kaidostwin @levihanmyotp @ohagiyoo @oorosiidinmotive @wonubby @xoxojisu @yvanilaa @sevarchive @thetwinkims

join taglist here!

[matchalovertrait]

He's smiling a lil in the last pic..... trust 😁

Start from the beginning (Gen 2)

Previous | Next

NOTE: Okay okay, let's do this again! As some of you know, I have the Japan and Colombia trips in the queue. We will be switching back and forth between them, which will take about a month. This was done on purpose for the ✨ summer vibes ✨ (even though I did get a little carried away). At this point, I'm embracing the slow pace! It is what it is 😅 And since this has been going on for a long time, please don't hesitate to ask questions for clarity.

NOTE: This is the "Baby Store and More" lot by madevila123 :)

[The Baby Store]

[Antonio had to buy baby gifts for three different couples: Felix and Lilith Psyded, Lex and Jacqueline Mattingly, and Rafa Bonilla and Melissa Ramsay – so, for his colleague, boss, new friend, and their respective partners!]

FRANKIE: HOW MANY???

ANTONIO: Three registries.

FRANKIE: You’re joking!

ANTONIO: I’m really not.

FRANKIE: Jeez, were they all planned pregnancies?

[One of Frankie’s motives for taking part in the science baby research was to help same-sex couples have biological kids. However, Frankie isn’t a fan of children. Kids are loud, germ-ridden, and expensive.]

[Meanwhile...]

DANI: I still can’t believe that’s how you told Antonio you knew who his dad was.

[Yoltic let out a nervous laugh.]

YOLTIC: My guilt hasn’t gone away yet... I think it got to his head.

DANI: He’s convinced he looks just like his dad, but I don’t see it. Nobody else does either; otherwise wouldn’t someone have spoken up? His face is on a few billboards advertising the law firm, and Del Sol Valley has many Latin American immigrants...

YOLTIC: And you can’t find pictures of Fernando Romero online. He’s only been seen in person.

DANI: AND who else will make the connection by taking a photo of Antonio and DRAWING a mustache on him out of boredom?

YOLTIC: Not very many people, I imagine? I’m his only stylist, after all.

[One evening, Yoltic sought entertainment by thinking of ways to change Antonio’s hairstyle. He sketched a mustache out of sheer curiosity, and then a strange familiarity struck him.]

[The mustache-wearing Antonio reminded him of Fernando, rumored member of Los Venenosos. Years ago, Yoltic saw Fernando on the streets of Mexico. He was stunned, but didn’t act on it. That’s what you do to stay alive: Don’t get involved in the cartel’s affairs.]

[So, Yoltic drew Fernando next to the image of Antonio on a sheet of printing paper. The resemblance was uncanny. He held onto it until he confronted Antonio.]

[Yoltic felt brave enough to do so because Antonio was harmless. Moody, yes; but a good, kind-hearted guy.]

ANTONIO: A baby book about ghosts? It’s not on the registry, but it could be something Felix and Lilith would like.

FRANKIE: I say stick to the registry and only get ONE gift. You see? All kids do is take all your money.

ANTONIO: You’re not exactly scrambling for funds if you have a vacation home in Oasis Springs.

FRANKIE: I still sleep peacefully at night knowing I can’t accidentally knock somebody up.

YOLTIC: Same here!

[Frankie and Yoltic ran to each other and high-fived.]

FRANKIE: People who actually smile! I’ve been saved, thank you!

FRANKIE: You got hit with three registries, too?

DANI: No, just one for Lex and Jackie.

FRANKIE: See, how does Toño do it? He’s the quietest yet most popular one here.

YOLTIC: We need a detective in our group. Maybe they can get to the bottom of this mystery.

ANTONIO: A bigger mystery would be why I happen to be a magnet for the loudest, most talkative people in the universe.

[The four of them laughed. They usually teased each other, with Antonio being the main target. He honestly didn’t mind that.]

DANI: Since we’re all here, should we shop together? It’ll be fun!

ANTONIO: Okay, but I get dibs on the first nice thing we see. I was here first.

YOLTIC: Can’t argue with that.

DANI: It’s only fair after bullying you, too.

[Upstairs...]

YOLTIC: We are definitely NOT buying any of the clothes here. Why is everything literally polyester? Disgusting.

DANI: Oh, isn’t this walker cute?

ANTONIO: The elephants are nice.

FRANKIE: Research has shown that walkers aren’t necessary. Babies can walk on their own.

YOLTIC: Frankie, get up!

[Antonio watched as his loved ones interacted. This was... pleasant. It always was, but this time he truly got to relax and take it in. As much as going against his grandfather stressed him out, it also felt incredibly freeing.]

[1tbls]

(NOTE: unfinished post that is probably going to remain so, but i liked the thoughts here so i wanted to publish this from my drafts finally. not gonna edit or polish, haven't touched this in half a year, enjoy ♥️)

some thoughts about jean vs. kim as narrative contrasts, through their self-comparisons to harry.... and what their approaches to harry tell us about their class consciousness.

this post is 9 paragraphs long. please clap.

