#Or should I send an ask to see if it’s okay?

[madamechrissy]

Escort! Satoru- part five

Pairings- Escort Satoru Gojo x shy CEO F! reader

Warnings- mutual pining like a mf, obsessed ass/whipped ass Gojo, mutual pining, lots of yearninggg, kissing (I KNOW YAYYY) dry humping, teasing, fingering, public play, fluffy and cute- there will be a part six! (final) pretty woman vibes 🤭

<<<Part Four

Escort! Satoru finally does it, he asks you on that date, watching the shock in your eyes, the trembling of your lips as you step back, and Satoru feels it then, the hammering of his heart. Is it too late? Should he have reached out again to you after the first night, when you didn't answer? His blue eyes peer at you over those glasses, as the sunlight beats down on your skin, making his cheeks just a little reddened, striking across his pale skin.

Escort! Satoru eases his hands gently off your face, when you swallow nervously - he hurt you so badly that night, the embarrassment of asking him to hold you, dying for a mere kiss on the lips. How could you be so foolish, truly, you had to try to forget him in any way you could, after sleeping with him and knowing he would never be yours, always sharing him, he was just there because of your money and maybe he enjoyed it. But it wasn't more.

Escort! Satoru realizes how much he fucking missed you now, as if some void is filled by your presence, but you lower his hands gently, holding them for a moment. 'I was so...' stupid, you were stupid 'I'm very sorry I asked you for things you never do,' you sigh, looking around, seeing people walk by. 'I should have respected your-' Satoru stops you then, tilting your chin up, your gaze focused on him. 'I should have held you, okay? I'm sorry...' you feel your eyes fill with the tears, as words you've dreamed of are spoken, and they feel just like that- a dream. 'I want a real date, could we?'

Escort! Satoru eyes you when your phone rings, and you look down nervously. 'I have a date tonight, the first in... years' Satoru steps back now, glaring at you. 'With who?' you blink in surprise. 'Why does it matter to you? Do you think after months I wouldn't ever wanna try?' Satoru grips your wrist, thumb brushing against the veins gently, sending shivers down your spine, as he tries to compose himself, he has no right to be so mad, so jealous. 'Fine, then give me a date after' he murmurs, desperate for you, how can he see you and not try? After everything he's been yearning for appears before him, and he knows how badly he fucked up. 'I don't know...' you want to, god you do, but you also know how badly Satoru can hurt you, uniquely. 'Please just, give me a chance to explain myself, to be myself and not...' he trails off, the wind blows gently and a little blossom lands on your hair, which he sweetly brushes away. 'One chance'

Escort! Satoru is furious thinking about anyone touching you, though it's toxic and unrealistic in every aspect. His job was to touch, though he'd throw it all away if you asked, god he would, because he doesn't find joy in any of it. No amount of money fills this emptiness, but he never thought he'd have a chance with you - only to ruin it. 'I'll go out with you this weekend, but you pick the place, and pick me up' you say softly, his heart thuds as he nods eagerly, desperate and pathetic for you - something he's never been until you ruined him with just your energy, your body, that laugh he'd love to have back. Memories of your night fill him then, as he aches to touch you, to know you, to kiss you.

Escort! Satoru plans the date to a tee, but the whole time he's wondering - where are you going, and with who? Would you prefer them over him? Meanwhile you're trying to get through that date, mind wandering, you just tried to open up for the first time since Satoru broke your heart - even if it was your own fault. You try to smile, and enjoy him, a handsome man that surely was perfect on paper, and interested in you. As the night goes on and the drinks pour, you think to yourself, you should try, letting him kiss you at the end of the evening, wondering what you'll feel. It's nice, but it's nothing like just being near Satoru. Frustrated almost to tears, you're laying in bed that night, as the man in your head that you almost pushed down enough, is back front and center.

Escort! Satoru can't stand it, knowing you're on a date, he almost texts you so many times before he caves - 'ready for our date?'- he smirks, hoping your with whoever it was. But you don't answer him for hours, until you finally write him - yes - and that's it, no sweet banter like the two of you had. It's different, had you really already moved on? He trembles as he texts you - 'how was the date?' - and you write - 'it was fine, any jobs tonight? - and that's when he realizes you're mad. The sweetest girl he met is so clearly mad. He hadn't taken a job tonight, and he's cancelled his week, but he gets it clearly. - 'no job tonight, I'm excited to see you' - He's never said that to anyone. You heart the message, emotions catching, excitement but apprehension in equal parts, you just don't know if he's serious, you're so scared to let go again.

Escort! Satoru picks you up that night in his car, some little Maserati sports car that looks like it goes way too fast. You can't act like he's not sexy as fuck as he steps out of it, opening your door and grinning at you, but you try to hold back, smiling with a 'thank you' as you slide in next to him. Satoru's hand craves to press on your thigh, but fuck if he's not nervous, he hasn't had a date since he started this career despite his job being to go on dates, not a real one, not with someone he asked. He's damn near shaking with his nerves, trying to play it off, as he drives through the quiet streets, smiling over at you with a quirk of his lips. 'You look beautiful' his words make you flustered, nervously tugging a bit on the gorgeous dress you're wearing, glittering like the stars in the sky - fuck your very skin itself glitters. 'you're saying it truly this time?'

Escort! Satoru glares now, foot on his break, scowling at you. 'what do you mean truly? you think I didn't mean any of it?' you blink back unexpected tears, looking out the dark tinted window as he drives once more. 'It was your job, that's all, and I told you I took it too far, you shouldn't feel bad that happened. I - ah!' he skids to a stop suddenly, pulling off the side of the road, and unbuckling your seatbelt so fast you can barely register. He's got you on his lap so fast, as cars whirl by, shaking the fucking car and shocking you further, as he handles you like it's nothing. You brace your hands on his chest, so nervous now, hands clenching the black jacket of his tux, breaths faster and faster. 'You are beautiful, I never said that because of a job' he swipes away your tears, lips hovering over yours, as he exhales, breath tickling your lips. 'What are you doing, Satoru?' your whisper is weak, as he drags you even closer, and his eyes dart to your lips. 'What I should have done that night'

Escort! Satoru slams his lips on yours then and there, you feel it like hot, electric shots going through your body when he does, when he's pressing those plush, glossy lips on yours, and you're shattering over him, lost in his kiss. Satoru has never felt anything like it, like finally kissing you, his tongue slipping in your mouth, drinking up your every cry, every gasp, as you roll your hips just right, and he feels the heat he's been dying for against his aching cock. 'Fuck...' his hushed words are met with your little cry, which just has him dragging you down harder, ready to devour every sweet inch of you, but barely being able to drag himself from your lips, gasping as he pulls back, eyes meeting yours, glimmering now. 'Satoru you... kissed me...' you're close to crying now, trembling as he sighs, cupping your pretty face, the one that's haunted him. 'I've wanted to since I first saw you'

Escort! Satoru keeps kissing you, over and over, desperate and messy, you almost cum just from that friction against you, his teeth sinking into your lower lip, as his huge hands press into your skin. 'I need you, fuck I need you sweetheart- god you have no clue' you're easing back, struggling to compose yourself. 'Am I so VIP?' you tease softly, and he feels it then, the soft way you're asking - not judging, but scared. He exhales, resting his head on yours, shaking his head and pulling you down again. 'I'll gladly delete my whole fucking profile, for a chance with you' his words sink in fully. Your cheeks are hot under his gentle touch. 'I just don't... Satoru, you don't have to do this for me. I understand...' He kisses you once more, before your phone rings.

Escort! Satoru glares, and you can't help but giggle. 'Are you jealous?' he just sets his jaw, as you look over and see it, holding the phone with a shaky hand, and he pulls you harder on his cock, having your eyes roll back in your skull. 'Tell him you're on a date' he whispers, gripping you so tight, before easing you to sit back in your seat, kissing you over and over. 'Let's get there, okay?' you're trying to compose yourself, seeing him shift and wince while he drives once more, pouting. 'You enjoying my pain, sweets?' you can't help but giggle again. The date is pretty and serene, the restaraunt on the roof top, swathed in moonlight. Satoru feeds you carefully, the two of you sharing dessert, talking and laughing like the first time he fucking met you - when he knew then, something was so special about you, something he could never pin fully, but he sees it, with how the candle light hits your face, your sweet blush as his hand slips up your thigh.

Escort! Satoru is not happy to learn you've had a kiss, and your amused little smile is quickly lost, when he slips his fingers between your thighs, and you wildly look around, as he smirks at you. 'That's cute, you kissed? did you like that?' he's taunting now, possessive gaze, that you can't get enough of, fuck you want all of him, even though you're scared, so scared to be hurt again. He's pressing his fingers against your panties, which are soaked, watching as your eyes get lidded, hand gripping the thick white cloth, and he slips under then, feeling the heat he'd been dying for, leaning in close. 'Asked you a question, hmm?' you lean closer, hips shifting, jerking as he thumbs your twitchy little clit, making you gush. 'Would you be mad if I liked it, Satoru?' he sighs, slipping two fingers in your slick hole, making you almost moan in the fucking restaurant now. 'You're wet for me, aren't you, all me?' He's curling them now, acting so casual as a waitress refills your wine, and you pray no one hears the squishing noises your juices are making.

Escort! Satoru can't help but suck you off his fingers, right before he makes you cum, and you're throbbing around nothing, wanting. You're clenching your teeth as you watch, as if he's finishing his dessert- and when he tastes you again!? He can barely control himself, eyes dilated while you sink into his tastebuds, ready to finally give you what you want, and need, and deserve, fuck you so good you can't function, and hold and kiss you. Satoru slips his lips on yours in front of the restaurant, and you taste yourself, whining into his lips. Suddenly a girl sees him, a frequent client who'd gotten too obsessed, and walks right up to him, crossing her arms. He eases back in the seat, as you look down shyly, unsure of who she is. 'I'm on a date' his words make your heart flutter now, as she glares. 'ah, so you do kiss? was this some special package, do you know how expensive you are?' you bite back a smile, and Satoru just grins, shaking his head like a little shit. 'It's different, she's my girlfriend.'

Escort! Satoru blushes when you whisper 'your girlfriend, huh?' in his ear moments later, as a very angry client stomps off, and he brushes back your hair, hard body against yours, studying your face. 'Would you... be my girlfriend?'

I need one more part for these two - it'll probably be all sex lolll hope you enjoy this one!

taglist 1 @shydroid3000 @aducksmokingquack @miya4life @ravenbc @yenayaps @nezukuwu @etsuniiru @ieathairs @kenqki @princess-bblgm @belovedxiao @ninikrumbs @ieathairs @myahfig4 @theelegantpotato @vvaoo @aldebrana @celestep004 @whoisteona @ladyneisa @lililovely78 @gamerhere @wstaley2 @allthesqueaks @slut4donghyuck @maisiefrancesca @yittten @femaholicc @jjknanamin @that-b-word-lol @devastyle @mat-mat-mat @jkslaugh97 @ovela @mxgnolia @rikiswifeyyy @kaayyhunnyy @gojos1wife1 @arabellasolstice @01ve3rz @jud3thedude @firemoonlightfly @vyluvs @artist1936 @kyelikesanime @alygator77 @seternic @qlucoise @mysticranger575 @undermegumisbed

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part three]

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

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, handjobs, fondling, nudity, fem reader, bucky is touch starved, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, natasha cares, injury, blood, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.9k

A/N: hey if you have dejavu seeing this, it's because the other post is glitched for some reason and some people aren't able to see it, i think it's to do with there being over 30 people on the taglist. i'll have to come up with a solution for that. in the meantime, pls enjoy and hopefully this post is actually visible!. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

"Go for the left."

Kate blinked. "The left?"

"Yes."

She looked from you to Bucky, eyebrows raised like you’d asked her to charge a bear with a toothpick. "We’re talking about the left? The metal freaking arm left?"

"That’s the one."

The look she gave you was flat-out incredulous. "Are you serious? Isn’t that the last place I should be aiming?"

You resisted the urge to sigh. "That’s exactly why you should aim there. Everyone goes for his right. They assume it’s weaker. Bucky knows that. He’s trained to defend that side, conditioned even. But the left? Sure, it’s strong. That doesn’t make it invulnerable. Watch him."

You nodded toward Bucky, shadowboxing in the centre of the mat, relaxed but precise, like a predator keeping his muscles warm. "See how he braces before a punch? That slight weight shift? It’s a habit. Subtle but predictable. It leaves a small window, but just enough. Learn to spot that, and you can drop someone twice your size."

Kate’s expression turned thoughtful, eyes narrowing as she studied Bucky more intently. "Okay… so how do you get good at spotting weaknesses like that?"

"Learn to observe. Don’t rush in swinging. Patience and preparation will win a fight long before your fists do."

Kate nodded slowly, rolling her shoulders. "Alright. Let’s see if I can prove you right."

She took a step forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you with a sheepish grin. "I am a little scared, though—"

You gave her a flat look. "Just go, Kate."

She groaned but turned back toward Bucky, stepping onto the mat with a reluctant sort of determination.

It was late afternoon, and golden light poured through the gym windows in long, drowsy streaks. Dust drifted lazily in the sunbeams, but the air was thick with tension—not the kind that came from training, but from something far more complicated. Natasha and Yelena had thought it hilarious to pair you not only with Kate for sparring but also with Bucky. You had no doubt they were watching from the sidelines, smirking into their water bottles. Those two were always scheming.

Natasha hadn’t said anything to you yet, but then again, you’d been avoiding her like the plague since yesterday’s meeting. She was too sharp, too perceptive not to pick up on the subtle shifts in both your and Bucky’s behaviour. The cracks were already showing, the slightly too-long looks between you and Bucky, the stiffness in your tone whenever his name came up, the defensiveness you thought you’d kept hidden but apparently hadn’t.

You knew you couldn’t dodge her forever. Sooner or later, she’d confront you. And when she did, you’d have to lie—or worse, tell some version of the truth. What that truth even was… you weren’t sure. Not yet.

And Bucky?

You had no idea how to tell him you thought she already knew. That kind of conversation was a minefield, one wrong word and you’d either send him into horrified silence or make him regret every second of the nights spent together. Neither option was appealing.

You exhaled sharply, arms crossed as you watched Kate bounce on the balls of her feet, testing the space between her and Bucky.

He stood still in the centre of the mat, arms relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable. Brooding and unimpressed, as always. He hadn’t looked at you once all day, not properly at least. And yet you couldn’t stop thinking about how you knew exactly what he looked like when he came undone beneath you, fingers tangled in sheets and voice gone rough with need. He had been about as excited as you felt when the ‘teams’ for sparring were announced. You were beginning to suspect some convoluted plot half the compound was in on to see you and Bucky go head to head.

Now, he was back to being the Winter Soldier, being precisely what H.Y.D.R.A trained him to be, stoic, intimidating, unreadable. He had a talent for making his opponents feel beneath him. Unworthy. It was a tactic, you knew that, but it still worked.

Kate circled warily, eyes darting as she tried to read him, every shift in her posture betraying nerves. You watched her movements closely, noting the hesitation, the constant foot adjustments. She was looking for the right moment. You just hoped she’d recognise it when it came.

Much to Yelena and Natasha’s annoyance, you had flipped their little prank back onto them, sending Kate out to spar first, hoping to break her out of that ‘swing first, think later’ style Yelena loved so much.

A shadow moved in the corner of your vision as Yelena strolled up beside you, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between you and the fight. Speak of the devil, and she will appear. 

"You’re staring real hard," she drawled. "What, got money riding on this?"

You didn’t bother looking at her. "She’s your pet project. Remind me again why I’m the one training her?"

"Apprentice," Yelena corrected smoothly.

You blinked. "What?"

She gestured vaguely toward Kate, who was still circling Bucky with the kind of careful precision that told you she was second-guessing herself. "She’s my apprentice, not a pet project. There is a difference."

"Uh-huh," you said flatly, entirely unconvinced. "And yet I’m the one teaching her how to think, instead of just swinging wildly and hoping the universe sorts it out."

Yelena smirked. "Because I am all wham, whack, bang, bam, action! Yes? You are all boring lectures and tactical talk. It is balance. How is she supposed to know how cool and awesome I am without hearing all your boring lectures about battle analysis—"

You turned to her, unimpressed. "Did you just make up sound effects?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said sweetly, then sipped from a water bottle like she hadn’t just made cartoon sound effects with complete sincerity.

Your focus shifted back to the fight as Kate feinted right, then hesitated—again. Bucky wasn’t attacking yet, just watching her with the kind of stillness that would’ve put even you on edge. He was waiting for her to make the first move, to reveal her plan before he committed to a real counter.

"She’s hesitating too much," Yelena observed.

"She’s calculating," you corrected. "That’s what she’s supposed to do."

Yelena made a sceptical noise. "If she waits any longer, he’s just going to knock her flat."

"If she rushes in without a plan, it’ll be the same result."

