#MAYBE THIS IS HOW THINGS SHOULD HAVE GONE IDK

[piracytheorist]

I'm finally re-reading The Hunger Games after nearly ten years and first I gotta say WOW this book has such a great prose and it feels so well written and with such good care in its details and narrative. And second, it just struck me as so important that in Katniss' flashback, the day after Peeta gave her the bread, she saw the dandelion and went out with Prim and gathered dandelions so they could eat with the leftover bread.

And idk I feel like this has a very good balance of "It's okay to accept being saved by someone" and of "You can save yourself" - even though Katniss has a HUGE but understandable denial surrounding her debt* to Peeta for giving her the bread, but that's a character thing and not necessarily a narrative thing. Because thanks to the bread, Katniss and her family got to eat for two days about, but the very gesture was what kickstarted Katniss' willingness to find food herself. First with the dandelions, then with some more gathering, eventually evolving into her hunting and fishing and gathering deep into the woods.

It's like a kind of thing like "You can't love anyone until you love yourself" which here can be switched to "You can't be saved until you want to save yourself" which also has a meaning because, you can physically save someone from a bad situation, but until they've gathered enough strength to start healing mentally, they will still be trapped. Katniss is just lucky she had the strength and resources, although terribly limited, to start getting herself out of desperate, starving poverty, although it's obvious the mental toll it kept having on her over the years.

Idk again I feel like there's a lot of understanding that one SHOULDN'T have the sole responsibility of dragging themselves out of poverty (especially when a tyrannical government has forced them into it), but when presented with an act of kindness and a glimmer of hope, they can be powered on to help themselves. And there's also understanding that though it might be considered noble, it can be terribly traumatizing. There is hope but there is also pain, when you have no choice but to save yourself. And considering how Katniss' trauma just keeps piling on across the trilogy, I doubt it was meant in an effort to glorify it. She's not a symbol, a paragon, a beacon of hope; she's just a traumatized teenage girl who shouldn't have gone through any of that.

*which is also another thing because in Peeta's view, all he did was burn two loaves and receive a beating and a harsh reprimand, something which is safe to assume was something common in his family. So maybe he doesn't see it as such a huge thing he could have done. I haven't finished the book but if I remember right he says later that he should have walked to her to give her the bread instead of throwing it in the rain? But yeah to him it was just one purposeful accident and a punishment for it, but for Katniss and her family it was literally life-saving. So while Katniss thinks so high of that debt, Peeta only thinks he should have done more.

[donetbhlmao]

okay potentially unpopular opinions on the most recent severance ep (seriously dont read if you dont want to engage with criticism of the show)

i'll be honest, the most recent episode was beautifully shot. but i think it was among the weakest of the series (TO ME!) because:

i genuinely dont feel like i learned more about gemma as a character. while dichen lachman had to carry this episode on her shoulders, i found her performance to be a little wooden? and that made it difficult for me to feel for/resonate with gemma because i just couldn't understand what she was about. does she have family? does she have friends? what life did she leave behind? was she funny (she makes like two half-jokes i guess)? witty? rebellious? who IS she outside of mark and her desire for a child? it's really been bugging me that i dont really understand what she was about, other than the fact that she and mark had a happy marriage (for the most part) and she wanted a kid. i now feel like innie mark in that i obviously want her to be relieved from all that suffering, but from a human level, not because this episode made me feel specifically affected by her character and story. if the show wanted me to care about gemma the person outside of mark-and-gemma the couple, then this was the opportunity to evoke those feelings, and i just think it fell flat.

i thought the severed rooms (allentown, tumwater, etc) were cartoonish and i didn't find what was happening behind those doors compelling. obviously the idea that you can sever someone multiple times so that you effectively never have to experience negative experiences horrific but i hated the dress-up and the sets they concocted for gemma's various innies to exist in. it actually took me out of it and (TO ME!!!) downplayed the horrors her innies are being subjected to.

the pain of dealing with fertility issues is real. it is SO real. and please do not take this as me denying the mental and physical toll it can take on people. but. a lot of the beats of how that story was told were cliche (gemma sitting in the shower fully clothed for one). in a show that routinely avoids cliches, i found this to really stand out in a bad way. i also think that, since it's since been implied that mark maybe didn't want a kid that badly, it should have been demonstrated more clearly, but i will concede that since he loved gemma so much he would have gone along with whatever she wanted.

the happy couple montage, while beautifully shot, just didn't work for me. i'll be the first to admit that im markhelly-pilled to the MAX, but this goes beyond that. but it just seemed like another cliche. beautiful people being in beautiful love in their beautiful house. it just didnt give me a REAL dynamic to sink my teeth into. what really draws mark and gemma together? one of the things i loved before this episode was that severance's allusions to gemma were always barely there, just enough to get the audience thirsty for more. well, with this episode, we were drinking out of the firehose and idk if i find it as charming as a lot of viewers did. maybe im just an asshole. the biggest thing i took away was that mark scout used to be a very different man, and with everything that's happened since then, that guy will never come back.

i miss helly dylan and burt. i literally need mdr back and the idea that i likely wont get them for at least one more episode pisses me off.

[spiderlot]

I have a stupid season 2 misty imitating nat idea but I would lowkey get canceled..

Anyways here’s the idea!!

So the R! is Nat’s basically controversially young lover right? Met her in the rehab at the start and just made her better in a sense, was with her for everything. Instead of being at a Motel it’s this apartment and it’s all nice and the shit of season 1-2 goes down. Lottie’s group abducts Nat on a whim, and R finds them blah blah blah.

Nat gets killed just as she was finally better.

Everything goes as cannon. The funeral, R! attends but just in the background and avoids all that shit.

Then Misty goes through the box and gets the strap. Going through the imitation process of mourning, she ends up on R!’s doorstep, acting like Nat, looking like Nat, in a fit of loss, they sleep together.

It spirals, Misty continues to cheat on Walter and acting as Nat. Then the other YJs intervene or something idk.

Hope this isn’t shitty!!

you and misty always had tension... she was weirdly obsessive and jealous of nat and you. thinking about you and her kinda working together to try to find where nat is..

you don't even talk to the girls at the funeral. they don't come up to try and talk either. you leave immediately after her mom's speech, heading to that bar that nat told you she used to frequent in her younger years. you tell yourself you're finally gonna go through all of nat's shit and take it home with you tomorrow but the hangover is so nasty.. misty beats you to it.

you're sick and annoyed at whoever the hell is knocking on your door. you swear you can feel your head throb just as hard as they pound on it.

"i'm coming..." you mumble quietly, mentally preparing yourself to speak to another person that wasn't a bartender in days. you stop in front of the door as you spot the missing chunk from when lottie's cult broke in to kidnap nat. your stomach drops and your mouth waters. maybe you don't need to answer the door.

"i know you're home!" your stomach drops even more when you hear misty quigley's voice from outside. you find yourself opening the door immediately, whatever angry bullshit you were about to spew at her gone from your head in an instant when you spot it.

nat's jacket. on misty.

"it took you long enough." her voice is abnormally deep, and you feel a sense of familiarity in the way misty carries herself.

you don't know why you step aside to let her in, but you do. you swear you see a flash of nat's dark hair on her as she walks past. misty looks around at the apartment, walking around like she owns the place as she plops on the couch and awkwardly manspreads.

the walk over to the couch feels like an eternity. it almost feels like you're walking in place and misty's miles away. suddenly you're next to her and analyzing the smudged eyeliner on her face. nat's eyes flash in your mind and you grip the couch cushion.

"i was gonna go get her things." you say blankly, eyeing the half-empty bottle of nat's whiskey on the coffee table.

"oh, i already got a few things for you." her normal voice is back as she speaks, misty doing that classic misty move as she adjusts her glasses and sits up. "i mean, uh," she clears her throat and leans back, arm slung over the couch. "if you're ready for it."

the way she phrases it makes you look at her questionably, but you nod nonetheless. you want her jacket the most. you're a little uncomfortable at the fact that she's wearing nat's jacket. it should be you. you were nat's girlfriend. not misty. but at the same time, you find comfort in it. comfort in how you're not the only one mourning nat like this.

you eye the jacket again and suddenly get a huge whiff of nat's musk. fuck. it still smells like her. it's like she's in the room with you, and as you look at misty, you can't really tell who's who as you jump on her lap and stuff your face in the collar of the jacket. you inhale the scent and your body melts, relaxing into misty's body. as you sink down further, you feel something hard in between her legs. cautiously, you lean back up and look into misty's eyes.

before she can even explain herself, you grab her curly blonde hair and bring her in for a messy kiss.

-

i know she tries to be rough like how she imagined nat would've been (🤨🏳️‍🌈) but you both wrestle for dominance until you hold her down and ride her, moaning out nat's name. then you let her just take care of you :( you dont rly mention her trying to act like nat but she slowly starts being more Misty instead of imitating nat when she comes over to fuck.

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch4

"For good service and cute waitresses”

pairing: pre military!jungkook x secret fuckbuddy!oc

contents: profanity, smut, fluff, humour, celeb au, angsty chapter guys </3, jungkook hurts oc unintentionally! Nari is mean (in a good way, we love nari here.) oc overthinks! mentions of ptd jungkook

smut warnings: f!masturbation, oc has dirty thoughts about jungkook, semi detailed description of masturbation, vibrator!

wc: idk yall but its lengthy

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @dreamersparacosm (cmnt to be added!)

a/n: updating this story hopefully every 2 days now :) this chap was pretty hard and i pretty much just winged it, how do we feel so far guys?! is there anything specifically anyone wants to see (like interactions between oc + jk?) or anything at all! please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading <3 mwah

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The screen of your phone glares back at you, Jungkook’s unread message still sitting at the bottom of your screen.

So am I getting a response, or did you decide flirting with me was a one-time thing?

A few day’s ago, this would’ve sent you into full panic mode. Or even having his number in your phone?! Even yesterday you might’ve overthought it for an hour before even considering replying. Making Nari type out your messages, but today, you’re different.

Or at least, you pretend you are.

The coffee shop hums around you, filled with the gentle murmur of conversation, the soft clinking of cups, the steady whir of the espresso machine. Your laptop sits open, your untouched document staring back at you, the blinking cursor mocking your lack of productivity.

Your errands are halfway done—grocery shopping still pending, laundry detergent still forgotten, but at least you’ve made it out of the house. That’s a win, right?

You take a sip of your drink, only to realize it’s already gone cold. Great.

With a sigh, you stretch your legs under the table, cracking your neck before finally giving in to temptation. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for only a second before you type back.

[ iMessage ]

Y/N: Maybe I just like to keep you waiting.

A response comes almost instantly.

Unknown number: That’s a dangerous game to play with me.

A small smirk tugs at your lips. So he wants to play?

Y/N: And what happens if i make you wait?

Unknown number: You’ll find out soon enough.

Heat curls at the base of your spine, unexpected but not unwelcome. You should stop texting him—you still have things to do, a life to return to—but instead, you let the conversation go on a little longer. A few more back-and-forths, a few more teasing remarks, until finally, your phone vibrates with a different notification.

Nari (5:57 PM) Incoming Call…

You sigh, shaking yourself out of your Jungkook-induced haze before swiping to answer.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Nari’s voice is playful, but there’s a pout underneath it. “You’re not coming over tonight, are you?”

“Rain check?” you say, already wincing. “I have, like, a million things to do.”

Nari groans dramatically. “I knew it. You always bail when I need you most.”

“You literally saw me yesterday.”

“And?! You left without saying goodbye!”