So. Jean compares himself to Harry, and he doesn't seem to understand why neither he nor Harry can get better. While Harry is the focus of his ire, he draws a comparison between them by calling them both garbage. He calls his own 7-year depression a medical anomaly, despite the fact that depression isn't really something you can cure, and not exactly a mystery given their socioeconomic circumstances. If he's dismissive of his own 7 years of suffering, of course he's derisive about Harry's disability and mental illness. He sees Harry fail over and over, and he frames it as deliberate. As though Harry just isn't trying hard enough, just doesn't want to be a healthy, functioning member of society. If Jean's inability to get better is a personal failing, Harry's inability is that 100 times. Any time Harry is sick or relapses or struggles, it's just another personal failing Jean sees reflected that he should deride him for.... How else will he change? Why can't he just overcome himself?

I think there's this fear/hatred of their similarities because Jean doesn't want that to be his inescapable future, doesn't want to think he could be crushed under capitalism the same way (one) (two). So he refuses to look at their issues within that context, and instead frames them as perplexing anomalies. "Why can't Harry and I get better despite the fact we live in poverty and are addicted to drugs just to function in our job that sees us brutalizing other human beings daily? A mystery! I am going to ascribe this as an inherent failure in both our persons and fuel my hatred of us both." He sneers at Trant even suggesting that Harry's (/their) struggles are reinforced by the system they are trapped within.

When Jean expresses views like "no one gets married in Revachol" or being frustrated with sensitivity training... He's clearly bitter about the state of society, but his comments seem more targeted towards personal, moral degradation, rather than injustice or inequality under the Moralintern. I think Jean being 10 years younger might contribute to this. He's only ever lived in a world run by the MI, and perhaps he can't imagine anything besides their benevolence. It's the RCM and the MI who brought the about the wealth and stability of the '30s, after all. It's not the same anymore. It's too late for us. He's garbage, Harry's garbage, everyone's garbage.

Kim compares himself to Harry, sees Harry's struggles, and... He isn't perfect at first either! Initially, he almost refuses to acknowledge Harry's amnesia and withdrawal, but he does try to meet Harry with understanding. In your very first conversation with Kim, you can tell him that you're not really a cop, and his response is to tell you that he feels that way sometimes, too (but there's still a job to do, officer). Perhaps Kim is understanding to a fault, at times. He understands why other cops take bribes, to survive. When you find speed in Klaasje's bathroom, he's curious about it, to the point of considering using it himself. Kim understands why people do these things, because it's a fucking hard life out there.

Now, something that sets Kim apart from Jean, is that Kim is intimately familiar with the fact that his circumstances go beyond him as individual. He is constantly faced with the context of anti-Seolite racism, and how it colors others' view of him. He started from one of the harshest beginnings, with both parents dead and growing up an impoverished, bullied orphan. I think this is where so much of his kindness comes from, empathy gained from his own obstacles he has had to struggle through.

Yet, Kim still thinks that if he can prove himself as an individual, that will somehow exempt him. He's desperate to be such a good cop and Vacholiere that it eclipses that fact that he is Seolite, a binoclard, a poor little orphan, the many things that have isolated him. Like Jean, there's this fallacial logic on individual versus system, but here seems to be more learned helplessness rather than reactionary self-hatred (though Kim has that too, with the internalized racism). Kim doesn't like to have opinions on "facts" like the MI, so perhaps his logic is something like "You can't change 'facts' (the overwhelming power of the system), but you can change yourself." Fixing the system seems insurmountable, like asking the laws of physics themselves to change. All he believes in is the RCM, where he can bring his little grain of sand to the anthill every day, where it's swept over by a boot heel every evening.

Kim is at a point of consciousness where he is empathetic of the actions others take to survive in their flawed system, but paralyzed to take that logic any farther. Now, others have written excellent analysis about how partnering with and loving Harry is going to radicalize Kim. He looks between himself and Harry, and if this white, Double-Yefreitor, fucking detective god can be thrown to the gutter.... Will Kim and his hard work ever actually matter to the RCM or to Revachol? Honestly, I can imagine Kim going through a period of depression and apathy after this disillusionment with the RCM, because if changing yourself/individual action doesn't help, and changing the system is impossible, what can you even do?

And that comes to Kim's other obstacle towards radicalization... Being deeply lonely and isolated. He's always been cast as the outsider, and he's created this guarded and curated persona in reaction. The man has no class consciousness/solidarity for exactly the same reason. He's had so few allies in his life, how can he imagine power in solidarity? How can he imagine it when it has not been offered to him? Of course he can only turn to individual action, which will always be meager and demoralizing before the weight of the world's problems.

Despite Jean and Kim's differing approaches towards Harry and society at large, I think they make the same fundamental mistake... Focus on individual actions or failings invariably loops back into hatred, for others and yourself. I think Harry's friendship and respect is a step towards healing this for Kim, but I'm not sure it's the salve for the part of him that will still think "Ah, he sees beyond the fact that I'm a bino Seolite!" I don't think Kim can truly believe in opposing the MI and capitalism, until he stops thinking of himself as something to be overcome.

