#Stacking shipping containers

[lotuscontainers]

Container stacking | LOTUS Containers

Container stacking is the placement of containers to utilize the optimum space inside the vessels. For efficient stacking, you must comply with the weight limits and security measures. According to ISO guidelines, only nine containers are allowed. Contact LOTUS Containers for efficient logistics services for secure and optimized container stacking.

[angelicjas]

"WHY DONT YOU LOVE ME DADDY ? "

starring ꒱ gojo, s. geto, k. nanami.

sum ꒱ plethora of jjk men to fuel your daddy issues — which we all know you secretly have

wc: 2.3k

@warnings! ꒱ daddy!kink, age gaps, p in v, basic sex stuff, filthy smut, cumming inside, cunnilingus, degrading, praise, not rlly proof read, kind of buns but oh well. dumbification kinda, i think thats it lmk if not !!

SATORU GOJO; the sugar daddy.

that new bag you eyed for 2 seconds last week? you find it on the dining table with a note that simply writes, ‘enjoy baby!’. your amazon cart? shein cart? bought with fast shipping, no matter how expensive or full it is. those cute pants you keep seeing everyone on tiktok gloating about? bought and on your nightstand.

satoru, loved to spoil his baby in all sorts of shiny jewels and designer, he loved to see the big smile on your face no matter how many times he’s bought you things. when you go out for girls night? he’s sending you with a stack of money, the size and weight of atleast 1000 dollars cash, throwing it down as if it was a mere 20, his only request was to call him if you or your girls needed anything.

but what satoru loved most, was buying you pretty lingerie.

“mmh!- fuck. .” pap, pap, pap. was the only sound that could be heard in your shared bedroom, your body was wrapped in a light blue lace satoru had bought you, the light color matching his eyes beautifully, the panties were pulled to the side, since he claimed he just ‘had to fuck you with it on.’

“fuck baby, you look so gorgeous with this. .” he pants in your ear heavily, he had your legs on his shoulders, ankles to his ears,

“yeah, mmph- you’re taking me so well baby.”

you could barely register his words, the only thing on your mind was how fucking deep he was, you could feel him in your stomach as he hits that spongey spot deep inside over and over.

your jaw seemed to be stuck in a permanent ‘o’ shape, the only thing coming out of your mouth was the pornagraphic moans that you couldn’t seem to hide even if you wanted too.

your body was bouncing with every thrust, your eyes rolling to the back of your head on a particularly hard thrust.

“yeah, fuck- mhm, you look so fucking pretty, holy shit.” gojo never seemed to shut up during sex, even as he moans inbetween every word. he just felt like he had to let you know how good you look and feel.

the pleasure he was feeling made his body want to roll his head back so bad, but he refused to look away from the fucked out expression on your face.

gojo could also never keep his hands off you, caressing your hips, to your waist, down your arms.. groping and pawing at any skin he could get his greedy hands on.

his mouth was no better, when he wasn’t talking your ear off he’s kissing you sloppily, mostly containing of teeth clashing and tongues colliding more then actual lips touching, or kissing down your neck in a poor attempt to muffle his moans.

“t-toru!” you barely whimper out as more tiny ‘ah, ah, ah!’s leave your lips, he shushes you gently with a sinister grin plastered on his face. “I know baby, I know. you can take it though right?” he whispers moving his head next to your ear, nipping at your skin lightly.

“hmm?” he hums in question, as if you were even able to answer.

“yes!, yes! holy fuck, yes!” you weren’t even quite sure what you were saying yes to at this point, the repeated jabs to your g-spot making you dizzy, you could feel the pleasure slowly become overwhelming.

“mmm,” he hums and speeds up his hips impossibly faster, causing more moans to usher past your lips unexpectedly. he tilts your chin to look at him, making you kiss him as your teeth bump together and your tongue’s tie. “good fucking girl.”

he breathes into your mouth as his eyebrows furrow, he knows you’re just as close as he is.

“g-g’nna cum!” you just barely find the words as you had been fucked utterly senseless. he hums in delight into your mouth before pulling away, kissing and sucking at your neck sloppily,

“cum baby, please.” he begs as he feels you clench around him and chant his name like a mantra.

hearing his name swarm out of your mouth mixed with the way your tightness squeezed around his cock, it sent him over the edge aswell, moaning even louder then you as he buries himself deep in your wetness, letting the ropes of his warm cum spill into you.

SUGURU GETO; the kids you babysits daddy.

It’s probably wrong, the way the same night you tucked his girls into bed after reading them a sweet story, you’re downstairs getting fucked over the kitchen counter.

it was a side gig, an attempt as a broke college student to get some money, eventually you grew to love the two girls you babysat as if they were your own. it also helped that their dad was a fucking smokeshow.

the way you’d run home and tell your girlfriends all about how hot the kids you babysit's dad is, “id call him daddy.” you speak into the phone as you all giggle, in that moment you can also feel your heart drop to your stomach as you hear someone clear their throat from behind you.

“call who daddy sweetheart?” you hear your friends exchange “ooo’s” and laughs through the telephone as you slowly turn around, much to your horror, and see the same man you were just erotically speaking about..

“such a whore baby, is this really the way my children's babysitter should be acting? hm?” he had you in a mean arch, pounding mercilessly into you, the only sound throughout the kitchen being your muffled moans and the squelching beneath you two. you were bent over the kitchen counter, the same one you’ve made the girls food countless time.

it was wrong, you’re sure of that, but its hard to think about that when the only thing on your mind is how fucking deep he was, you swore you could feel him rearranging your guts with each harsh thrust, he knows how to hit that spongey spot deep inside with perfect precision over and over, much better then all those stupid college hook-ups you had.

“s-sugu!, so deep! . . s-shit!” you hear a menacing laugh behind you, mocking you.

realistically, suguru always knew you found him attractive. he could tell by the way your eyes lingered a little to long when you thought he wasn't paying attention, but he always was. he kept a keen eye on you because, frankly, he was also head over fucking heels.

he thought you were the cutest little thing, always showing off in those cute dresses and skirts that hugged your body so tightly, even the days where you wore sweatpants and tracksuits he found himself drooling, still imagining what was underneath.

call him a pervert all you want, especially going for a girl so much younger, so naive. but you were just as much of a pervert. always bending over a little to far in front of him, showing off your cute dainty panties. hugging him a bit to tightly as you left, making sure your boobs pressed riiiight up against him.

which is why he wasted no time bending your little slutty ass over as soon as he could.

“cmon baby, do what you told your friends, yeah?” his head tilts lower, giving open mouth kisses over your neck and down your back, groaning against your skin everytime he feels you clench around his cock.

“mmm-!” you could barely form a coherent thought, hearing the ‘schlick, schlick, shlick’ noises of your messy cunt drooling around him.

“f-fuck! can’t- jesus-!” you stutter out, your eyes crossing as you throw your head back impossibly farther, making suguru reach for your hair and grab it into a sloppy ponytail.

he pulls you by the makeshift pony so your right up next to his own face, “not gonna ask again, little girl.” the husk in his tone, the vile words he’d say, all made you clench tighter and moan louder, biting your bottom lip until it was raw and swollen from trying to contain them.

“s-sorry!” you moan out, the sound of your skin clapping with the wet noises echoing louder throughout the kitchen.

“daddy! fuck fuck- daddy, daddy, daddy!” you can barely contain your screams as he hushes you gently, all with the same sly smirk on his lips that hasn’t left ever since he walked in on your little phone conversation.

“thatsss it,” he groans feeling his own orgasm creeping up. “atta girl, so fucking good.” you felt like you could cum from his words alone, tightening around his shaft once you feel that familiar pleasure consume you.

“c-c’mming!” is all you can manage to get out before it hits you like a fucking train. your legs are shaking, eyes rolled back, uncontainable moans spilling from your lips.

looking at your disheveled state, suguru moans against you burying himself deeeep inside your tummy, what really pushed him over that edge was one more small tight hug from your pussy, causing warm ropes to shoot into you as you squirm, still trying to recover.

“whoopsies, maybe you’ll just have to carry our own kids, hm?”

oh fuck.

KENTO NANAMI; daddy issues daddy.

your relationship with your father was…never great, to say the least, it caused a few problems in your life, sure, but the main one, was the attraction you had in much older men. your friends never understood, i mean, why don’t you want a young guy that can handle you? or a guy your age you can grow old with?

they didnt understand, of course they wouldnt. an older man can throw you around much better then any young guy you’ve been with ever could.

which is why nanami, who you happen to meet at a bar, is practically your dream man ever since the moment you laid eyes on him.

“come here often handsome?” you sit next to him with a seductive smile, leaning your elbow on the bar and resting your cheek on it. he simply turns to look at you, and with an amused huff shakes his head.

“very nice sweetheart,” you can feel your heart swoons at the name. “but im far to old for you.” tch, yeah right.

you aren’t exactly sure how you got where you are now, whether it was the booze, your head being clouded with lust, or maybe both, but your seated in the back of his fancy ass car, with him between your legs.

“you don’t have to do that y’know, if you don’t want too.” you pant looking down at him, I mean afterall no man you’ve ever known has ever really wanted to eat pussy. yet, he still shoots you a perplexed look, shaking his head aggressively.

“I want to,” the words catch you off guard yet make the ache between your thighs even louder. “need to teach you how a real man does it, hm?”

you moan simply at his words and nod your head, throwing your head back as he continues his work kissing along your thighs, humming here and there.

he eventually, comes face to face with your glistening cunt, blowing on it causing your legs to squirm shut, before he quickly grabs ahold of them, now putting your knees allll the way up to your chest, you whine at this before it quickly gets cut off with a real moan once he swipes his tongue through your folds, humming into your wetness.

his tongue swirls around, collecting and swallowing every ounce of your slick as if he was a dehydrated puppy. you’ve never been eaten out with so much . . pleasure? every guy that’s done it before was either terrible at it, completely missing and licking the lips, or just plain hated it anyway.