Bucky shifted—just a subtle test, quick and clean. Kate dodged, but barely. Her stance faltered. Yelena sighed, dragging her hands down her face. "Okay, this is painful to watch. You should just let me handle her—"

“No. I’m trying to teach her to think, not charge in like a wrecking ball.”

"Excuse you," Yelena gasped, touching her chest in mock offence. "I am a very tactical wrecking ball."

You didn’t respond, eyes narrowing. Kate was watching Bucky now—really watching. Good. She sidestepped his next move, then launched into the attack.

A feint to the right. A quick pivot. Just like you’d told her.

Bucky braced for the strike to his right, but it didn’t come.

Kate dipped low, powered off her back foot, and drove her elbow toward his ribs. Clean, sharp, decisive.

Bucky twisted fast, but not fast enough.

Her elbow landed. His breath left in a tight, surprised grunt.

"See?" you muttered, nudging Yelena with an elbow. "She’s learning."

Yelena lifted a brow. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll see if she follows through."

Instead of retreating, Kate followed through, using the momentum to drive her knee upward.

Bucky jerked back, but not far enough. Kate’s knee clipped his chin, snapping his head up just enough for the final blow.

You scoffed. "Give her some credit—"

A sharp smack rang through the gym.

Bucky let out a startled grunt of pain, staggering back, one hand cupping his face. Blood was already leaking between his fingers.

Kate froze, eyes going wide in horror. "Oh my god—Bucky! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—are you okay? Oh god, you’re bleeding—"

Bucky tipped his head back, exhaling sharply through his nose, which only made more blood drip down his lip. “No kidding.”

Yelena snorted beside you. "Okay, I take it back. She might actually be good at this."

Kate was still floundering, hands hovering like she wanted to help but had no idea how. "What do you need—should I get a medic? Ice? Tissues? A priest?"

Bucky shot her a glare, nostrils flaring as more blood dripped down his lip. "Just… just give me a second."

You stepped forward onto the mat. "Well. I’d say she followed through."

Yelena smirked. "Yeah. Maybe a little too well."

Kate turned to you, looking utterly betrayed. "You told me to go for the left!"

"I said to attack the opening on his left, not ‘punch him in the face like you’re trying to knock out a tooth’, but hey, improvisation is an important skill."

Kate groaned. Bucky muttered something low and vile in Russian as he turned toward the exit, blood trailing faintly in his wake.

Even Yelena blinked. “That sounded like a curse, Kate. Possibly an ancient one.”

“Don’t say that!” Kate whined in fear. 

"I’ll handle him," you muttered with a sigh, already following. You paused at the edge of the mat, glancing back at Kate. “You did good. Maybe pull your punches and ease off the full-force murder next time?”

Kate groaned louder. "That was me pulling my punches!"

Yelena’s laughter followed you as you crossed the room, clapping her hands together as she bounced on her toes like an excited child. "Oh, this is fun. We should do this more often."

You pushed through the changing room door and stepped into the cooler air beyond. The space was clean and sterile in that way that only rich tech-billionaire funding could buy. Polished tiles, dark wood lockers with brass fittings, and the faint scent of citrusy cleaner lingering beneath the hum of recessed lights.

The sound of running water guided you to the sinks.

Bucky was hunched over the white porcelain basin, one arm braced on the counter, the other still cupping the lower half of his face. The mirror above caught his reflection, blood-streaked, jaw-tight, brows drawn down in a frustrated knot. Crimson spiralled down the drain, bright against the ceramic.

“You look like a crime scene,” you muttered as you crossed the room.

Bucky let out a sharp breath through his mouth, meeting your comment with a pointed grunt that spoke volumes.

You raised a brow. “Are you going to keep glaring at me like I put out a hit on you?”

“You did,” he muttered flatly.

You rolled your eyes, making a beeline for the paper towel dispenser. You pulled out a few thick, folded sheets and pressed them into his free hand. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” he grumbled.

“Bucky.” You shot him a look, unimpressed. “Sit.”

His jaw tightened like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he relented, pushing off the counter, and he trudged toward one of the benches in the centre of the room and sat down stiffly, wincing as he tilted his head back.

You crouched in front of him, studying his face. The blood smeared across his upper lip stood out starkly against his skin, but at least it wasn’t gushing anymore. His nose was red, swelling a little but not crooked. Reaching out, you ghosted your fingers over the bridge, careful and light. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

Bucky huffed. “Feels broken.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t let Kate punch you in the face next time.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t dignify you with a response.

Shaking your head, you folded a fresh set of paper towels and pressed them lightly against his nose. “Hold this. It'll keep you from dripping all over Stark’s precious floors.”

Bucky took them with a sigh, his metal fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sank to your knees without really thinking about it, watching as Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusting the pressure with careful precision. His shoulders had lost some of their earlier tension, but his posture was still guarded like he was bracing himself for something more than just the dull throb of pain. The quiet hum of the ventilation system filled the space, blending with the distant murmur of voices from the gym beyond.

“Last night, I—” Bucky broke the silence first, his voice slightly nasal from the swelling.

“You fell asleep.” You cut him off gently, offering a faint smile. You didn’t know how much he had actually heard before exhaustion had finally claimed him. Maybe that was for the best. Perhaps it had been a mistake to let your guard down, to speak so openly, to bare your soul so easily. You had told yourself you wouldn’t burden him with your struggles. He already carried enough of his own.

And yet, he had this way of making you feel safe. Too safe.

It was almost ironic. He was supposed to instil fear, his name alone enough to make enemies think twice. And yet, all you saw was a rather sad, damaged, and tired man, his big, mournful puppy-dog eyes carrying the weight of things he could never put into words.

“Yeah. I don’t… remember it happening,” Bucky admitted, frowning slightly as if frustrated with himself. “One second, I was with you, and the next—”

“Did you sleep well, at least?”

He hesitated like he was debating whether to downplay it. But then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Best I have in a while.”

Your smile grew just a little. “I’m glad.”

Silence settled again, not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Then, after a beat, Bucky sighed.

“I’m sorry that I don’t talk to you much outside of… lessons.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, Bucky. You don’t… owe me anything.”

“It’s just… I don’t know how to act,” he admitted, gaze flicking away. “Not with everyone watching. I don’t want them figuring out. I don’t like their attention being all over me.”

Your smile faltered for just a second before you forced it back into place. 

“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, shifting the conversation.

Bucky’s brows pulled together in confusion. “How do you know about that—?”

You shrugged. It was your job to observe. To pick people apart and learn their secrets before they even knew them themselves. “During training, I’ve noticed you favour your right side. You block and punch heavier with it. You were compensating subconsciously because your left side was giving you grief. Have you thought about seeing a physio?”

His lips parted slightly like he hadn’t expected you to catch that. Then his gaze narrowed, a hint of suspicion creeping in.

“Is that why you gave me a massage yesterday?”

You smirked, tilting your head playfully. “Hm. Maybe.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Always two steps ahead, huh?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes glinting with amusement, a witty remark hanging off your tongue—only to dissolve the moment the door swung open.

Steve sauntered in, halting mid-step by the sinks as he took in the scene. You were kneeling between Bucky’s legs, a faint smirk tugging at your mouth while he looked down at you with something dangerously close to a smile—bloody paper towel and all.

Steve’s brows lifted. Confusion crossed his face, mixed with something harder to place, surprise? Suspicion? Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t expecting this.

You jerked back instinctively, hands bracing on your thighs as you turned to face him.

“It’s not broken,” you announced a little too quickly, jerking your chin toward Bucky. “He’ll live. Bit of swelling and a bit of bruising. Nothing that won’t fade.”

Steve blinked, still trying to piece things together. “I didn’t realise you two were… friends?”

You let out a short, sharp laugh, already on your feet and several paces away. “Hear that, Barnes? We’re friends now.”

Bucky—who stiffly sat on the bench, with his hands still braced against his knees—remained utterly rooted in place as if one wrong move would shatter the illusion. His eyes flicked to you, then to Steve, then back to you, a silent plea not to say anything more.

Steve, on the other hand, still looked perplexed. 

“What?” you asked, turning back to the sink and rinsing your hands of the small amount of blood that had smudged across the skin during your brief inspection.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing, I just, uh…” His face twisted slightly like he regretted speaking at all. “I’ve never heard you laugh before. It surprised me, that’s all.”

That stopped you. Cold. The smirk slipped from your face like it had never been there. Classic Steve Rogers. World’s most well-meaning bastard. Saying the worst possible thing with the purest damn intentions.

You hadn’t exactly made yourself the most approachable presence on the team. You kept your distance, never bought into the ‘team bonding’ crap that Stark and Fury constantly tried to shove down your throat. You weren’t here for friendships but to do a job. But something about how he said it—I’ve never heard you laugh before—grated deep. Like your silence was an affliction. Like you were broken because you didn’t play nice like everyone else.

Without thinking, you flicked water in his direction.

He flinched back with a slight grimace. 

“Thanks, Rogers,” you said, bone-dry. Then you turned, walking away without another word.

You could faintly hear Steve’s voice, panicked and confused, coming from behind you as you pushed the door open.

“What? What did I do?” he called to Bucky, his voice trailing.

“That was painful,” Bucky muttered loud enough for you to catch. “You always tell women to smile more, or is that just your opener? Remind me how you bagged Sharon talking like that—”

“That wasn’t what I was saying—!” Steve protested, his words quickly swallowed by the sound of the door snapping shut behind you

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, you probably would laugh more if life hadn’t spent the past few years making sure you forgot how. If it weren’t for how every genuine emotion now felt like an act, something you wielded like a weapon to get what you wanted. The only time you really smiled or laughed anymore was on missions, tools of the trade. Smile here, flirt there, manipulate, mislead, vanish. You could fake it all like second nature, charm so convincing it fooled even yourself sometimes.

Because when it was real, it still felt like a lie.

You stalked back into the gym, trying to push the thoughts aside. Yelena’s sharp eyes caught yours almost immediately. “We’re going to the bar after this. You coming?”

You reached for your gym bag, slinging it over your shoulder without missing a beat. “No,” you answered flatly, prowling to walk toward the door.

“You’re not coming?” Kate had appeared from nowhere at your side, big blue eyes staring up at you.

You glanced down at her, deadpan. “Can you even go? Aren’t you like twelve?”

Kate’s begging expression melted into a playful glare, hands on her hips as you hesitated by the door. “No! I’m in college. I’m not a kid!”

You raised an eyebrow, her defensive tone amusing you. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she shot back, almost proudly.

You grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Ah, barely legal.”

“It’s fine, she’ll be with us!” Yelena chimed in, giving you a pleading look. “Nat is coming, the others too, maybe Kate can buy Bucky a drink as an apology for breaking his nose—”

“Hey! I didn’t break it!” Kate protested, then looked up at you with a fearful expression, voice dipping in volume. “I didn’t, did I?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in dramatically as if giving a speech. “I can already see the headline: ‘Avengers Drunken Antics on Public Display’—.’”

Yelena scowled at you. “It’s fine!” 

You smirked, but the exhaustion from the past few hours still weighed heavily on you. “You’re probably right. I can’t say much, in Russia we had vodka with breakfast.”

“So you’re coming?” Yelena asked one last time, sounding hopeful despite your resistance.

“No.” You said it with finality.  “I’ve seen too much of your face today. I need a break.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, but Kate was already heading towards her bag with a skip in her step. “Fine! More for us then!”

—

The training room was unusually quiet without Yelena’s smartass remarks ricocheting off the walls. Usually, the three of you trained together in the early mornings, but she and Kate were off on some covert infiltration upstate. Childs play for Yelena, really, though she’d taken her duties as a mentor for her little pet project rather seriously. That left just you and Natasha circling each other on the mat. You weren’t exactly thrilled about Yelena’s absence, which meant you were facing the full brunt of Natasha’s wrath alone. What didn’t help was that you hadn’t slept properly in days. You were running on fumes, and it showed. The last week had felt like one long string of wipeouts, each one dragging you down further with no sign of relief.

You ducked beneath a lazy strike, half-hearted at best, and swept your leg toward Natasha’s ribs. She blocked it with her shin like she’d barely noticed.

“Sloppy,” she remarked.

You threw a punch, weak and lazy. Natasha easily caught your wrist, spinning your body and throwing you to the mat. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. She didn’t even break a sweat. She let out a short laugh, her hair spilling into her face as she looked down at you, amused.

But something was off.

Not in how she fought—no, that was as sharp as ever—but in her expression. Tight-lipped. Smug. And not her usual brand of smug, either. This was different, like she was sitting on a secret and absolutely itching for you to notice. She had that look again. The same one she’d had for the last two weeks. A silent challenge. An arrogant knowing. A game of cat and mouse neither of you had been willing to finish.

You groaned, deciding to cut your losses and pushed yourself off the mat, wiping sweat from your brow.

“There’s obviously something you want to say to me,” you muttered.

Natasha didn’t even pause. She moved in for another strike before you could fully recover, but you caught her forearm and twisted. She resisted effortlessly, that infuriating calm grin spreading across her face again.

“Nope,” she said. “Just… pleased, that’s all.”

“Pleased about what?” you asked cautiously.

Natasha pivoted out of your grip like water slipping through your fingers and swept your legs out from under you with a sharp hook of her foot. You hit the ground again with a dull thud. She didn’t bother offering you a hand up as if half-convinced you’d stay down.

“That I figured out your little secret before everyone else.” Her grin turned vicious. She started to circle you again, tone sing-song and entirely too satisfied. “Took me a while, but once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.”

You rolled up to your feet, levelling her with a look. “What secret?”

You played it cool. Innocent. But you both knew the gig was up. Natasha was like you, trained to spot what others missed, to read the body language no one else even registered. She’d probably clocked you and Bucky the moment you returned from the Gala. She and Yelena hadn’t exactly been subtle about their hunches, either.

She raised a brow. “Oh, come on. You’re really going to make me say it?”

You blinked back at her, expression blank.

“You,” she said, dragging the word out. “And Barnes.”

You deflected with a snort. “Yelena’s theories getting to you?”

“Don’t lie.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “He’s always making those puppy-dog eyes at you when he thinks no one’s looking.”

You barked a laugh, catching her off guard just long enough for you to swing a low kick her way. She dodged it neatly.

“Puppy-dog eyes? I can’t imagine it.” You lied through your teeth. “He always looks like someone kicked him while he was down. That or the brooding.”

Natasha’s smirk sharpened. “And you’re into that? He must be a very good fuck if you’re sticking around this long.”

“We haven’t…” You hesitated with a curse, missing a beat in your footwork. You shook your head, willing your mind to be able to focus on two tasks at once through the haze of fatigue. “Why would I want to fuck Barnes—”

“Considering our line of work, you’re a terrible liar sometimes.” You scowled at the amusement dripping from her voice. 

“It’s not like that between us.” You relented. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway—”

She cut over you, tilting her head. “You’re telling me you two haven’t had sex? God, don’t tell me it’s romance—”

“I’m just helping him feel normal.” You snapped back, hoping to shut her down before it got worse. “H.Y.D.R.A fucked him up, that’s for sure. The same way the Red Room fucked us up.”

Natasha made a face like something had clicked into place in her mind. “Shit.”

Your stomach dropped, movements stuttering as you realised you had unintentionally opened the floodgates. 

“Right,” she murmured, and something about her tone shifted. Not her usual brand of teasing. “You’re not… Never mind.”

You lunged toward her on instinct, catching her wrist with a clumsy grip. The contact was unsteady, your fingers didn’t have the strength they usually did, and Natasha didn’t fight back immediately.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied too quickly, too carefully.

“You’ve said it now,” you pressed, breath short. “Go on.”

She hesitated, her jaw ticking as her gaze drifted down, avoiding yours. The tension in her body softened by degrees, like she’d been carrying the thought for too long and finally decided it wasn’t worth holding onto.

“I just…” she exhaled, slow and controlled, “I worry about you sometimes. I hope you’re not taking on too much.”

You blinked at her, the fog in your head thick and sluggish. “Why do you say that?”

“You know what I mean.”

You knew what she meant, even if it was a truth you’d been hiding from yourself. A truth you didn’t want to look at too closely out of fear of it consuming you whole. A dull ache formed your chest, a lump in your throat as you shook your head. 

You knew Natasha wouldn’t have had any way of knowing those forbidden words you’d uttered to Bucky, the ones he had missed as sleep had pulled him under, the thoughts that haunted you now that you had finally shown them acknowledgement. You felt sick. Rotten to your core. Like maggots and rot festered within, wriggling and twitching beneath the skin, just enough for you to pretend, smile, and continue like normal as your world shattered around you.

“I’m not some broken little girl, Nat,” you said, heat rising behind your words. “I can look after myself.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said softly, and it was the softness that rattled you most. Natasha didn’t do soft unless it mattered. “But… can you look after yourself? Or have you just isolated yourself for so long that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking the only person you can trust is yourself?”