Bibliography of posts linked here, as well as posts that influenced this one <3 Thank u for your beautiful thoughts, mwah mwah:

Linked:

@renmorris (one) (two)

@convoloutedinjoke (one)

me <3

Inspiration:

@lastwave (one) (two)

@smokedgastropod (one)

@kryaaas (one)

[11yellowdaffodils]

Unfortunately I am going to need Eddie teaching Buck how to ballroom dance for some event this next season.

Maybe Buck’s parents are having their 50th anniversary and want Buck and Maddie to show up (shoutout that one fanfiction), maybe the department is throwing a big charity ball, probably some other thing because I am not at all familiar with ballroom dancing and what events you would do it at.

Whatever it is though, Buck needs to learn. He signs up for a class without anyone knowing, and he doesn’t tell anyone about it because he knows they’ll just get on his case about “Eddie did ballroom dancing why can’t he teach you” and whatnot, but the thought of Eddie teaching him how to do something that requires so much touch and is so intimate is just too overwhelming for Buck (Buck does not know why).

Eddie eventually corners him and is like “are you seeing someone? Who is it” and bucks like “no haha I’m, uh. doing something” and Eddie has to draw it out of him because Buck is Not Telling and Eddie doesn’t know why. Until Buck is just like “fine, I signed up for ballroom dancing classes because of [aforementioned reason]” Eddie gets all offended (like Buck knew he would) and is all “why didn’t you ask me, I used to do competitions, I was amazing, I could definitely have taught you better than any class could because I bet you the teacher didn’t win their state competition when they were 15”

So what is Buck supposed to do? Not let Eddie teach him now?? Obviously not, he’ll just deal with all of the touches and intimacy and Eddie of it all. He can do it, he’s an adult. He can act like one for gods sake

So their first lesson happens, and it’s at Eddie’s house with all of the furniture in the living room moved to the side. Buck has learned a little bit so far, but is incredibly awful at it. Eddie’s all “do you know how to box step? We’re gonna start simple” Buck goes “not really, we went over it in class but I can’t do it” so Eddie has Buck show him how Buck does his box steps on his own. Buck immediately messes up his counts and trips over his feet and Eddie is trying not to laugh but he’s not trying very hard to his it. So Eddie teases him a little and goes over to him and is all “watch me” and Eddie does it perfectly (because obviously, the music is still in him and he hears the counts in his dreams) and goes “come here” so he’s holding onto Buck in classic ballroom dancing partner style. (Eddie’s the lead ofc)

Eddie kinda has to manhandle Buck so he’s in the right position too, and Buck kind of loses his mind a bit. The butterflies in his stomach are going wild, just like he feared they would, and then they start to move. Eddie is counting softy and going “stand-up-straight” in time to his 1-2-3’s (and is tbh getting ptsd from his ballroom dance teacher, but Buck has horrible posture) Buck is tripping over himself AND Eddie, but every time they stumble, Eddie just takes it slower and slower until they are literally going turtle mode. But Buck finally is getting the rhythm down. And he’s doing it!! And he’s so focused on looking down at his feet and Eddie’s counts that he doesn’t even notice the smile that’s crept into Eddie’s voice, or the way Eddie’s looking at him.

He finally looks up when they start picking up the pace because he’s so proud of himself, and it immediately proves to be the wrong decision. He puts his full weight on Eddie’s foot and simultaneously trips over himself, so now they’re both out of focus. But Eddie’s hand is gripping Bucks arm for balance, Buck is trying to balance on one foot because he pulled his other foot off of Eddie’s too quickly, and they’re going down.

Buck ends up falling on top of Eddie and pinning him down, and they’re both laughing this whole time. Eddie says something like “you really are hopeless aren’t you buckley” and buck tries to defend himself with a “I can’t help it if I was cool in highschool” and has a big stupid smile on his face and butterflies fluttering amuck in his stomach that have traveled up to his chest, and then Eddie’s expression shifts a little bit. Bucks smile turns into something else too, and suddenly he needs to kiss Eddie Right Now. He needs to kiss him like he needs air to breathe. And Eddie’s right there, under him, looking at him like that, so what’s he expected to do really? Not kiss him? You’re kidding

So he leans over to Eddie’s face and looks into his eyes, looking for some type of assurance that he can kiss Eddie, that Eddie needs it at least a little bit too, and Eddie looks at him, and he has that little smile and his eyes are so black and he lets out a small breath and gives a little nod, so Buck just goes for it

Carla comes in with Chris 30 minutes later to find them still on the floor, the furniture shoved into the hallway and the kitchen, making out dirty. Chris is not in the house yet, so she can walk right back out and herd Chris right back into her car

[saycheeeese]

Zombie Apocalypse x JJK (Part 3)

ft. Megumi, Yuuji and Nobara x y/n. (It's kinda long, but I hope it's worth it!<3)

୨୧ Part 1 ୨୧

★ Part 2★

They had finally included you in their group two weeks after you met. Nobara says she liked your bravery, confidence and fighting style. Yuuji says he likes your personality, intelligence and adaptability. Megumi says nothing specific. Though, him telling you they'd like you to be a part of their group was enough of a compliment.

Now, you sit on the dusty floor of the pantry, acuminating your dagger with oil and a huge rock Yuuji aimed at you. Him and Megumi are trying to fix a meal, bickering over what step should be done first according to the box, and what can be substituted for-

"I told you we shouldn't have used kale!" Megumi's voice rose, frustrated.