“mmh- shit. . . feels s’ good.” your head lolls back and more whimpers escape past your lips blissfilly, his lips curl to suckle your sensitive clit, causing you to grab at his hair and whine loudly.

“fuck- so needy baby.” he pants into your soaked hole, mixed with your arousal and his spit. “she’s never been treated right has she? poor thing.” he coos and speaks to it as if it was a real person,

the filthy wet noises emitting from between your thighs only turned you on more, between the constant torture to your clit mixed with his dirty talk? you knew you were a goner soon.

his tongue explored you as much as he could, thrusting the wet muscle into your opening as you needily moan from above him, the grip on his once put together hair, becoming tighter. he sped up, tongue lapping at your essence as he switches between suckling on your clit, to drinking up your dampness.

“s-shit! wait- . . nanami!” the sudden change in pace causes your legs to shake and much louder moans to escape your lips.

unfortunately, everyone that could see the car definitely knew what was going on inside. not only could they hear, but could probably see the car shaking.

your head flew back and your legs attempted to clam together again before a harsh smack! landed against your thigh, causing a whimper to escape your lips.

“keep ‘em open.” the man speaks between your thighs.

“’m close, so f’ckin close-!” the windows were fogged with heat already, nanami slurping at a quickened pace, never failing to reach the most sensitive parts inside of you.

you can feel your climax approaching, the warmth in your belly growing with lust,

“cum.”

was all it took for your legs to shake and your body to writhe and twist above him, he continues to gulp at your creaminess until you ride out your orgasm and have to practically push him off of you.

“wanna see how a real man fucks angel?”

hell yeah you do.

-

toji was supposed to b in this but i got lazy

[thebarneschronicles]

Out of Depth, Into You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 8.3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

And when Hydra saw their chance, they took it.

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

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

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

Bucky never let pain show.

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

"I need an exit. Now."

Your heart stopped.

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

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

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

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

Broken. His arm was broken.

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

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

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

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

And still, he kept going.

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

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

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

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

There wasn’t supposed to be a fight.

Fear clawed at your throat.

You rounded the last corner and skidded to a stop.

Bucky.

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

Up close, he looked worse. So much worse.

And that—that terrified you.

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

This was Bucky barely standing.

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

And you—you couldn’t breathe.

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

You weren’t supposed to feel like this.

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

Except he wasn’t.

He was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

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

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

He was leaning on you.

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

Your throat tightened.

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

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

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

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

Something in you cracked.

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

He was alive.

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

And you were going to keep him that way.

The drive to the safehouse was short, but agonizing.

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

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

Don’t think about it.

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

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

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

Nothing.

"Bucky, you still with me?"

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

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

Getting him inside was its own battle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had never seen him this bad.

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

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

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

Just quiet, unwavering trust.

A barely perceptible nod.

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

And somehow, that was worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except—when you touched the worst of it.

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

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

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

The sound it made was sickening.

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

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

But then—it was done.

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

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

He hadn’t screamed.

Hadn’t even made a sound.

"Buck?"

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

"Bucky?"

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

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

Too fast. But steady.

He was alive. He was going to stay alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

And then, so quietly you almost missed it—

"Nah."

Your heart stuttered.

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

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

Blue. So damn blue.

And looking right at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"‘I will, doll."

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

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

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

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

His lips quirked—just barely, just enough.

And then, exhaustion pulled him under again.

–

He slept for hours.

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

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

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

The serum was working, you realized. 

You willed it to.

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I dead?”

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweetheart.

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

You felt exposed. Raw.

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bucky, I don’t think—"

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

Stubborn son of a bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you heard it.

A muffled groan.

Maybe a pained grunt.

Then— your name.

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

Without thinking, without hesitating, you moved.

The door swung open—

And you froze.

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

Bucky was naked.

Completely, gloriously naked.

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

It was all of him.

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

Oh. Oh.

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

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

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

Your brain bluescreened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were so, so done.

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

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

He just stood there, watching. Waiting.

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

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

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

Instead, you took a step forward.

Bucky didn’t stop you.

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

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

And closed the door.

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

You were going to do this.

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

His gaze dropped.

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

The air thickened, heavy, pulsing.

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

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

There was no way you were leaving now.

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

You weren’t leaving.

Couldn’t leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment passed. Stretched. Deepened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Want isn’t quite how I’d put it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It’s alright, I—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted, wanted, wanted.

It was all you could think about.

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

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

"Perfect," he groaned, voice wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breath hitched. His jaw locked. And then—

He let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can’t wait."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky was safe. He was healing.

And now, finally—he was yours.

[comatosebunny09]

preface [ deux ] | sylus

summary: in his haste to find you before the auction begins, sylus uncovers something much more harrowing. and he curses himself for agreeing to let you be bait in the first place.

warnings: violence, minor character deaths, human/sex trafficking, mentions of underaged girls, profanity, allusions to reader’s past as a kidnappee, reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, sylus is mad murderous & an emotional wreck

tagging: @world-of-hearts, @athanasia-day, @falon-fen, @queen-serena88, @karespocketboyfriends, @mrswanel, @readerxyourfave, @sunsets-and-crows, @antonneva

notes: a continuation of this. thank you so much for reading! part 3 can be found here.

now playing: mozart - requiem - lacrimosa

The docks are deceptively quiet tonight.

Nothing seems amiss between the creeks of old wood and the slosh of waves breaking on the pier.

Sylus isn’t convinced of its purity.

Not when the tracker dwarfed in his palm blinks a steady red, signaling to your whereabouts.

He’d followed the signal here after it grew stagnant following an hour of movement away from the city. He waited another 45 agonizing minutes to make his move. Had to be sure he wasn’t being led into a trap and that wherever Fate’s men whisked you off to was where he’d find the others.

He stands on the edge of a weathered connex, the wind ominously ruffling his coat.

He studies the device in his hand. Paints a shadowy figure amid the bokeh of distant city lights glittering behind him. With one hand in his pocket, the composure adorning his features contrasts with the hushed maelstrom brewing beneath his skin.

He holds out his unoccupied hand for Mephisto to perch on, the crow materializing on his wrist as if summoned from thought. Mephisto preens himself, iridescent feathers gleaming in the moonlight. When he’s done, he fixes Sylus with a lifeless, scarlet stare before a holographic image emerges from his eyesight.

It’s a detailed layout of the docks. Metal containers, small, worn ships. For a second, nothing looks abnormal. Yet something stark white and rectangular piques Sylus’ intrigue.

Sylus scrutinizes the shape further before he makes out what it is. A semi-truck inconspicuously parked between stacked connexes. Three dark figures circle around it like wolves. Guards, more than likely armed. Whatever they’re protecting, it must be big.

“Well, that doesn’t look very suspicious at all,” Sylus drawls, scratching Mephisto’s head with appreciative fingers. The crow bows out of existence in a flurry of inky shadows and feathers, having served Sylus well.

He spares another glance at the tracker. The blip of your signal aligns with where the truck resides.

It is then that he decides to make his move.

A smirk tugs on the corner of his lips. It’s been a while since he’s gotten his hands dirty. Had you and the twins for that. The prospect of a good fight makes his fingers twitch, the tips of them sparking with dark red electricity.

In superhero fashion, he pitches himself forward, swallowed by the misty vines of his Evol, as he ascends from the connex at breakneck speed.

You’d make fun of him for being so dramatic; he’s sure of it. He’ll tell you all about his heroic feats when you’re safely tucked back in his penthouse with this night shoved into the furthest reaches of your minds.

He lands on sturdy feet. Insufferably cool as he maneuvers through the maze of cargo containers. The click of his shoes reverberates off damaged metal until he spots what he’s looking for.

The guards have yet to see him. Two of them pace back and forth at the truck’s rear. Another circles its perimeter, two hands on a rifle.

Such meager security for whatever’s housed in that trailer.

He breathes deeply. Fades into obscurity, drawn into the shadows of his Evol, preparing for a sneak attack. He doesn’t need to. Could effortlessly eviscerate the guards with a snap of his fingers. But where’s the fun in that?

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” sighs a disgruntled guard all by his lonesome in the driver seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. “What am I, a fuckin’ babysitter?” So caught up in his head, he’s none the wiser to Sylus’ appearance on the passenger side, amused, crimson eyes boring into his skull.

“You’re right,” Sylus replies, his voice abrasive yet cocky. “You don’t get paid enough.”

The driver doesn’t get the luxury of a scream before wispy, handlike tendrils snake around his neck. Bone snaps, followed by a sigh of life drained from cold lips. He dies with terror twisting his features, shepherded into the afterlife by The Boogeyman himself. His head slumps onto his shoulder as his energy flows into Sylus’ body.

“Now, what exactly are you babysitting,” Sylus ponders. The kingpin blinks out of existence again, readying himself to dispatch the other three henchmen.

Sylus doesn’t make a sound as he takes out the guard who’d wandered to the nose of the semi to ensure his cohort was still on the job. The other two, he snuffs out similarly, their blood gurgling in their throats and their bones crackling, music to his ears.

He rolls out the kinks in his neck and shoulders to ward off the stiffness as their life force seeps into his body. It’s been too long since he’s had some fun. Hopefully, this is the most action he’ll see for the night.

His eyes grow intense with concentration when he stares at the worn handles of the truck’s trailer. He burns with anticipation. With something of wariness nestled between. Your signal stops here, steadily buzzing on the tracker in his pocket. He clings to the notion that you’re inside, unscathed and none the worse for wear.