Her voice, the quiet honesty of it, landed harder than any blow she’d dealt all morning.

You looked down, your fists trembling faintly. You flexed your fingers, opening and closing them like the answer might be written in your palms.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t believe you either. You could feel it in the silence between her breaths. Natasha never spoke unless she meant it. She was always calculating like you.

“I just…” she said, the words tentative like they were being picked up and examined before they left her mouth. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

She paused, then added with a wry twist of her lips as if to soften the blow, “Or Barnes.”

You snorted, the sound bitter and short. “Since when do you care about Barnes?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Not really. But if he gets attached and this doesn’t go how he hopes, he could spiral. And if you get attached and he panics…”

“I know.”

And you did. You knew it too well. The thought had curled up behind your ribs and sat there, heavy and unwanted, gnawing at you whenever he looked at you like you were something soft. Like you were safe. You didn’t feel like a safe option. 

“Just…” Natasha’s voice was quieter now, more cautious. “Don’t lose yourself trying to fix him.”

You met her eyes, forcing yourself to stay grounded. To not waver. “I’m not damaged.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but you saw how her brow pinched, the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

You sighed, the weight of your exhaustion peeling every word from your throat like it didn’t want to come willingly. “I’m also not trying to fix him. We’re just… friends. With benefits. Nothing more.”

She gave a slow nod like she was willing to accept that on paper, but in her gut, she wasn’t buying it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll believe you. Just… don’t go all radio silent on me like you do. I’m here for you, you know?”

You raised a brow, trying for humour but lacking the energy to pull it off entirely. “You getting all sappy on me now?”

“Never.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“Hm. Maybe.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brow. “But don’t tell Yelena. She’ll rip me to fucking shreds over it.”

Despite yourself, you let out a faint, tired laugh.

But it only lasted a second before Natasha lunged again.

You weren’t fast enough this time—your sluggish body didn’t catch up to the signal your brain sent. Her leg swept yours, and the mat slammed into your shoulder before you even realised you were falling. Pain flared, dull and heavy, and you lay there. Breathing hard. Staring up at the ceiling like it might offer you some kind of answer.

Natasha hovered above you, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable.

“Seriously,” she said. “When was the last time you actually slept? You look like shit.”

There it was, the usual cool, snide remark to cushion the fact that she truly cared. Like she knew you’d run like a spooked animal if she showed too much kindness. You didn’t answer right away. Just closed your eyes and let the silence stretch.

Natasha let out a grunt, not the least bit impressed.

—

You would have to warn Bucky that if he kept looking at you like that, the two of you were bound to end up in a whole world of trouble. 

It was bad enough that Natasha was on your tail—worse than that—she’d found the bones in your closet, polished them clean, and lined them up like trophies. You knew she wouldn’t breathe a word to Yelena, or anyone else for that matter, but you could feel a future creeping toward you, one where her tongue slipped. Just once. That’s all it would take.

And Bucky? He wasn’t helping. Not with that look. Not when even Steve Rogers did a double take, brows ticking up as if to say really, Buck? 

You were fresh off a particularly gruelling recon mission at Karpin’s club. No fists were thrown, no bullets dodged, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. Playing the role of an attractive, naïve dancer took more skill than most people realised. You’d spent the last six weeks prying secrets from Karpin’s greasy fingers. Details about his buyers, how payments were moved, anything useful. He never suspected a thing, too high on his own ego to realise the little thing on his arm was gutting him for intel.

Fury had been unmistakable in his instructions—get the buyers first. If they caught wind that S.H.I.E.L.D was sniffing around, they’d scatter like roaches, and the whole operation would collapse. So you played the waiting game. Carefully. Precisely. Night after night.

Now you just wanted a drink. And a scalding-hot shower. Maybe both at once. Your skin felt like it had absorbed the club, cheap vodka, cigarette smoke, and desperation.

You adjusted the fur coat around your shoulders with a groan, trying to ignore how your dress—if you could even call it that—kept shifting against your skin. Yelena had dubbed the coat your ‘mob wife piece’ after finally watching The Sopranos, and the name had stuck. Your heels were the real punishment, though. Tall, unforgiving, and cursed by whatever sadist designed them.

After every recon job, the standard protocol was to turn in evidence immediately—cameras, bugs, audio mics, and a hand-written report. After six hours of playing pretend, you were scribbling in agonising detail while the evidence collection agent across from you gave you a rather pointed, unamused look. You briefly considered banging your head against the desk.

And, of course, Bucky was watching you. Not subtly. No, he was seated in a glass-walled meeting room across the way, surrounded by agents and Avengers, but his eyes hadn’t left you in a while. He looked like a gambler who’d just hit the jackpot. You watched him watching you, and you forgot to be annoyed for a second. He looked... ravenous. Unapologetically so.

The meeting finally broke. Doors opened. Agents spilled out. That was your cue. Evidence was handed in, and your aching wrist is getting no thanks for its service. The agent slid your report into a folder stamped ‘CLASSIFIED’ in angry red ink. You almost laughed. God, the theatre of it all.

Natasha bumped your shoulder as she sauntered past towards the elevator. 

“Better keep loverboy in check,” she muttered in your ear as she passed. Her smirk was wicked. 

You shot her a scowl.

Bucky was in the crowd, still watching. His gaze wasn’t on your scowl, though. It was lower. Tracing the cling of the gold mesh slip dress, the way it shimmered under the harsh overhead lights. Tacky enough for the job. Tight enough to draw attention. It hugged every curve with intent, and though it wasn’t your usual style, you were beginning to wonder if it might become one.

You hadn’t pegged Bucky for the type who’d go wild for glitter and skin, but judging by the look in his eyes…

Thank god for lessons, or he'd be dealing with a very awkward elevator ride. 

“I think I’ll take the stairs,” you replied, more bitterly than you meant to.

Natasha smirked as the elevator doors began to close, her eyes dancing with amusement and just a hint of sympathy. But it was Bucky’s gaze that lingered until the very last second as if he could memorise the sight of you before the doors cut him off.

You turned sharply on your heel and made for the stairs, the ache in your feet be damned. The heels bit with every step, but you welcomed the sting. It was easier to focus on than the heat lingering after Bucky’s gaze.

Four flights up, your phone dinged.

You didn’t have to check it to know. You already had a feeling. Still, a smirk pulled at your lips as you glanced at the lock screen.

Can I see you tonight?

Bucky had taken to modern tech far better than Steve ever had. Where Steve still asked what a GIF was or accidentally created a new group chat every time he tried to reply, Bucky had easily slipped into the rhythm. 

You thumbed out a reply as you rounded the next flight of stairs.

Aren’t you going out for drinks with the others?

Fridays had become a ritual for the team, provided no one was off saving the world or buried in a mission, so there’d be a few rounds at a bar nearby. Laughter. Cheap beer. Temporary normalcy.

You watched the typing bubble flicker to life… then vanish. Then again. And again.

Not my scene.

A pause.

Is that a no?

You grinned, slowing your steps just a little. You could picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, hovering over the screen like the answer might change everything.

You typed quickly.

I’ll come to your room right now if you ask nicely.

You paused in the stairway, hesitating outside the door for the residential floor where all the apartments were located. Your pulse tapped a little faster beneath your skin.

Another ding.

Please?

That was all it took.

You pushed open the door.

On my way.

—

“I want to try something different,” you murmured against Bucky’s skin, your lips brushing the hollow of his throat as you nuzzled into the warmth of his neck.

It all happened in a blur when you stepped through his door. Heels abandoned at the threshold, your coat sliding from your shoulders like a shrug of tension gone loose. Bucky had lasted all of two seconds, long enough for a strained smile and a greeting muttered through clenched teeth before instinct took over. His hands found your waist. Your back. Your thighs. And then you were in his lap as he stumbled backwards onto the bed, the mattress giving under both your weight and the familiar gravity that always pulled you toward each other.

Mumbled apologies about the scent of alcohol and sweat were lost beneath kisses, the air thick with the smell of him—black coffee from his meeting and that damn aftershave—as you melted into your usual spot atop him.

His rough palm ghosted up the back of your thigh in lazy strokes, the pads of his fingers brushing skin like he already knew it by heart. You blinked up at him, studying the angles of his face, searching for that tell-tale flicker, tightening of his jaw, a furrow between his brows, anything that indicated hesitation or worry. But there was none. Instead, he caught your eye, the touch of vibranium fingers cool and featherlight against your cheek.

“Last time you said that,” he murmured with a low chuckle, “you blindfolded me.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?” You cut back rather smugly, only to be met with a reluctant hum of agreement. “I want to talk about something first.”

Bucky stilled, alert now in that quiet, observant way of his. “What’s that?”

Your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt. “Are you afraid of me touching you?”

He blinked, surprised. “No? Is this a trick question—?”

“Do you like me touching you?”

“Yes.” His answer came easily, without hesitation.

“But you don’t like me touching your cock.”

That gave him pause. The stroking of your thigh faltered. There it was, his jaw ticked, the smallest tension rising between his brows like a storm cloud forming just behind his eyes.

“I don’t…Isn’t that what we’ve been doing these past few months?” His voice was low, cautious.

“You let me touch you near it,” you said gently. “But if I move my hand under your waistband, even just a little, you freeze. You ask me to stop. I just want to know why.”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. He stared at the ceiling instead of at you, like maybe the answer was written there if he looked hard enough.

“There’s no wrong answer,” you whispered. “I’m not upset. I’m not trying to push you. I just want to understand. To help.”

He exhaled slowly, brows knitting in thought. 

“It’s overwhelming, I think,” he said finally. “The added…feeling. On top of everything else that’s already happening.”

“So,” you said slowly, “if it happened in isolation. Nothing else, just that, you’d feel more comfortable? More in control?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I think so.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Would you be okay with trying today? Right now?”

His eyes finally met yours, a flash of vulnerability behind the steel blue. “Putting me on the spot here, doll…”

Doll. That was a pet name you wouldn’t look too deeply into. Or acknowledge. He didn’t even seem to notice he had said it.

“You can always say no,” you reminded him softly. “That’s the most important rule, always. Either of us can stop at any time. No questions, no pressure, no hard feelings.”

He was quiet momentarily, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for something. Then he nodded once, steady.

“Let’s do it.”

You paused, holding his gaze. “Are you sure?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a touch wry. “I trusted you when you blindfolded me, didn’t I?” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I don’t see any reason not to trust you now.”

That was all the encouragement you needed.

You slipped off his lap with ease, sinking onto the floor between his knees, the hem of your dress bunching up around your thighs. You blinked up at him expectantly, steady but unhurried. Bucky hesitated, shoulders tensing as his hands hovered uncertainly at his belt. A flicker of embarrassment was behind his eyes, the kind he hadn’t yet learned to hide from you.

You didn’t comment on it. Didn’t tease him for the blush creeping up his neck, or for the way his fingers fumbled slightly as he undid the buckle and began peeling off the layers. You just waited—quiet, patient, allowing him to find his own pace. You didn’t point out the irony of it all, how easily he’d unravel for you, but how nudity still brought hesitation. Like showing skin was somehow more vulnerable than offering up his soul.

His boxers were the last to go, and by the time he slid them down, he was already half-hard, his cock flushed with arousal. The pink tint on his cheeks deepened as his eyes darted away from yours.

You tilted your head, shifting closer until you were kneeling between his legs. The warmth radiating from his thighs drew you in like a hearth. Your hand brushed lightly over his knee in reassurance, and he twitched at the contact.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice more hum than a question.

He nodded, but it was too tight, too instinctive.

You paused.

“Need to hear your words, Bucky. I’m only going to do this if you tell me you’re okay.”

There was a beat of silence, his vibranium hand clenching in the sheets beside him.

“I want this,” he said, voice low but certain, even if his body still trembled faintly beneath you.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breath.

“You remember what to say if you need to stop?”

He nodded again, more grounded this time. “Yeah. I remember.”

Satisfied, you reached out, your fingers wrapping gently around the base of his cock. You were cautious at first, letting your touch linger without pressure, just the soft drag of skin against skin. A strained groan left him almost immediately, the muscles in his thighs tightening on either side of you.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, watching his face twist with the sensation. His jaw slackened, mouth parted, eyes nearly fluttering closed as you began to stroke him. Slow, deliberate, careful. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already pulsing with anticipation, growing harder by the second. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Not after the nights spent grinding into each other, his arousal pressed tight and insistent through layers of clothing, but still, the reality of him was enough to stir a wicked spark behind your smile.

You pumped him a few more times, watching how easily his composure began to slip. He was already squirming, breaths ragged, his abdomen twitching every time your palm slid down to the base and back up again.

His head fell back, a quiet whimper escaping him as you thumbed over the slit at the head of his cock. He flinched from the contact, one hand flying to your elbow and gripping it like an anchor, his whole body responding to the jolt of pleasure like he’d been struck by lightning.

“How do you feel?” you asked, voice low, almost teasing.

It took him a moment to answer. His lips parted, trying to form words while his chest heaved, his eyes glazed over with ecstasy. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you collected it with your fingers, spreading it down the shaft to ease your rhythm.

“Good,” he finally gasped. “Amazing. Did it always… I don’t remember it feeling—”

His words dissolved into a sharp gasp as you leaned forward and kissed the tip. The contact was featherlight, but it shattered him. His metal hand shot up into your hair, not to pull or direct, but to ground himself, trembling as if the sensation threatened to lift him right out of his skin.

“Oh my god—” He began to whine.

You giggled softly, the warmth of your breath enough to send him over the edge.

Bucky came with a choked moan, his hips jerking as thick, hot ropes spilt over your chin and neck. His thighs trembled with the force of it, his head thrown back as if he couldn’t bear the weight of pleasure crashing through him. You stroked him through it, gentle and slow, coaxing every last pulse from him while he tried and failed to string thoughts together.

As he collapsed back against the mattress, boneless and dazed, you ran a hand up the inside of his thigh, using it as leverage to push yourself upright. His grip on your hair slackened and fell away, his hands lying limp beside him, fingers twitching faintly in the aftershocks.

“I’m gonna clean up,” you hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He didn’t even open his eyes, just nodded, lips parted, breath still ragged.

“Okay,” he mumbled, voice thick and warm with lingering arousal. “I’ll be right here.”

—

It took only a few minutes to freshen up. You moved on muscle memory, warm water, damp cloth, and a quick sweep of your hair from your neck. You paused before leaving the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel in case he wanted it. 

But when you stepped back into the bedroom, you found he’d already taken care of himself, his boxers pulled back on.

Bucky was sprawled across the mattress like he’d melted into it, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. He looked wrecked—in the best way. Hair tousled, chest rising and falling in a slow, almost dazed rhythm, but his gaze sharpened the second it landed on you. A lazy, crooked grin tugged at his lips as he lifted an arm in a silent invitation, eyes still half-lidded and blown wide with the afterglow.

You climbed into bed beside him, the weight of his body shifting as you curled into the space between his arm and chest. His skin was warm against yours, the hum of his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. You pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his jaw, and his breath hitched as your hand slid over his stomach.

His mouth found yours not long after, lazy and unhurried like neither of you wanted to break the spell. It didn’t stay that way for long. Hunger crept in. Familiar, greedy heat as his mouth parted and his fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

And then… you felt him. Again.

Your thigh brushed his hip, and you stilled. Then pulled back, brows arching in playful disbelief. “Already?”

The question hung in the air like a teasing note, half-smirk, half-curiosity.

Bucky’s eyes dipped, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks. He looked momentarily abashed as if he’d been caught red-handed, though the evidence quite literally pressed against your leg.

“It’s the super soldier serum,” he mumbled, the corner of his mouth curling despite himself.

You tilted your head, amusement rising. He was trying to play it cool, but the slight flush on his ears gave him away.

“Oh?” you drawled. “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”

His fingers scratched lightly at the back of his neck, a classic tell.

“Steve said something once,” he offered, deliberately vague.

You blinked. Your smile widened, slow and predatory.

“Steve?” you echoed. “You’ve been talking to Steve about this?”

“No!” His protest was immediate and rushed like a man trying to stop a landslide with a broom. “Not exactly,” he amended quickly. “He was talking about Sharon, I guess.”

A laugh bubbled up, and you bit your bottom lip to stifle it, your hand resting lightly on his chest. You could feel the way his heart kicked beneath your palm. Nervous, flustered. Bucky Barnes, caught in the act of oversharing.

“Sharon, huh?” you said innocently, voice tinged with mischief.

His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the shift in your tone. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said airily, pretending to inspect the stitching on the pillowcase behind his head. “Just something Yelena said the other day.”

Suspicion flickered in his gaze, but you forged ahead.

“She thinks Steve wasn’t as innocent as we all pegged him. Something about spotting him and Sharon… in a compromising position.”

Bucky snorted, turning his face into your shoulder to muffle the sound. “I wonder what they’d make of this.”