"I like kale with sandwiches!" Yuuji winces.

"Well I don't. And no one except you does."

"You can literally take it out of the sandwich, you know?"

"It still leaves a bitter aftertaste."

"You shouldn't have used it raw."

"You shouldn't have given advice."

Yuuji scoffs. "You all are so picky. I just know (y/n) will eat it and like it. And won't complain like immature children."

"Good luck," Megumi glances at you. "You have my prayers."

You look up from your dagger, Yuuji's reflection clear in it. "How bad could it be?"

"You're really asking that?" Megumi raises his brow, picking up the dry bread slices you and Nobara hoarded from a distant farm, abandoned only recently, gore spread about the estate.

"Typically, whenever someone asks that in a movie," Nobara hops down from her bed - the wiry triple-bunk just one crank away from combustion - and walks over to Megumi, snatching the bread from his hands. "It doesn't end well. That's why even my guardian angels won't ever catch me saying What could possibly go wrong."

Yuuji hands you the sandwich, the crusty bread crumbling in your palms, stuffed with something weirdly resembling mayonnaise, the thinnest slice of cheese ever known to mankind, boiled pieces of some random hunted bird and a large wafer of kale.

"When was the last time you saw a movie?" Yuuji prompts, staring at Nobara in awe.

"To be honest, I don't even r-"

An ear-splitting racket echoed outside the pantry, quickly followed by a high-pitched shriek. Your heart stops, sputters, then jumps into your throat. How did they find us?

Megumi's already stalking toward the door with a long knife. You blink in confusion; where did he get that? You assume he pulled out of his ass, and that was the only logical explanation as you uncoiled to your feet, unsheathing your own dagger from the belt around your waist and trailed after him, quiet on your feet. Nobara fiddles with a makeshift shuriken, its edges drawing out blood from her fingertips. Yuuji is pressed against your back, his breath at your neck as he rises on his toes.

"Let me see," he insists, fingers digging in your waist to hoist himself up. It takes you a lot of effort not to move or even breathe.

Megumi notices Yuuji, the way he's so close to you, and his eyes narrow. "Get away from her."

"But I want to see," Yuuji groans, rising on his toes, putting more pressure against you. Totally platonic, you tell yourself, every atom in your body frozen.

"Bring a chair or something. Stop it right now," Megumi hisses, whirling to the door instead. He peeps through the hazy glass you all are trying to see past. Your eyes only make out darkness, its black folds cocooning over every surface like silk, a few beams of moonlight piercing the black. Another gut-wrenching scream makes you jolt, and Yuuji steadies you, his hands trembling.

Megumi doesn't say a word as he wrenches the door open and sprints outside. You stare after him, choices and decisions running in your mind full-circle, and before you knew it, you were dashing after him. Nobara and Yuuji catch up to you swiftly, the scuff of shoes and hushed panting filling the dark restaurant as you make your way through the overturned tables and drooping wires. You wrench open the door and halt, the world crashing to a stop around you.

A girl just shy of six is curled up on the pavement, her unruly hair a curtain between her and the rest of the world. Sobs rack her frail body, and your eyes drop to the pool of red-

Shit.

Two zombies are sprawled around her, one with a knife in its eye and the other sliced open from the groin, their heads smashed open. But it does nothing to hide the shimmer of red on their teeth, the blood fresh on the ground. Megumi swears beside you and rushes to the girl, his hands fisted. Nobara jogs to his side, jaw clenched with anger and emotion, spewing words of contempt. You reach them in a few strides, your mind spinning, and you can do nothing but swallow your gasp as Megumi pushes the girl's hair behind to reveal gruesome puncture marks near her collarbone, her neck tainted in sprays of red. She groans, tears rolling over her cherubic cheeks, and she slowly opens her eyes, wincing, as if the action itself caused her pain. A tight knot is in your throat, and you feel Megumi stiffen as the girl latches her wide, brown eyes on his face, her lips wobbling and failing to form around words.

He pulls back, his face gaunt and eyes dark, and you mirror his movement. "Why isn't she transforming?" You breathe out, terrified to speak louder in case the zombies came back.

Nobara clears her throat, trying to blink away the horror from her eyes. "She's too young. The victim must be older than eight for their body to accept the virus and reanimate as the dead. Because the youngest zombie corpse able to be reincarnated is about nine, too-young humans can't ... can't change." Her voice cracks, but she keeps up her strong façade, lifting her chin and ambling over to Megumi.

"So what will happen? To her?" You gaze at the girl, transfixed by her childlike beauty, and her caramel eyes close tightly, her hand trying to staunch the blood dribbling from her neck.

"She'll die. Simply. It shouldn't be painful, but we might never know," Megumi answers softly, biting his lip in thought.

Steps sound behind you, and the three of you freeze, bracing for-

A disgruntled sound emits from the threshold, and you swivel on the spot. Yuuji's eyes are locked on the girl, his face pale. Megumi is there in an instant, grounding Yuuji with his arms pressing down on his shoulders. "Itadori."

He shakes his head, not looking at him.