He shuts his eyes, focusing a stretch of energy on the handles. The doors fly off with a deafening screech of metal, sure to draw some unwarranted attention.

Nevertheless, with his hands in his pockets, he waits for the dust to settle. Leaps into the truck trailer with practiced ease, eliciting screams and gasps of varying pitches from within.

None of which sound like yours.

Red emergency lights flicker in the space inside. It reeks of mildew and sweat. Fear. Revulsion.

When the grime completely clears, Sylus makes out dozens of sets of eyes fixed on him. He stiffens. His blood turns ice cold.

Girls of diverse creeds, colors, sizes, and ages cower against the back of the trailer. All from him. He makes out at least 30 of them, crammed in the trailer like cattle awaiting slaughter.

Something in his chest pulls. His lips twitch with the threat of a grimace.

Those sick fucks.

Sylus is no saint. He’s done horrible things to equally deplorable people to increase his reign. To strike fear into those who would oppose him. Challenge his title as Onychinus’ ruler. But he’s never dreamt of doing something as vile as this.

There’s no telling how long Fate had them—these young women, these girls. How long they’ve been emaciated, deprived of food, water, and sunlight.

Sylus bristles as an image of you forms in his mind. A flash of a girl, young like these ones. Terrified yet burning with fury. Revenge rotting your mind, anger warping your tear-stricken features.

Speaking of you, he scans through the girls’ faces in search of yours. He doesn’t find you through their varying degrees of fright. Sucks in a breath through parted lips, his blood running cold.

He cautiously steps further into the trailer, and the girls inside shy away. He holds out a placating hand. Sure, he’s despicable. Terrifying, and the red light highlighting his imposing figure as he nears them doesn’t help matters. But he has to be sure you’re not nestled between them. Playing a cruel joke on him after he spent all this time hunting you down.

The tracker in his pocket vibrates violently. The group of women parts, cowering away from him like he’s something of a sickness. He stops in front of a girl who looks no older than sixteen. Peers down at her, and she shivers, swallowed by your coat. She ducks into the fur, shrouding herself from Sylus’ penetrating gaze.

There’s no mistaking this jacket. Pristine lynx fur.

One of the first he’d bought you when you joined his entourage. A peace offering, a sign of his unyielding protection.

You wore it faithfully like it was your most prized possession. No matter how many more Sylus stocked you with, you never let this particular coat go.

He smooths shaky fingers down the collar. Suddenly sees red when he tugs on the lapel, snatching the girl up, and she shrieks, her feet dangling above the floor. The other women yelp in terror, shrinking away from Sylus’ ire. He must look like a monster to them. As beastly as the men who ripped them from their homes. From freedom. But he doesn’t care as anguish drives him into rage.

It’s rare he loses his cool. But when it comes to you, things just hit differently.

“Where did you get this?” Sylus demands. He’s breathy. There's a manic look in his eyes. He’s desperate. Running out of time. For all he knows, they could’ve already sold you off to the highest bidder.

Or worse.

The girl donning your coat says nothing. Too shell-shocked, her voice corked in her throat. He recognizes the look in her eyes all too quickly. Well acquainted with it, having seen it too often in his enemies before he extinguished them like a candle’s flame.

Gravity comes sinking back in. Sylus scans the space around, the fear in the dank space palpable.

He peers at the girl, at his hand fisted in the coat, disgusted with himself. They’ve already endured so much, and he’s only exacerbating their torment. Gently, he sets the girl down. After her feet return to the floor, something clanks on the wooden boards, and she scurries away. Sylus kneels to retrieve it, the telltale gleam of a crimson gem causing his muscles to tense.

The brooch.

Your brooch.

The tracker.

The fucking—

Fuck!

A tidal wave of grief crashes into him. He squeezes the pendant in his hand, its intricate carvings biting into his fingers. Anguish mars his features. He pinches his eyes shut, curling into himself. The girls cling to the lining of the truck, scared witless.

He tamps down an impulse to scream. Instead punches the wooden floor. Punches and punches until the skin of his knuckles split, and his fist is raw, bleeding red.

You wanted him to find them first. These girls who’d been snatched away from their families, their livelihoods. Sold to deplorable men to do revolting things. To suffer. To die.

To you, this was personal. Sylus fought against using you as bait to draw out the ringleader of this trafficking act. But you wore him down, citing that he owed you this moment of redemption. Why you sought him out all those years ago.

You fucking martyr.

The trailer grows silent. Sylus feels numb as he stands, chest heaving. His fist has already mended itself when he dismounts the truck in a daze, leaving the girls cowering in his wake.

Luke and Kieran, as if sensing their boss’s shock, call him back to the present in his earpiece.

“Boss?” cautions Luke, the radio silence alarming.

“I’ve found them,” Sylus states, his tone grim. Detached. Dejected.

“And the little boss?” Kieran queries, optimism breaking through the static.

Sylus’ silence serves as their answer.

There’s a pause before Luke cryptically disrupts it. “On the way, boss,” he promises before the line cuts dead.

Sylus stares at the ground. Dissociates, starting away from the truck before the sound of merriment catches his ears.

His attention’s drawn to a sizable ship on the opposite side of the pier. It cuts a sleek outline against the horizon, bordered by smaller passenger boats.

He narrows his eyes. Homes in on the ship, exhaling slowly. If he were an auctioneer, he would hold it somewhere in plain sight. Somewhere seemingly innocent that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. What better guise than a party?

Hope spumes through him. Adrenaline. You’re so crafty sometimes, it hurts. The brooch was merely a marker. You knew he’d assemble the pieces the moment you found the others and left your brooch where he could track it.

You could very well be aboard that ship, waiting to be sold off. Waiting to be returned to a life you fled from years ago. He could only hope he was right in his deduction.

Sylus sinks into the vantablack abyss of his Evol, setting course for the cruise ship at the pier's edge. He clings to the idea that you’re onboard, safe and sound, waiting to cuss him out for taking so long to find you.

—

He needed a distraction.

There were too many innocents onboard. Or, so they seemed. He couldn’t glean the difference when he landed on the deck. He had a one-track mind.

A few partygoers eyed him suspiciously. Perhaps he didn’t blend in with his wind-swept hair, harrowed features, and suit stained dark with blood.

Regardless of their intrigued looks, he wended through the crowd. Scanned the scenery, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Anything to signal nefarious dealings taking place aboard the cruise ship. Anything that could lead him to you.

He’d heard whisperings as he descended to the mid-levels of the ship. Hushed tones speaking of meetings for the elite taking place on the lower decks.

He clung to the bits of information he extracted. Pieced them together. Found his way to the kitchen. The staff was clueless to his presence—or they ignored him, too busy whipping up meals for the ship’s guests.

Sylus grabbed who he assumed was the sous chef by the collar. Pinned him with a stare that promised pain if he wasn’t compliant.

The man cowered in his hold. The remaining cooks caught wind of it, shrinking away from Sylus’ imposing, blood-speckled figure. From the malevolence pouring in waves off his skin.

“There’s a fire in the galley,” Sylus stated between the man’s eyes. The sous chef looked at him with pinched brows. Confusion showed through his fear, as nothing was amiss.

Sylus would soon change that.

“I would advise you to start clearing out your staff. Now.” He punctuated his sentence with a growl, tossing the chef back a few paces until he stumbled into his coworkers.

They weren’t moving quick enough for Sylus, so he set his plan in motion. Turned a few knobs with a flicker of his Evol, a fire sparking on the stove. It erupted into something more menacing, the flames licking the ceiling, triggering the sprinkler system.

The kitchen staff finally sprung into action. Hurriedly poured out of the room as the shrill cry of the fire alarm pervaded the air.

With his hair matted to his face and his mouth drawn into a rigid line, Sylus moved further through the kitchen. Descended to the lower floors as people rushed past him, all seeking refuge from the fire.

At least this way, he could wheedle out the scum who’d taken you while sparing the innocent a horrible fate.

[someonegoood]

THE CORPORATE EQUATION chapter 1 ✫ jeon jungkook

after Jeon resigned as CEO, meeting his son —the new CEO— was not a good experience. Despite the tension, you notice hints of vulnerability beneath his moody exterior.

CONTAINS: corporate!au, ceo!jk, headofhr!reader, grumpy x sunshine, slow burn, accidental vulnerability, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable jk, bickering turned bonding, fluff & angst :)

NOTE: this will be a mini series. thanks so much for reading!! this work is not revised and english is not my first language :)

my main masterlist! ❀ the corporate equation masterlist!

chapter one: the new CEO

Life has a strange way of changing in the blink of an eye. One moment, you’re comfortable in the routine of your daily life, and the next, everything shifts—like the wind knocking over an entire stack of carefully arranged folders. For you, this particular change had come faster than expected. Jeon, the former CEO, had resigned abruptly, leaving the company in turmoil. There was little time to adjust, and even less time to process what was happening.

Jeon had been a constant at the helm for years. His presence had shaped the company's foundation, and you had respected him for his sharp, calculated leadership. He had guided the company with precision and there was always an understanding that he could be trusted to keep the ship steady. But now, his son, Jeon Jungkook, was stepping into his shoes. You knew little about him, except for the occasional gossip that had floated through the company—rumours that painted him as cold, unapproachable and... gorgeous.

Today was the day. You went through your morning routine on autopilot. Coffee brewed in the corner as you brushed your hair, choosing practicality over flair. A pencil skirt, a pastel blouse, and your trusty blazer—a combination that felt like armour against the unpredictability of corporate life. You grabbed your bag and headed out the door.