“Oh, I’d never hear the end of it,” you groaned, flopping onto your back with theatrical flair. “They’re already circling like vultures, trying to interrogate me about the gala.”

He shifted beside you, propping himself up slightly on his elbow to get a better look at your face. “And what did you tell them?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for the silence to tighten.

There it was, the flicker of guilt behind your eyes. You could feel it rise like a slow tide in your chest, swelling into your throat. You should tell him. About Natasha’s uncanny perception, the way her gaze had cut straight through you like a knife, and how you’d cracked under pressure with barely a word from her.

But you didn’t. You weren’t sure how he’d take it. Knowing someone else was privy to this—this, your quiet little secret.

“Nothing,” you said, soft but firm, hoping your smile would mask the lie.

His expression didn’t shift dramatically, but you saw his brow furrowed slightly—a quiet sharpening behind the eye.

“Nothing?” he repeated.

“I just…” You sighed, turning to face him properly. The pillow dipped beneath your cheek. “I figured you didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to make things messy.”

He was quiet. His gaze flicked to the ceiling, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “Yeah. It’s probably for the best, isn’t it?”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced by his own words, and you didn’t feel entirely convinced either. 

“It’s up to you,” you said eventually. “Everyone’s image of me is already… well, damaged.” You let out a soft, bitter laugh, fingers twisting idly in the edge of the sheets. “I’m sure this will hardly ruin my reputation. But yours…”

“That seems unfair,” he said, brows drawing together.

“What does?”

“The way they treat you.” Your breath caught slightly, unprepared for its bluntness. You looked at him, and he met your gaze head-on. No hesitation, no irony. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. And before you could piece together a response, he spoke again. “Do you always do that? Make yourself smaller for other people?”

The question landed like a stone in your gut. You froze, eyes searching his face, almost disbelieving.

He hadn’t said it unkindly. But it lodged deep.

For a moment, you were tempted to laugh it off, to deflect, to be clever. Anything to avoid the sudden, unexpected vulnerability that cracked open inside you like a fault line.

Had he been watching you this whole time? Not just looking, but seeing? Had you been too busy circling Bucky to notice that he circled you in return?

You smiled weakly, wanting to fill the dreadful silence that had settled over the both of you. “I could say the same for you.”

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. You could feel the weight of him against your hip, the heat building between you again.

You let your nose brush his. “Still something to do with the serum?”

Bucky smirked, lips brushing yours. “That… and you.”

You exhaled a breathless laugh, but something about the way his thumbs moved, slow circles against your ribs, made the warmth curl low in your belly again. The mood was shifting. Building. You could feel it.

And then his voice turned quieter. Uncertain.

“I feel bad,” he murmured.

You blinked, drawing back just enough to see the look on his face. 

“Bad?” you repeated, confused.

“For not…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Returning the favour.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped against your skin.

“Bucky,” you said gently, “you don’t have to do everything all at once.”

He frowned, and you could tell he didn’t quite agree. Always so ready to shoulder weight that was never meant to be his. Always prepared to give more than he thought he was allowed to take. He carried guilt like it was just another one of his old injuries that could never quite be healed.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you added, quieter now. “With information. Or… expectations.”

His eyes searched yours. “But I want to learn.”

“There’s a little more involved in getting a woman to orgasm,” you said, but your tone light as you tried to shake off the weight of his gaze.

“It doesn’t have to be… I just want to make you feel good.”

God. He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Your resolve crumbled.

You rose slowly, coaxing him to sit up with you. Straddling his hips felt natural now, like returning to a familiar place. You took his hand gently, guiding it up over your shoulder over the thin gold strap of your dress.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Then help me take this off.”

His fingers moved with care, grazing over your skin, catching the strap between his thumb and forefinger as he began to ease the dress down your arms. The fabric slid away like a sigh, pooling around your waist, revealing the strapless bra beneath.

You felt him falter, brow furrowing in confusion. “How does this…?”

You turned around on your knees, back to him. “It unclips at the back,” you murmured, sweeping your hair over one shoulder to expose the delicate line of your spine.

“Just three hooks. Here.” You reached behind you, fingertips brushing the clasp.

His fingers met yours, searching as he followed your instructions. A breath escaped him, soft and shallow, before he found the hooks and gently undid them one click at a time.

The tension in your shoulders eased just a fraction. “There you go.”

His hands hovered, uncertain now that your bare back was before him like an empty canvas. You tossed the bra to the floor and reached back, guiding his hands to your waist, then up, encouraging him to cup the full weight of your breasts. He was hesitant at first, the pads of his fingers a little stiff, a little too tense. The contrast of warm flesh and cool vibranium sent a delicious shiver spiralling through you, eliciting a long, satisfied sigh.

That sound seemed to break whatever restraint he was clinging to. His grip shifted, confidence blooming. He began to knead and explore, thumbs brushing experimentally over your nipples. When a vibranium finger flicked one with the barest touch, you let out a soft whine, your back arching to press yourself flush against his chest.

“I think I like this,” he murmured, voice husky at your ear, breath fanning warm across your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, turning slowly to face him again, your balance steady in his palms. His hands slid down to anchor you at the hips.

His gaze lingered, not just on your chest, but on your face. Like he was still processing, still memorising. Desire curled in your gut, a heartbeat between your legs. You fought the urge to reach down, to chase the friction your body was begging for.

Bucky leaned forward and kissed you again. Something in him had shifted. He wasn’t following anymore. He was moving with intent. And when he gently rolled you back onto the pillows, his weight settling above yours, your breath hitched.

You tried to ignore the instinct curling tight in your belly. Tried not to let the familiar feeling of being beneath someone stir that old panic. Like the walls might close in around you. Like control was slipping just a little too far out of reach.

His mouth trailed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, between your breasts, and you squirmed ever-so-slightly beneath him. His tongue flicked out to taste your skin, a soft sound of satisfaction humming against you. He licked a rough stroke over one of your nipples as if it were a primal instinct.

You groaned, one hand gently scratching across his back, the other through his hair. His knee slotted between your thighs, parting them easily, the gold fabric of your dress bunched at your waist. Only a thin slip of lace remained between you. He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to, his lips were still worshipping your chest.

His vibranium hand curved over your knee, pushing you open further, his hips grinding lightly into yours, and that flicker of alarm surged. Too strong to ignore.

You moved fluidly before it could root itself. With practised grace, you flipped the two of you, rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips in a single, breathless motion. He made no protest, just let out a pleased groan as his hands found your thighs.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in the present. In him. His wide eyes blinking up at you, still caught in the moment.

He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t ask why you took control again.

And you were grateful.

As you steadied yourself above him, he sat up suddenly, arms sliding around your waist. His mouth pressed a slow kiss to your sternum. He looked up at you, lashes fluttering, nose brushing the curve of your breast.

Your breath caught in your throat.

As he pressed another kiss to your skin, you realised—without a doubt—that maybe this was the single most erotic moment of your life.

Not the act, not the heat of it all but him. The way he looked at you. The gentleness in his hands. The trust humming beneath his skin like a live wire. The way your name might’ve been forming behind his teeth, even if he hadn’t spoken it.

You sank your hands into his hair and pulled him closer.

You were still tangled in each other, the heat between your bodies humming like static, when the apartment door swung open with an easy, unthinking click.

“Hey Buck, you sure you don’t wanna come out with us—?”

The cheerful voice stopped cold. 

Steve.

---

hello! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! i'll only be reblogging on there <3

[randombush3]

solo necesitaba estar aquí

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: some much-needed family time is had

Words: 2134

Notes: I got bored and this came to mind

You’re busy. As in, drowning in calls, constantly approached by your juniors, never-seeing-the-light-of-day busy. You don’t even remember the last time you sat down and had dinner with your wife and child. You pay a woman to replace both his mothers.

The sun has already set, the view of orange slowly dimming into darkness especially visible from your newly-obtained corner office. There must be about two more hours left on your schedule today, explaining the fresh coffee on your desk. And you’re tired, but you love this job. It’s worth it.

Your assistant — new, bumbling as he tries to grow accustomed to your discipline and efficiency — appears, phone in-hand.

“Is that New York?” is your immediate question, noting the terror on his face with slight amusement. It always takes a while for the young ones to break.

He shakes his head. The words he mouths are far scarier: it’s your wife.

You stand up.

“Give it to me.” The phone is searing hot, and you know that this is not a call of affection. “Alexia, baby, hi!”

“La profe ha dicho que somos madres terribles.”

You check the date on the screen of your laptop. “Oh, there was that meeting, wasn’t there?”

“You said you’d come.”

“I thought we’d both agreed to send Luisa?” In truth, you had. Alexia is in the most crucial part of the season, playing matches that decide her glory (and her mood during summer). “Did you go?”

“No. But at least I was home to ask him how it went.”

You rub your temples. Your assistant has taken his cue to leave, hovering on the other side of the glass door as if it will save him from the bomb that’s about to go off. “Okay. Well, what did he say? Are you with him right now?”

“Luisa’s is getting him ready for bed,” Alexia replies with a deep sigh. You gather there is no good news to give. “He told her that he never sees us. No malice intended — a simple: mis mamás son tan importantes. And the teacher took it as, mis mamás son demasiado importantes.”

“He didn’t lie.”

“And you don’t feel guilty?”

You think back to the last time you spent uninterrupted time with your son. It must have been Alexia’s last match — no, you had to leave because of a crisis in Tokyo. Maybe before that?

“We’ve spent the last seven years being parents he can be proud of. But he… doesn’t even see us.”

“You’re home right now!”

“Just in time to kiss him goodnight!”

Your breath hitches.

That’s supposed to be enough. That’s supposed to be the line that closes the argument, the past where she tells you it’s okay, that you’re trying. That your intentions are good and true and she isn’t a saint either.

But she doesn’t say anything.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hits you, and you find your desk chair, constantly warmed and broken in, and sink back into it, the city glowing behind you like a silent reprimand. You lean forwards, elbow on the desk, fingers still pressed against your temple.

She’s on speaker now. It almost feels like she’s in the room with you.

“I thought we were doing the right thing,” you say finally, quieter now. “Working this hard. Building something for him.”

There’s a pause. A cavity opens up between the two of you. Alexia no longer agrees. “He just wants parents.”

It stings more than it should. Because deep down, you knew it. You’ve known it for a while — in the drawings where Luisa is front and centre, where you and Alexia are smiling stock figures tucked away in the corner. You knew it when he started calling her mamá Luisa, without hesitation or confusion.

“He told her,” Alexia continues, voice breaking just slightly, “that sometimes he pretends we’re home. That he hears the door open and he thinks it’s one of us — and he gets all… excited, just for it to be a delivery or a friend, or the neighbours checking in on him.”

You let out a long breath, eyes falling shut. “He’s seven. He shouldn’t know disappointment like that.”

Silence. But she’s still on the line. You can hear her breathing — steady, controlled. Like she’s bracing herself to say something worse.

“I have a few matches left this season,” she says. “Then I’m home until the Euros.”

“And I have Tokyo, then Berlin. After that, a quarterly review. Shareholder summit in—”

“No,” she interrupts. “You have a son. Who misses you. That comes first.”

You want to argue. You want to say it’s not that easy, that you don’t just get to drop everything. But maybe it is that easy. Maybe the hard part is admitting you’ve made the wrong choice more times than you can count.

“I’ll clear the week after Tokyo,” you say finally. “We’ll take him to that dinosaur park he keeps asking about. No phones. Just us.”

“Both of us,” Alexia says firmly. “No pulling out last minute.”

“I promise.”

Another silence — but a warmer one, less weighted. For a moment, it’s just the two of you breathing, the world quietly changing as you make your decision.

“I miss you,” she says softly.

And suddenly, more than the job, more than the office, more than the city stretched out in front of you — you just want to go home.

…

He squeals with delight as you march through arrivals, Alexia unable to control his surge into the crowd to attach himself to you. Hands meet your leg and you scoop him up, surprised by how much heavier he is, pulling him into you as you make your way to your wife.

That conversation a few months ago has been a much-needed catalyst for change.

Tokyo was good, perfect for networking, but it wasn’t home.

It's not this.

“I missed you, campeón,” you whisper in his ear as you reach Alexia, smiling at the slight sheen in her eyes. “I’m so glad I could come home early.”

Alexia doesn’t need to respond for her answer to be known.

The next morning, you wake to the sound of tiny feet sprinting down the hallway and slamming into the door of your bedroom.

“¡Hoy es el día de los dinosaurios!” he yells, muffled through the wood like some kind of pint-sized town crier. “Y tú lo prometiste, MAMÁ. ¡LO PROMETISTE!”

Alexia groans from beside you, face buried deep in the pillow, muscles aching from the dregs of the season and the thought of the build-up to the Euros. “What have we done?”

“We’ve entered legally binding verbal contract,” you mutter, already reaching for your phone to cancel the one remaining telecon you hadn’t yet axed. You text your assistant a quick: Push everything back, I’m being held hostage by a T-Rex.

The reply comes instantly: Understood. Good luck, boss.

…

At the dinosaur park, all bets are off.

He spots a rickety, questionably-safe ‘Dino Dig Zone’ and points with an index rivalling Augustus’ ad locutio in the Prima Porta. “There. I’m going to dig for bones. I need gloves. And goggles. And snacks.”

Unsurprisingly, there’s a board listing the prices of those exact items. Alexia gives you one glance before nudging you towards the till.

You buy him the whole kit — gloves three sizes too big, a neon-green hard hat, safety goggles with actual working headlamps. He looks like a very tiny paleontologist sponsored by a very eccentric energy drink company. You and Alexia exchange a look, but say nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s not digging. He’s sitting on top of the dig site, dramatically narrating the excavation like David Attenborough. You have no idea where he learnt the technical terms, but maybe your background checks on Luisa didn’t include her supposed paleontology degree.

“Here,” he says, pointing at what is very obviously a plastic ribcage, “we find the remains of the mamasaurio, a terrifying beast who never misses football training and always scores the best goals.”

Alexia snorts. “Okay, I like this version of me.”

You’re not so lucky.

“And next to it — the dinochefejecutiva. She’s very rare to see. She lives mostly in airports.”

You choke on your iced coffee.

The gift shop is a disaster. You tell him he can pick one souvenir. He picks seven (one for every year you’ve missed, apparently — he’s a master manipulator). Alexia leans down to bargain with him while you tap out and retreat to the picnic benches outside. She emerges twenty minutes later, dazed, holding two dinosaur hoodies, a talking plush stegosaurus, a fossil-shaped backpack, glow-in-the-dark dino socks, and a hat with T-REX CEO embroidered in sparkly thread.

“He hustled me,” she whispers to you.

You smirk. “It’s not hard.”

He wears everything at once for the rest of the day, waddling around like an overburdened prehistoric fashion icon, munching on overpriced churros and announcing to anyone who will listen that today is his yes day. You and Alexia trail behind him, laughing, holding hands, slowly starting to believe you might actually remember how to do this — this parenting thing, this family thing, this loving-each-other-and-showing-up thing.

When he falls asleep in the car, surrounded by stuffed animals and crumbs and the remains of a dino tail-shaped lollipop, Alexia turns to you.

“You know,” she says, voice soft with something like peace, “I think this was the best investment we’ve ever made.”

You glance at the back seat — at your snoring, sugar-comatose son — and then at your wife, radiant even after she was forced to hold a melting ice-lolly that stained her white t-shirt.

You smile. “Returns have been excellent so far.”

Dinner that night is chaotic, but surprisingly demanded even after a day of junk food that nearly sent your two-time Ballon d’Or into a mental breakdown.

He’s still riding the sugar high from the park, sprawled across the kitchen floor in his dino hoodie, tiny plastic stegosaurus tucked into the crook of his arm like he gave birth to it. You’re rummaging through cabinets blindly — unsure when Luisa last reorganised them and finding her system incredibly confusing.

Alexia’s leaning against the counter, eyeing the situation with a suspicious mix of amusement and concern. “Are you sure about this?” she asks as you pull out spaghetti, three different cheeses, and something you think is tomato sauce but might be expired salsa.

“Yep,” you lie.

Halfway through the prep, he finally looks up from his playtime and asks, “Where’s Luisa?”

Alexia freezes mid-chop. You glance over your shoulder and smile, holding up your sauce-stained wooden spoon like it’s proof of competence. “You do know that we can cook, right?”

He blinks. Then, slowly: “Que va.”

“Excuse you,” Alexia says, squinting at him like he’s just insulted her entire bloodline. “Mamá once made lasagna so good it made grown men cry.”

“Did they cry because of the cheese?” he asks seriously.

“Emotionally? Yes,” you cut in. “Digestively? Also yes.”

Dinner ends up being… edible. Barely. The spaghetti is overcooked, the sauce has a suspicious kick that might be from Alexia mistaking god-knows-what for paprika, and the garlic bread ends up more like garlic crackers. But he eats it anyway — every bite — grinning like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re both kinda good at this,” he says between chews.