"Itadori. Look at me." Megumi shakes him gingerly, his voice pleading.

Yuuji lifts his glazed eyes to Megumi, as if reliving a memory. "Is she ... dead?"

"No," Megumi shakes his head. "She was bitten, but she's too young."

"I know. That's what it is. She's too young!" Yuuji closes his eyes. "Such a young girl - with an entire life ahead of her - and they killed her."

"She wouldn't have been happy in this world," Nobara reasons with him, her voice aloof and serious. "She'll be in a better place, where she'll have a happier future."

"You're going to kill her?" You step forward, still in disbelief, not wanting to leave the girl's side for a moment.

"Yes," Megumi murmurs, his knuckles white and voice low. "We have to."

"We must let her go before others arrive by the stench of blood," Nobara echoes.

You nod. It might be better for her.

"It might even be dangerous if she proves to be older than eight and metamorphose right under our noses," you muse.

"That's why we should ... let her go," Megumi advises no one in particular.

"How should we ... you know," Nobara winces. "Is there a weapon that makes dying less painful? We can't just - slice her open."

"We need to think about that; but with haste," you sigh.

"No," Yuuji intervenes. His voice is sharp and soft, loud yet quiet, and you turn to him.

"We have to-" Nobara insists, but Megumi shakes his head at her, drawing a finger across his neck.

"Please," Yuuji says, and his voice is steady, firm. "For me."

His throat bobs, and that is the only emotion he shows, the only answer you need for you to make your decision.

"Alright," you nod, "we'll let her meet her end herself." The girls breathing became shallow, her chest barely moving, fingertips blue under the red stains. You had to admit, you were even more impressed by her aim and fighting style.

Megumi seems like he wants to refuse, but one look at Yuuji's grateful face and shining eyes has him ditching whatever he was about to say. He claps Yuuji on the shoulder and disappears into the restaurant, the pantry door opening a minute later. Nobara and you enter the restaurant together, and you glance over your shoulder at the girl one last time, and at Yuuji, cradling the girl in his arms with a tenderness you never saw.

. ★·.·´¯`·.·★ .

You spoon canned beans into your mouth, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the pantry, all alone, icy winds weaving their timid fingers through your hair, dancing around you in the dark and silence. Nobara had excused herself, saying she needed to steal some "stuff", and Megumi was nowhere to be seen.

You realize with a pang that Yuuji had been outside for five hours, and he hadn't eaten anything. You never knew how bad death, especially children's suffering traumatized and affected him, but now you knew. And you wished you didn't. You exhale, setting the can aside, your appetite sated, and unwinding to your numb feet, hissing. You quickly shimmy into a pair of jeans that probably belonged to Jesus himself, rips and seams marring the almost-brown-yet-originally-blue fabric, the entire thing barely held together by thread and sheer will. You shrug on Megumi's jacket (I mean, it was lying around - he surely wouldn't mind?) and sneak outside.

The pantry door clicks shut, and you pray Yuuji didn't somehow hear it, prowling across the floor on your toes, h-

You suddenly collide with a hard mass, an oof slipping past your lips.

You stagger back, teeth bared as you glare at Megumi, his spiky hair ruffled and eyes wide.

"Are - You're okay?" He almost reaches out to you, hesitates, and pulls his hand back.

"I'm fine," you nod, "are you?"

"I always am," he shrugs, rubbing his neck, clearing his throat. Your eyes drop to his other arm, and on the tray balanced on it. A corner of your lip lifts, and he stiffens.

"Who's that for?"

"Me."

You raise a brow. "And I am to believe that?"

"Yes."

"You already ate."

"I like to have second helpings," he shrugs, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink.

"You never used to before."

"Well ..." he trails off, gripping the tray firmly. A second of silence passes, and you sigh.

"Let me take this to him," you offer, tentatively touching his arm, your fingertips brushing against his exposed skin. He goes rigid, and dips his chin too quickly, handing you the tray gently. You take inventory of the rice bowl topped with some kind of watery noodles, two cookies and - meatballs? How did he make that with such little ingredients? You faintly grin, remembering the secret stock Megumi staved off and never allowed anyone to use.

Megumi almost walks away, but he stops, and looks at you. "Please take care of him for me."

"I will," he tiptoes off after hearing your reply. You immediately pivot on your heel to go outside and check up on Yuuji.

He's sitting beside a crooked tree in the distance, the brittle winds playing with his hair, yet he doesn't seem to care. You trek up to him, out of breath, and plop down beside him on the cold boulder, gazing out at the destroyed, ruined world, the corpses and trash littering the planet. You place the tray in his lap.

"I buried her under this tree," he whispers to no one, gazing off. "I dug it myself, and put her down as if she was only resting. I asked her if she liked flowers, and her ... her favorite was lilies." His voice cracks, and your eyes dart to the withering lilies spread over a distinct mound of earth just below the tree, and you almost cry at the gesture.

"Aren't you hungry?" You glance at him, at the way he blankly stares at the food.

He shakes his head. "I am. I swear, I could ruthlessly devour you, and this rock, and the tree, and this tray and this damn mosquito in my ear." He inhales sharply, swatting ferociously at his ear. "But - I just can't bring myself to do anything." He glances at you. "It's fine, don't worry. It happens. I always recover a day or two after someone dying in my arms."