At this time of the morning, the bus stop was alive with the quiet energy of early morning commuters. A mix of sleepiness and determination hung in the air as people shuffled about with their eyes fixed on their phones or the horizon. You settled into your usual seat by the window, gazing at the familiar cityscape rushing by. Buildings stacked against one another and the occasional cyclist weaving through traffic—it all felt comfortingly ordinary.

By the time you reached the office, the hum of whispered speculation filled the air. As you walked through the halls, exchanging polite smiles with colleagues, you couldn’t help but notice how everyone seemed to carry a certain tension in their movements.

Soojin appeared at your side. Her usual cheery demeanour was like a ray of sunshine cutting through the tense atmosphere. She was holding a steaming cup of tea, her neatly styled bob bouncing slightly as she walked. She started working at the same time you entered the company, therefore you've become really good friends.

“Good morning!” she chirped, setting her cup down on the counter. She leaned against it, her bright eyes scanning your stack of papers. “Prepared for our big meeting with the new boss?”

“Morning, Soojin,” you replied, offering her a small smile. “Yeah, just making sure I have everything in order. First impressions matter, right?”

“Absolutely,” she said, nodding emphatically. “But don’t stress too much. From what I’ve heard, Jeon Jungkook isn’t exactly the chatty type. Rumour has it he’s more about the Finances Department than the HR one.”

You gave a small laugh, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “I’ve heard that too. But, you know, I’m still hoping he’ll be open to ideas. We'll present the proposal for improving employee morale that I think could really make a difference.”

Soojin raised an eyebrow, her expression somewhere between impressed and skeptical. “Employee morale? The one Dohyun and you made up? Bold move. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great. But with all the talk about how cold he is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he shuts it down...”

“Maybe,” you admitted, straightening your papers and tucking them into your folder. “But I have to try, right? If we don’t focus on the people here, everything else will eventually fall apart.”

Soojin tilted her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. “That’s what I like about you. Always seeing the bright side, even when everyone else is freaking out. Just… don’t let him discourage you, okay? From what I hear, he can be a bit intimidating.”

You chuckled, though you couldn’t completely mask the nervous flutter in your stomach. “Honestly, how bad can he be? He’s human too, right?”

Soojin shrugged, her expression playful but knowing. “Sure, he’s human. But some humans are more like icebergs—most of them are hidden, and what you can see is cold and sharp.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Soojin said with a grin, taking her cup of tea and stepping aside as Dohyun, another member form the HR team approached, nodding a greeting to both of you. The three of you started to walk towards the conference room. “Anyway, you’ve got this. Just be yourself. If anyone can charm an iceberg, it’s you.”

Her words were meant to be encouraging, but as you adjusted your blazer, you couldn’t shake the growing knot of anxiety in your stomach. If Jeon Jungkook really was as cold and impenetrable as the rumours suggested, this meeting was going to be anything but easy.

The long, polished table gleamed under the overhead lights, the leather chairs arranged neatly around it. You set your notebook and pen in front of you, taking a moment to mentally prepare for the meeting ahead. The other members of the HR team began to trickle in—Soojin with her ever-present cheerful energy, Dohyun looking focused as always, Joonho balancing his coffee precariously in one hand, and Minji projecting her usual calm authority.

The room was alive with small talk until the atmosphere shifted. A hush fell over the space as the door opened, and in walked Jeon Jungkook.

Your first thought was how young he looked, though the sharp lines of his suit and the intensity in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t someone to be underestimated. He exuded confidence, the kind that came with knowing you didn’t need to say much to command a room. His gaze swept over the table, assessing each face with a precision that made your heart quicken. When his eyes landed on you, they lingered for a fraction of a second longer than expected, and the weight of his attention was almost tangible.

He was handsome.

He took his place at the head of the table without so much as a greeting. His assistant, Hajun, followed closely behind, setting a sleek portfolio in front of him.

"Let’s get started," Jungkook said, his voice low and firm, cutting through the silence like a blade.

You straightened in your seat, your pen poised to take notes. The meeting began, and it was immediately clear that Jungkook operated differently from his father. He listened, but his responses were curt, his tone leaving little room for argument. When your turn came to speak, you offered your carefully prepared suggestion for improving workplace morale—an idea you were confident would resonate with his father, the former CEO.

“Good morning, everyone,” you began, glancing around the table before focusing on Jungkook. His dark eyes locked onto yours, and you had to resist the urge to look away. “I’d like to propose an initiative to improve employee morale and engagement. We’ve seen a lot of changes recently, and I believe it’s crucial to invest in the well-being of our team during this transitional period.”

But Jungkook’s expression didn’t shift.

After a few seconds, he decided to say something. “That’s too idealistic,” he said flatly. His voice was calm, but the dismissal stung all the same. Every team member looked astonished, “We don’t have the resources to entertain abstract ideas right now. We need to focus on tangible results, not wishful positive thinking.”

The room went silent, all eyes shifting between you and him. A wave of heat rose to your face, but you refused to let it deter you. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and replied.

“I understand your concerns, Mr. Jeon,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “But I respectfully disagree. Employee morale isn’t an abstract idea; it’s a measurable factor that directly impacts productivity and retention. If we don’t address the root causes of disengagement now, we’ll face bigger problems down the line—higher turnover, lower performance, and potentially a damaged reputation.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your rebuttal. His pen paused mid-tap, and he leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze narrowing as he studied you. For a moment, the room was still, the air thick with anticipation. Jungkook didn’t speak immediately, his expression unreadable as his gaze lingered on you.

Finally, he nodded, though it was more an acknowledgment of your persistence than an agreement. “Noted,” he said simply before shifting his attention to the next person on the agenda.

As you sat back down, your heart was racing, but you kept your composure. Soojin shot you a quick, encouraging smile from across the table, and you gave her a subtle nod in return. Jungkook’s dismissal still stung, but you couldn’t help feeling a small sense of victory. You had stood your ground, and even if he hadn’t agreed, you knew you had planted a seed.

Whether he realized it or not, Jeon Jungkook was going to hear you out—eventually.

Despite his half-rejection, you couldn’t help but notice the long hours Jungkook kept. He stayed in his office long after everyone else had left, his office door always ajar, the flicker of his desk lamp visible through the cracks. Curiosity gnawed at you, as you were heading home yourself, you decided to stop by and check in on him. Your offices were facing each other, therefore you could see everything he was doing.

You knocked lightly on the doorframe, unsure of what kind of reception you would get.

"Mr. Jeon?" you began, your voice tentative. "I noticed you’re still here. Is everything okay?"

Jungkook glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. His eyes were sharp, calculating as they locked onto yours. "I don’t need a babysitter," he muttered before quickly returning to the papers in front of him. There was no warmth in his tone, no indication that he appreciated the concern. But there was something else—something beneath his cold exterior—that you couldn’t quite place. A flicker of frustration, of exhaustion, maybe. It was there, but only for a split second.

You had expected him to shut the door in your face, but instead, he let you stand there for a few seconds longer before the silence stretched uncomfortably between you.

"I just thought… maybe you could use a break. It’s important to recharge, too," you said, trying once more, hoping to break through that thick wall he had built around himself.

He didn’t respond, just stared at you as though trying to decide whether or not your presence was a disruption. When he spoke, his voice was lower, edged with something you hadn’t heard before—a mixture of stress and frustration.

"I don’t have the luxury of downtime," he muttered, his gaze turning back to the papers in front of him, his fingers tapping against the desk in a rapid rhythm. "My father was right to step down when he did. This place it’s too much to handle..."

You didn’t know if you were meant to hear this. Jungkook’s voice cracked just slightly as he spoke, a rare moment of vulnerability that cut through his otherwise unyielding exterior. But before you could respond, he snapped, his tone returning to its familiar sharpness.

"Just go. I’ll manage," he said, his gaze hardening once more as he gestured toward the door.

As you left, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Jungkook was difficult, a person wrapped in layers of pride and frustration, but there was something about that brief moment of honesty—something raw—that made you wonder if there was more to him than the impenetrable CEO persona he projected.

You didn’t know what the future held, but one thing was clear: this man, this new CEO, was not the cold-hearted figure he appeared to be on the surface. And perhaps, in time, you could find a way to break through that wall he had so carefully constructed around himself.

The HR office buzzed with an unusual energy, a rare break from the grind. Joonho’s birthday had turned the space into a small celebration, complete with an assortment of pastries from the bakery down the street. Laughter echoed as everyone gathered around, sipping coffee and chatting.

“Okay, okay!” Minji said, clapping her hands for attention. “We have an important task for you, sunshine.” Her tone was teasing, but her expression was determined as her gaze landed squarely on you.

You raised an eyebrow, your mouth still full of a bite of croissant. “Me? What’s this ‘important task’?”

Dohyun chimed in, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “You’ve got to invite Mr. Jeon to join us.”

You blinked, startled. “Jeon Jungkook? The CEO? Are you serious?”

Joonho nodded vigorously, his cheeks slightly pink from the attention everyone was showering on him. “Come on! It’s my birthday, and maybe you can get him to crack a smile. Plus,” he added with a sly grin, “you’re the only one brave enough to talk back to him.”

Minji, ever the voice of reason, stepped in with a gentle smile. “It’s worth a try. Even if he says no, it’ll show that we’re trying to include him. And who knows? He might surprise us.”

You sighed, setting your half-eaten pastry on the edge of your desk. “Fine, I’ll do it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if he declines.” The team erupted into cheers and laughter as you smoothed down your blouse, squared your shoulders, and made your way toward his office.

The door to Mr. Jeaon's office was slightly ajar, but you hesitated before knocking. A voice from inside stopped you—a woman’s voice, clear and firm. You hesitated outside his office door, adjusting your grip on the folder in your hands, but before you could knock, a low, feminine laugh drifted through the gap.