“Kinda good?” you echo, with faux offence.

“Like… Luisa would do it faster.” He shrugs at Alexia’s raised eyebrows. “But this is nice.”

You and Alexia exchange a glance over his head, soft and knowing. She reaches under the table to squeeze your knee.

“Did you have fun today?” you ask, hoping your tentativeness is well-hidden.

He nods with enthusiasm.

“Let’s do it again tomorrow!”

He’s raised in his seat and almost rearing to go.

“How about bedtime first before we plan more yes-days?” Alexia negotiates, this time successfully.

Later, after bedtime stories and lights out and one too many requests for water, you crawl into bed next to her. The silence is warm and easy, the soft glow of her bedside lamp all you need to help you relax. Her back presses into your chest, and you bury your face into her shoulder, finally relaxed in a way you haven’t been in months.

And then, her voice, low and a little smug: “Now that you’re home…”

You smile against her skin. “Yeah?”

She turns just slightly, her hand brushing across your hip, teasing. “I’ve got a few… yes-days of my own in mind.”

You let out a laugh, quiet and breathless. “You drive a hard bargain, capitana.”

She smirks, settling deeper into your arms. “Better keep up, dinochefejecutiva. Or I’m benching you.”

“Not the bench,” you whisper dramatically, already pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Anything but the bench.”

She hums, wicked and sweet. “Then show me you’ve still got game.”

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

you shouldn't be (down here with me)

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Rating: M (for mature, nonsexual content)

Notes: This popped into my head this morning and wouldn't leave me alone so here you go; not beta read.

Warnings: Reader has suicidal thoughts; reader has a breakdown; Jack Abbot's A+ Coping Skills; Jack Abbot's insistence in eye contact; canon-typical medical chat; bed sharing

Summary: When you're almost shot at work, your body snaps into autopilot as your mind goes into overdrive. Jack has always recognized parts of himself in you—he knows a mind teetering on the edge when he sees one.

I was gonna let him do it

"Another four of dilauded."

I was gonna let him do it

Your movements are automatic. You can feel the nervy glances thrown to you every few seconds. You know they're all waiting for you to crack, to say that you need a minute, to sub in for you so you can rip off your PPE, run to the bathroom, lose it.

I was gonna let him do it

You can't blame them—you had a gun pointed at your head half an hour ago. They don't know that you'd almost been resigned to it in that moment.

I was gonna let him do it

"Call surgery, let them know he's stabilized."

You turn, pick the phone up, dial, pause, relay the message.

I was gonna let him do it

--

"You alright?" Ellis asks as you pull your bloody PPE off, tucking it into the in by the door. You shrug, nod, hold your hand out for the spray of purell from the wall-mounted dispenser as you head for central. You pointedly ignore North Two, where the man is being held as the cops talk to him.

"Doing okay, champ?" It's Shen this time, and his use of 'champ' garners him a sidelong glance and a raised brow. He takes your muted wrath in the spirit with which it's meant, holds both hands up in easement before he skirts around you to finish filling out a chart.

You stop at your computer, leaning over it logging and eyeing the results of a blood test on a case earlier in the shift. You feel someone stop beside you, figure that they'll move on their way, that they're waiting for someone to clear before they move again.

I was gonna let him do it

When the presence lingers, you don't have to look up to see who it is. You know that a simple nod will send him on his way for at least a few minutes, but you don't think you can look at him, not right now.

"Something I can do for you, Dr. Abbot?"

Your smart question is met with silence, and you pull in a deep breath through your nose. You brace yourself before you pull yourself up to your full height, meeting his eye.

You know immediately that it's a mistake.

Jack is looking at you the way he looks at a troubling case—discerning, dissecting; trying to pinpoint where the pain is, what fix he can apply, prescribe.

"You're not sending me home." It's meant as a request, but it comes out as a plea. You know that your firmness missed the mark when his head tips to the side, just a little. His eyes dart to North Two, hold there for a moment.

"Tell me what you need."

"To be here," You insist, "To work." To not think about it

A short nod, just enough to let you know that you're good to get back to your job. You bow back over your computer, expect Jack to leave. But—

"If you change your mind—"

"I won't." You're too tired to be embarrassed by the fact that you answered too fast. And as Abbot turns away, you just catch on his sigh, his mutter of, "No, you won't."

--

When his hand lands on your lower back on your way out of the ER, you figure he's just keeping you moving—maybe to sop you from turning around and making this shift a double, or to help you avoid the couple of news vans and reporters that have pulled up.

You let him steer, even as that steady pressure keeps up for block after block. You don't even realize where you are until Abbot stops, fishes into his pocket for a set of keys. You look up at the unfamiliar door, mind racing as Abbot unlocks it. He turns to you, holds it open, waits.

You should tell him off. What the fuck was he thinking, bringing you back to his place like some stray puppy? Never mind the fact that this man is your boss, that this is wholly inappropriate.

You should go back to your apartment, shower, get into bed. Maybe schedule an emergency appointment with your therapist.

But you also know that you probably shouldn't be alone right now. Your apartment will be too quiet; your head will be too loud. That was half the reason you'd insisted on staying at work. You glance down the block, consider, then slide past him and step inside.

--

You take your time looking around—eyeing the books, the mail, the photos, the knick knacks—the little things that make somewhere home. You turn back to Jack just in time to see hm changing his shoes, putting a high-backed house shoe on where his boot usually covers his prosthetic.

Neither of you speak as you put your bag down and he takes your jacket. He disappears down the hall of the apartment, returns with a stack of fabric. You take it, cataloguing a towel, a washcloth, a pair of sweatpants, a shirt.

"First door on the left. Put your clothes in the hamper in there, I'll wash 'em." He nods toward the hall. "Go on."

--

You expect yourself to break down the second the warm water hits your skin. But as you stand in the steam, the toll on your body takes precedent. Your head is pounding; your feet are throbbing; your back and neck ache.

I was gonna let him do it

You draw in a deep breath, bracing your hands on the wall to ground yourself.

I almost let him do it

Your jaw tightens, stomach churning as you think back.

Gun muzzles were always described as cold, but this one was warm—probably from being tucked against the man's body. You can still feel the weight, the press of it, the slight waver and brush as his hand had shook. You can hear the click of the safety.

Your mind had gone quiet in that moment.

You'd just leaned in, and told the man that he'd only be making your shift better.

It had been enough to shock the both of you.

It had caught him off-guard long enough for you to try and disarm him, to call for security as the the two of you had struggled, sending the gun skittering under the bed as the treatment bay filled with security, fellow residents. Ahmad had the guy in a headlock in seconds; Abbot was between you and them before you could blink. When he'd asked you what had happened, all you'd managed was to point toward the bed, to say, "Gun."

The cops had tried to give admitting shit for it, but you'd waved them off, insisted, "He didn't seem—When he came back, he wasn't like that. I was trying to assess him. I must've moved too fast, he freaked. They couldn't have known, they didn't do anything wrong, so don't—don't."

Shen had tried to talk you into going home; Ellis had bombarded you with questions. Abbot told them to back off. He hadn't asked you if you were alright; he hadn't tried to make you go home, either.

"Where are you going next?" He'd asked. You'd just nodded toward the board, answered, "Hyperkalemia, South Three," and gone on your way.

--

You can smell coffee when you step out of the bathroom. You glance back in, making sure you clothes are safely tucked into the hamper before heading back into the living room. Jack passes you on the way, hands you a tv remote, says, "Mugs are on the counter."

"Thanks."

You get yourself a cup of coffee, tuck yourself into the corner of his couch. You consider the remote for a moment before setting it on the coffee table.

I was gonna let him do it...Wasn't I?

Were you? What the hell would that have done to everyone around you? Were you so far gone that you hadn't thought about how it would effect everyone else in the department? What would the patients have done when they'd heard the pop? You know your fellow doctors would've come running—what if he hadn't stopped with you?

Your lower lip wobbles. Tears prickle at your eyes, and the well of panic and fear and resignation that you'd been waiting for spill over. You sit with the mug of coffee in your hands, letting go to swipe at tears and sniffle every few seconds.

You've calmed by the time Jack comes back out. You know that you look hellish; your burning eyes must be red-rimmed, bloodshot. He sits down on the other end of the couch, nods toward the tv.

"Nothin'?"

"Feel free," You croak. Jack huffs, picking up the remote and turning it on. You listen to the tv as he flips through a few channels. You glance between it and him a couple of times.

"You're not gonna try to get me to get some sleep?" You ask.

"Do you want to sleep?"

"God no."

"Okay," Jack gives a small shrug. "I can never turn it off right after a shift."

"...Huh."

"What?" He frowns, glancing toward you.

"Just uh...Implies that you're ever able to turn it off...At all."

A smile unwittingly pulls at your lips as Jack rolls his eyes, turning back to the tv. You lean back against the couch, scrubbing your hand across your eyes. The sounds of a baseball game make you pick your head up, brow furrowing as you squint at the tv.

"There's a game on a eight in the morning?"

"I recorded it."

Your mouth forms a small 'o' as you nod.

"We can watch something else," Jack adds.

"No. No, this is good."

--

You don't focus much on the game. Now and again, the tears flow, and you let them run quietly until they ebb. You dab them with your borrowed shirt sleeve.

Jack manages to wait until the seventh inning stretch before he asks:

"You talking to anyone?"

"I have a therapist."

"You speak to 'em regularly?"

"Mhm."

"They know about this?"

"About what?"

When he doesn't answer, you glance toward him. You expect open reproach, but Jack watches you with patience—and maybe a little pity. You push a sigh through your nose as you turn back to the tv.

"I talk to her about the day to day stuff, you know, not the...Grippy sock stuff."

"So you don't think about this every day."

"No."

Jack hums; you see him nod in your periphery.

"I had a bad day," You hurry to add, "We all have them."

"Not bad enough to tell someone threatening to shoot you that they're about to make your shift better."

Your head snaps to Jack, stunned—you'd omitted that from your report. But he just tips his head, shakes it again.

"I was one exam room over. I put two and two together when you pointed out the gun."

A lump forms in your throat as you burn with shame and embarrassment.

"I didn't—" It bursts out of you as the tears well again. "I wasn't—No one was supposed to know—"

Jack's across the couch in a second, pulling you into his chest as you sob. His hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb sweeping your nape as you shake against him. You feel his breath against your hair; you think you feel the pressure of a kiss, but it's gone as soon as you register it.

"C'mon." It's a soft urging as you slowly calm.

"Where 'm I going?" Your tongue feels heavy; your voice is thick from your crying.

"To get some sleep."

"I'll sleep here."

"You'll get better rest in a bed."

"I'm not taking your bed, Jack."

"You'll be more comfortable."

"I don't care. They need you in working at the Pitt."

Jack's hand slides around your neck to gently grasp your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"We need you, too." His hold on you stays firm as you try to look away, bu he won't let you. He gives a small nod, searching your eyes. "I need you. Okay?"

You muster a small, short nod, sniffling.

"I'm still not taking your bed."

He sighs, but it doesn't stop the smile growing on his lips.

"Stubborn little so-and-so," He mutters before pushing himself off of the couch, holding a hand out to you. "Come on."

You take it, letting him lead you down the apartment hall again. You take a cursory look around his bedroom as you had his living room a few hours ago. You climb ungracefully into the neatly made bed, snuggling under the covers.

Jack takes a moment longer, drawing the blackout curtains closed, leaving only his bedside lamp to light the room. You roll onto your side, tucking your hands under your head, watching the play of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he leans down, removing his prosthetic and massaging the skin there for a moment.

He glances back and gives a small smile when he spots you watching him.

"All set?"

"Not gonna read me a bedtime story?"

He snorts, reaching out and shutting off the lamp before shuffling under the covers himself.

"Keep it up and you're sleeping on the couch."

You smile into the darkness as he settles down beside you. You can feel him watching you—maybe waiting for you to fall apart again, to offer reassurance.

"...Sorry I cried on you," You mumble.

"I prefer it to having a patient pee on me."

"Oh, well in that case—happy to oblige."

Your eyelids flutter as his hand smooths over your cheek. "Get some sleep."

"Mmkay."

You hold your breath as his hand slides down your cheek, over your shoulder, trailing down your arm. As his fingers skim across yours, you impulsively catch hold of his hand. You're certain he'll give your hand a squeeze before pulling away, but Jack goes still, and you fall asleep with your fingers tangled together.

--

"Hungry?"

You nod, shuffling closer to the table where a pizza box is laid out on his small table.

It had been strange to wake up alone in a bed that wasn't yours, and it had taken a few moments to remember where you were, and how you'd gotten here. Your freshly washed clothing had been neatly folded and waiting for you when you woke up, but you'd stayed in your borrowed clothing.

"You up long?" You ask, sitting at his table.

"Mm," He shrugs. "A bit."

You narrow your eyes slightly, fishing your phone out of your pocket to eye the time.

"How long was I asleep?"

"You got a good five hours."

You grunt, taking a slice leaning back in your seat, muttering, "New weekly record."

"What do you usually do when you can't sleep?"

"I don't know. Read?"

"You need some new hobbies."

"11-8, we've got a report of an assailant with a knife–"

You glance over as Jack hurries to stand, watching him go into the living room and switch something off. Your brows raise as he comes back, amused by the way he studiously avoids your eye and settles back in.

"...Was that a police scanner?" You ask knowingly. His answering grunt is enough, and you stifle a laugh. "So let me get this straight: you hang out listening to the police scanner like you're fricking Batman, but I need some new hobbies?"

"Alright."

"Are you actually fighting crime when you're off shift? It would explain your go-bag."

"I like to be prepared."

"Uh-huh." You smile as Jack shakes his head, picking at a piece of pepperoni on his slice. "Thanks for letting me crash."

"Sure. You needed sleep."

"I mean...I mean crash-crash."

"Just glad you came in."

"You didn't think I would?"

"Wasn't sure." Jack takes a bit, leans back in his seat. You don't have to look to know that he's watching you; to be able to feel him winding up. You figure you're going to get a speech, but—

"Tell me next time you feel like that."

You wince, wind up to argue, but Jack holds a hand up to stop the argument.

"I don't need to know what you're thinking word-for-word. But tell me if it's getting...You know."

"Scary?"

"Does it feel scary?"

You consider it, picking at the crust on the slice. "...Last night did."

"A man put a gun to your head. That would scare anybody."

"...Yeah." You draw in a deep breath. "I'll tell you if you tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"When you're thinking about going to the roof." You think for a moment that you've gone too far; Jack's brows pop up, jaw muscle ticking as he clenches it. You wait for him to tell you that you've overstayed your welcome, o give him back his clothes, take your half-eaten slice and get out.

But instead he leans across the table and holds his hand out. Deal.

You take hold of his hand, pump it once, and you both settle back to finish eating.

--

"You coming in tonight?"

You give him a knowing glance as you pull your jacket on, and he smiles, nodding.

"I figured you would," He adds, "Never hurts to ask."

"I guess."

"You could take the day. Everyone would understand."

"I need to get back in there."

"Exposure therapy."

"Something like that."

You pick your bag up, slinging it over your shoulder. "I know I said it before, but thank you. Seriously. I don't, uh..." You trail off, looking around his entry way. "I don't know what the last few hours would've looked like if I'd gone home."

Jack closes the gap between you, tipping his head to catch your eye, and smiling when you do.

"Anytime."

And from anyone else, you'd think they were just trying to console you, but in that moment, you know that he means it. You nod, reaching out and giving his arm a gentle squeeze and a pat before turning away.

"See you in a couple'a hours."

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; 

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[gojover]

you, again — teaser

summary ⇢ he’s an assassin who won’t stop bleeding. you’re the medic who keeps patching him up—against your better judgement. sylus flirts like it’s a sport; you threaten him with scalpels. when a botched job entangles you in his world, things get messy fast—emotionally, and otherwise. you’d rather die than fall for a man like him. he’s already dying not to fall for you.

pairing ⇢ assassin!sylus qin x medic!fem!reader contains ⇢ romance, angst, smut, slow burn, annoyances to lovers au, assassin au, blood, injuries, violence. full warnings to be included in the fic. teaser word count ⇢ 0.36k (expected: 15k-17k)

“You okay?” he asks suddenly, tilting his head to glance down at you. His voice is quieter now, less performative.

You shrug. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he says. “Try not to develop too many of those.”

“Too late. I already treat you like a human being.”

He laughs at that. “Touché.”

You fall into silence again, footsteps syncing easily as you cross another intersection. You’re close to home now, and the streets are darker here, the kind of dark that stretches long and holds its breath. You catch the edge of a shadow out of the corner of your eye, but it disappears when you turn to look. Maybe a cat. Maybe nothing. Still, your fingers tense in your coat pocket, brushing against the cheap folding knife you started carrying a few months ago. Just in case.

Sylus doesn’t seem bothered. But he hasn’t stopped scanning the streets. “You should just move in with me.”