You sigh, scooting closer to him, and wrap your arms around his middle, hugging him tight. Something snaps in him, and his shoulders sag, his chest shaking with sniffs. "I can't do anything right. I always swear to myself, to my friends, that I'll be better this time, that I will learn to be as strong as Megumi and brave as Nobara but ... I'm too weak. I want to be unaffected by things like these, but I always fail myself. And my friends."

You don’t let go of him, holding him tight, even when he goes still, like he’s afraid to crumble completely.

You press your cheek to his shoulder and say, low, steady. "No. You don't fail us. You feel for us." You pull back just enough to look up at him. "You think Megumi's strength is not crying? Nobara's bravery is not flinching? Newsflash, genius - you held a dying child in your arms and didn't run away. That's not weak. That's human." You pause, and continue softly. "If your heart's breaking, it means it still works. In this world? That's rare. That's something the rest of us are clinging to."

He looks down at you, eyes rimmed with silver. You smirk, nudging his shoulder.

"Also, if you were like them, I’d have to deal with three emotionally constipated apocalypse teens instead of two. Let me have one sensitive idiot, okay?"

He nods, and you two sit there in silence, the moon glowing over you both, spilling the light around his hair like a halo. You probably looked like an angel, too. Your hands somehow twined together - platonically, of course - the air easier and tension gone, and the light back in his eyes. Just a bit.

"God, I'm so hungry," he moans after a bit. "But I'm also really tired." He grins at you expectantly, and you roll your eyes.

"Idiot," you mutter as you lift the spoon and shove it into his mouth playfully, and he almost chokes. He pulls back and punches you lightly in the side. Just like that, he finishes the meal, teasing and talking, and shares a cookie with you.

You rest your head on his shoulder, munching on the cookie, cream on your lips, both of you dangling your legs.

"You never told us about your past," Yuuji muses aloud.

"I thought you'd never ask," you grab your chest in mock despair, and he rolls his eyes.

"Well, now I'm asking," he ruffles your hair. "And, I believe, as official best friends, we should know more about each other."

You agree (with sarcasm), and the time flies by, weightless and rapid, every moment filled with a confession, a secret and a memory unveiled. By the end of the second hour, you've shared your childhood stories, and he's told the time he met the other two. Your head on his shoulder and his head somehow on yours, arms around each other, seeking the other's warmth, you almost doze off, Yuuji's breaths filling the silence-

"Am I interrupting something?"

You both jerk violently and pull away, already on your feet, at the sound of Nobara's voice. She stands just a few steps ahead of you, arms crossed and an amused smirk on her face.

"What? No- no," you chuckle, pacing to her. "It was nothing-"

"We were just having bro time," Yuuji shrugs, standing from the boulder.

"Didn't look like it," Nobara teases, and you bristle.

"I swear, we were hugging," you groan, "because the both of us were bawling our eyes out at the mention of our past lives."

"Did he mention me?" Nobara quipped.

"Yeah, of course," Yuuji grinned, standing beside you, sticking his tongue out at Nobara.

Movement at the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you spot Megumi standing in the path behind Nobara, staring at the space you and Yuuji were just a few minutes ago. His eyes slowly move to your face, lips slightly parted, before he looks away and turns, stalking away. You almost caught a flicker of shattered dreams and jealousy and disbelief on his face - or maybe you just imagined it.

"Megumi - wait," you call after him, chasing his shadow, cursing yourself for not paying attention when he blends with the darkness and vanishes.

Oh, great.

[friedesgreatscythe]

tagged by proxy of @corseque's open post for

wip whenever day!

this is just a small blip from the verso fic i'm working on. verso/julie is an element of it, but it's mostly a more reflective fic about verso's state of mind and some experiences. this part does have spoilers up until the start of act three so please don't read if you haven't gotten that far.

--

The Search and Rescue mission was off to an auspicious start; Verso was already lying before they even left the docks.

"Why does he look like that?" he heard a woman ask.

She sounded young, perhaps around Clea's age, possibly younger. When Verso glanced at her, the look on her face made her features more evident--more pertinent--to her question than her age. Her eyes were hard like flint her jaw clenched like a set trap, waiting to spring. There was a glint in her eyes as deeply bright as the slowly fading sunset that turned the choppy waves of the sea into a sparkling pyre. He would hate to be at the other end of such a look and wonder what he had done to earn it.

Verso followed the trail of the woman's glare to its target: a tall, dark figure standing as close to the edge of the stone pier without falling off. She means Papa. Well, it wouldn't be the first question asked about Renoir's behavior, let alone about the man himself. Nor would it be the last once the Expedition began its journey through the Continent. Best nudge her away from thinking too much about him for the moment. Would make it easier to do again later.

"I'm not sure," Verso said, a lie as bold as brass and uttered with a hard twist of shame. "Maybe he's worried about what we'll find out there--if we even find anything."

The woman's pale gray eyes snapped from Renoir over to Verso, her head turning in a short jerk. "And you have no idea what's waiting for us out there, right?" she asked. Demanded, really.