"Come on, Jungkook," the woman purred, her tone smooth and teasing. "You can’t keep shutting the world out. At some point, even you need a little... release."

Your breath caught, and your fingers froze just above the door. The casual intimacy of her words, paired with the warmth in her voice, made your face heat.

Jungkook’s reply was quieter but firm. “This isn’t the time for distractions. You know that better than anyone.”

“Oh, please,” she shot back, amusement dancing in her voice. “You’ve been coiled so tight since taking this job, I’m surprised you haven’t snapped. What’s the harm in loosening up a little? Just for tonight? As we used to...”

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy and charged. You felt your heart hammer in your chest. Should you turn back? But the folder in your hands reminded you of why you were here—no matter how awkward it might be.

Gathering your courage, you knocked lightly, hoping the sound would cut through whatever tension had been brewing inside.

The voices went silent.

“Come in,” Jungkook called, his tone now sharp and businesslike.

You pushed the door open cautiously. Jungkook stood behind his desk, phone in hand, his expression unreadable. His tie was slightly askew, and there was a faint flush at the base of his neck. The woman’s voice was gone, though the faint click of a phone being disconnected told you she was still on the other end of the call just moments ago.

He met your eyes, and for a split second, you thought you saw something flicker there—annoyance? Embarrassment? It was gone before you could decipher it.

“Miss,” he said, his voice cool. “What is it?”

You cleared your throat, trying to push past the awkwardness. “I just came to invite you to join the HR team. We’re celebrating Joonho’s birthday, and we thought it would be nice to include you.”

Jungkook raised a brow, the tension in his jaw softening slightly. “I’m busy,” he replied, gesturing to the neatly organized stack of documents on his desk. “And I don’t need any of that.”

His words were dismissive, but there was a faint edge to his tone like he was still distracted by the previous conversation.

“I see,” you said, masking your confusion with a polite smile. “Well, the invitation’s there if you change your mind. Have a good evening, Mr. Jeon.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but wonder about the woman on the phone—and the look on Jungkook’s face when he thought no one was watching. Was he dating someone? Seeing someone? Or just a fling...? You suddenly stop in your tracks, You shouldn't be thinking about our boss's private life.

Later that evening, as the office grew quiet and most of your colleagues had left, you found yourself lingering in the HR office as every other day. The leftover pastries from Joonho’s birthday were spread across the table, and your gaze fell on the last remaining matcha cream puff, Joonho’s favourite and, coincidentally, the one you had secretly saved for Jungkook.

You still couldn’t shake the tension from earlier—the clipped way he’d dismissed your invitation and the strange conversation you had overheard. The woman’s sultry tone and Jungkook’s responses echoed faintly in your mind, leaving you with more questions than answers. But one thing was clear: whatever weight Jungkook carried on his shoulders, it was heavy.

You picked up the pastry and carefully placed it in a small box, folding the lid neatly. Grabbing a purple sticky note, you scribbled a simple message:

"Eat it, please! We would have loved to have you today – Miss Y/N"

It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do—a small gesture to remind him that someone in this office cared, even if he tried to push everyone away.

With the box in hand, you made your way to his office. The lights were still on, but the room was empty, his jacket slung neatly over the back of his chair. You stepped inside hesitantly, placing the box squarely in the centre of his desk. The sticky note caught the glow of his desk lamp, and you smiled faintly at the absurdity of it all.

Would he eat it? Would he crumple up the note and toss it in the trash? You had no idea.

You turned off the light in his office as you left, leaving the pastry and the quiet note behind. As the elevator doors closed and you descended to the lobby, you couldn’t help but wonder if this tiny act of kindness might crack the icy façade Jungkook seemed determined to maintain.

If nothing else, you’d tried—and that was enough for now.

The quiet hum of the office after hours was a rare solace for Jungkook. He leaned back in his chair, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he replayed Yuna’s voice in his head.

“Jungkook,” she had said, her tone dripping with something he couldn’t quite place—mockery, concern, or maybe a blend of both. “You can’t keep running yourself into the ground. You’ve always had this... obsession with proving yourself. It’s exhausting just to watch, honestly.”

Her words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. Yuna had always known how to push his buttons, her insight into his insecurities as sharp as ever. “You’ve been coiled so tight since taking this job, I’m surprised you haven’t snapped. What’s the harm in loosening up a little? Just for tonight? As we used to...”

He’d ended the call quickly, his jaw tight as he shoved the phone into his pocket. He hated that she still had that effect on him, that she could twist his emotions with a single conversation.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the weight of her words as he pushed open the door to his office. He froze mid-step, his gaze landing on the small box sitting on his desk. The office was dim, lit only by the city lights filtering through the large windows, but the glow of his desk lamp illuminated the neat handwriting on a sticky note:

"Eat it, please! We would have loved to have you today – Miss Y/N"

For a moment, Jungkook just stood there, staring at the note. His brow furrowed as he approached the desk, setting down the files he’d been carrying. The box was small and unassuming, but the gesture felt oddly personal—out of place in the structured world he inhabited.

He peeled the note off the box and read it again, his lips pressing into a thin line.

You.

He thought back to earlier that day, to the way you had stood in his office, your invitation soft but genuine. He’d brushed you off, too preoccupied with Yuna’s voice still echoing in his mind to give you the consideration it deserved. And yet, here you were—persisting in your quiet, unassuming way.

Curiosity got the better of him. Jungkook opened the box to reveal a matcha cream puff, the delicate pastry perfectly intact. He hesitated, his mind swirling with conflicting thoughts.

Why would she do this? What was she expecting in return?

But as he sat down and leaned back in his chair, the sharp ache in his chest from Yuna’s words began to dull. He picked up the cream puff, taking a small bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, a stark contrast to the bitterness of these past days.

Jungkook glanced at the sticky note again, the corner of his mouth twitching as if it might curve into a smile—but it didn’t quite get there.

“Eat it, please,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he let the tension in his shoulders ease. The pastry wasn’t just a dessert—it was a reminder that not everyone wanted something from him. As he finished the cream puff, Jungkook placed the note back on his desk, staring at it longer than he intended.

“Miss Y/N,” he said softly, her name a strange comfort in the quiet of his office.

He didn’t know what to make of you yet, but one thing was certain—you were different, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

previous / next

[kysstar]

SALT ON YOUR CROWN | CHAPTER THREE : DARK CORNERS

pairing : : pirate!kim hongjoong x princess!reader

series synopsis : : a pirate crew kidnaps the wrong girl—princess instead of merchant’s daughter. she offers gold for hiding, not ransom. captain hongjoong agrees, reluctantly. she’s fire on his ship, danger to his rules. one month aboard may ruin them both.

genre : : pirate au, enemies to lovers, slow burn, captor x captive (kinda?)

chapter warnings : : mention(s) of 'y/n', fear of darkness, tight spaces

word count : : 3.9k

[series masterlist]

—Of all the things Captain Kim Hongjoong had planned for the day, strolling through the fish-stinking streets of Sakaris with a royal pain in his ass at his side wasn’t one of them.

Yet here you were, and here he was.

He walked a step behind you—on purpose. Close enough to keep you in reach if you did something reckless, but far enough to pretend he didn’t have to talk to you. You were quiet, for once, which he appreciated. Still, it was obvious you were trying too hard not to look lost. You held your chin high, but your boots scraped awkwardly against the cobblestone, like you hadn’t quite figured out how to walk without someone smoothing the path for you.

“You’re walking like the ground personally offended you,” Hongjoong said, voice dry.

You didn’t even look at him. “And you’re following me like I’m going to vanish into thin air.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a royal lied.”

You gave him a side glance. “I said I needed five minutes to deliver a letter, not launch a coup.”

“Same thing with your people.”

You snorted, turning back to the street. “Your bitterness is exhausting.”

“And your entitlement is loud.”

You said nothing, but he caught the faint twitch at the corner of your mouth. Not quite a smile. Just a crack in the armor. He hated that he noticed.

You moved through it all with careful footing, eyes scanning the storefronts until you spotted it. A narrow wooden shop pressed between two crumbling stone buildings. No sign, just a small brass symbol carved into the frame—Jihoon’s mark. You knew it immediately. The edges of your shoulders loosened as you stepped toward the door.

“This is it,” you said, half-turning toward him.

He glanced at the shop, then at you. “Huh. I was expecting something with more guards and secret passageways.”

“He’s a merchant,” you said. “Not a revolutionary.”

“Same thing,” he muttered.

You stepped closer to the door, placing a hand on the latch, but Hongjoong followed with a step of his own.

“I’ll go alone,” you said, pausing to look back at him.

He raised a brow. “Yeah, no. I don’t trust you not to signal a fleet from under the floorboards.”

“Are you serious?”

He gestured vaguely to your whole existence. “You’re royalty. Lying is practically in the training.”

“I’m not asking to disappear,” you said, your tone calm, clipped. “I’m asking for privacy. This is for my brother.”

He studied you for a beat too long. Then, with a huff and the kind of reluctance you could feel, he leaned against the wall beside the shop door, folding his arms. “Five minutes,” he said. “If you’re not out by then, I’m kicking this door in.”

You tilted your head, unfazed. “I’d expect nothing less from a pirate.”

He smirked. “And I’d expect nothing less from a princess than making me regret this.”

You opened the door and slipped inside without another word.

Behind you, Hongjoong stared at the door, jaw tight, arms crossed. He didn’t like you, didn’t trust you, didn’t even fully understand why you were still on his ship. But one thing was certain: if this went sideways, he wouldn’t hesitate to burn the entire street down to keep it contained.

Even if it meant dragging you back through the smoke himself.