You laugh, adjusting in your seat as you glance around the café. “I swear I’ll come over sometime this week. We’ll do face masks and eat too much takeout and—”

“And you’ll tell me all about Mr. Famous?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts.

Nari gasps. “OH. MY. GOD. YOU HAVE AN UPDATE, DON’T YOU?!”

“Shh!” you hiss, glancing around. “No, I don’t.”

“Liar! If you didn’t, you would’ve just said ‘no’ instead of ‘no I don’t’ like a liar!”

You don’t want to indulge in a gossip session with Nari as of right now. It sounds fun, but you’re in a quiet cafe, and you know you and her can get carried away.

You groan. “I really have to go, Nari.”

“You dont, bitch.”

“I love you too,” you say, shaking your head fondly. “I’ll update you next time I see you, okay?”

Nari sighs dramatically. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m at work all night, so I hope you’re having a better time than me.”

You glance at your laptop screen. The blank document stares back.

“Trust me,” you mumble. “I’m not.”

After saying your goodbyes, you hang up, slipping your phone back into your bag before forcing yourself to focus.

You wrap up your errands—grabbing the groceries you’ve been putting off, nearly forgetting the laundry detergent again, and finally heading home when your arms can’t carry any more.

By the time you step inside, your apartment feels like a time capsule of procrastination.

The pile of clothes on the chair? Unmoved. The dishes? Stacked in the sink. A fine layer of dust coats your shelves, proof that you swore you’d wipe them down two weeks ago. With a heavy sigh, you set your bags down and tie your hair up.

Time to finally get your life together.

You start with the dishes, rolling up your sleeves as you scrub at the dried coffee rings and leftover crumbs, stacking each plate neatly to dry. Then, you tackle the laundry, sorting through the mess and tossing everything into the washer with way more detergent than necessary because screw it, it smells nice.

One thing after another, you move through your space, wiping down surfaces, lighting a candle just because, finally making your home feel liveable again.

When everything is clean, you take a long shower, the hot water easing the tension in your muscles. You throw on something comfortable—an oversized hoodie, some loose shorts—before settling onto your couch with a deep sigh, satisfied.

But—

Your mind wanders.

Your phone is right there.

Without thinking, you open TikTok. Just a little scrolling, just to unwind—nothing serious. But then you type his name into the search bar. Just to see.

The first thing that pops up is exactly what you expected: thirst edits, fancams, interview clips. You click on one at random, some fast-cut montage of Jungkook on stage, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp, every movement calculated to kill.

You get it now.

As if you didn’t get it the first time he looked at you with those big fat boba eyes.

The way people talk about him. The way they react. The comment sections filled with all-caps screaming, with people losing their minds over every little thing he does.

And then you see the other side of him.

Clips of him laughing so hard he folds over. Videos of him playing with his dog, teasing his bandmates, singing softly into his phone, eyes half-lidded and gentle.

Your chest feels tight.

There’s so much of him online. So many sides, so many versions.

And yet, you can’t help but feel like none of it is the full picture.

Then, A paparazzi photo.

Jungkook in a dimly lit restaurant. Across from him, a blonde woman, her arms decorated with tattoos. A dating scandal. Seemingly one that never got confirmed.

Something sharp twists in your stomach.

Jealousy?

No. That would be insane. You don’t even know him.

And yet—

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

What if you’re just another one of them?

What if you’re just another rumor? Another name people whisper about in comment sections, another person tied to him in a way that’ll never be real?

The thought lingers, sinking deep.

But then, with a deep breath, you shake your head.

Get over yourself.

You scroll past it.

And then—

You find it.

A concert clip.

Permission to Dance in LA.

Your breath stills.

The video starts, and there he is.

Jungkook.

His cropped black shirt barely covers him, leaving the sharp ridges of his stomach bare, glistening under the stage lights. Silver body chains drape over his chest and abs, catching the glow as he moves. His dark hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat, sticking just enough to make it look good.

And then—

The screen cuts to a slow motion clip.

Jungkook, walking forward.

Shirtless.

Flashes of cameras illuminate his body, highlighting every detail—his stomach, his collarbones, the slightest angry expression on his face. His lips part, his throat bobs with a swallow, his skin slick under the lights, gleaming in the way that only makes him look better.

Your breath catches.

Something hot coils low in your stomach.

And just like that, it happens.

The shift. The realization.

That feeling. Your mind begins to wander places where you know it shouldnt.

You sit in the dimly lit living room, the only sound being the soft hum of your phone as you watch the video of Jungkook on the screen. His chiseled features and captivating smile have you entranced, and you can't help but feel a flutter in your chest.You feel a surge of arousal at the sound of his words, and your mind begins to wander, imagining what it would be like to be with him.

You start to fantasize about being with Jungkook in secret, hiding your relationship from the prying eyes of the media and the public. You imagine being at work, sneaking away to the bathroom to meet him in private. You picture him pushing you against the stall, his hands grasping your hips as he whispers in your ear, "Shh, baby, we don’t wanna get caught hm? That would be a mess…" You feel a thrill at the thought of being with him in secret, the danger and excitement of being discovered.

Your hands seem to move of their own accord, slipping under the waistband of your shorts and into your underwear. Your fingers graze your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. You start to touch your wet folds, gently at first, but growing bolder as the pleasure builds. "Ah," you whisper to yourself, You imagine his cock pushing into you, his hands covering your mouth to keep you quiet as you moan in pleasure.

As you continue to touch yourself, you start to feel a sense of guilt creeping in. What the fuck am I doing?you think to yourself, This is so wrong.

But the pleasure is too much to ignore, and you find yourself pushing aside the guilt, focusing on the sensations and the image of Jungkook on the screen. Your breathing gets heavier, and your heart starts to pound in your chest. You're getting closer and closer to the edge, and you can't help but let out a series of soft gasps as you continue to touch yourself.

You imagine Jungkook's hands on your skin, his fingers tracing your curves as he whispers in your ear, "You're so beautiful, Wanna fuck you all night." You picture him lifting your leg up, his cock pushing into you as he fucks you against the stall. You hear the sound of his voice, "Don't you dare make a fucking sound." You feel a surge of pleasure at the thought of being with him in secret, the excitement and danger of being discovered.

Despite the guilt, your body continues to respond to the pleasure. You decide to take it to the next level, reaching for the vibrator that's hidden in your drawer. You turn it on, and the buzzing sound fills the room as you press it against your skin. The sensation is almost overwhelming, and you feel yourself getting even closer to the edge. "Oh, god," you whisper to yourself, "Fuckk-." The vibrator hums against your clit, and you feel a surge of pleasure as your body starts to respond. You're getting wetter and wetter, and you can feel your juices starting to drip down your thighs.

As you watch Jungkook on the screen, his eyes seeming to lock onto yours, you feel a surge of pleasure. "Shit," you say to yourself, The guilt is still there, but it's no longer the dominant emotion. The sensation of the vibrator and the image of Jungkook combine to create an intense, all-consuming feeling.

You're torn between the desire to indulge in this fantasy and the need to suppress it.

You imagine Jungkook's hands on your skin, his fingers tracing your curves as he whispers in your ear, "You're mine," You picture him fucking you hard, his cock pulsing inside of you as he claims you as his own. You hear the sound of his voice, imagining what he’d sound like when he comes.

You feel a much stronger surge of pleasure at the thought of being his, of being owned by him. Your body starts to tense up, and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. Your muscles contract, and you feel a surge of pleasure as you start to come. "Ah, Jungkook," you whisper to yourself, "I'm coming." Your body shudders, and you feel a wave of pleasure wash over you. Your juices flow freely, dripping down your thighs as you continue to fuck yourself with the vibrator. You're lost in the sensation, and you can't help but let out a series of loud gasps as you ride out the wave of pleasure.

As you finally start to come down from the high, you're left feeling breathless and spent. Your body is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and your juices are still dripping down your thighs. You look down at yourself, and you're met with the sight of your own wetness, glistening in the dim light of the room. You feel a sense of satisfaction, mixed with a hint of guilt. But as you look back at the screen, you see Jungkook's face, and you can't help but feel a sense of pleasure and satisfaction. You may have felt guilty, but in the end, pleasure won out.

——

The morning hits you like a truck.

Your body feels sluggish, weighed down by something heavier than sleep, and for a second, you don’t even register the fact that you’re awake. But then—your brain catches up. The fog clears just enough to remind you.

Last night.

Your entire body tenses. A slow, mortified groan rips out of your throat as you roll onto your stomach, shoving your face into the pillow. You did that. You actually-

Your phone buzzes loudly against the nightstand.

You blindly reach for it, barely prying your eyes open, when-

8:47 AM

Your heart drops.

“Shit—shit, shit, shit—”

You fling yourself out of bed in a panic, scrambling toward the bathroom with one hand already dialing Nari’s number. You’re brushing your teeth with one hand, violently shoving a hoodie over your head with the other, when she finally picks up.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she hums, far too smug.

“Nari, I’m so fucking late for work—” you garble through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Yeah, no shit, considering it’s almost nine—”

“Oh my god, I slept through my alarm, I’m gonna get fired—”

“You do know I’m not coming in today, right?”

The words don’t even process at first. You’re too busy throwing your phone onto speaker, shoving your legs into jeans as you spit into the sink. “What?”

“I told you yesterday. I switched shifts with Sumni.”

You freeze mid-step. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I literally did, babe.”

You blink at yourself in the mirror, panic momentarily replaced by realization. Then—

“…Fuck you.”

Nari cackles. “No, fuck you. I knew you’d forget.”

“You let me suffer!”

“I let you be a dumbass.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” she corrects, completely unfazed by your rage. “You’re just Nari-deprived.”

You exhale through your nose, fighting the urge to slam your head into the mirror. Work without Nari is going to be the worst, like it always is.

“You’re an asshole,” you grumble, grabbing your bag. “I hope your day sucks without me.”

“I hope yours is miserable without me,” she shoots back, voice laced with fake venom. “I bet you’ll be crying in the storage closet by noon.”

“I bet you’ll be crying in the bathroom by seven.”

“I bet you’ll call me on your lunch break to sob about how much you miss me—”

“You wish—”

You’re locking your door behind you when she suddenly pauses.

“…Wait,” she murmurs, her tone shifting. “You never answered my text last night.”

Your stomach clenches.

“I really gotta go—”

“NO WAIT— YOU—”

You hang up.

Your phone starts buzzing immediately after, but you shove it into your pocket, focusing instead on getting to work before your manager decides you’re more trouble than you’re worth.

——

You make it twenty-four minutes late, and the only saving grace is that your manager doesn’t care enough to scold you.

Still, work is miserable. The diner is slow, the regular breakfast rush long gone, and without Nari to keep you entertained, time crawls. You’re halfway through refilling the sugar dispensers when the bell above the door chimes.

You glance up, plastering on your best customer-service smile—

Only to feel it immediately slip.

Because Jeon Jungkook is standing in the entrance.

Alone again, and way too fucking early.

Your heart stutters, but you force yourself to act normal. “Why are you here so early?”

Jungkook smirks, stepping closer. “I’m just here to get coffee.”

You scoff. “You choose a diner to get coffee? Seriously?”

“Hey, don’t disrespect my choices,” he teases. “Some of us enjoy a little diner experience, with cute waitresses on the side” He winks.

“You know we don’t even have good coffee, right?”

Jungkook hums. “Then why are you serving it?”

“You asked for it.”

You roll your eyes and grab a mug. But as you turn to pour the coffee, your gaze flickers toward him—and you really look at him.