So much for nudging her away from suspicions. Best remember this for later: the woman was sharp, sharp in sight and sharp in mind and sharp in words and sharp in mood. Verso wondered how a touch from her might feel--probably like she'd run him through with a knife. Something like that.

"If I did, then I would be sure," he argued, emphasizing the leading word with a slight scoff. Not totally true, but at least it wasn't an out and out lie either. Verso really did not know what his father saw when he gazed at the distant fragment of the Continent and the Paintress beyond. Not that anyone in Lumiere knew about her yet. That would make for a delightful bit of conversation when it happened.

The woman turned so that she half stood in front of Verso, drawing his eyes to her and away from the sea and the sunlight and the shadow of his father. Verso said nothing. He simply granted the woman his attention, as she was so determined to have it.

Yes, he could see her clearly now. She looked closer to Clea's age, but she was Alicia's height. Such a little thing. He could probably rest his elbow on the woman's head and still be taller than her, even if he slumped.

"Are you sure you don't know?" she asked. "The two of you aren't... hiding anything from the rest of us, are you?"

Verso's gaze met hers, met it and held it and waited. Just... waited. He had everything to hide, which was all the more reason to look this little thorn of a woman in the dark center of her eyes and wait for her to blink. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you look like him. I mean, besides the features." She waved her hand over her face as if scattering dust. "I watched your father pass by earlier, before he got to the end of the pier. And just now, you had the same look on your face. Wistful. Almost... sad."

"Perhaps it runs in the family, then."

The woman's lips twitched, suggesting what she might look like if she smiled. "Hell of an inheritance, that."

"It's not great. Could be better."

Now she laughed. That was good. Let her remember him as funny, as something other than wistful. Sad.

"What was your name again?" she asked. "I must have missed it earlier."

"Verso."

She repeated his name as if to test out how it felt in her mouth. He wasn't sure if he liked it. Wasn't sure if he didn't like it. The name was just a word to him, just a sound that triggered no sense of belonging or ownership. The name was a smear of paint that echoed, a sound that stained.

Put that way, maybe it had more of a right to be his than he previously thought.

"Don't look so glum," the woman said, nudging his arm. Her touch, despite his previous conjecture, did not feel like being stabbed. It felt worse. Like burning and drowning and suffocating all in one delirium of the senses.

"Small chance of that. Inheritance, remember?"

The woman smiled. It softened her face and eased the tension in her clenched-trap jaw. Her tone was no longer prickly, her words absent of any thorns. Verso wasn't sure he didn't prefer the nettles: at least when he stood on edge he knew where he stood. The idea of this little chat was to make her comfortable, not to risk him feeling that way.

"Well, Verso--when you're ready to start being honest, you can come find me." The sun lowered behind the woman, framing her hair in glimmering gold and red like a saint's halo. "My name's Julie."

Verso scraped his teeth along the inside of his cheek to avoid the indulgence of repeating her name. "Don't worry," he said, thoroughly worried. "I'll remember."

[pixelatedraindrops]

Oh my goodness Asaka-san…🥹 This is such an adorable after addition to the story!! I love the thought of Yuma worrying about Makoto every time he gets even a LITTLE bit sick. Thats honestly very called for given what they went through in my story ;w;

Detailed Feedback below

What can I even say here? First of all, the comic is so professionally gorgeous. Everything from the tower at the start to every piece of ramen in the bowl and spoon and Yuma and Makoto (and Kurumi) themselves are all so beautifully illustrated. Love Yuma’s gentle expressions and Makoto’s grumpy ones. Your first attempt at drawing Makoto too! (And it’s for THIS??? I’m so happy…😭) The expression fits the characters so well that I’d almost think that this work was official.

It still utterly baffles me how my work and ideas were able to inspire somebody as amazingly talented at art as you. I don’t know what to even say. I feel like honor is too small a word for my feelings. Enough for you to make sick art not once but TWICE??? I am in awe. It is truly SUCH AN HONOR that you loved my work enough to even make a contribution to it yourself. I am so happy I could cry 🥹 I adore this to my very core!! 💕

And yes I do still feel slightly insecure about how I view these two considering their bond can be taken in many different forms. They have so much potential. Seeing them as family just feels right to me. It doesn’t feel as forced or awkward. It’s a bond you can take as slowly as you want to and its definitely the most innocent choice (what can I say? I’m a sucker for found family… xD) I think you portrayed them both so well here. And I like how they’re both still getting used to calling themselves family, but it’s not so awkward that Makoto completely shuts Yuma away. I think its the best way for the two, whom were once so isolated to get used to trusting each-other especially at times like these.

Okay, let’s be real. When it comes to Japanese media, no cold is ever “mild” but I suppose he’d call it that just to get Yuma off his back… xD And yet there he is, laying down, cheeks completely flushed by fever looking very tired and irritated. Perhaps it’s more on the moderate side? Who can say? At least he’s not working and he remembered Yuma’s words to him about taking it easy if he ever feels sick. (Shocker he actually listened lol) I really love how kind and gentle Yuma is with him, he learned a lot from the past incident, but he’s still treating Makoto with enough respect to have it not be too doting, as an older brother would for the younger one. Yuma’s still being a bit doting on him with feeding him and all, but we know deep down Makoto likes the attention. He’s not used to personal care except from Yuma, making it much more meaningful.