—The shop was quiet when you entered—cooler, dimmer, lit only by narrow windows and the soft gold of a hanging oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with everything from ink jars to bolts of fabric, stacks of papers to chipped ceramic cups. It smelled like old wood, ink, and lavender.

Behind the counter, Jihoon was hunched over a ledger, muttering numbers under his breath, quill scratching away. He looked older than the last time you saw him. His hair was longer now, tied back at the nape, and there were faint lines near his eyes.

“Jihoon?”

He didn’t look up at first. “One second—almost finished with—” He stopped midsentence, eyes lifting slowly.

He blinked. Then blinked again. His brow creased. “Can I… help you?”

You blinked, then gave a tight smile. “Wow. That’s a warm welcome.”

He squinted at you. And then—very slowly—it clicked.

“Wait… no.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Yes.”

He stared for a long second, his mouth parting. “What—what the hell—?” He rounded the counter without hesitation, eyes wide, voice dropping. “What happened to you? You disappeared. No one’s heard anything. There are rumors—”

“I know,” you interrupted gently.

He stopped in front of you, not quite reaching out, but clearly wanting to. “You’re wearing—what are you wearing? And what happened to your face?”

You tried to smile, weakly. “I’m okay. Really.”

“You are very obviously not okay,” he said, looking you up and down again. “Are you alone? Where have you been?”

“I can’t say,” you replied too quickly. “I—I shouldn’t say.”

Jihoon’s brow furrowed. “Are you being watched?”

“No—yes—not like that. I just...” You stopped, exhaling. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” he echoed. “Your family thinks you’ve been kidnapped.”

You winced. “I know.”

“Everyone’s saying—”

“I know.”

You sank onto the bench by the counter, suddenly tired. “I didn’t plan any of this.”

“Then what happened?”

You looked at him, trusting him more than you probably should’ve in that moment. “My parents arranged a marriage. Prince Chanwoo.”

His face twisted with instant revulsion. “Are you serious? The one from—”

“Yes. That one.”

Jihoon looked like he might throw something. “He killed his wives, Y/N. That family is—”

“Superstitious. Cruel. Ruthless. I know.” You gave him a tight smile. “My parents don’t care. They wanted the alliance.”

“And what, you just… ran?”

“I didn’t want to disappear,” you said quietly. “I just needed to buy time. If I can stay away long enough—just a few weeks—their timeline falls apart. They’ll call it off. I can go back without a noose disguised as a wedding ring.”

He stared at you for a long moment, jaw clenched, then looked away like he needed to pace but didn’t have the room for it.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out the small folded letter you’d written that morning. “I need you to get this to Taeyang. Quietly. Make sure it’s him who reads it.”

Jihoon stepped forward and took it gently from your hands. “You’re telling him you’re safe?”

You nodded. “Safe enough. I just don’t want him to waste resources or—” You faltered. “He’ll tear the continent apart if he thinks I’ve been taken.”

Jihoon exhaled slowly, folding the letter with careful hands. “He’ll listen to me. I’ll get it to him.”

“Thank you.”

Jihoon suddenly pulled you into a hug, the kind that didn’t need words to mean something. You stiffened for half a second, then melted into it.

It had been too long since someone held you like that. Not as a bargaining chip. Not as a political piece. Just you.

“Next time,” he said into your hair, “warn me before you show up in disguise.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Wasn’t exactly planned.”

He pulled back but kept his hands on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to see what you weren’t saying.

“Don’t get caught,” he said.

“I won’t.”

You stepped back from Jihoon, giving him a final, grateful nod before opening the door and slipping back into the street.

Hongjoong was exactly where you’d left him—arms folded, one boot braced against the wall, expression bored but alert. His eyes flicked to you the second the door opened.

“Took long enough,” he said.

You walked past him, ignoring the bite in his tone. “It was a letter, not a duel.”

He fell into step beside you as you merged back into the crowd. “Didn’t look like just a letter. You two were talking like old friends.”

“We are.”

“Right.” His voice dropped. “And I’m sure he didn’t slip you a secret knife or instructions to sneak out of my ship in the night.”

You gave him a sharp glance. “Must be exhausting, thinking everyone’s plotting against you.”

“I sleep great,” he replied.

You rolled your eyes and kept walking.

The crowd shifted around you, merchants shouting, the breeze catching the scent of salt and dried fruit and engine smoke from one of the cargo ships being offloaded near the dock. The noise was too loud, too chaotic. You barely heard the clang of armor over it.

But you saw it and your heart stopped. Ahead—barely ten paces—three guards.

No, Royal guards.

You knew those uniforms. The crest on their breastplates. The colors. The way they stood—stiff, alert, scanning faces with forced calm.

Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed Hongjoong’s coat sleeve.

He stopped, frowning. “What now—?”

“They’re here,” you whispered, eyes locked ahead. “Guards. From the palace.”

His head snapped toward the direction you were looking, and for a second you thought he wouldn’t believe you. But then his eyes narrowed, jaw tightening when he caught the glint of metal and the unmistakable gold-and-crimson trim of the kingdom’s crest.

“Shit,” he muttered.

You didn’t wait for him to decide. You pulled his arm hard and ducked behind the nearest stall—one covered in baskets of spices, the air thick with pepper and dried rosemary.

“What are they doing here?” Hongjoong hissed, crouched beside you.

“I don’t know,” you said quickly, peeking between sacks of grain. “They must be checking port towns. Looking for me.”

He glanced around the market—narrow alleys, back routes, hundreds of people—but nowhere to hide if they got spotted.

“Stay low,” he muttered, grabbing your wrist. “Don’t argue.”

“Where are we—”

But he was already moving, dragging you with him, weaving through bodies and crates, dodging between vendors and half-covered stalls. His grip on your wrist was firm—not painful, but close. Like if he let go for a second, you'd vanish.

You glanced over your shoulder and spotted one of the guards looking in your direction.

“Faster,” you hissed.

“I know,” he snapped.

You ducked under a merchant’s hanging linens, the fabric snapping against your face like sails in a storm. The world narrowed to motion and instinct—Hongjoong’s hand still wrapped tightly around your wrist, the shout of guards somewhere behind you, the sharp stink of fish and seawater and rusted iron choking the air.

The gangway creaked as the two of you bounded up the narrow ramp, your breathing uneven, lungs burning with each pull of air. Your boots hit the deck hard. Crew members looked up from their tasks, startled by the sudden arrival.

Seonghwa was the first to move. He stepped forward from the port side, brows drawn. “What happened?”

Hongjoong didn’t slow, barely glancing over his shoulder. “The princess’s royal dogs are here.”

You pulled your hand out of his grip roughly, chest rising and falling. “I didn’t call them.”

“But they’re here because of you,” he snapped back.

You spun on him, eyes blazing. “If you hadn’t kidnapped the wrong girl, none of this would’ve—"

“Enough,” Seonghwa said, sharp. “Both of you.”

He turned toward the helm. “We need to move. Now.”

You were still catching your breath, the ship’s deck suddenly feeling too exposed, too wide. Before anyone else could speak, they heard knocking from the bottom of the ship.

Hongjoong moved toward the edge of the ship, leaning carefully over the side.

Below, docked against the hull, stood two men in royal guard armor—clearly trying to look casual, but failing. One was already lifting his hand to knock again.

“Shit,” Hongjoong hissed.

He turned on his heel, scanning the deck with a sharp flick of his eyes. “Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung looked up from a barrel he was leaning on. “Captain?”

“Hide her. Now.”

Before you could react, a hand wrapped around your wrist again—tighter this time, pulling you away from the open deck.

“Wait—”

“No time,” Wooyoung muttered, already dragging you toward the stairs below deck, moving fast but quiet, his eyes flicking toward the edge of the ship.

You reached the lower deck, dim and swaying, lit only by the occasional lantern hanging low from rusted hooks. Barrels and crates lined the walls. Rope coils, sacks of dried goods, locked cabinets of supplies. But no obvious hiding place.

Wooyoung was scanning everything, teeth gritted, muttering to himself as he moved. “Come on, come on, where—where the fuck—”

You followed him, heart hammering, feet echoing against the old wood. The knock from above sounded again. Muffled now, but closer. Heavy bootsteps overhead.

“They’re already on the ship,” you whispered, voice tight.

“I know,” he hissed.

Finally, he stopped in front of a large wooden storage hatch. It looked like it hadn't been opened in a while—sealed tight, the kind that blended into the floor. He dropped to one knee, hands working the latch free.

He pried it open, revealing a black pit of a space—barely large enough for you to curl into. Musty air wafted out, thick with salt, rot, and something old. You peered in.

It was dark. Utterly lightless. A small box of nothing.

“No,” you said instantly, stepping back. “Not in there.”

Wooyoung turned to you, eyes wild. “It’s the only place.”

“There has to be something else.”

“There isn’t,” he said, voice rising just a notch. “Every other room has a door they can open. You hide behind a curtain, they’ll find you. You hide in a crate, they’ll open it. This is it.”

You shook your head. “I—I can’t. I can’t see anything in there.”

He stood quickly, grabbed your arms. “Look at me.”

His face was close, too close, his voice lowered now but firm. “They are going to tear this ship apart. Do you understand that? If they find you, it’s over. For all of us.”

You clenched your jaw, heart stammering, eyes flicking back to the hatch. That space was so small. Too dark.

Wooyoung gently but forcefully turned you, guiding you down, his hands pressing between your shoulder blades. You resisted at first, but your legs gave way under the weight of fear, and before you could stop him, you were crouching, being pushed forward into the crawl space.

The scent hit you fully inside—dust and wood and salt and stillness.

“No, no, Wooyoung—”

“You’ll be fine,” he muttered, forcing the lid halfway closed. “Just breathe.”