His jaw is sharp, cutting clean angles in the soft glow of the diner’s lights. His lips are thin, but full and plump in a way, slightly parted as he exhales. His dark hair is a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times. But it’s his eyes that hold you in place—deep brown, warm and dark, filled with something unreadable.

You don’t realize you’re staring until—

Jungkook smirks.

Your stomach plummets.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement.

Your face heats up instantly. “Shut up.”

His smirk deepens. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well- shut up anyway.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, watching as you place his coffee on the counter. And then—his fingers brush against yours as he reaches for it.

The touch is barely anything—a fleeting graze, the warmth of his skin against yours for a fraction of a second. But it lingers, spreading like static under your skin.

Your breath catches.

Jungkook notices.

He wraps his fingers around the mug, watching you with quiet amusement. “So, random question,” he muses, “if someone asked you to meet up outside of work, would you?”

Your stomach flips.

You keep your expression neutral. “Depends who’s asking.”

Jungkook tilts his head slightly, like he’s really looking at you. “And if it was me?”

You hesitate. The air between you shifts—something unspoken, something charged.

“I’d have to think about it,” you say finally.

Jungkook hums, taking a slow sip of his coffee. His eyes don’t leave yours. “Fair enough.”

You’re still trying to recover from the tension when he leans back, stretching slightly. “I’m actually busy today,” he says, as if that whole exchange didn’t just happen. “That’s why I came early. This place is close to my studio.”

You raise a brow. “Studio?”

He nods. “Got a few songs to record. Prepping for tour.”

Then, casually, he adds, “You should come.”

You blink. “What?”

Jungkook shrugs. “You should come.”

He’s joking. Obviously, right? But for some reason, it unsettles you.

Jungkook smirks again, but you feel a twist in your stomach.

Because what if you’re just another fan?

The words sit between you like something heavy, something you don’t quite know how to hold.

You should come.

Jungkook’s watching you, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, something just shy of amusement but not quite serious either. His smirk lingers at the corner of his lips, and you hate that it’s doing something to you.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing your tone to be light. “I’ll definitely come.”

You expect him to just let it go, but instead—he tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin feel hot.

“Would you, though?” he muses, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug.

You blink. “Would I what?”

“Actually come,” he says smoothly. “Or are you just saying that?”

You scoff, arms crossing instinctively over your chest. “Why do you care?”

Jungkook hums, taking a slow sip of his coffee before replying. “I just think it’s interesting,” he says, voice low, “how quick you are to brush it off.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he cuts in, his smirk widening slightly. “Like you were scared to even consider it.”

Your breath catches, heart skipping in your chest. “I wasn’t scared—”

“Oh no?” His brows raise, and he leans forward slightly, his forearm resting against the counter between you. “Then what was it?”

Your mouth opens—then closes. Because the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to think.

Jungkook is dangerous. Not in the way that means trouble, but in the way that makes your pulse race. In the way that makes every teasing remark feel like a dare, every glance feel like a step closer to something you’re not sure you’re ready for.

And the worst part? He knows it.

He sees the way you hesitate, sees the way your breath stutters just slightly, and he eats it up.

You straighten, trying to not let him see the way he’s affecting you. “I don’t just blindly accept invitations from random guys,” you say, tilting your chin slightly.

Jungkook’s lips curve, and his voice drops just a little lower. “So I’m a random guy now?”

You regret your words immediately.

Because suddenly, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—something a little more serious, a little more intent. And for a split second, you swear you see a flicker of something else in his expression.

Something real.

Something that almost—almost—makes you think he’s actually asking.

But then—just as quickly as it appeared—it’s gone.

Jungkook leans back, his smirk returning. “Noted,” he murmurs, reaching for his coffee again. “Guess I’ll have to work on that.”

Your stomach flips. “On what?”

He shrugs. “On not being a random guy.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way your lips twitch—like they’re trying not to smile.

Jungkook notices.

And of course, he doesn’t let it go.

“See?” he says, watching you closely. “You like me.”

You scoff. “I tolerate you.”

Jungkook grins, and you hate that it’s unfairly attractive. “That’s just the first stage of falling in love.”

You nearly choke. “Oh my god—”

He laughs, leaning back slightly, clearly entertained. “I’m just saying,” he says, tapping a finger against his mug. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re kind of obsessed with me.”

You gawk at him.

“I—you’re delusional,” you sputter.

“Am I?” He tilts his head. “Or am I just painfully observant?”

“Oh my god—”

“You are, though.”

“I literally am not.”

“Mmm.” He sips his coffee again, eyes twinkling. “Denial is the second stage.”

Your soul leaves your body.

And then—to make things worse—he casually reaches for the sugar, fingers brushing against yours again.

Your breath catches.

It’s subtle—so brief you could almost pretend it didn’t happen. But it did. And you both felt it.

Jungkook pauses, gaze flicking up to yours, and his smirk slowly returns.

You snatch your hand back.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter.

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh, stirring his coffee lazily. “And yet,” he muses, “you haven’t walked away.”

You don’t have a good comeback for that.

Because—annoyingly—he’s right.

There’s something about him that keeps you here, standing in front of him even though you could just leave, even though every instinct tells you not to entertain him any longer.

Jungkook hums, like he’s completely aware of the way your thoughts are spiraling. Then, after a beat, he glances at his phone.

“Alright,” he sighs, pushing his coffee aside. “I should head out.”

You blink. “Oh.”

You hate the way disappointment tugs at your chest.

Jungkook watches you for a second—like he sees it, like he knows. Then, as he stands, he leans just a little closer, just enough to drop his voice low.

“Try not to miss me too much,” he murmurs.

Your breath stutters.

And then—before you can even think of a response—he straightens, smirks, and casually throws a few bills onto the counter.

Your fingers twitch. “You overpaid—”

“Consider it a tip,” he says smoothly, already walking toward the door.

You stare at his back, watching the way he moves—easy, confident, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then—just as he reaches the exit—he glances over his shoulder, eyes meeting yours one last time.

And he winks.

The bell chimes as the door swings shut behind him.

And you—standing there, stomach twisting—realize you’re completely, hopelessly fucked.

——

Its finally 9pm. You did call Nari at lunch. Of course you did. You’d left one of your shirts at her house, it’s not really that important, but you want to see her anyway.

You step out of the building, stretching your arms as the night air presses against your skin. It’s finally cooled down, the heat of the day fading into a soft breeze that moves through the streets. The city hums around you—cars rolling past, the faint chatter of people walking in groups, the occasional laugh cutting through the evening air.

You barely look down as you pull your phone from your pocket, already calling Nari before you even hit the sidewalk. It rings twice before she picks up.

“Finally,” she groans, voice thick with exhaustion. “Where are you? I told you to hurry.”

A smile tugs at your lips. “I’m on my way, chill. I left my shirt at your place,”

“My leg’s are killing, i pulled something at the gym today” she whines.

You scoff. “I’m the one walking right now.”

“Yeah, and look at you, surviving,” she deadpans. “Meanwhile, I’m literally dying. I swear, my legs are about to give out.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you mutter, dodging a couple walking too slow in front of you. “Are you sure you still want me to come? You sound like you need a coma.”

“Yes, obviously,” she huffs. “Just hurry up. I need moral support.”

You laugh, shaking your head. Your usual route would have you in Nari’s passenger seat by now, but since she’s not picking you up, you’re taking the train instead. It’s a little out of the way, but you don’t mind the walk.

At least, until you nearly crash into someone.

“Ah, sorry—” you start, stepping back quickly.

The person barely stumbles, but you notice the way his hands twitch slightly, like he almost reached out to steady you. You look up, already ready to move past the awkward moment—

And then your eyes meet his.

It takes a second to register. The mask covers the lower half of his face, and his black cap is pulled low, but those eyes—deep brown, familiar—make your breath catch.

“…Oh,” you murmur. “Hi.”

Jungkook looks at you, frozen for a beat too long. There’s something different about him—he’s stiff, closed off, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. He glances around, shifting slightly like he’s uneasy.

“…Hey,” he finally says, voice quiet.

You hesitate. There’s something off. You’ve seen Jungkook in a lot of different moods during his visits to the diner- teasing, playful, even quiet—but never like this. His whole body is tense, his shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flick past you, scanning the street, and then back again.

“Are you… okay?” you ask carefully.

“I—yeah,” he says quickly. Too quickly. His voice is lower than usual, tight. “I was just… heading out- of- of the studio…”

The way he says it makes something twist in your chest. You don’t know why it stings, but it does. His whole energy is different—rushed, distant. Like he doesn’t want to be standing here, talking to you. Like he needs to leave.

Your grip tightens around your phone. “Right,” you say, trying to sound normal, but it comes out smaller than you want.

Jungkook shifts on his feet, still looking around. The streetlights cast long shadows over his face, making his expression unreadable.

“I’ll—uh,” he exhales sharply. “I’ll see you around.”

And then he walks away.

Just like that.

You don’t even get the chance to react. One second he’s there, the next he’s disappearing into the crowd, shoulders hunched, head ducked low. It feels like a brush-off. Like something you’re not supposed to take personally, but somehow, you do.

You blink, still holding your phone to your ear, even though it’s not against your ear anymore.

On the other end, Nari’s voice cuts through the thick, sudden silence.

“Hello?” she says. “What happened?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. Your chest feels weird—tight, uncomfortable, like something is pressing against it.

Finally, you swallow, forcing your voice to stay even. “I… I can’t come anymore,” you say quietly. “I just realized I have something to do at home.”

A pause. Then—

“Wait, bitch—?”

You hang up.

—

You’re dramatic. You know it. Nari knows it.

It took five calls before you finally picked up, and by that point, she’d already decided you weren’t going home. You were coming to hers, no excuses. And you didn’t fight it much, because she’s right—she always is.

She knows when something’s wrong. And this? This was definitely one of those times.

By the time you get to her place, she’s waiting at the door, arms crossed, scanning your face like she’s trying to read a book that won’t open. You barely step inside before she’s dragging you to the couch, her hands warm against your wrist.

“Alright,” she says, legs tucked under her, eyes sharp. “What the fuck happened?”

You exhale, shaking your head, phone still clenched in your fingers. “Nothing, I just—”

“Don’t even start with that.” She cuts you off fast. “You were about to go home and sulk. So, no. Try again.”

You sink into the cushions, staring at a loose thread on the blanket draped over the armrest. “I ran into Jungkook.”

There’s a beat of silence before she blinks, sitting up straighter. “Okay… and?”

“And he—” You bite your lip, still feeling the sting of it. “He was weird. Different. Like, I don’t know, like he didn’t want to be seen with me or something.”

Her expression twists. “Seriously? You’re fucking joking.”

You shake your head, replaying the way he looked around, the way his voice was quieter than usual, the way he left so fast like he was afraid to be near you. “He barely even looked at me, Nari.”

She scoffs, disbelief turning into something sharper. “What the actual fuck? So he’s all friendly and sweet before, and now suddenly he’s—what? Too good to be seen talking to you?”

You don’t answer, just swallow around the knot in your throat.

“Oh, hell no.” She leans back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “This is some bullshit.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone, your nails pressing into your palm. “It just—” You hesitate, then sigh. “It sucked.”

She softens a little, tilting her head. “I know, babe.”

And for a moment, you just sit there, letting the frustration settle between you, the weight of it pressing into your chest.

Because yeah. It really fucking sucked.

But then Nari sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I mean, to be fair, you saw what happened last time. The whole social media thing? That was a mess. He’s probably trying to avoid another situation like that.”

You hesitate, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You hadn’t really thought about it like that, but now that she’s saying it, it makes sense.