I really love the additions of text you added showing that Yuma is worried about Makoto and wants to be closer with him. Makoto seems a little off put by the affection but then shows that he does still appreciate Yuma’s concern regardless. But he’s insecure about his position as the younger brother causing his older brother trouble. I also deeply appreciate Kurumi’s addition here. I believe the three to be close to each other, and Kurumi’s a good and helpful friend to them both c:

Yuma’s not used to being a big brother either. At least so he thinks, but the action and care alone prove he’s taking his role way more seriously than he thinks. It’s all so fluffy and soft!! I love all of it! They show their trust and affection, but still bicker just as siblings should every now and again. Its only healthy!

Thank you again for this wonderful comic Asaka-san. I’m so honored my story was able to give you such an idea. And it’s funny how you say “it was only supposed to be a short comic but it ended up being longer…” (now how many times have I heard that from you @kazinsblog? haha) well it’s very easy to go a bit more with a scenario like this. Why do you think my stories are so long? XD

Anyway I digress. This is such beautiful work and honestly it makes up for me having nothing to contribute to RainCode's anniversary this year… Thank you for the unexpected assist~ x3c You really do a wonderful job with this kind of art. I hope to see it again from you soon! 💜✨

Outstanding work. I absolutely adore it. These two are such adorable brothers! They will always mean the absolute world to me 💕💕💕

Happy 2nd Anniversary to Rain Code! ☔️🎉

To celebrate this day, I created a short manga featuring Yuma and Makoto. Please be advised that this post contains major spoilers from the main story of Rain Code. (Also, please note that the post is very long vertically, so be careful when expanding it.)

This story is based on the world and storyline of A Heartwarming Reunion, a wonderful post-game fan fiction written by @pixelatedraindrops that explores the relationship between Yuma and Makoto, as well as its comic adaptation by @kazinsblog. I highly recommend reading those works first, as this manga draws heavily from them. (For those who are in a hurry: in that story, Makoto falls ill, and through Yuma taking care of him, the two come to acknowledge each other as brothers.) This may be too much of a summary! The original work is very detailed and interesting, so please read it if you have the chance.

Alright then—please enjoy!

Thanks for reading! Click here for the afterword.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

what if (only if you want to btw) you draw charles holding baby erik (the one someone sent in the asks)

who put his ass on baby duty

[royaltea000]

cannot STAND this guy

[chibishortdeath]

I love making Simon my personal dress up doll <3

These are a bit old now, it’s been in drafts for a while cause I forgot about it, but eh.

Random explanations under a cut for funsies—

First one is pretty standard Simon fit stuff, belts armor, a tank top, boots with the fur, etc. Inspo mostly came from just looking at random pictures of belts on Pinterest and finding one with a cool like flail head on it! Which is just neat in general, I’d imagine Simon would probably find it convenient to have the different end attachments for the whip to be easily switched out, so yeahg sure he’s got it on his belt now lol. I tried looking through my boards to find the belt image but I think it may have gotten deleted :(

This one is an outfit I ran into that said “draw ” thing, also saw it on Pinterest, but it took a bit to track down the original artist of it: the artist is “ HEAVEN . “ on Pinterest, also @/luffydguzzler on Twitter. Hopefully drawing Simon and not one of my OCs in this outfit was alright, unfortunately when I ran into the post it was from someone on Pinterest who straight up stole the artwork (;_; ). That being said, if I find out that this is against any boundaries at all, I will take this drawing down. But related to the art itself, I drew him in it because the outfit ratio fit him perfectly. Tight shirt, something on the lower arms, midriff showing, tiny skirt, belts, furry chunky boots— these are all combinations he’s had in his designs before. :3

This one I also just saw a little caplet thingy on Pinterest and went “wow he’d look cute in that” and yeahg. I actually have a Pinterest board that’s entirely for random clothing I think he’d wear! Which is such a uh very normal about a character thing to have 💀.

He’s working out— POV you are Simon’s sparring partner (he’s very happy about it) (also you’re about to get kicked you might wanna block tha— oh no eee— on your left— ooo aaa oof yowch yikes—). Anyway I feel like I made his head a little awkwardly small in this hmmm. Either that or I took the photo of it at a weird angle. But yeah now you have seen Simon with leg warmers, you’re welcome!!!

[disposal-blueeee]

from this thing lolz

ty to @cherry-207 for the idea !! XPP

vargas by zarla-s

[yepmadness]

“The Ghosts at the window echo all our quiet Prayers…”

Yeah so, there is definitely a theme of loss/grief this season, and the different ways of addressing and dealing with it. Of acknowledging it. And how it changes over time. These aren’t even all of them (clearly, I mean, Arthur died too—I’d count John understanding himself as like a rebirth) I just picked three I thought fit with the lyrics from “The Garden” by the Crane Wives.

[moeblob]

OC OTP. Just a prince (Ego, the ginger) and his wonderful energy alien fiance (Serenity) who he doesn't know is an energy alien. Ego also doesn't know that the future marriage is never going to happen and he's been lied to his whole life.