And then darkness.

—The two royal guards stood at the edge of the ship, sunlight gleaming off their armor, polished and pristine like they had marched straight out of the palace halls. They looked too clean for Sakaris. Too stiff. Like they’d never once slipped in fish-gutted mud or ducked a thrown bottle.

Hongjoong met them at the center of the deck, arms crossed, coat brushing his boots in the sea breeze. His face was unreadable. Pleasant, almost. Neutral in the way that made people uncomfortable without knowing why.

“Captain,” the older one said. His voice was formal. Flat. “We’re looking for someone.”

“Someone important, I take it,” Hongjoong replied casually, as if they were discussing spoiled cargo.

The younger guard stepped forward slightly. “A woman. The Princess of the Eastern Court. She went missing from the capital and was last seen near this port.”

“A princess,” Hongjoong echoed, with just the right amount of amusement. “Can’t say we’ve had any tiaras come through here. Wrong ship for that, I’m afraid.”

The older one didn’t blink. “May we look around?”

Hongjoong's smile didn’t falter. His eyes flicked to the side—just in time to see Wooyoung emerge from below deck, walking slowly across the deck like he had all the time in the world. His posture was casual, face unreadable, but just before he reached the others, he caught Hongjoong’s eye and gave the smallest nod.

Hongjoong turned back to the guards and grinned. “Of course. Be my guest.”

The guards split off—one heading toward the bow, the other down into the belly of the ship. Hongjoong followed them, slow and deliberate, Seonghwa appearing like a shadow at his side.

The older guard began opening crates, checking behind barrels. His hands were methodical. Hongjoong’s eyes moved ahead of him, scanning for anything out of place—anything that might give you away.

And then he saw it.

A glint of pearl on the floor—tiny, pale, nestled against the base of a supply shelf.

Hair clip.

His jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. He stepped forward casually, just as the guard turned his back to check a barrel.

With a lazy flick of his foot, Hongjoong kicked the pearl clip under a wooden crate near Seonghwa’s boots.

Seonghwa caught the movement, crouched beside the crate like he was tying his boot, and in one smooth motion, slid the pearl into his coat pocket.

By the time the guards finished searching, they’d found nothing. Not a scrap of silk, not a hair out of place. Not even a fingerprint the sea couldn’t claim.

Back on the main deck, the older guard gave a tight nod. “Thank you for your cooperation, Captain.”

Hongjoong dipped his head slightly, all charm and cordial distance. “Of course. I hope you find your princess soon.”

And the second their boots hit the dock, Hongjoong’s smile vanished like it had never been there at all.

“Seonghwa!” he snapped, voice cutting through the air like a crack of lightning. “Get us off this dock. Now. Sails up, ropes off. I want distance between us and Sakaris before the next royal worm decides to knock.”

“Aye, Captain,” Seonghwa called from the helm, already moving.

“Wooyoung,” Hongjoong barked next, eyes scanning the deck. “Where is she?”

Wooyoung had just barely exhaled when he answered, nodding toward the lower deck. “Storage hatch. The hidden one under the dry goods. She’s fine. Just—”

But Hongjoong was already moving, boots hitting the wood hard as he crossed the deck and stormed down the steps. The noise of the port faded behind him as he descended, the ship groaning around him, the lanternlight casting flickering shadows across the narrow halls.

He reached the hatch Wooyoung had described and crouched low, fingers brushing the edge of the lid. It wasn’t locked. Just heavy. His hands wrapped around the edge and lifted, slowly, careful not to slam it or startle anything below.

What he found made something in his chest pull taut.

You were curled in on yourself, knees drawn close, arms hugging your sides, eyes shut tight. You weren’t asleep. Not really. But you weren’t fully here either—lost somewhere in the dark. Your breathing was too shallow. Your fingers trembled just slightly.

He should’ve guessed—people like you, raised in light, wrapped in candlelit halls and silken beds, weren’t made for pitch-black crates that smelled of salt and rot. You weren’t built for stillness like this. Not like this.

Hongjoong leaned down a little, his voice dropping low, steady. “Hey.”

Your head jerked slightly, breath catching.

“It’s just me,” he said. “They’re gone. Come on.”

He didn’t wait. His hand reached down, not rough this time, waiting. You hesitated at first, but then, slowly, you took it.

He pulled you up gently, easing you out of the dark like peeling something delicate from the sea. You stood, shaky at first, eyes squinting against the dim lantern light, hair clinging to your face.

For a second, he didn’t say anything else. Just looked at you.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, because he was him, he cleared his throat and let the softness bleed from his face.

“You really are high maintenance,” he said suddenly, tone flipping like a switch. “Can’t handle a little darkness now?”

You blinked once, the sting of his words hitting harder than they should’ve. That brief flicker of warmth—the care, the voice that didn’t bite—gone like it was never there.

You glared at him, but it lacked heat. Your voice was quieter now. “I wasn’t built for hiding in holes.”

“No,” he said, stepping back, smirk curving his mouth. “You were built for thrones, I’m sure.”

You stood straighter. “And you were built for gallows.”

He gave a low laugh, already turning away. “There she is.”

You just turned on your heel, boots thudding with more force than needed, your back straight despite the ache in your shoulders, and your voice gone quiet—not because you had nothing to say, but because he didn’t deserve to hear it.

—The sea was quieter at night. Not silent, but quieter. The creak of the wood beneath your boots, the faint whisper of wind through the rigging, the rhythmic hush of waves licking the sides of the hull.

You stepped out onto the main deck, expecting it to be empty. It usually was, at this hour.

Maybe you’d pass Seonghwa or Yeosang near the helm, the former quietly adjusting stars, the latter flipping through maps by lamplight. But the moment your boots hit the planks and your eyes adjusted to the dark, you saw him.

Hongjoong.

Standing near the railing, coat draped around his shoulders, head tilted slightly up like he was studying the stars. The wind tugged at his hair—black and blonde messy in the breeze—and his hand held a mug, probably full of whatever rotgut they called rum on this ship.

Your first instinct was to turn back. Leave. Return below deck and spare yourself whatever mood he was in. After everything, the last thing you needed was another round of whatever he considered conversation.

You started to pivot on your heel—

“Leaving already?” His voice cut through the quiet, flat and sharp all at once. “That’s unlike you. I thought royalty liked making an entrance.”

Slowly, you turned back. “I was trying to avoid a headache.”

He chuckled, low and humorless. “Should’ve tried that before getting kidnapped.”

You stepped onto the deck, squaring your shoulders. “I wasn’t exactly scheduling that part.”

“Right,” he said, taking a sip. “Poor thing. Must be hard, going a day without someone bowing in your direction.”

You walked past him, just enough to keep a breath of space between you, and leaned on the opposite railing. “Do you ever get tired?”

“Of what?”

“This,” you said, waving a hand at him. “The sneering. The constant need to remind me how much you hate me. Or is it just pirates in general?”

“I don’t hate you,” he said evenly. “I hate everything you represent.”

You turned to face him. “And what’s that, exactly?”

He gestured with his mug. “Power you didn’t earn. Comfort built on someone else’s back. People with rings worth more than entire villages, making laws for people they’ve never spoken to.”

Your jaw clenched. “You think I wrote those laws? You think I wanted to be part of this—this cage of silk and strategy and marriage alliances?”

“Doesn’t matter what you want.”

“It does when it ruins my life.”

He turned back toward the sea, quiet for a second. Then:

“You still have a life to ruin.”

That one cut deeper than it should’ve.

You looked at him then—not at the captain, not the pirate, but the man. And all you saw was a wall. Stone and salt and jagged edges. A man who hated you for the name you carried, for the blood in your veins, for things you never asked to be born into.

And yet somehow, standing here under moonlight, you hated him more.

You hated the way he looked at you like he already knew who you were. Hated that he wouldn’t let you forget it. Hated that you were stuck on his ship, in his world.

You hated him.

And you’d gladly drown him in the very sea he thinks he owns.

© kysstar

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[undiscovered-horizon]

"Vipers, crows and dragons" - Aemond Targaryen x spy!reader

(warning: this story contains mentions of suicide)

SUMMARY: Your relationship with Aemond began strictly because of espionage. As time went on, your training failed you and you fell in love with the One-Eyed Prince. Too afraid to reveal the truth to him, you've sworn to carry it to the grave. Until your commander tasks you with murdering the prince who might kill king Aegon. Now you must choose whose life you will sacrifice - his or yours?

(angst with a happy ending, I swear)

WORDCOUNT: 5.3k (I started and couldn't stop)

Sleep has eluded you for three days now. It wasn’t for a lack of trying - recent events and assigned duties kept you too anxious to rest. Even if you closed your eyes, nestled in the strangest cranny of the keep, the sound of your own breath would keep you awake. Each sound, echoed by the stone walls, made you too wary to sleep.

Walking towards the commander’s quarters, you patted your face with the back of your hand. Mild pain and improved blood flow were just good enough to prevent you from stumbling over your feet. Once you report back, you should be off for the next day, maybe two, if Westeros decides to take a quick break from its usual lunacy.

Although most of your attention was focused on the unbearable exhaustion gnawing at your body and soul, some of your thoughts indulged in fantasies. When you finally have a few hours to yourself, what will you do with them? The weather has been lovely lately, ships from Dorne have brought exotic fruit, and…

You hear yourself gasp. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him. Three days felt like three decades. Usually, you would manage a visit here and there, between tasks. This time it was quite impossible, making you realise just how much you crave the attention of none other but Prince Aemond. How funny it really was - so many tried their hardest to avoid him whenever possible and you sought him out like stars do the night sky.