Not that it makes you feel any better.

“Still doesn’t mean he had to be an asshole about it,” you mumble.

“No, he didn’t,” she agrees. Then she exhales dramatically and waves a hand. “Alright, enough of that. I’m over it.”

You let out a small laugh. “You’re over it?”

“Yeah, I’ve decided.” She leans back against the couch. “But you, unfortunately, are not.”

You groan, standing up, grabbing your shirt Nari’s so kindly washed and folded for you. “I really do have to get going home.”

Nari frowns. “What? No. Stay.”

“I can’t, Nari”

Nari rolls her eyes, but there’s a teasing lilt to her voice when she sighs. “Fine. Whatever. Go be responsible, I guess.”

You grab your bag, nudging her with your foot as you pass. “You love me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves you off, already grabbing her phone. “Now get out before I kidnap you.”

You snort, shaking your head as you step outside. The air is cooler now, the sky shifting into evening. You don’t check your phone until you’re halfway home.

And that’s when you see it. A missed call.

Your stomach flips. But you don’t call him back.

Not yet.

——

The next morning, you stay home.

Nari’s at work alone today, which is a nice change of pace, honestly. She likes having the whole place to herself sometimes, no one to tell her to stop playing her music too loud or to wipe down the counters properly.

It’s a slow morning. Barely any customers.

Until he walks in.

She spots him immediately, even though he’s trying to be subtle about it. Hood up, head down, sitting at the same table near the back, fingers drumming against the wood like he’s waiting for something—or someone.

Nari sighs, grabbing a notepad before heading over.

“If you’re looking for her,” she says flatly, not even bothering with a greeting, “she’s not here today.”

Jungkook blinks up at her, startled. “What—no, I—”

She raises an eyebrow.

He exhales. “Is she okay? She’s not answering my texts.”

Nari scoffs. “Oh, I wonder why.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, and for the first time, she sees it—the guilt, the regret.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Then what did you mean?”

“I just… I panicked.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want things to get out of hand again. I didn’t want her to deal with all the shit that happened last time.”

Nari folds her arms. “So your big plan to protect her was to act like she doesn’t exist?”

“No!” He looks up, eyes desperate. “I just—I fucked up.”

She watches him for a moment, trying to read him.

“You knew what you were doing when you started this,” she says finally. “You knew what could happen.”

He nods. “I know. I know. But it’s not like that. I actually—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “I think like her.”

That catches her off guard.

Not that she hadn’t suspected it, but hearing him say it? That’s different.

Jungkook sighs. “I just need to talk to her.”

Nari exhales sharply. Then, reluctantly, she slides her phone out of her pocket and places it on the table.

“Then call her.”

He hesitates. “I already did, last night, she didn’t answer, God she dosent wanna fix this, I fucked up-“

“I swear to God, if you don’t—”

He snatches the phone before she can finish, already dialing.

The first ring feels like it lasts forever.

Then the second.

Then the third.

And then—

”…Hello?”

His breath catches.

Your voice is quiet, wary, like you already know it’s him.

“Jungkook?”

And just like that, he knows.

This is his one shot to make it right.

[elchis-art-dump]

I love the baby seikret <333

+rant post

With MH Wilds finally out I wanted to rant about how I feel about it so far. For reference I just beat ray dau, which I feel is a good place to compare the full release to open beta 1 (I didn't play the others). The only other MH games I've play are World and Rise, but mostly World, so I'll be talking from that perspective and will be making a lot of comparisons to World.

Combat:

To preface this, I'm a hammer main and have been mostly playing hammer, so all of my more specific points may only apply there. I want to get my main issue so far out of the way, the game is really easy so far. I've averaged about 10 minutes a hunt on some of the harder monsters. My first ray dau hunt took about 9 minutes, while in the beta it took about 40 minutes + two faints. I know that I'm still early in the game, but the apex of a region being that easy kind of concerns me. The ratholos and diablos story quests in world, or even earlier monsters, felt far harder at the time. It's entirely possible that I've become more skilled over time, considering that it's been a few years since I did low rank World, but some monsters have felt way to easy. Now that that's done with, I think that the combat feels fantastic. Hammer over all combos better, the spinning bludgeon comboing from any attack really helps that. The dodge you get for charging is also fantastic (having evade extender with makes it even better), I honestly find it most helpful as a tool to close distances. Having only the walking speed while charging is kinda annoying, so having this dodge is a huge offensive boon despite it being a more defensive tool. I'm also in love with the wounding mechanic; it feels like what Iceborne was trying to do with tenderizing parts but better. It's no longer tied to having to use a somewhat risky option (although I miss wall bangs). I like how spontaneous it is and that their easily destroyed. These make it feel less like a free damage boost, rather it's far more deliberate since you need to actually target specific parts to break wounds. It's also a fun way to supplement the lower quest rewards since it gives you material.

Environment:

The game is absolutely beautiful and I'm in love with it. The environmental design is fantastic, each area feels super creative (big shout out to the oil basin). The weather changing the area itself is just awesome. I just cannot express how cool, beautiful, and creative the environments are. It seems to be taking a similar approach to World with the incredibly detailed areas, but unlike World everything feels as big as it should be. The open world aspect really makes everything bigger lol. I think the size makes everything feel more reasonable in a way. Unfortunately I don't feel like the areas are quite as memorable as world. Maybe I just haven't gone out of my way to explore them enough (we'll get to that later). I am very excited to get to explore the oil basin tho, absolutely wild area idea.

Two weapons + weapons skills:

I don't think I have much to say here other than that I really like this. No longer having my offenses being tied to my armor saves me from having to decide on if I value my defense or offense more (I still value skills more, but at least armor skills help keep me alive). Weapons skill in tandem with two weapons really incentives choosing weapons that synergize with each other and I just love that.

Performance:

I've seen people complain about performance issues, but so far it runs well on PS5 (idk about PC). I've had one hunt with performance issues, but it was multiplayer and I've only done two multiplayer hunts, soooooo idk what the issue was.

Railroading:

Definitely my biggest gripe with the game. I get that Wilds is far more narrative than other games, but I hate when games tell me I'm not allowed to do something. It just sucks that the game will force me into things immediately before and after a hunt. Considering that at worst it's annoying, this isn't a huge criticism.

Tracking:

Another small point, I just wish that you didn't immediately know where a monster is on the map. I like the scoutflies in world and gathering tracks since it made you explore. I just miss it, man...

Seikrets:

They're adorable and I love them <3333

[worstloki]

Fortesa Latifi, We Were Young

[itsalwaysdark]

its so embarassing likee. going to talk abt a feeling you have but you already know ppl will be like Oh that sounds like depression lol and its like. well yes . i know . trust me i am so aware i am depressed . but its still like a thing ive been thinking abt and wanting to talk abt but ik itll just be like Ok hun 👍. idk idk what response i would want tho ig FNFNFNF

[phagodyke]

aouuugh my uterus......

[hum--hallelujah]

no what I think the thing is is there is so much very visceral violent imagery for Benze and Crab. a FOUNDATION of their relationship is that Benze unintentionally causes pain when he's checking out Crab's months-old injury. do you trust me. and Crab doesn't realize how difficult words and touch can be for Benze and unintentionally causes pain that way before they start to figure things out. I wish we could talk. I wish I'd known you before. they're so so drawn to each other from the get go but there are so many barriers they have to get through, of pain (physical and emotional) they have to work to try and ease, mistrust and miscommunication. it's like that blood transfusion post. it isn't compatible with how much the love each other. I'd give you my very blood but it would kill you. it's better to let it bleed out. you can only survive without me. there's so much capacity for pain and hurt, but they choose to love instead.

[arielmagicesi]

ugggghhh ok so I’m reading some books to prep for my student teaching in the fall, the ones that my host teacher knows are likely to be in the curriculum, and first of all why is it a thing that high schoolers are made to read Contemporary Lit Fic that can be summed up as “how many gory explicit descriptions of traumatic abuse can we fit into one book”, like every year it’s just One Standard Shakespeare Play, One Twentieth-Century American Classic, throw in some other shit, and Somebody’s Fucked-Up Memoir From A Decade Or So Ago. Are there any contemporary books that are good but NOT traumatizing? If not, I’m happy to stick to classic lit personally

ANYWAY so I’m reading this book to prep for the fall and I ended up skimming the whole latter 3/4 or so of the book to spoil it for myself so the suspense wouldn’t kill me, and now I’m up late despite being super tired because my brain is just cycling through every horrific thing in the book, plus the reviews I read online, some of which are insanely saying shit like “wah wah, get over it, stop whining, we all had rough times in our childhood” and I’m like... Am I the softest, most naive baby on the planet for reacting to this horrific memoir by feeling bad for the author and thinking that maybe we don’t need to be making high schoolers read this? I’m not saying it’s not well-written- it is well-written, and well-structured, but Jesus Christ.

(also why are we allowed to make students read horrifying memoirs of abuse but god forbid they know that slavery happened in this country, but that’s a different issue altogether)

so yeah I now have managed to make my entire evening about Trying And Failing To Get Some Images Out of My Head, which sucks because I had a LOVELY day and was looking forward to some well-earned sleep, and also I’m gonna have to go back and read the entire book so that I’m able to teach it properly and know all the literary devices in it and shit. Cool cool cool

[fingertipsmp3]

The problem with cash is I literally convince myself that no one can see me spending it and therefore it’s not real money and can’t get me. And then I spend £48 on books

[bookersebastien]

the neurodivergent urge to immediately backtrack on any big decision because you can never be sure if you really want to do something because you lack the ability to be introspective and truly understand what you feel

[thebarneschronicles]

Out of Depth, Into You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 8.3k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes was supposed to get in and out. Simple. Clean. But Hydra had other plans.

An ambush leaves him broken, bleeding, and barely standing—and you’re the only thing keeping him upright. Trapped in a safehouse, patching him up with shaking hands, you realize the truth you’ve been avoiding: you almost lost him. And that scares you more than anything.

Because Bucky isn’t just your mission partner. He’s yours.

And maybe… just maybe, he’s known it all along.

Trigger Warnings: Violence (injuries, blood, broken bones, combat); Medical trauma (setting a broken bone, treating severe wounds); PTSD/trauma symptoms (flashbacks, avoidance, emotional suppression); Self-deprecation/self-worth issues (Bucky struggling with his identity and past); Smut (very little but still there !!!!)

Author’s Note: OOPS, I did it again. Idk, man, thoughts of being the one to save him for once were swirling and I had to do it again. Blame the hormones! Hope you like it and let me know what you think. B x

--

He should’ve been in and out. That was the plan.

But somewhere between Bucky taking out the first two guards and you directing him toward the extraction point, everything had gone to hell. You should’ve known he couldn’t, shouldn’t have gone in alone.

No matter how much time had passed, no matter how many missions he completed, Hydra never stopped hunting him. They never stopped wanting their soldier back, their weapon, their ghost of the past. Maybe they’d been waiting for an opportunity just like this—Bucky Barnes, alone in Eastern Europe, tracking down a Hydra splinter cell. Everything had been fine until it wasn’t.

And when Hydra saw their chance, they took it.

You had been following this lead together, him on the field, you in his ear, his eyes when he couldn’t see, his guide when things went south. But neither of you had expected the ambush. Too many hostiles. Too little time.

You heard it before you saw it. The grunts of effort, the dull crack of fists against flesh, the sickening crunch of bone breaking. Bullets ricocheted off vibranium in sharp, ringing bursts. Shouts filled your comms, angry orders in languages you didn’t recognize, and then—

Then you heard his hiss of pain. Short, sharp, barely contained. A sound that turned your blood to ice.