“What for?” you ask lightly, though you know why. 

“I can keep you safe,” he answers.

You blink. The wind picks up between the buildings, rattling a loose sign overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once, sharp, before falling silent.

It’s suddenly way too easy to remember that you know almost nothing about him. That all your time together has been fluorescent-lit and bloodstained. That he always shows up with new bruises and never says where they came from. You slow when your building comes into view.

“This is me,” you say, nodding towards the stoop. 

He stops behind you and doesn’t follow. For a second, you expect him to say something—maybe a joke, maybe a goodbye—but instead, he’s just looking at you. Really looking at you, like he’s memorising something he’s not sure he’ll get to see again. 

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says finally. “Not these days.”

You frown. “Why? What’s happening?”

Sylus doesn’t answer. Just steps back once and gives you a tired, crooked smile. “Goodnight, doc.”

Then he turns and disappears into the dark like he’s part of it. You climb the stairs, unlock your door, and double-check the locks; then, you watch the street out of your bedroom window long after he’s gone.

a/n: hello! thank you so much for checking out my teaser! if you’d like to be tagged in the full fic, please send an ask/comment & make sure you have an age indicator on your blog. thank you, also, for 2,000+ followers! it’s insane that there are so many of you here with me, supporting my writing, and i am so grateful to every single one of you 💌

[pinkslipxox]

Sweet Victory:

Summary: You and Paige play basketball together

Warnings: fluff 😍❤️

——————————————————————————

The sun is shining brightly in the park, casting a golden hue over everything. You stand by the basketball court, the soft breeze tousling your hair, watching as Paige warms up with her signature moves. She’s in her element, effortlessly dribbling the ball, her athletic form a mix of power and grace. There’s an undeniable sparkle in her eyes as she glances your way, a smile breaking out on her face that instantly warms your heart.

“Ready for a little challenge, mama?” she teases, arching an eyebrow playfully. You can’t help but smile back, the affectionate nickname sending a flutter through you.

“I hope you’re ready to lose!” you shoot back, feigning confidence, and you both burst into laughter. There’s a playful energy between you, a rhythm built on countless banter and shared moments.

As the game begins, Paige plays hard but not too hard. You can see her letting you take the lead, her competitive spirit tempered by the sweet affection she holds for you. Every time you score, she claps her hands, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“Nice shot!” she exclaims, making you blush as you beam with pride.

“Must be beginner’s luck,” you joke, trying to hold back giggles as you wiggle your eyebrows at her. But Paige just grins, her tone softening even more.

“Nah, mama, you’ve got skills, and I’m just here to help teach them.” With a swift dribble, she swoops in for an easy basket, but instead of continuing the game, she pauses, stepping closer to you.

“Want to try for a layup together?” she asks, a glint of mischief in her eyes. You nod eagerly, feeling excitement surge through you. As you take your positions, Paige moves in beside you, her presence warm and reassuring.

With a graceful motion, she guides you on how to shoot. Her hand is steady on your waist, firm yet gentle. You lean in a little closer, feeling the strength in her toned arms as she supports you. When you land the shot, the ball swishes through the net, and you can’t contain the joyous squeal that escapes your lips.

“That’s my girl!” Paige exclaims, spinning you around with her strong arms. She cradles you effortlessly, her laughter ringing in your ears as you bury your face in her shoulder, overwhelmed with glee and warmth.

“See? I knew you could do it, doll,” she murmurs softly, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead. With that simple gesture, you feel cherished and adored. Being cradled like this always fills you with a sense of safety and love.

“Okay, okay, I think I should let you win now,” she whispers with a playful smirk as she sets you down, her hands lingering on your arms, giving you one last squeeze before stepping back into the game.

The game wraps up with you emerging victorious, much to your feigned surprise. Paige throws her hands up, laughing, and leaning down to pull you into a warm embrace. She then picks you up and spine you around, making you squeal, and as she puts you down, your girlfriend showers you with kisses.

“You did great, sweetie! I totally let you win,” she says, her voice full of warmth, and you can’t help but laugh at her playful admission.

“C’mon! I think I deserve a reward for this amazing victory,” you declare, smirking as you poke her side gently.

“Oh? And what do you have in mind?” she asks, tilting her head at you, faux seriousness etched across her features.

“You know… ice cream,” you suggest, your eyes sparkling with excitement.

Paige rolls her eyes playfully, an exaggerated gesture that only makes you giggle. “Ice cream? Fine, but only because you won… and because I love you,” she replies, her tone softening.

With a playful sigh, Paige scoops you up effortlessly into her arms, cradling you against her toned chest. You snuggle closer, feeling utterly cherished in her embrace, as she starts walking towards the park’s exit. It feels safe and warm and wonderful, just like her.

“Just so you know,” she murmurs, dropping a gentle kiss on top of your head, “even if you didn’t win, I’d still take you out for ice cream.”

Your heart swells at her words, the affection pouring from her with every tender glance, every gentle squeeze. You can’t help but smile. In this moment, there’s nothing more important to you than the girl holding you close, the sun illuminating your path as the two of you make your way to the nearest ice cream stand, your laughter mingling with the gentle sounds of the park around you.

For the remainder of the afternoon, it’s filled with laughter, playful shoves, and the casual back-and-forth of love and competition. Every moment is a reminder of just how lucky you are to have Paige by your side. The sweet intensity of her affection wraps around you like a warm hug, both in and out of the game, making every seemingly simple moment feel special.

[chrxsprettygirl]

𝑻𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒄!𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏!𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔…

AN: a lil thank you for 600 followers :)

It’s been about a month since me and Chris made up, things has been okay to say the least we’ve gone back to talking the way we used to, we’ve been going out a lot. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t talking to other people but nothing serious. It’s been nice. Im currently out with Stella, we both just finished spring cleaning and decided to go shopping as a reward. We walk around the mall going into a few stores, eating stuff from the food court.

“Let’s go to Victoria’s Secret” Stella says handing me the drink we both are sharing, I nod as she drags me into the store. We pick out a few things trying them on for each other switching up a few things. As we’re checking out I get a call, it’s Chris. I answer the call “Heyy” I greet him “Hey are you busy today?” I raise my eyebrow looking at Stella “Um im out with Stella right now but I think I’ll be home all night why?” I reply pulling my wallet out to pay “Okay can i pick you up tonight? Just to go get ice cream or something anything you want” I grin as I pay for my stuff and the cashier hands me the bag, I give her smile “Uh sure what time?” “Is 9 good for you?” “Yeah I’ll see you then bye” I hang up turning to Stella telling her everything “I bet he’s gonna ask you to be his girlfriend” she says playfully, I smack her arm softly “shut up”. We continue to go around buying things here and there.

Later that evening…

We arrive home going into our rooms to pack up all of our new stuff, im playing music on my tv as I organize my stuff. When I’m done I decide to do a bit of laundry when there’s a knock at the door I look at the time, it’s not 9 yet I go over to Stella’s room “Are you expecting someone?” I ask her “yeah this girl I met a few weeks ago but she’s coming in like an hour” I nod honing to open the door, maybe she’s here early, I open the door and there’s a guy with a bouquet of flowers and a basket, it looks like some your boyfriend would make for you on Valentine’s Day “Hello is this where Y/N L/N lives” he ask “yeah” I reply and he hands the stuff to me asking me to sign a paper, I do thanking him bring the things inside setting them down in the kitchen counter “Ou is this from Chris?” I hear Stella coming into the room, I shrug “I don’t know I’m lookign for a note” I find a little card on side of the basket, it’s from the guy I was talking to when Chris and I weren’t talking “Oh it’s from the guy I was telling you abt, the one with the dreads” I tell her, she fake gasp “scandalous” I scoff at her antics going to my room grabbing my phone to thank him, I look through the rest of the things seeing another card in the basket ‘be my girlfriend’ I read it and internally cringe, not because of the card but because I haven’t talked to this dude in almost 2 months.

I send him another message turning him down, as I send that message he angerly replies, he’s calling me all sort of names and threatening me, I send him one last text telling him to fuck himself before blocking him. I lock the front door bring the stuff to my room contemplating if I should keep them or send them back to him. “I mean fuck it im keeping it cuz like the fuck is h goign to do with them” I say to myself also packing them in my room and bathroom. When I’m done I decide maybe I should start getting ready for my date (can you even call it that) with Chris. I go to my bathroom taking a shower, once I’m out I do my regular routine. My skincare, drown my body in lotion and get dressed, i can’t decide if I should get dressed up or just wear sweats. I eventually decide to just wear some jeans and a top Ig laced at the time it’s almost 9, I sit at my vanity doing my edges and putting on some lip gloss. I get a message from him saying he’s in the parking lot and asking for my room number I hesitate a bit before sending him the number I hear the knock at the door followed by voices.

I walk out the room to see Stella, Chris and who I assume is Stella’s guest in the kitchen. My eyes fall on Chris he has a small bouquet of flowers in his hand , damn looks like the universe loves me today, I smile walking over to him “Hii” I greet him “hey these are for you” he hands me the bouquet I smile going to my room and putting the flowers in my desk, I walk up to the front door putting on my shoes and he follows behind me i grab my keys telling Stella bye and we both leave “Did you really come up to my room to give me flowers” i question him when he calls for the elevator, he looks down at me “yep do you like them?” The doors open amd walk into the elevator “yes they’re very pretty, thank you” he grins “no problem sweetheart” he puts his arm around my shoulder. We get the elevator going into the parking lot getting the car.

On the way we’re both yapping to each other catching up on what’s been going on. We arrive at a little ice cream parlor, we go inside standing in line I turn to look at all the flavors they had my eyes going wide and my mouth watering slightly “What are getting?” He ask as he places his hand on my lower back I shrug “i don’t know they all look so good…. What are you getting?” I ask him “Mint chip” he answer I make a face “that’s shits ass” he scoffs “No its not” “Yes it is” he shakes his head “Whatever you say princess but im still getting it” I hum “I think I’ll get the strawberry cheesecake or maybe the macadamia” I say “Just get both” he says nonchalantly I look back at him surprised “Can I?” He nods his head as he walks up to the counter ordering it for the both of us. We get our ice cream paying before leaving at going to sit on one of the benches outside. We stay out there for a got minute talking about any and everything, we’re laughing and playing around people are walking by us giving us looks but we don’t notice too caught up in each other’s company to care.

“Ah think is time we start getting you home” he says looking at him phone, I glance at my watch to check the time, 11:36 pm, guess I’m gonna be late for class tomorrow. I nod we get up from our seat throwing away our garbage going into the car, as I’m buckling in I notice a little bag in the backseat, it looks like those bags they give you at some fancy jewelry store, I wanna ask him about but I don’t “Wanna be on aux?” He ask me offering the cord “You know damn well the answer to that” I say yanking the cord out of his hands as he chuckles, I plug my phone in putting on I playlist I made for when I’m in the car with him, the entire ride home is just us singing along to the songs and chatting a little bit more, we’re just having so much fun im sad when I recognize the familiar road leading up to the dorms, when we park I let out a sigh grabbing my things turning to him “Thank you, I had a lot of fun” I tell him he smiles “Wait I got something for you” he says reaching into the backseat grabbing the little bag I saw earlier handing it to me.

“What is it” I ask him accepting it “Open it” is all he says, I look at him suspiciously reaching into the bag and I pull out a Van Cleef jewelry box I gasp looking at him “You got me something from Van Cleef are you insane?” I ask excitedly he nudges his head at it “Open it” I shakily open the box to see a beautiful white jewelry set, my jaw drops when I see it I look up at him when he reaches in his pocket and hands me a card, I take it from him opening it up ‘will you be my girlfriend’ damn im on a roll catching these boys like damn Pokémons , I look back at him going over the cars middle console to give him a hug “YES OFC THE FUCK? DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS” I tell him, I feel like I’m on cloud nine, on a high I hope to never come down from, he wraps his arms around me letting out a sigh “Thank God” he whispers under his breath. We finally pull away when he offers to help me put on the jewelry, I let him looking in the little mirror I turn grabbing his face smashing my lips on his, he returns the kiss with the same amount of passion holding my head in place it felt like the world stopped, all I could think about is him, his hands, his hair, his lips, his scent, all him. We pull away our breath heavy “Thank you so much” I tell him he smiles at me, oh God how I love his smile “My pleasure sweetheart, no go inside you need your beauty rest, I’ll talk to you in the morning?” I nod, he peck my lips one more time before I leave going inside my door, when I get inside the place is empty and quiet, Stella’s probably asleep I go into my room deciding I’ll tell her everything tomorrow. I look into my mirror looking at the stuff Chris got me, My boyfriend got me I smile to myself, I get undress flopping into my bed going to sleep not knowing how much my life’s about to change……and I mean really change.

An: hehe hellooooooo thank you from the bottom of my pussy for 600!! Hope you enjoyed this one, shits abt to get crazyyyyyyy

Random tags n taglist: @trevorsgodmother @tezzzzzzzz @weirdothatwritess @dykes4chris @chrepsi @chrissfavhoe @natesfavoritehoe @bamsblooming @chrissleftshoe @chrisslluut @cams-cult @chrissturnioloslvt @starrii-sturns @chriscumslut @chrisshands @chriss-prettyygirll @chrissturnioloswife88 @mattztrip @mattsleftball @mattsslvtzx @mattswrinkleton @mattsturnswife @mattsturnioloismylordandsaviour @mattsturnioloarchive @matthewsturnsgf @matthewswifeyx @matthewsturniolosactualgf @nickssidewitch @jayaluvsyu @nicksbestie @adoreechxmpion @sturnshood @sturnswiftie @sturniolotripletlover @chrissturnfavlilslut @abbystromboli @megameatymatt @zenithsturniolo @chrissweetheart

[wheels-of-despair]

Ride the Lightning Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: In September of 1984, a girl who would one day be known as Evil Woman stepped into the halls of Hawkins High School for the very first time. A few minutes later, she met the love of her life. Contains: First day jitters, first encounter with O'Donnell, love at first sight, and the first day of the rest of Eddie and Evil Woman's lives. Words: 2.3k

This is it, gang. The day Evil Woman met her Eddie. 😍

You woke up this morning ready to kick ass, take names, and make Hawkins High your bitch.

You put on your favorite outfit, scarfed down a good breakfast, and stepped out the door with a new backpack and a head held high.

It took approximately three seconds inside Hawkins High, the new school that would be your prison for the foreseeable future, to make you change your mind.

The thing about small towns is, even on the first day, almost everyone already knows each other. With such a small student body, newcomers are incredibly obvious.

Which is why every eye in that bright white hallway is on you and your baby brother, and you wish you were invisible.

Gareth feels it too. He's been tense since he stumbled into the kitchen this morning. You'll die before you admit he was right to be.

"Where's your locker?" you ask, tugging on his flannel to drag him to the side and out of the flow of traffic.

He pulls out a paper teeming with valuable information, such as class schedule and assigned counselor and locker number, and hands it to you. You glance at it, and then at the numbered metal plates lining the hallway.

"These are going up," you note. "You're probably that way." You gesture vaguely to a turn in the distance. "Want me to go with you?"

"No."

"Okay," you shrug, handing him his schedule back.

His hands shake when he takes it. He looks like he wants to bolt.

"You'll be fine," you say under your breath, hoping no one else hears. People are still watching you. "See you in a few hours."

Gareth heaves a sigh and trudges down the hallway.

You wander around, trying your best to ignore the extremely obvious stares, until you find your own locker. You open it, gaze into the empty space for a few seconds, and close it again. You have no idea what you'll need today, so you might as well keep it all with you.

A chirp of the bell sends your audience to scattering. Probably a warning bell; it wasn't nearly jarring enough to be official. But still, you should probably find homeroom. You look at your own very important paper to get a room number and start hunting. At least everyone's in too much of a hurry now to focus on you.

When you arrive outside the classroom that will be your homeroom for the next year, you hesitate. Would it be unreasonable to turn around and walk away? Just go sit in the woods for a few hours, rather then be trapped inside with all these strangers?

Gareth would kill you if you bailed without him.

"Move it, loser," a tiny girl in a big letterman jacket orders, knocking into you from behind as she passes.

Well, at least everyone's friendly.

You take a deep breath and step inside, seeing Little Miss Letterman Jacket in line behind a few others. The teacher is directing them to assigned seats. Assigned seats, at your age? This place is ridiculous. But still, you stand in line and wait like everyone else.

"Name?" an old lady with a gray perm and big glasses asks, checking off something on her clipboard when you approach. You tell her, and she looks up at you briefly.

"I haven't seen you before."

"I must be new," you deadpan.

She fixes you with a withering glare before looking back down to her clipboard. She scribbles something, then points toward the back of the room without looking up.

"Back table, left side."

"Check."

She looks back up with raised eyebrows, and you scurry toward your assigned seat. Way to make a great first impression. You are killing it.