Bucky never let pain show.

Your hands flew over the keyboard, trying to pull up security feeds, but his voice cut through your panic, strained but calm. Too calm.

"I need an exit. Now."

Your heart stopped.

Bucky Barnes never walked away from a fight. He fought until there was no one left standing but him. If he was asking for an exit, it meant something was very, very wrong.

You yanked up the nearest camera feed and felt the world lurch beneath you.

There he was—cornered in a crumbling warehouse, backed against a stack of rusted shipping crates. He was holding his own, but barely. Blood dripped down his temple in sluggish trails. A bruise darkened his jaw, stark even in the grainy footage. But worst of all—his right arm, his flesh arm, was hanging limp at his side, twisted at an angle that wasn’t natural.

You gripped the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles ached.

Broken. His arm was broken.

And if his arm was that bad, you didn’t want to think about what other injuries he was forcing himself to fight through.

Your voice wavered, but you forced it to stay steady. "Bucky, there’s a service door to your left. Get there and I can guide you out."

"Copy," he gritted out, his breath heavy, strained.

He fought his way to the door, but you saw it—the way he staggered, the way every movement came at a cost. Every punch with his left arm rippled agony through his body. Every twist, every block, every moment that should have been second nature was suddenly a fight to stay upright.

And still, he kept going.

By the time he made it through the door, you were already running.

Darkened streets blurred past as you sprinted toward the extraction point. Your lungs burned, but it didn’t matter. You needed to get to him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to come out unscathed, meet you at the car, and get out before things got messy.

There weren’t supposed to be this many Hydra agents.

There wasn’t supposed to be a fight.

Fear clawed at your throat.

You rounded the last corner and skidded to a stop.

Bucky.

Leaning heavily against a brick wall, half-shadowed beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp. His chest rose and fell too fast, his breath ragged. His skin looked pale—too pale. Blood painted the side of his face, his fingers, his shirt. He lifted his head as you approached, his jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.

Up close, he looked worse. So much worse.

And that—that terrified you.

You had seen him bleed before. Had heard his sharp, bitten-off curses through comms, had watched him shake off pain like it was nothing. But this was different.

This was Bucky barely standing.

This was his chest rising and falling too fast, his face too pale, his right arm twisted and useless at his side. This was blood—so much blood—seeping through his jacket, dripping from his fingers, staining the ground beneath him.

And you—you couldn’t breathe.

Your hands trembled as you reached for him, the rest of the world fading away. Nothing else existed except for the wreckage of him—broken, bleeding, and still standing.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this.

He was just your mission partner. Just the man in your ear, the one you guided through hell and back, the one who always came out on the other side. Just the Soldier.

Except he wasn’t.

He was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

You swallowed hard, shoving the rising panic back down where it belonged. You couldn’t afford to lose it. Not now.

Stepping into his space, you braced his good side, feeling the solid weight of him against you. And that’s when you realized—

He was leaning on you.

Bucky Barnes, who carried the weight of his past like an iron chain, was letting you carry him.

Your throat tightened.

"Hey, Soldier," you murmured, voice steadying through sheer force of will. Anything to drown out the fear clawing at your ribs. "Still with me?"

For a second, he didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you.

Then—his lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk, like he wanted to make some cocky remark. But all that came out was a wince.

"Yeah," he rasped, voice rough, worn down to nothing. "Just having a great time."

Something in you cracked.

You exhaled sharply, fingers twisting in his jacket, clutching onto him like you could hold him together.

He was alive.

Battered, broken, bleeding out against you—but alive.

And you were going to keep him that way.

The drive to the safehouse was short, but agonizing.

The car felt too small, too silent, too full of blood and fear. Your hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white as you tried to keep your body from shaking apart. You had to stay focused. Had to keep breathing. Had to ignore the way Bucky’s breath, shallow and uneven, filled the space between you like a countdown.

Every bump in the road pulled a ragged sound from his throat, one he barely let slip past gritted teeth. His broken arm was cradled against his chest, his fingers twitching, blood soaking through the fabric of his jacket and seeping into the leather seats. Thick. Dark. Too much.

Don’t think about it.

You’d already gone through a mental list of everything you needed to do once you got him inside—stop the bleeding, set the bone, clean the wounds. All of it so completely out of your depth that panic pressed against your ribs, sharp and unforgiving.

The safehouse appeared through the trees, a dark shape buried deep in the woods. You yanked the car into park, twisting toward him before the engine had even died.

"Buck," you said, voice unsteady. "Buck?"

Nothing.

"Bucky, you still with me?"

For a second, nothing but silence—and then, finally, a low, pained grunt. A small nod. Barely anything, but it was enough to keep the panic from swallowing you whole. A grunt of acknowledgment that shouldn’t have felt like relief but did.

You swallowed hard and moved fast, yanking open his door, looping an arm around his waist as you pulled him up. He was heavy. Too heavy.

Getting him inside was its own battle.

Bucky Barnes was all muscle and solid weight, and even now—weaker than you had ever seen him, barely upright, barely conscious—he still outweighed you by too much. You nearly buckled under his weight, but he held onto you.

His full weight pressed against you, and for the first time since you’d known him, he didn’t try to carry himself. Didn’t try to tough it out, to stay standing on his own. Because he couldn’t.

Each step sent fresh bolts of pain through him, his teeth clenched so tight you swore you could hear the grind of enamel. He swayed dangerously, his blood leaving a trail in the grass, marking the path of his suffering.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you tightened your grip around his waist.

"Almost there," you whispered, half to him, half to yourself. "Just a little further, Buck. Stay with me."

His only response was another sharp exhale through his nose—the sound of a man trying not to curse or scream.

By the time you dragged him over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you, your entire body was trembling. The adrenaline that had kept you moving, kept you upright, was beginning to wear off, leaving only panic in its wake. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps as you struggled to keep him upright, his weight more than you could truly handle.

"Come on, Bucky, please, just a little longer," you begged, voice cracking as you guided him toward the worn-out chair near the fireplace. You barely managed to ease him down before your legs nearly gave out beneath you. "I need you to stay awake, honey."

The endearment slipped out without thought, but neither of you acknowledged it. His head lolled forward, strands of damp, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead. His breath was a shallow rasp, chest barely rising and falling.

Logically, you knew he could heal. His body would knit itself back together, given enough time. But logic didn’t stop the knot of dread twisting inside you, didn’t chase away the fear choking you as you took in the state of him.

You had never seen him this bad.

His skin was pale—too pale. Sickly, almost. Sweat slicked his forehead, tracing tracks down the sharp angles of his cheekbones. The bruising along his temple was already deepening, a sickly shade of purple that stood out against his ashen skin. His left arm was an ugly mess—swollen, bent at a sickening angle. And then there was the gash along his ribs, jagged and deep, seeping blood at an alarming rate.

Your hands scrambled for the first-aid kit, tearing it open with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. "Okay," you said, forcing a steadying breath, forcing yourself to focus. "I need to set your arm."

Bucky exhaled slowly. His eyelids fluttered, his breathing labored. But when his gaze finally found yours, there was no fear. No hesitation.

Just quiet, unwavering trust.

A barely perceptible nod.

No complaints. No resistance. Just Bucky Barnes trusting you with his pain.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Bucky Barnes never let anyone take care of him. He barely let people touch him, let alone see him like this—vulnerable, human. The weight of that trust settled deep in your chest, thick and heavy.

For a fleeting second, a dangerous thought slipped through the cracks of your resolve—what would it be like if he let you touch him in other ways? If his trust extended beyond battlefield necessity, beyond survival, into something more?

You swallowed hard and shoved the thought away. Now was not the time.

Shoving it down, you grabbed the shears from the kit and began cutting away his ruined jacket, peeling the blood-soaked fabric from his skin. His arm was an ugly mess—swollen, bruised, bent at an angle that made your stomach turn. But the deep gash across his ribs wasn’t much better, the bruising on his temple stark against his too-pale skin.

Your hands hovered over him for a moment. Hesitant. Terrified.

You can do this.He needs you.Your fingers pressed against his skin, searching for the break. He barely reacted.

Except—when you touched the worst of it.

His body tensed. A muscle in his jaw ticked. His metal hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, throat tight. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—"

Then, before you could think too hard about it, before you could hesitate—you pushed the bone back into place.

The sound it made was sickening.

Bucky’s whole body locked up. His teeth clenched, every muscle in his body straining against the agony tearing through him.

Your stomach lurched. You wanted to take it back. Wanted to take it from him.

But then—it was done.

You looked up, searching for his eyes, needing to see that he was still with you.

But his eyes were shut, his lips a thin, bloodless line.

He hadn’t screamed.

Hadn’t even made a sound.

"Buck?"

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but it felt like a scream in the suffocating silence of the safehouse. Your hands were slick with his blood, still shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You didn't know how to make it stop.

"Bucky?"

Still no response. His head lolled slightly, his breath uneven, shallow. The dim light in the room cast long shadows over his face, accentuating the stark pallor of his skin, the gauntness in his features. He looked fragile, and that was something you never associated with Bucky Barnes.

Your fingers fumbled, pressing against his neck, searching for his pulse. Your mind screamed at you to calm down, to think logically. The serum would keep him alive. He wasn’t dying. He couldn’t be dying. But logic meant nothing when fear had its claws in you.

Too fast. But steady.

He was alive. He was going to stay alive.

A sob clawed its way up your throat, thick and suffocating, but you swallowed it down. No time for that. You had to focus. He needed you.

You forced your trembling hands to work, pressing gauze against the deep gash in his side, trying to stem the flow of blood. The fabric soaked through instantly, a deep crimson blooming across the sterile white.

"Come on, Buck," you murmured, voice barely holding steady. "The serum needs to kick in. Just let it work, okay?"

Your fingers traced the edges of the wound, breath hitching at the heat radiating from his fevered skin. The cut was deep—too deep—but not fatal. It had to be something sharp, something deliberate. The thought made your stomach twist. Whoever had done this had meant to hurt him, had meant to make him suffer.

You pressed down harder, desperate to keep the bleeding in check. He let out a low, pained groan, his body tensing beneath your touch. Your heart clenched.

"Did I make it worse?" Your voice cracked. "Am I hurting you more? Please, Buck, you gotta tell me something, anything..."

Silence stretched between you, thick and unbearable. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow movements. The hum of the wind outside filled the void. Your hands, stained with his blood, trembled against him.

Then—

A rough, barely-there sound. A groan, deep and strained.

His throat bobbed as his lashes fluttered. His brows drew together, his lips parting as he struggled to pull in a breath.

And then, so quietly you almost missed it—

"Nah."

Your heart stuttered.

His voice, though raw and wrecked, was unmistakable. Relief crashed over you like a tidal wave, so overwhelming it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You reached up, pressing his sweaty hair back and away from his forehead.

His head shifted slightly, his fevered skin pressing into the palm of your hand. His breathing hitched as another wave of pain rolled through him, but he forced his eyes open just enough to look at you.

Blue. So damn blue.

And looking right at you.

"It’s not—" He swallowed thickly. "Not your fault," he rasped. His lips twitched, like he was trying for a smile, but it barely formed before fading. "I'm still in one piece."

A breathy, choked laugh escaped you, completely unbidden. God, how could he joke right now?

Your fingers curled against his jaw, your grip grounding both of you. "Barely," you whispered. "You’re a mess, Bucky."

A slow, uneven exhale left him. "Wouldn’t be the first time."