At your old school, this was where the burnouts went. The kids who would probably spend the whole time sleeping. Even if they didn't gravitate there on their own, the teachers would send them there eventually. Put them as far away from the teaching as possible, so they wouldn't bother the good little children who came to learn.

Good, you think as you drop into the plastic chair. Something tells you that you'll be spending most of your time at Hawkins High trying to fly under the radar anyway. You're off to a great start.

More students filter in, and you observe them from your place in the back. Isn't it amazing how you can tell what clique a person belongs to just by their clothes? The jocks are easy to spot. The princesses. The nerds. The rich kids. The losers. The--

Holy shit.

A blur of untamed hair and faded denim bounds into the room just as the bell rings.

"O'Donnell!" he greets, clapping the surly teacher on the shoulder. She flinches, like he'd just smacked her with a dead rat instead of a ringed hand. "Bet you thought you finally got rid of me, huh?"

"Take your usual seat, Mr. Munson," she glowers.

He grins, showing off his white teeth and deep dimples, and it lights up the entire room. Until his eyes land on you, and you feel your stomach drop, along with his smile. You've been staring, fuck, you've been staring so intensely he's probably creeped out already.

He saunters toward you, unblinking.

He's not sitting here, is he?

Please sit here.

Before you can argue with yourself any more, he dramatically plops into the chair next to you. You pretend to focus on the teacher at the front of the room, but watch out of the corner of your eye as he leans his chair back on two legs and rests his back against the wall. He smells like cigarette smoke and warmth and comfort and some kind of cologne or maybe just a strong deodorant. And he's staring at you.

"What'd you do?"

Is he talking to you? You tilt your head and meet his eye. He is.

"What?" you ask, surprised that you were able to get the word out.

"She usually throws me in the back corner by myself," he explains. "Either we're full-up, or she hates you too."

Your face is on fire.

"Uh…" you rack your brain for an explanation. "There may have been a tiny bit of sarcasm when I first walked in."

He snorts, then drops his chair back onto all fours with a clank.

"Eddie Munson," he says, holding out his hand. His many silver rings catch your eye, and you tilt your head to stare at them in fascination. You've seen a guy wear one or two rings, maybe, but how does he even lift his hands with that much metal on them? "It's okay, I washed them this week... or maybe it was last week?"

You chuckle and take his hand, giving him a brief shake and introducing yourself. A moment of silence follows. You can't stop looking at him. You want to memorize every detail of Eddie Munson, because he's the most beautiful person you've ever seen. You want to stare into his eyes until you learn all his secrets. You want to hold his hand and inspect his rings. You want to touch every patch and pin on his jacket, and let him tell you how he acquired each one. You want to know which bands are his favorites, and which of their albums, and which song from each album. You want to know everything.

"Nice shirt," you finally get out.

Eddie Munson looks down and pulls his battle vest aside - an actual battle vest with metal patches and pins in Nowhere, Indiana - to reveal more of the Ride the Lightning album cover you'd spotted.

"Thanks," he beams. "You like Metallica?"

Of course you like Metallica. You were waiting at your hometown record store's front door when they opened on RTL Release Day. The assistant manager told you they didn't have it yet, and only after you'd threatened to sue did he pull the cassette out of his pocket with a grin. You miss that place.

"No, I just thought the logo was cool," you smirk.

His face falls.

Fuck.

Fuck!

FUCK!

"Oh," he says, deflated. "Well, they're a badass band. If you like metal, I mean... do you?"

"Everyone quiet down for the announcements!" O'Donnell barks. Seconds later, the loudspeaker crackles to life, and a voice starts rambling on it. You should probably pay attention to this. Don't want to fuck up your high school career more than you have already. You smile apologetically at Eddie, knowing you've blown whatever this could have been, and attempt to focus on the announcements.

You give up after a few minutes of sports and club-related news, and instead berate yourself for being too you, too soon. You have to ease people in, a little at a time. You are an acquired taste. You know this.

When the announcements end, O'Donnell goes to the chalkboard and writes a numbered list of forms everyone was supposed to get signed and bring in. Paper shuffles as everyone starts digging into backpacks and trying to put them in the requested order.

A few minutes later, your neat pile rests next to Eddie's crumpled mess, and the sight makes you smile. You glance at him with an eyebrow raised in amusement, and his face becomes the shade of a tomato. He's so adorable.

"Papers to the front!"

You reach for your pile of paper at the same time Eddie does. Your hands brush, and a small shock of static electricity makes you both jump and pull your hands away. He smiles apologetically and picks up the papers, combining them and putting the stack into the meaty hands of the striped polo shirt in front of you.

You suddenly feel the need to shed your denim jacket, and twist away from Eddie to hang it on the back of your chair. And then you remember what shirt you're wearing, and feel a surge of hope shoot through your veins. Perhaps all is not lost. You try your best to keep a straight face when you face the front again.

"I'm passing out additional forms that need to be signed by a parent or guardian and returned to me by the end of the week. Do not lose them. You may talk quietly amongst yourselves until the next bell."

Now's your chance. Maybe your last one.

"So," you begin, slightly angling yourself toward him. "Are all the teachers here as fun as this one?"

Eddie grins and turns to you to answer, but his face falls when he sees your shirt. He stares at the fabric for a moment, then meets your eye. His brow is furrowed. He reminds you of a confused puppy. Slowly, you see the realization spread across his face.

"You were fucking with me."

You look down pointedly at your own Ride the Lightning shirt, which matches his, and then lift your head to meet those big brown eyes again. You scrunch your nose and nod. Eddie laughs, and the sound makes your stomach flip. You join in when you remember how.

"The new girl likes metal," he grins, shaking his head in disbelief. Hell, you'd like anything he wanted you to. "Alright, very serious question." He leans closer, his face suddenly somber and his eyes intense. You can smell his cologne clearer now. You fear you're going to pass out. "Do you know what D&D is?"

You're torn. Do you keep fucking with him, or tell the truth and make his dreams come true?

"Dickheads & Doorknobs?" you whisper.

Eddie throws his head back and laughs, a loud and wicked cackle that makes your whole body vibrate. You fight the urge to steady yourself by combing your fingers through his long shaggy mane.

"You ever played?" he asks, snapping you out of it.

"A couple of times," you grin. "My brother's a big fan, though."

"Your brother plays?" He sits back, his eyes wide. "Is he here? Like, in the building?"

"Yeah," you answer. "He's around here somewhere."

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"He like good music?"

"Taught him everything I know," you tease.

"Fuck," Eddie breathes, eyes blazing. "You uh…" He licks his lips. "You wanna meet the rest of the Hawkins High Metal Lovers?"

"If that's your gang name, I hate to break it to you, but it's kinda lame," you snicker.

"It's a club, thank you very much," he says, putting a hand over his heart like you've offended him to the core. "We play D&D as The Hellfire Club."

"Okay," you nod, "that sounds pretty badass."

Eddie grins.

"Can I see your schedule?" he asks. And then he tenses. So do you. What just happened? "If you want, y'know, I could take you to your next class. Or show you around or whatever. If you wanted me to."

Is he backpedaling because he thinks he overstepped, or because he doesn't like the way you're looking at him, or because he just remembered he has a girlfriend who's going to murder you both?

Screw it.

You pull out your schedule and slide it across the table to him. He looks it over, his eyes darting from line to line.

"We don't have much together," he says regretfully. "But I uh… I could still…" He bites his lip, like he's afraid to finish his sentence.

"Would you?" you ask, voice quiet and heart pounding. "I mean, if it's not too much trouble?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile. It's a battle he quickly loses. You can't help but smile back. You're still grinning at each other like idiots when the bell rings.

"Trouble's my middle name," he grins, his perfect dimples making another appearance as he rises from his chair. "Shall we?"

[midasfm]

hi, idols! as an apology for the pause in operations on the main and the lack of monthly schedules, we come bearing gifts... an ask meme! this isn't the honesty hour that was mentioned a while back (as that will be used as part of our next event), but we think it'll still be lots of fun. check under the cut for all the details!

✩　[조태준] message is here!

our second ask meme will be in the form of interactions on hi-u, midas labels' very own artist-to-fan communication app, and girl talk, the exclusive communication app for girl code. the following questions, inspired by questions that idols are commonly asked by fans online and during fansigns, must be answered with your muse's public image in mind. your muse's answers do not have to be honest, but they must remain appropriate. if you do choose to have your muse respond inappropriately, there will be in-character consequences. if you're willing to take that risk, you may, but we recommend running any potential inappropriate answers by us to know what the companies' reactions would be. the goal of this meme is to explore your muses' public images a bit further, and let other muns see how they interact with their fans. you can send any of the below questions to any mun/muse that reblogs this post. you are more than welcome to send in your own custom questions, from the pov of that muse's fan (or an antifan). we do encourage avoiding sending any questions that could be deemed too inappropriate, but many idols do experience hate and inappropriate or intrusive questions on these platforms, so you're welcome to also send in questions in that vein (as long as the mun you are sending it to is okay with it).

would you rather have five [group member] or a five-year-old [group member]?

would you rather date [group member] or [group member]?

which member do you spend the most time with lately?

how would you rank your group members based on visuals?

how would you rank your group members based on personality?

what's your favorite thing about your group?

what do you like about the company?

what's your favorite thing about yourself?

who do you look up to the most?

do you have any friends in the industry?

what variety show would you like to go on the most?

what does your dream comeback look like?

how should i ask out the person i like?

can you recommend me a song?

can you recommend me a movie?

what app do you use the most lately?

do you have any new hobbies?

how do you destress?

where do you want to travel to next?

what's the first thing you think of when you think of your fans?

can you share your personal scent?

what do you want for your birthday?

if you could spend one day with your fans, what would you want to do?

what's the key to your heart?

what's your most prized possession?

what's your ideal type?

what's your favorite season and why?

today's TMI?

tell us something about your trainee days!

tell us a story from your childhood!

who's your [group name] bias?

what girl group do you like lately?

what boy group do you like lately?

✩　are you their manager?

nowadays, it's getting easier and easier to find an idol's manager or stylist on social media... and we know fans can be a bit intrusive! staff members may also reblog this post, and muns may send them any of the above questions (that are applicable, of course), a custom question of their own (whether a genuine question or an intrusive comment by a fan), and/or any of the below questions. we recommend that staff muses reply to these questions as if they're really replying to a fan on social media, but if your staff member would not have a public sns account, you may answer these honestly as if they were speaking to a friend.

what's the hardest thing about your job?

what's your favorite comeback from [artist/group]?

what's your favorite thing about [artist/group]?

do you get along with your artist(s)?

what do you wish more people knew about [artist/group]?

what's one thing you'd change about your artist's career?

what's one thing you'd change about the company's policies?

do you have any regrets about your career?

do you think you get paid enough for everything you do?

if you could work with any other artist, who would you work with?

if you didn't work in the industry, what other job would you like to have?

what advice would you give to someone who wants to work in this industry?

while we are not currently accepting submissions for voucher redemptions, we will be issuing out one standard item voucher for every 3 questions answered for a total of three standard item vouchers per muse, but you may answer as many questions as you'd like. make sure you send out questions to everyone who reblogged this post. if you have not sent out questions to at least 3 different muns, you will not be able to collect your item vouchers. make sure to take your answers with #midas:meme002, and we'll announce when our submit is back open. you may reblog this post and send questions as soon as this post hits the dash. this meme will run until may 1st. happy answering!

[thekoalapastriesbakery]

So to take from the previous time travel au, reader (currently 7 years older then logan when he left williams) is the creator of the williams f1 team in 1978 and is appalled at how his team is treating logan (and also the fact that their car making is so bad) reader is Nowhere near an f1 track so he has to contact his older self (who left williams to focus on himself and left it in the hands of someone he thought capable, who switched its team principal to mr. Aeiou in 23) and it takes till 2025 because reader had nothing on him so he had to find a job get enough money to buy a phone and learn how to use technology and even then reader wouldn't be able to contact his older self because no one answers random insta messages from acounts you don't know reader takes a pic of himself and sends it with an address and something only he knows (that he likes men, which was taboo back then) saying that if his older self wants to talk he could come to him since he wouldn't have belived it otherwise if it weren't him it happened to, anyway they get in contact older self is disgusted with logans treatment and decides to come back for 2025 while making his younger self team principal, logan (after old!reader asks him if he would like to be a reserve driver) is now old!readers child and young!readers brother meanwhile everyone else on the grid has their jaws on the ground with how hot young!reader is, the rookies are crushing hard, everyone else is trying to see if they can get with young!reader but he won't date a driver, full stop, somehow young!reader meets 1 drew starkey at some gala old!reader was invited too but didn't want to go to since he was real busy with the fiasco that mr aeiou caused, the info that young!reader is dating someone is devastating to the drivers who thought they had a chance.

Anyway i should probs stop typing since i'm pretty sure you just wanted short promt like thingies instead of this long as heck paragraph.

-🍑

you're all good peaches!! (also i changed a couple little things, i hope that's okay)

when you find out how logan is being treated

you are not happy

it takes fucking forever for you to find a way to get in contact with the older version of yourself

and even longer still to explain how you ended up there

older!you definitely wasn't buying shit until you mention something that nobody else in the world had ever known

your crush on a fellow driver back in the 90s

and then, y'know, older!you is a bit more convinced

you explain what's happening with williams and logan

and older!you is pissed

it doesn't take much for older!you to convince the board members to listen to him. the now ex-team principal probably gets incredibly passive aggressive in the media

nobody gives a fuck

at some point it comes out that you're from a different timeline

but then older!you convinces the williams board to make you team principal

and it just goes up and up and up from there

before you know it, williams is consistently getting double points

logan has his spark back

he's still not always matching alex, but you make the point that alex has a lot more experience

and alex makes the point that he and logan both learn from each other

you and older!you completely overhaul the marketing strategy

williams is now one of the most popular teams

probably because your marketing strategy involves just letting alex and logan have fun in vaguely motorsports related settings

you're technically the youngest team principal in the history of formula one

because you're only in your late 20s

and yeah, a lot of the other drivers end up falling in love with you

like holy fuck you were hot in the 90s

if you mention a partner or a date (because you don't want to accidentally out your older self maybe?)

they are heartbroken

they are genuinely like puppies around you

if you do end up single? expect to be flirted with by so many drivers you can't believe it

[itsnotamatterofif]

Combining two in one here for you, hope this was okay anons!!! Have some more coalectra, plus Electra’s perspective on the freights being stupid

✨Want a Stex Drabble? Send me an ask!✨

They knew there was a reason they never really came to visit Porter in the freight shed.

For the last two impulsive visits, Electra has gone away fairly unseen, and truthfully they really should have known that the privacy was too good to be true. However the allure of Porter, of getting a chance to watch him in his own domain where he’s confident and in control, calls out to them like a siren in the quiet of the yard sometimes; it helps that Porter’s always in a good mood whenever Electra shows up unannounced, and they choose to believe that’s from their appearance rather than coincidence.

Today though, is a different story.

It’s about half past nine, a mild Thursday evening, and as Electra stands uncomfortably in the open shutter of the freight shed, the four fuel trucks, each stuck more awkwardly on top of another than the next, stare back. The pillow in Slick’s hand, poised for combat with Lumber’s head, is paused in its trajectory as she gapes in confusion, and in turn Lumber releases his grip slowly on the collar of Hydra’s frame where he was using it to balance.

“Hi hen,” Porter calls awkwardly, voice catching as he shifts where he’s pinned to the floor under Hydra’s chest, and it’s impossible to ignore the three sets of eyes that swivel to stare at him, “sorry, uh- guys, get off-“

Before anyone can move, the pillow that was meant for Lumber is bashed into Porter’s face with a satisfying thump, and Electra can’t help but chuckle slightly as he grunts and scrunches his nose.

“No one’s moving anywhere until you explain what’s happening, and you don’t have the talking stick,” Slick instructs from her place on the top of the pile, and Hydra deflates slightly from where they were getting ready to move, “you-“ she points accusingly at Electra- “come in and-.”

“I still have the stick, asshole,” Lumber teases, grin suddenly wide, and he wiggles his left arm free to display a rather mangled baton of pink plastic in the air like a trophy, “so shut up - Electra, shut the door would ya’? I’m freezing.”

“That’s only because you’re leaning on my tank,” Hydra grumbles muffled from where their cheek is squashed by Lumber’s stomach, before the pillow thunks against the back of their head too.

“I would prefer to not be here at all,” Electra argues, choosing to ignore Hydra’s complaining as well as the slight crumple of Porter’s face that stings uncomfortably, “apologies for my intrusion-“

“If you leave, Porter will be sad, and then we’ll really have to kill you,” Lumber interrupts, and two other heads in the pile nod in agreement whilst Porter flushes crimson - it’s cute, really, the way his ears always light up red when he’s embarrassed, “so shut the door and sit down - I’ll keep the talking stick so Slick can’t say anything embarrassing.”

In a strange way, they want to see how this goes, and any embarrassment they’re feeling Porter seems to be experiencing tenfold. So truly, why not?

“Are we really keeping this up?” Porter grumbles as Electra slides the rickety shutter closed behind them, earning him another hit from the pillow, “no, really, this is stupid- I’m sorry, doll, I didn’t realise you were coming over.”

There’s a brief moment of peace, where Slick looks at Lumber expectantly, free hand outstretched, and Lumber seems to consider the offer before Hydra reaches up and begins waving his hand to get attention. From where they’re lodged between Lumber and Porter, it’s impossible to tell what he wants, but as Slick raises an eyebrow in annoyance everyone else seems to know perfectly.

“I’ve gotta’ give him a chance to argue, it’s the rules,” Lumber reminds her as the pink baton is calmly passed to Hydra. It’s a bit like watching an orchestrated car crash, as Lumber’s mouth snaps shut the moment the baton exchanges hands, and immediately the baton is tugged as close to Hydra’s chest as possible to dodge the attempted snatch from Slick.

“I’m just saying, if you give it to her you’ll never get it back,” Hydra argues, and Slick huffs in indignation, “let me do the talking - I’m fair with the talking stick, I think- Hey!”

Within seconds Porter has pulled the stick out of Hydra’s hands, who immediately scowls angrily.

“Hi, I have the stupid stick, so they’ll stop hitting me now, and won’t interrupt me,” Porter says apologetically as Electra cannot help but smile wryly, “can I help you with anything?”

“Well, I was coming to visit you,” Electra begins, perching on the edge of Porter’s bay as the pile of trucks shifts and sways precariously, “but I see that my timing was poor, so I think it would be best for everyone involved if I checked back in later.”

There’s another disappointed grumble from Slick. “But we want to grill you-“

“Lumber, get her,” Porter instructs, and Slick is promptly smacked on the back of her head by a smaller pillow that Electra didn’t see Lumber was holding, “you’re not doing any grilling without the stick, and I’m not giving it to you.”

“I admire your commitment to this game,” Electra hums, and Porter flushes again from the teasing, “however it’s not exactly conducive to the evening I was envisioning.”

“Oh,” Porter replies simply, flushing even deeper red as Hydra’s eyes go wide, clearly wanting to speak, and Porter silently passes up the baton.

“Oh shit,” Hydra laughs, “you and Electra are-?”

A flash of blue as the baton is snatched away from Hydra by Lumber, silencing them immediately. And they thought the components were obedient.

“Alright you lot,” Lumber instructs, as Hydra begins to laugh and Porter fixes his gaze to the concrete floor, “get off, let’s give them some space.”

“Happily,” Slick groans, accepting the baton as she jumps down from where she was lying across Lumber’s back, “I don’t wanna’ see or hear that shit.”

Of course they jump to the crude.

“Not a fan of poetry, oil tanker?” Electra hums, and Slick pulls a disgusted face as she helps Lumber down from where he’s keeping Hydra in place, “I simply wanted to spend the evening sharing some of what I believe are some beautiful pieces from John Keats.”

“Liar,” she grumbles as she offers a hand to Porter to pull him off the floor, “go on, go be gross with your boyfriend somewhere else, we’ll play twenty questions another day.”

“Apologies for ruining your fun,” Electra sings, and holds their hand out for Porter to take; if they had to guess, their coal truck is currently wishing for a lovely hole to jump into, judging by the rich crimson flush currently colouring his cheeks, ears, and neck.

“It’s fine,” Porter hisses quietly, and immediately begins to lead them out of the freight shed, “let’s- let’s go.”

“Stay safe!” Hydra calls after them, and if anything Porter’s blush flares deeper.

Cute.

Like crows, the laughter of the other fuel trucks follows them out, but Porter’s hand never shifts from theirs, warm and heavy where their fingers are linked.

[fl6thy]

mdni, fem reader

warnings; modern au, male masterbation, voyeurism, consensual ambiguity, obsessive undertones, idk he’s lowkey just a freakazoid here

a/n; tysm for the love on my last post! lmk if y’all want a part two to this! :3

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s been a somewhat close friend of yours since high school. you both met from mutual friends at a party ofc and you guys hit it off from there, hanging out sometimes after class or on the weekends.

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s caught off guard when you tell him you got accepted to a university in another state. “oh…... i thought….we were gonna be classmates…at the community college here..” he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing away. regardless tho he’s happy for you!! and you swear you see him tear up a bit during your send off party.

longdistancefriend gojo! who still makes sure to keep in touch with you ofc, sending you memes that pertain to college or two inanimate objects with just the text ‘us’. he also asks about what your professors are like, or if there’s any gossip or drama you’ve heard lately. you both also have monthly update facetime calls, the few times where he actually sees you other than your occasional instagram posts and close friends stories. gojo cherished these times so much, sometimes just getting lost in your eyes instead of paying attention to what you’re saying.

longdistancefriend gojo! who also takes live photos during your facetime calls, some are of you doing funny facial expressions but his most favorites are the off gaurd pictures, the ones you never noticed him take since you were occupied with something else. oh the ones he absolutely adores are the pictures he’s captured of your body the few times when you set up your phone.

longdistancefriend gojo! who strokes himself as he stares at your ass in the picture, in those fuzzy pajama shorts he’d love to push to the side if he had the chance. he holds the picture down to play the live photo, squeezing the base of his dick a bit harder at the small moment of you grabbing a cup from a cabinet taller than you. “mmh…shit..” he shuts his blue eyes as he continues to stroke faster, imagining that it was your ass bouncing on him instead.

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s taken out of his rhythm by his phone ringing. of fucking course it had to be you. he stares at his phone, dick still in hand as he weighs his options. unfortunately his other hand ‘slips’ and answers the call, his breath still heaving and forehead still sweaty. “hey toru!! can you talk right now?” god you looked so good, phone propped up against your vanity showing your full portrait.

longdistancefriend gojo! who chuckles lightly as he starts to stroke himself again slowly off camera. “of course i can, what’s up sweets?” he answers a bit shakily, hoping you don’t notice. you don’t, (or at least didn’t mention it) as you brought up your small day to day business. which unfortunately he was NOT paying attention to as he continued to jerk off, passing off his small moans as “mhm’s” of acknowledgment. you start to notice this after he interrupts you twice.

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s just barely conscious as you as him if he’s okay. “y-yeah why wouldn’t i be?” he asks in the most pathetic and shaky tone known to man, barely even noticing how flushed his face is or how much his other hand is struggling to hold his phone upwards. you tilt your head a bit at him, passing it off as him being drunk by how flushed he was. oh how wrong you were.

longdistancefriend gojo! who tries to hide his sigh of relief when you switch the topic to something else, just focusing on the sound of your voice before you mention him again. “oh toru that reminds me! you should come and visit me now that my roommate moved out, you’d have your own bed and….” he zoned out again after that. come visit you?? god dont suggest that or else he’ll book a flight right now.

“i’d love to…….just….tell me when…” he speaks slowly in order to not moan, still shamelessly stroking himself as he thought about spending time alone with you in your dorm, testing the waters on how loud he can make you moan without a noise complaint, how much he’ll struggle to get off you like a jack rabbit in heat. “what about next week?” you say with a smile.

longdistancefriend gojo! who nearly finished at how excited you looked. “mm let me hang up and get the tickets m’kay?” he says quick and smoothly, not even waiting for a response before hanging up and tossing his phone at the end of the bed.

as he stokes himself he imagines all the different positions he wants to have you in all over the dorm, his breath hitching as he feels his climax approaching. reopening his eyes he looks down at his length, the pretty pink mushroom tip leaking pre. he imagines you between his thighs, using your own hands or lips instead of just his hand.

“fuck…” he murmurs as his pace quickens, his teeth coming down to bite his bottom lip as he chases his release.

longdistancefriend gojo! who cums all over his hands and the bottom of his shirt, his chest heaving as he stares at the ceiling.

longdistancefriend gojo! who realizes…..holy shit. he’s gonna go visit you next week.

[deathssubstitute]

Ichigo could feel his heart pick up that much more. He didn't want Grimmjow to call him anything else really. He just knew he would probably always be incredibly reactive to his words. To anything Grimmjow would call him. "N--no, mine is okay. I just---" He would focus caramel brown hues off to the side. "You know, I guess I'll always be a little reactive to anything you call me. My body and heart really always take a hit whenever you talk to me and remind me that I'm yours or your mine." His heart would always pound and warmth would always travel throughout his veins whether he liked it or not. "Yeah your my asshole and I'm your sassy ginger right? You always like it when I get all sarcastic on you." He would grin in return.

"I mean--I dunno, you just have that--vibe to you I guess. Seeing you fight and stuff, being all covered in blood--" It would probably send him into some kind of cardiac arrest if he was being honest. He probably wouldn't even be able to get to the jumping part of things if he wasn't careful. Still he would only peer up at his boyfriend and see that grin that he knew only spelled trouble. "Maybe I would. You would have to test that theory and find out just how down bad for you I really am." Though the answer to that question was incredibly so. To the point it was probably embarrassing as hell and he would probably vanish into nothing if anyone dared to ask him as much.

He figured as much in that regard. Both arrancar seemed to be more grateful to him than anything. He had helped to rid them of Aizen after all. Now they could both rule alongside Grimmjow and help restore Hueco Mundo to a much better state. It would probably always be chaotic there. But with the three of them helming the peace there it wouldn't be so bad, would it? "I keep saying I intend to stop on by to say hi to Nel and I never do. I just get so busy." He sinks down into the water for a moment, frowning to himself. "I hope she knows I still am incredibly grateful to her."

"Maybe." He would be the one to grin deviously now, looking up at his beloved boyfriend. "Maybe I would love to see you destroy something, no holds bar. Be like your little cheerleader off to the side." He would chuckle to himself at the picture he was now painting in his head currently. As if Grimmjow needed anyone to stroke his ego further but still. He was his boyfriend and it seemed only fair that he would find the idea of him destroying stuff to be hot.

"Idiot." He would reply with a chuckle. "I'm always gonna thank you for taking care of me like this. Just consider it a part of my job as your boyfriend." He would find himself wanting to crack a joke at that all clean comment and so he would. "Maybe physically I'm all clean but we all know what I'm really like on the inside, Grimmjow." Absolutely filthy but it was all for Grimmjow. No one else could draw those kinds of reactions out of him. "For sure." He would agree as he stood up carefully, his sore muscles grateful for the soak in the warm bath water as he took the towel from Grimmjow, wrapping it around his waist. "And you should do that in front of me, too. Because if you got to see me naked I should see you naked too right?"

Grimmjow meant it when he said Ichigo was 'his Ichi', he'd started calling the smaller man Ichi some time ago, he couldn't discern when or why. He just felt that it fit his boyfriend. "Callin' ya mine embarrasses ya? What should I call ya then?" He wasn't trying to embarrass Ichigo at all so he wouldn't know some things he said could cause that reaction in his boyfriend. He'd never really thought his body was anything that great but it might be due to being a Hollow, if Ichigo liked it then he had to be at least alright looking. "I'm the asshole that is yer boyfriend, yeah," He'd always be unapologetically himself, he wasn't going to change who he was for any reason. If he changed who he was then he wouldn't be himself, which would likely make Ichigo fall out of love with him, right? He was capable of being nice to an extent but he wasn't a nice person generally. Ichigo knew that and had known it for years before they made it this far.

"Yeah, 's real cute that ya find the idea of me covered head to toe in blood as hot, Ichi." He'd continue to get the blood and Hollow fluids off of Ichigo's skin as he waited to see what the smaller male would say next. Well, that wasn't a wrong assumption, and the Arrancar thought it sounded like a damn good idea to test out, too. "Honestly, the idea of ya jumpin' me is hot as hell. Just gonna tackle me then and there, right?" If Ichigo looked at the taller male quick enough he'd see the devious grin upon his face but if not then his expression would just look normal. The two of them could quickly handle most missions together. Nothing that needed to be dealt with took the pair all that long at all.

He didn't think Ichigo was capable of doing anything to get on Halibel or Nelliel's bad sides in all honesty. Now, he could be wrong but he doubted the other would genuinely try to piss those two off. He wasn't aware of the name of the Captain that Halibel had fought before. They didn't talk about what they all did while working beneath Aizen as his disposable soldiers. "I don't think ya gotta worry about pissin' them off, Nel loves ya, and Hali ain't gonna dislike ya, either." Plus, Halibel wouldn't dislike the king of Hueco Mundo's boyfriend, or the friend of the other queen. If they liked Ichigo and said good things about him, then he was obviously not someone who would try to harm anyone who remained without good reason.

"Well, I'm the livin' embodiment of destruction, destroyin' stuff is kinda what I do." Ichigo really was adding unnecessary fuel to the fire but the Arrancar wasn't going to tell him to stop doing so. He liked hearing the things his boyfriend liked. Sure, he was an asshole, and he destroyed stuff but the ginger liking those aspects of his personality? That was more than a small win in his book. "That yer way of sayin' ya wanna see me go all out when I fight somethin' next so ya can watch me destroy stuff?"

He'd likely look over Ichigo's visible skin to see if there was any blood left on it, he also made sure to double check the orange hair. "I dunno what yer thankin' me for but yer welcome, Ichi." If Ichigo told him that he didn't want to go without his presence then the Arrancar would make a point to stick around more than he had been. He also enjoyed spending time with the ginger. It didn't seem to matter what they did so long as it was together. "'S not spoilin' I'm just takin' care of my boyfriend. Also, ya seem to be all clean now." He'd have no issue with Ichigo touching along his jawline with his wet fingers. It'd cause a small laugh to erupt from the taller man. He'd shake his head before standing up from his kneeling position and grabbing Ichigo a clean towel. "I should probably get my bloody clothes off in here so we can do a load of wash." He'd lean down and let the tub drain all the dirty water after which he'd hold a hand out for Ichigo to take before handing him the towel.

[icanfixthempolls]

[soonhoonsol]

there’s this trend on twitter/X where fans post photos of their cleavage with kpop idol photocards (typically male idols) sticking out of their bras/shirts and idk if i’m too woke or something but this seems to me like harassment toward the idols.

please remember that some of these idols are minors, and even for those who are of age, i don’t think any of those idols would appreciate this kind of content targeted towards them. you’d think they wouldn’t see it but c’mon, so many idols are chronically online now. you really think they won’t see it? especially when you tag the official group accounts and their names??

the replies under each post are typically very sexual in nature too, either toward the op, idol or both. some fans even go so far as to put the photocards in the hem of their pants/underwear. again, gross.

it’s frankly quite sickening watching kpop stans do something demeaning towards idols just for the “trend” or “a hit tweet”. it’s even more sickening that it’s so widespread that it’s become normalized and people, especially the younger crowd, don’t see any issue with what they’re doing anymore because “everyone else is doing it”.

[laeana]

I’ll preface this by saying no drivers should ever receive death threats or wish for them to crash and so on. You won’t ever catch me saying this to anyone (not that I ever post about f1 on Instagram or X anyway).

But on the other hand, it is a little bit funny to me seeing campaigns of how dare you hate on Lando and send him death threats! on tumblr of all the places, as if the people here were the exact same ones that were on instagram. If you want to spread awareness about that fact, do it on the appropriate platform. You shouldn’t clog drivers’ tags with it, even more if you turned a blind eye when anybody else received hate and started to advocate only when it concerns you.

That being said, if you don’t want to see posts hating or even just criticizing your driver, you should stay away from the anti tag that belongs to them.

I personally think it’s silly to have the stance “let’s not hate on any driver okay??” because that’s just not how reality works. You will feel emotions toward people and how they’re acting, good or bad. Sometimes you will vent, and maybe some other people will share the same opinion. As long as it’s kept in the appropriate space, where is the problem? I don’t want to see Max or Lewis’ hate so I have the anti tags of theirs blocked for example, it’s as simple as that.

I’m also tired to see people saying Lando is only hated because he’s challenging Max or because it’s a popular thing. Sure there are opportunists, just like in every place. But let’s not act as if Lando hadn’t been overprotected by a part of the fandom with the image of being an absolute manchild and baby that could do nothing wrong, with the excuse of British humor and the fact he’s advocating for mental health as a shield.

I say that from the bottom of my heart, I used to really like Lando. Seeing him have his first win was wow, crazy and emotional. But the way he also has behaved this year just reinforced remarks and attitude of his that never sat well with me even in the past. Maybe we should question his PR for letting him self-sabotage and say things that he shouldn’t, but nonetheless it won’t change that he has said and done things that made him appear as childish, entitled, and sometimes insufferable.

That post wasn’t supposed to be so long, but maybe we should make a list of all the times he lacked respect or said/done things about the other F1 drivers this year so that no one can come up with the idea that if we dislike him it’s only because it’s popular. Using this excuse really feels like denial from some people that don’t want to see why his behavior may have irked a part of the fandom.