Your throat tightened. Even now, bleeding out, clinging to consciousness by a thread, he was trying to reassure you. Trying to make it easier.

"Is there anything else I can do?" you asked, voice small, desperate. "To make the serum work faster? God, why isn't it working, Bucky?"

He let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching against his thigh. His lips parted, but it took him a moment to form words.

"Takes... time," he murmured, voice slurred with exhaustion. "Always does. Just gotta... wait."

Wait. The thought was unbearable. Sitting here, helpless, while he fought to heal—it felt like torture.

Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. He blinked sluggishly, exhaustion tugging at him, but he was here. 

"You’re supposed to heal, Buck," you whispered. "Please. Promise me."

A slow, lazy blink. Then another. His lips parted, another whisper of breath escaping. Speaking seemed like a tremendous effort.

"‘I will, doll."

The nickname slipped out, rough and unintentional, but it sent something hot and aching through your chest.

He didn't know. He had no idea. How much you loved him. How much it would break you if he didn’t recover. You could barely even entertain the thought.

You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead against his, letting his warmth seep into you, grounding you.

"Good," you breathed, voice shaking. "You better."

His lips quirked—just barely, just enough.

And then, exhaustion pulled him under again.

–

He slept for hours.

So long that time lost meaning. The only markers of its passing were the slow shift of light through the windows, the way the world outside darkened and quieted, and the steady rhythm of his breath.

At some point, just before nightfall, you had dragged him to the old couch, wincing as his weight slumped against you, his body a dead weight of exhaustion and blood loss. The couch was too small, barely accommodating his frame, but it was better than the rickety old chair. You had folded up a sweater to tuck beneath his head, hoping to give him something resembling comfort.

Then, you sat beside him. You stayed there, unmoving, watching over him like some kind of silent sentinel. Every breath he took became an anchor, something to hold onto while the storm inside you raged.

The serum was working, you realized. 

You willed it to.

You willed your hands not to tremble when you finally dared to check his wound. The bleeding had stopped. The deep gash at his side was still an angry thing, but no longer a threat. You cleaned him up as best you could, dabbing away the dried blood, the sweat, the remnants of a battle neither of you had been sure he’d walk away from. He didn’t stir when you bandaged him up, didn’t even wince when you pressed down to ensure it held. He was dead to the world, lost in some place where pain couldn’t touch him.

The relief hit you like a punch to the gut. So intense it nearly stole your breath.

You could have taken a shower. You could have eaten, slept, done a million things in the endless stretch of time before he woke. And yet, you sat there, knees drawn to your chest, hands curled into your sleeves as you watched him. The soft light from the kitchen, the only you one had dared to turn on, flickered across his face, softening the sharp planes of his jaw, making him look almost peaceful.

Almost.

Bucky Barnes never looked truly at peace. Even in sleep, there were the faint lines of tension around his eyes, the ever-present ghosts lingering beneath the surface.

You had no idea when it happened. When he became more than just the man you guided through missions, monitored from a distance, and kept safe from behind a screen. It had snuck up on you in the quiet moments—the way he paid attention to your every word, the way he trusted your intel without question, the way his voice softened just a little when he spoke your name. The rare, fleeting glint of warmth in his.low chuckle when you cracked a joke through his earpiece like you were the only thing tethering him to something lighter, something more than the constant battles he had to face.

You never meant for this to happen. But it had.

And now here you were, sitting in the half-dark, staring at him like a fool, with a heart that beat too fast in your chest.

A low, hoarse sound broke the silence. A groan, rough with sleep and exhaustion.

Your breath hitched as his head stirred against the makeshift pillow. The twitch of his fingers, the slow shift of his expression—until those blue eyes finally cracked open, hazy and unfocused.

“Am I dead?”

His voice was a rasp, rough and broken, like gravel scraping against metal. It sent a shiver racing down your spine, an involuntary reaction to hearing it at all. Because for a terrifying moment, you thought you never would again.

Still, the laugh that tumbled from your lips was more relieved than anything else. “No. But you were trying really hard to get there.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his battered face. He moved sluggishly, turning his head toward you, eyes struggling to focus as he took you in. The sight of him awake, coherent, was almost enough to bring you to your knees.

Almost.

“If you had,” you murmured, arching a brow as you gestured around the small, dimly lit room, “would this be your heaven?”

It was a joke, mostly. A feeble attempt to lighten the moment, though the humor didn’t quite reach your voice. The old house was barely livable, the bare minimum of furniture thrown together in a desperate attempt at a safe house. It lacked warmth. It lacked everything, really.

Bucky exhaled sharply, something caught between a laugh and a scoff. “You think I’m going to heaven?”

That laugh. Short. Self-deprecating. Dripping with irony. You hated it.

“You don’t?” you challenged, gaze unwavering. “You must’ve earned a place after all that suffering.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

The word slipped from his lips so easily, like breathing, but it knocked the air right out of your lungs. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to react, but it was useless. Especially when you realized he was still staring at you. Taking you in. Seeing the exhaustion that clung to you like a second skin, the dried blood smeared across your hands and clothes—his blood. The worry written into every crease of your expression.

You felt exposed. Raw.

“You... been sitting there this whole time?”

You hesitated. You could lie. Maybe you should. You could brush it off, say you had just been checking in on him, nothing more… Instead, you settled for the truth.

“Yeah.”

Bucky exhaled heavily, his head falling back against the pillow, but his gaze never left you. Something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable, but you felt it all the same.

After a moment, his lips quirked slightly. “Didn’t know I rated that kind of devotion.”

Your breath hitched. If he noticed, he had the decency not to comment on it.

“I never saw you like that before,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “You were bleeding all over the place, Bucky. You’re… you’re my super soldier. My Terminator. You’re supposed to be invincible.”

The joke melted into something softer, something vulnerable. You dropped your gaze, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. You couldn’t let him see. Couldn’t let him know just how close you had come to breaking.

“You could’ve at least taken a shower.”

He meant it as a distraction, but it only served as a reminder. The truth was—you hadn’t wanted to leave. Not even for a second. But admitting that? Dangerous territory.

“I couldn’t,” you muttered instead, shaking your head. “I had to make sure...”

Bucky hummed low in his throat, the weight of his gaze pressing against the side of your face. Then, with a sigh, he reached out—slow, careful, testing the limits of his body—and let his fingers ghost over your wrist. Barely a touch, but it sent your pulse into a tailspin.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words rough, real.

You swallowed hard. “Yeah, well... just try not to do it again, alright?”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he studied you for a long moment, then sighed. “You look exhausted. Should’ve told me to move over.”

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this small, intimate space—had you reeling. “The, uh, couch is too small. And you needed the rest.”

His eyes drifted over you, lingering. “And you didn’t?”

Desperate for some normalcy, you let out a small huff, adopting a teasing tone. “I don’t need as much beauty sleep as you, Barnes.”

That earned you a tired chuckle. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

“Yup. You were looking a little rough before all the blood loss. Thought I’d do you a favor and let you rest.”

Bucky groaned. “Damn. Knew you were brutal, but this?”

“Hey,” you grinned, squeezing his thigh lightly, “if you can keep up, that means you’re feeling better.”

Bucky let out a breath, and for a moment, something warm flickered behind his exhaustion. “Guess I must be.”

Silence stretched between you, heavier this time, something unspoken weaving through it. You allowed yourself to lean against the cold metal of his vibranium arm, savoring the quiet until he shifted, groaning. Both of you stayed there and you thought he’d fallen back asleep when his groan broke through the quiet. Carefully, Bucky pushed himself upright, wincing slightly as his muscles protested.

“Gonna take a shower,” he mumbled, rubbing a tired hand over his face. 

"Bucky, I don’t think—"

"Not asking, sweetheart," he cut in, already pushing himself to his feet. Wobbling. 

Stubborn son of a bitch.

“Why won’t you listen to me? You always listen to me,” you argued, audibly on edge, rising to your feet to try and make sure you were prepared in case he tumbled over.

“I am covered in blood and I smell,” he grunted, vibranium hand pressing to the bandage you had patched him up with. He was clearly still in pain but too stubborn to admit it. “It’ll make me feel better.”

You rushed forward, steadying him before he could fall over like an idiot. "Jesus. Fine. But keep the door unlocked, okay? In case you—"

"I'm not gonna drown in the shower," he deadpanned.

You gave him a look. "I was gonna say in case you pass out and crack your head open again, but now I’m adding ‘drowning’ to my already very long list of concerns, thank you very much."

Bucky sighed, squeezing your hand before stepping away toward the bathroom. You should have looked away when he peeled his blood-streaked shirt over his head, revealing bruised skin beneath. But you didn’t.

And when he glanced back at you, a tired smirk still playing at his lips, you knew he had caught you staring.

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. He was alive. Battered, broken, but alive.

The weight of the past few hours pressed heavily against your chest, like a vice squeezing the air from your lungs. Your hands still trembled faintly, a phantom reminder of how close you had come to losing him. You told yourself you should move, should get some rest, but you couldn't. The exhaustion sat on your shoulders, thick and suffocating, but it couldn't compare to the quiet, gnawing fear that still hadn't fully released its grip on you.

What if he hadn’t woken up? What if his breathing had slowed, softened, and you hadn't noticed until it was too late? What if, even now, you had missed something—some unseen wound, some deeper injury lurking beneath the surface?

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably. He had survived this time. But the next?

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to clear the sting in your eyes. No, not now. Later—when he was truly safe, when you weren’t holding yourself together with nothing but sheer stubbornness and the desperate need to keep him breathing.

Then you heard it.

A muffled groan.

Maybe a pained grunt.

Then— your name.

Your stomach flipped. Fear, sharp and immediate, sank its claws into you, coiling tight around your ribs.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you moved.

The door swung open—

And you froze.

Steam curled around the small bathroom, thick and humid, clinging to your skin. The weak spray of the shower rained down on him, rivulets of water streaming down his battered body. His head was bowed, one hand braced against the tiled wall, his broad back rising and falling with every breath.

Bucky was naked.

Completely, gloriously naked.

Your pulse stuttered, breath hitching as your gaze trailed over him, helpless to look away. It wasn’t just the powerful cut of his shoulders or the elegant curve of his spine, the way his waist tapered into lean, honed muscle. It wasn’t just the deep bruises shadowing his ribs, the still-healing scrapes and cuts littering his arms and torso, each one a whisper of a battle he’d barely survived.

It was all of him.

The sculpted lines of his abdomen, the way water cascaded over his taut skin, tracing over each dip and ridge like it worshipped him. The sharp cut of his hips, leading down, down—

Oh. Oh.

Heat licked up your throat so fast you almost choked on it.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

Blue eyes locked onto yours—heavy-lidded, exhausted, but aware. A single droplet of water trailed from his collarbone, slipping down his chest, following the defined ridges of his stomach before disappearing.

Your brain bluescreened.

You forgot how to function. Forgot how to breathe. Forgot everything but the way he stood there, utterly unbothered by his own nakedness, watching you with quiet, unspoken curiosity.

The last thread of your sanity snapped somewhere between the sculpt of his abs and the way his very beautiful, very distracting cock hung between his thighs.

“Doll?” His voice was rough, hoarse from exhaustion, raw with something else, something you couldn't name.

The way it sank into you—deep, warm, consuming—nearly made your knees buckle.

Your throat worked, but words failed. You tried again, this time barely managing to rasp out, “You called?”

A small furrow appeared between his brows. “I didn’t…” he murmured, voice gravelly, confused.

You were so, so done.

You should turn around. Give him privacy. Make some joke, brush it off, leave before this moment became irreversible.

But Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t look away. Didn’t demand you leave.

He just stood there, watching. Waiting.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was softer now, laced with something dangerous. “Is there something you need?”

There was no anger in his expression. No embarrassment, no shock—just quiet patience. Just exhaustion. Just that quiet, quiet thing that had always existed between you, humming beneath the surface, never spoken aloud.

The air between you crackled, electric, charged. The space between the door and the shower stretched impossibly vast. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out logic, reason, the part of you that still had a chance to walk away.

Instead, you took a step forward.

Bucky didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t tense.

He just watched as you took another slow, deliberate step into the bathroom, your fingers trembling as they reached behind you—

And closed the door.

The quiet click sealed something between you, a silent understanding woven into the steam curling around you both.

You were going to do this.

Your fingers twitched at the hem of your shirt. Slowly, you lifted it.

His gaze dropped.

Tracked the movement, eyes dark and unblinking. Watched as your hands trembled, hesitating for only a fraction of a second—before you dragged the fabric over your head and let it fall to the floor.

The air thickened, heavy, pulsing.

Bucky’s breathing changed, a sharp inhale barely audible over the patter of water. His pupils widened, lips parting slightly. You felt the weight of his stare, dragging over every inch of newly exposed skin as you unbuttoned your pants, sliding them down your legs.

Piece by piece, layer by layer, you joined him until you were bare.

There was no way you were leaving now.

You had crossed a line—an invisible but irreversible threshold, shifting whatever had existed between you and Bucky forever.

You weren’t leaving.

Couldn’t leave.

Not tonight. Not when he was hurting. Not when this had been building for far too long. Not ever.

And as you stepped into the warmth of the water—into him—Bucky exhaled.

The heat of the water curled around your feet, sinking into your skin as you stepped closer. Closer to him. The steam wrapped around you both, thick and humid, clinging to your skin like a second layer. You were painfully aware of how bare you both were, how little there was between you—just air, charged and heavy, laced with hesitation and the weight of unspoken words.

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His vibranium hand twitched at his side, the black and gold glistening under the water, fingers flexing as if torn between restraint and impulse. His other arm—still sore from the break but free—hung at his side. He shifted slightly, muscles rippling, making room for you as you moved beneath the steady stream of water.

The moment your bodies brushed, heat flared—electric, searing. His hip grazed yours, slick with water, and you fought the urge to lean into him, to close the meager space that remained. Instead, you tipped your head back, letting the water cascade over you, washing away the remnants of the day—the grime, the blood, the sweat, the panic.

When your eyes reopened, blue locked onto you. But not the sharp, perceptive blue you were used to—this was deeper, darker, laced with something raw and consuming. Something that mirrored everything you had fought to keep buried.

"Is this as nerve-wracking for you as it is for me?"

Your voice barely carried over the steady rush of water, but the confession was out before you could second-guess it—honesty slipping through the cracks of your restraint, as it always did when you were pushed past your comfort zone.

A flicker of hesitation ghosted across his face, fleeting but there. You caught it. Felt it.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice rough, edged with something raw. "You don’t have to—"

"I know."

You stepped forward, letting the water cascade off your shoulders, droplets ricocheting against his chest and streaming down the ridges of his abdomen. Heat radiated from his skin, from the space between you, from the sheer gravity of this moment.

"I want to," you admitted, breath hitching. "I’m just… a little nervous. There’s a lot of you."

A slow, uneven breath left him. His vibranium fingers flexed, tension coiling in his posture, but his gaze dropped, something unreadable flickering behind his storm-colored eyes.

"Not really," he murmured. He lifted his left hand slightly, the metal catching the dim light, gleaming through the mist. A humorless smile ghosted over his lips. "This is all I got right now. Kind of half a man at the moment."

A pang shot through you at the quiet self-deprecation laced in his words. Before you could stop yourself, you reached out, fingertips brushing the smooth, unyielding metal. Another step closed the distance, your chest grazing his, the barest contact sparking something molten, something inevitable.

Your voice was steady when you spoke. "You could never be half of anything."

Bucky inhaled sharply, your words sinking into the spaces he kept guarded. Still, he didn't move. He just stood there, letting you guide his hand to your waist, letting himself feel.

A moment passed. Stretched. Deepened.

Then, rough and uncertain, he confessed, "I’m not sure… how to do this."

The words slipped out before you could stop them. "Do what? Me?"

The tension in his face broke, just for a second—surprise flickering, then amusement. A real, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest, the sound so foreign in the moment that it stole your breath. It was almost impossible to believe this was the same man who had been bleeding beneath your shaking hands only hours ago.

"I don’t think that’s in the cards for us tonight, sweetheart," he said, voice edged with both apology and something else—something almost reverent.

You tilted your head, lips curving. "Thought you'd be more confident than this." Leaning in, you pressed a kiss where metal met flesh, felt the way his breath hitched. You smiled against his skin. "Big, strong super soldier, shying away from a little skin?"

His exhale was sharp, almost a scoff, but it didn’t quite mask the way his grip on your waist tightened—just barely, just enough to betray him, just enough to make your pulse trip.

"Not shying away," he murmured, voice thick against your ear. "Just… don’t wanna mess this up."

You tilted your chin, brushing your lips against the space just below his collarbone, feeling the way his muscles tensed. "And what exactly would ‘messing this up’ look like?"

His jaw clenched, tension rippling through him. "Rushing. Disappointing you… taking more than I should."

His hand flexed at your waist, like he was testing the edges of restraint, feeling out what was safe, what was allowed.

A slow exhale left you as your fingers trailed higher, mapping out the scars, the history written into his skin. "Bucky," you whispered, the warmth of his name wrapping around him. "I never thought… never thought you’d want me like this. I want you to take whatever you want."

His forehead dropped to yours, and for a moment, there was only the steady rush of water, the ragged edge of his breathing. Then, slowly, he pulled back, eyes searching yours, something fragile, unguarded, unraveling in their depths.

A quiet, breathy laugh left him—something between disbelief and surrender. His lips hovered near yours, close enough that his breath warmed your skin.

"Want isn’t quite how I’d put it."

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t joking. The depth of his words settled over you, heavy and thrilling and terrifying all at once.

"Then how would you put it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper, fingers threading into his damp hair.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his forehead pressing into yours. "I think you already know."

And then his lips brushed yours, tentative, testing. Your body answered before your mind could catch up—arms winding around his neck, pressing closer, heat pooling low in your stomach. The kiss deepened, unhurried, a slow unraveling, a discovery.

Bucky's hand splayed against your spine, mapping the dip of your back, fingers tracing down to your hip, exploring, learning. Every glide of his tongue ignited something deep, every touch sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

You let your hands roam—over the hard planes of his chest, the dips and ridges of his stomach, the firm grasp of his waist. Each touch was a silent question. Every shift of his body, an answer.

"You’re shaking," he murmured against your lips, voice thick. "Still nervous?"

"A little," you admitted, breathless, cheeks flushed with heat. "I want… I want this so much."

His mouth curled, the faintest smile, almost apologetic. "I’m sorry I can’t give it to you."

"It’s alright, I—"

You surged up on your toes, kissed him harder, pouring every ounce of want into the press of your lips. A small, needy sound escaped you as his hand tightened at your waist. When you pulled away, your teeth grazed his bottom lip, and he exhaled sharply, his body rutting forward—instinctive, aching, desperate.

Your bare stomach brushed against him, and your breath hitched. "God, okay—can I touch you?" Your fingers curled at his waist, pressing, feeling the tremor in his muscles. "I want to make you feel good."

Bucky's breath stuttered, his hand tightening just enough to send a shiver racing through you. His forehead pressed to yours, a war waging behind his eyes.

Then, voice low and wrecked, he whispered, "Sweetheart… you already do."

Your fingers traced lower, over the taut muscles of his abdomen, feeling the way he tensed beneath your touch, like he was trying to hold himself together. His breath was ragged, unsteady, and when you let your nails graze lightly over his skin, a low, shuddering sound rumbled in his chest.

"Bucky," your voice was a whisper, sweet and coaxing, threading through the steam like a promise. "Will you let me touch you?"

His jaw tensed, head dipping forward as though the weight of restraint was too much to bear. "You don’t—"

"Please." Your fingers trailed lower, teasing, testing, watching the way his muscles twitched beneath your touch. "I want this. I want you."

A sharp inhale, his control fraying at the edges. Then—he gave in.

Not all at once. He unraveled in pieces, like a taut thread snapping one fiber at a time. His body melted under your hands, surrendering inch by inch. His vibranium fingers flexed at your waist before falling away entirely, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch, to take. But you saw it—the way his pupils blew wide, the way his lips parted around a strangled breath as your fingers wrapped around his length.

"Jesus," he rasped, head knocking back against the tile.

You bit your lip at the sight of him—chest heaving, muscles taut, his restraint hanging by a thread. Slowly, deliberately, you tightened your grip, savoring the way a groan tore from his throat, raw and unguarded. You stroked, slow and deliberate, thumb teasing the slick head of him before your fingers curled, picking up the pace.

"Is this okay?" Your voice was breathless, uncertain for the first time.

His answer was immediate—a sharp nod, his hand covering yours for the briefest second, grounding himself before letting go again. "Yeah, sweetheart. Yeah, just—"

A strangled noise broke from him when you abandoned his length in favor of the heavy weight of his balls, rolling them in your palm, feeling the heat, the way his hips twitched into your touch like he couldn’t help it.

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to drop to your knees and taste him, make him fall apart in a way that would leave him wrecked for anything else. You wanted him to snap, to pin you against the wall and take you, bury himself so deep you forgot your own name.

You wanted, wanted, wanted.

It was all you could think about.

"Fuck," he choked out, vibranium fingers digging into the slick tile, his flesh hand flexing like he wanted to grab you but didn't trust himself to. "You're—"

"Good?" you teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw, smiling against his skin when he trembled.

"Perfect," he groaned, voice wrecked.

Encouraged, you found your rhythm again—slow, deliberate, teasing your thumb over his sensitive head, drinking in the way his chest heaved. Your other hand cupped his balls, rolling them in tandem with each measured stroke, and his head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut. Water streamed down his skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat rolling off him, the way his body shook beneath your touch.

"You always this quiet?" you murmured, pressing your lips to the hollow of his throat.

A breathless laugh, broken at the edges. "Tryin’ not to lose my mind here, sweetheart."

"Maybe I want you to," you whispered, tightening your grip and twisting just enough to make him curse under his breath.

His hips bucked into your hand, desperation bleeding into every ragged exhale, every twitch of his muscles. He was unraveling, piece by piece, falling apart in your hands, and God, it was intoxicating.

"I think I could come just from watching you," the confession tumbled from your lips, unfiltered, the pulsing ache between your thighs intensifying. "You’re beautiful."

A guttural noise, raw and wrecked. "Fuck, you’re killing me." His forehead pressed against yours, the last fraying strands of control slipping from his grasp. "I—shit, I’m not gonna last."

Pleasure curled hot in your belly. He was holding on by a thread, and you wanted to be the one to pull him under.

"Don’t," you urged, pressing closer, stroking him faster, feeling the way his muscles locked beneath your touch. "Don’t hold back, Bucky. Let me see you."

His breath hitched. His jaw locked. And then—

He let go.

A shuddering moan, unrestrained and devastatingly raw, tore from his lips as he spilled into your hand. His body jerked, muscles seizing, fingers digging into the tile like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You felt the tremor in his limbs, the sharp, broken breaths leaving him, his forehead still pressed against yours like he needed the anchor.

You stayed close, pressing soft, lingering kisses along his jaw, his cheek, his temple, until the tension bled from his body, until his breathing evened out.

A low, breathless laugh rumbled through him, rough around the edges. "Jesus. You’re dangerous."

You grinned against his skin, feeling the way his chest still rose and fell unevenly beneath you, the tremor of aftershocks still running through his muscles. His vibranium arm curled around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against the heat of his still-thrumming body.

"Not dangerous," you murmured, brushing your lips against the sharp line of his jaw, lingering at the corner of his mouth. "Just very, very into you. And willing to wait."

Bucky exhaled, still catching his breath, still holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright. But this time, it wasn’t because of his injuries. It was because you had unraveled him, completely and utterly, in a way no one else ever had.

His fingers flexed at your hip, gripping you like he was still making sense of the way you fit against him. "Sweetheart," he muttered, voice low and rough, "whatever patience you got? You might need it for me."

You smiled, threading your fingers through his damp hair, pressing your lips to his in something soft, something promising.

"Can’t wait."

His arm curled more firmly around you, holding you against his chest, warm and steady. Your hand traced down his bruised arm, gentle over the battered skin. He tensed slightly beneath your touch, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he let you hold him, let you feel the weight of him—whole, breathing, here.

You nuzzled against his chest, pressing a lingering kiss over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your lips. "You scared me today," you admitted, barely above a whisper. You tightened your grip around him, clinging to the solid warmth of his body, trying to ignore the heat of desire curling low in your stomach, giving way to something even stronger. Something scarier. "Don’t ever do that again. I mean it, Buck, I—"

"I know." His voice was softer now, his lips pressing into your hair. "I could see it. In your eyes, you were—"

"Yeah." You swallowed hard. "I was."

Silence settled between you, thick with everything you weren’t saying. The air still hummed with the remnants of adrenaline, of tension, of the quiet fear that had lodged itself in your ribs the moment you saw him bleeding, barely standing, on the edge of collapse.

Bucky shifted, just slightly, his vibranium hand pressing against the small of your back, keeping you close. Then, quietly, deliberately, he murmured, "I need you to know something, doll."

The seriousness in his voice sent your heart skipping. You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. "What is it?"

For a moment, he hesitated—like he was choosing his words carefully, like he was about to step over some invisible line he could never uncross. His thumb brushed over your jaw, a touch so tender it made your breath catch.

"This isn’t just tonight," he said, voice steady despite the rawness in it. "It’s not just the adrenaline or the heat of the moment. It’s not even just because you saved my ass back there." He exhaled, his forehead briefly pressing against yours before pulling back, searching your eyes. "It’s you. It’s been you for a while now."

Your breath hitched.

Bucky’s hand trailed up, fingers ghosting over your cheek, tracing the curve of your face like he was committing every inch of you to memory. "I don’t always know how to say the right thing," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Or how to be good at this. But I know that I want you. Not just here. Not just now. I want all of it. All of you. If you’ll have me."

A sharp, aching warmth bloomed in your chest. He was laying himself bare, in a way you knew wasn’t easy for him. No bravado, no deflection—just truth.

A slow, shaky smile tugged at your lips as you lifted a hand to his face, your thumb skimming along his stubbled jaw.

"Bucky Barnes, you are the most ridiculous man I have ever met."

His brows furrowed, lips parting—until you leaned in and kissed him. Slow, deep, like he was something precious. Something worth holding onto.

When you pulled away, you pressed your forehead to his, your fingers still tangled in his damp hair.

"I’m not going anywhere," you murmured, voice thick with emotion. "Not tonight. Not ever."

A breath shuddered out of him, and then his arms were wrapping around you—tightly, fiercely, like he could somehow pull you into him completely.

"Good," he whispered against your skin. "Because I think I’d go crazy if you did."

You smiled against his collarbone, letting yourself melt into him, into the warmth of his body, into the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bucky was safe. He was healing.

And now, finally—he was yours.

[elvesofnoldor]

.

[piastappies]

would you maybe write an smau (oscar x norris or leclerc!reader) where the reader is just super clumsy and everyone makes fun of that?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SUCH A KLUTZ ! ᡣ𐭩ᯓ

pairing. oscar piastri x leclerc!reader

summary. in which reader can’t walk straight to save her life and formula fans (as well as some of the drivers) find it extremely amusing, while her boyfriend is the greenest flag of all time.

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, francisca.cgomes, charles_leclerc and 89 623 others.

yourusername rumour has it that the best couple on grid is enjoying the summer break and the rumors are TRUE! though it is also said that the girl in third slide fell off the scooter and got a concussion so her boyfriend took her phone away for three days — this may or may not be true!

view all comments!

user1 oscar is so whipped the guy is the first like whenever she posts something 😭😭

user2 i know ehic isnt a thing in monaco unfortunately but my other european girlies please remember to get yourself an ehic card if you travel across europe it can save you a lot of nerves if you injury yourself on vacay 😭😭😭

priniya european girlies always remember to have a valid european health insurance card! <3

oscarpiastri she might say its not true but it is 👎👎 the girl almost gave me a heart attack

landonorris yourusername someone should lock you up because at this rate youre gonna hurt yourself by breathing

yourusername im having a brat summer ☹️

arthur_leclerc dont think its how it works lutin

francisca.cgomes rumour has it that she didn’t take her girlfriend with her to her trip

lilymhe rumour has it that she broke her other girlfriend’s heart

yourusername NOOOO IM SORRY 😭😭😭 LET ME MAKE IT UP WHEN THE BREAK ENDS

marverstappen1 girl how do you even function with that clumsy brain of yours?

yourusername kellypiquet please tell p that max is making fun of me because i got hurt

kellypiquet she’s making you a card rn

maxverstappen1 our house turned into a glitterlandia because of that card

yourusername I LOVE HER SO MUCH

user3 i honestly cant wait for the pyn reunion in zandvoort 🥹🥹🥹

yourusername same shes my true one 👊👊

charles_leclerc oscarpiastri take your aussie hands off my baby sister or ill crash into you in zandvoort 😁

charles_leclerc for legal purpose this may or may not be a joke

yourusername crash into him and i’ll do something worse than have his hands on me and make you watch

francisca.cgomes

liked by pierregasly, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc and 432 621 others.

francisca.cgomes a girls night gone wrong…

— tagged alexandrasaintmleux, yourusername

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user4 i bet my LIFE that yn had to go to the er 😭😭😭

pierregasly THIS is what you meant by a surprise??????

francisca.cgomes surprise . . . 😦

alexandrasaintmleux it was fun while it lasted . . .

user5 WHY DOES THE COMMENTS SEEM LIKE YN DIED WHERE IS HER COMMENT

user6 yn rn 💀🪦🪦

user7 you are not funny! hope that helps ❤️

charles_leclerc girl where is my sister 😭😭😭😭

yourusername WHY ARE YALL ACTING LIKE I DIED?????

user8 SHES ALIVE YOU GUYS

oscarpiastri kika you were supposed to bring her back in one piece?

francisca.cgomes sorry it was not my fault

francisca.cgomes literally not my fault this time a guy bumped into her shoulder and she fell 😭😭😭

yourusername i sprained my ankle :(

alexandrasaintmleux we still love you 🫶

user9 ngl i would give my leg to be a part of this friendship

user10 same

landonorris petition to keep yourusername locked in a cage

user11 😧😧😧

yourusername you gotta catch me first 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

pierregasly i second this

lilymhe i third

alexandrasaintmleux ily yn but i fourth ☹️

twitter !

user13 WHEN ITS GONNA BE MY TURN???

user14 i need an oscar in my life but idk if i wanna be yn 😭

user15 you r so real for that oomf

user16 ngl i wish i could be oscar to be with yn

user17 god just knew that if she made yn flawless she would be too much for mortals

user18 she ?

user17 god is a woman and her name is pascale leclerc 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

user19 LMAO

lando.jpg

liked by alex_albon, yourusername, logansargeant and 772 812 others.

lando.jpg never accept an invitation from yourusername for a dinner at her house because there’s a 100% chance she’s gonna burn herself while making you food

view all comments!

oscarpiastri shouldnt have invited YOU

lando.jpg ??? MEAN ???

oscarpiastri dont make fun of my clumsy girlfriend

yourusername when he’s protective ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

yourusername i burnt myself while YOU ALL WERE LAUGHING

user20 oscar was laughing too?😭

arthur_leclerc he was glaring at everyone laughing while looking after yn

user21 oscar is the bestest boyfriend possible i need an oscar in my life

user22 yourusername can you fight?

yourusername i have three older brothers, go figure it out

user22 (｡•́︿•̀｡)

charles_leclerc cant believe they didn’t invite ME and they invited YOU

arthur_leclerc she invited me and enzo LOL

user23 lando.jpg comeback to make fun of oscars gf 😭😭😭

charles_leclerc SHE WAS MY SISTER FIRST

user24 yn is a klutz first human second

oscarpiastri

liked by pascale_leclerc, nicolepiastri, yourusername and 921 728 others.

oscarpiasti a few things that summer break gave me: a dog (yes, i’m officially a dog dad), relaxing time with my friends n family, a fiancée and lots of headaches due to the clumsiness of my gorgeous fiancée.

view all comments!

yourusername i love youuuuuu

hattiepiastri THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT???

hattiepiastri yourusername YOURE MARRYING MY BROTHER????

hattiepiastri HOW DID THAT HAPPEN??

yourusername i flipped a coin

georgerussell63 it probably hit you in the face too, no?

user25 IMAGINE THE FAMILY GATHERINGS???

user26 hold on is oscar gonna go there as charles’ son or yn’s throphy husband??

user27 the family dynamics must be crazy??? because wdym his girlfriend’s brother ADOPTED him??

oscarpiasti fiancee’s*

user27 oh hes not playing

user28 this gon be soooo awkward at the family dinner

yourusername BURN THE PAPERS charles_leclerc HES MINE NOW

charles_leclerc HE WAS MINE FIRST

nicolepiastri i’m pretty sure he was mine first 🥰

pascale_leclerc now we have to share children nicolepiastri

landonorris love you guys but you shouldn’t have a wedding because with yns abilities she might turn the party into a funeral

mclaren so glad to have yn in the mclaren family! 🧡

user29 engagement this engagement that we KNEW you would tie the knot sooner or later WHAT IS THE DOGS NAME 🗣️🗣️🗣️

oscarpiastri pepper :)

user30 yn and lorenzo both engaged in 2024?? leclerc siblings are going STRONG

lewishamilton congratulations to you guys 💚💚

sebastianvettel lots of love and patience with that one, oscar :)

user31 not the girls not congratulating oscyn… fake friends?

user32 gtfo they prob knew abt it already and congratulated them IN PERSON and not in instagram photo comments

francocolapinto lost my chance 😞😔😭😭😢

user33 LMAOOO??? bro saw her at ONE (1) race and fell in love

user34 honestly cant blame him

user35 pls never media train him

yourusername pls franco never change 🫶

pierregasly pls dont elope i need that free food

yukitsunoda0511 dude youre a MILLIONAIRE?

pierregasly dude gtfo

yukitsunoda0511 if i were them i would elope just to spite you

oscarpiastri dont give yn any ideas pls

yourusername no eloping for us i need my brothers to walk me down the aisle 😁😁😁

georgerussell63 to make sure you don’t trip over the dress?

yourusername youre officially uninvited 👎

user36 SHE WANTS CHARLES ENZO AND ARTHUR WALKING HER DOWN THE AISLE??? OH IM GONNA KILL MYSELF