Thinking about him, you feel a sting in your chest. If he ever learns the truth, he… No. He simply can’t know. Not now, not ever. Let him believe that it was a pure accident that you were his designated guard when he travelled to one of the kingdom’s realms. This is better for everyone. Aemond may be wise for his young age but he’s just a man, despite his family’s claim to godhood - the truth will break him in an inconceivable, inhuman way. Perhaps some skeletons should remain inside the closet.

Your knock on the heavy door is more of a courtesy, rather than seeking permission. Without awaiting an answer, you enter the room.

Spymaster’s quarters resembled a library more than they resembled a war room. Stacks of books and parchments littered the space in random columns. If there was any rhyme or reason to the order, it was beyond your comprehension. Only Davros himself could find anything in that mess. Crows came and went through the open window, barely taking time to rest before flying off into the horizon again. Their cawing was comforting in its familiarity - it reminded you of the early days, when the only thing you were allowed to do was sort through the correspondence and write down the replies. Such simpler times…

"Commander Davros,” you called out, “you wanted to see me?"

The man glanced at you for less than a second. His grey eyes, a metallic shade like mercury, flickered towards you only to immediately go back to skimming through the paperwork on his desk. The table was kept in as much disarray as the rest of the room. Maps, sketches, reports and Gods know what else.

"Yes, there is something that needs to be done,” he said. The commander’s voice was, well, commanding. Each question sounded like an accusation, each statement like irrefutable facts of nature. “Swiftly and quietly."

A tired sigh left your lips. All the hopes for some rest burst like soap suds in a bath that’s growing cold. The image of Aemond’s silver hair and bright stare flashed before your eyes. As strange as it may sound, it was starting to feel physically painful to be away from him for so long. The most feared man in the kingdom and he was your safe haven, the only moment in your bleak days that you could feel truly safe.

But you swore your fealty to the Iron Throne. Fighting through another task means keeping Aemond and his family secure for one more night. Now, it seemed, it was the only thing you could do for him.

"Just my expertise.” You force yourself to smile and keep your head high. It would be incredibly naive to think that a few days without sleep could make Davros ease up on you. He was nothing if not demanding. “How can I be of use?"

The commander lifted his gaze at you. He leaned forward, propping himself up on the table. Despite deep wrinkles and greyish hair, he appeared quite youthful. Age hasn’t slowed his body or his mind.

"Kill Aemond Targaryen."

Maybe the lack of sleep started playing tricks on your mind. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Your voice was a mere breathy whisper. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me just fine, girl."

Most people would say that their hearts started beating out of their chests when hearing something of that sort. In your case, it was quite the opposite - the muscle stopped at once, leaving you unable to breathe. Numbing pain spread underneath your ribs like a beast of horror gnawing at its enclosure to be let out. Is it love or grief that is clawing its way out fo you?

"And I can't believe that I heard what I heard. This is quite unexpected, sir."

"Death usually is.” Davros appeared calm, completely unmoved by the situation and its implications. This was just another day for him. “Prince Aemond is currently the largest internal threat to king Aegon. A mellow rug rat is easier to steer than a maniac with a grudge."

The commander may be a demanding man but he was never greedy. In fact, greed and selfishness were the two things he made sure you grew out of. His methods were painful, at times cruel, but effective. If it wasn’t for him training you, Prince Aemond would never have known about your existence, much less fallen in love in a ploy to keep his plans known.

"Since when do you care about 'steering' the king?” you ask, wary. Something about Davors has changed but you couldn’t quite put your finger on the cause. What was going on behind the curtains, the doors closed even to you? “We're meant to be peacekeepers and scouts, not meddlers."

"What would you call assassinating conspirators?” His question sounded like an accusation. You knew better than to answer. “You've killed many people, kid, and now you care about meddling?” Those mercury-coloured eyes bore straight into your very spirit. For a moment, he became a mirror of truth, forcing you to look at the ugliest part of who you are. Whatever you thought of it was irrelevant - it was true. “A spy with a conscience. As if!"

You’re not sure what to make of this turn of events. Davros is your commander, yes, but he’s acting unlike himself. Did someone put a spell on him? Was one of the Lords threatening him? Although blackmailing the spymaster sounded rather impossible to achieve. Which made this situation even more bizarre.

"It's just…” you hang your voice, looking for the right words. “I don't think this is wise, Davros. With Aemond dead, Rhaenyra has nothing to be afraid of. Aegon will be paralysed with fear that his brother was murdered. And Queen Alicent? She will go berserk. Our heads will end up on spikes before the rooster calls."

There was no visible change in Davros. Your words meant nothing to him.

"Queen Alicent is a woman of reason. She'll come to it."

His apparent lack of concern irked you. The commander was treading the line between callous and stupid. "She's also a mother,” you reminded him.

Davros scoffed and shook his head. "A mother who never loved her children, only the position they gave her,” he answered, the tone of his voice coming off as annoyed or bored.

It seemed as though he wasn’t asking you to assassinate your lover and the crown prince. He was sure it had to be done. All the positive and negative outcomes had already gone through his mind and Davros was content with the final outcome. He was beyond arguing.

The spymaster was clearly sacrificing peace and stability for his personal gain. What kind, you couldn’t be sure yet. What grand offer did it have to be?

“Stop wasting time, girl,” he droned out his words. “Get to it,” Davros spat out the command like a venomous lizard from Dorne’s deserts.

But you were well-acquainted with poisonous fruit and venomous bites. It was your sole purpose in this world to recognise them, to get rid of them before they reach the king. With vipers, as it is with men, one must not run in fear of their fangs. No - to win, you must show that your fangs are bigger. They dig deeper into the flesh, draw more blood.

“I won’t, Davros.” The tone of your voice was cold and calm like the winds sweeping the snow in the North. “And something tells me you knew that already.”

The commander’s eyes turned strangely dark. What once had reminded you of mercury’s colour, now reminded you of the deadly disposition of the substance. Despite healing some ailments of the body, it wasn’t any safer than a sharpened blade. In the same way, the spymaster’s seemingly collected exterior was nothing more but a ruse. 

“I was stupid enough to count on your reason.” The disappointment in his voice made blood rush to your face. As if it were a reflex, you wanted to lower gaze. Strangely enough, the thought of Aemond Targaryen forced your shame to disappear. “It seems it’s too late for that. You know that happens to traitors, don't you?"

It wasn’t a threat, at least not in the way most people understand the word. His question was more of a reminder, a warning at best. The letter of the law was clear and no amount of excuses could save your head should Davros bring your insubordination to the king’s attention.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to treat the matter with proper seriousness. Not when it came to him.

"Bite me,” you barked back at him. Davros raised his eyebrows in surprise and, truthfully, you shared his reaction. Never before have you stepped out against him. “I'm your second-in-command. If I suddenly fall dead your whole operation will go to shit and people will riot."

The commander’s lips twist into something similar to a smile but much too sinister to be a sign of joy. A curious glint in his grey eyes made him appear almost amused at your action.

"How bold,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “You seem to overestimate your worth, girl."

"Do I?” The question rings in your ears, its echo asking you the very same thing - are you overestimating your importance? To Davros, to the Iron Throne… to Aemond? “I'm the one you're asking to kill the prince who is next in line to the Iron Throne. If anything, I'm priceless to you."

"Priceless?” His voice came out as a hiss. Now is the time when the venomous snakes shall bare their fangs and compare. “You're only useful to me because you keep whoring yourself out to the prince. No one will question your weaponry and visits at strange hours of the night. You're not irreplaceable, girl. Just convenient."

His words hurt only because they were true and you couldn’t honestly deny the claims. Indeed, you and Aemond have indulged in ways that did not befit a couple from such different backgrounds. It was quite distasteful to call you a ‘couple’. A man and a whore aren’t a couple after all, are they? They are a person and an object. The only difference between you and the ladies in Flea Bottom was the price - you had none. Which made the whole scenario even more disparaging. The prince could do with you as he pleased and you never asked for any payment. Aemond, however, did pay. At least in some way. For every night spent in your company, he divulged parts of himself never known by any other living soul.

The decision should have been harder to make.

"Then you will have no problem finding my replacement."

Your fingers swiftly take off the small crow-shaped brooch from your coat. The pin clattered on the desk, right under the commander’s nose, when you tossed it away. One of the crows sitting on the windowsill cawed, as if in shock at the scene it witnessed.

Davros slowly picked up the brooch. He inspected it in his hands, although needlessly. It wasn’t something new or unknown to him. 

"I raised you,” he spoke after a moment of silence. His voice wasn’t calm but rather empty - rid of any emotion. “I've taught you everything you know. You would be nothing without me.” Davros raised the pin to his eye level like he was showing the pin to you. Then, he threw it across the room, missing your face by less than an inch. It wasn’t truly a miss; he meant to scare you. The metal accessory clattered as it hit the wall and then the floor. “And that's how you repay me?"

You slowly exhaled. It took a lot from you not to flinch when the pin just about missed your left cheek. Dodging flying knives was much easier, you noticed. Mainly because the people throwing them weren’t the ones who took you in around the time you learnt to walk. Those hands that taught you to tie shoelaces and braid hair had just shown you that they could easily maim you without much hesitation.

All doubts, guilt and shame left you the moment you took a deep breath. Davros no longer looked like your almost-father. No, his face contorted under the weight of something corrupted, festering inside him. He was the same man he was when you met him and yet, he appeared as a strange-faced devil.

"I'd rather be nothing than aid your struggle for power.” You clenched your hands into fists in hopes of stopping them from trembling. That waver in your voice was enough to let Davros know just how much effect he had on you. “You taught me about servitude, not…”, you hang your voice for a moment, realising you’re still in the dark about his motivation, “whatever this is supposed to be. The Iron Throne has blinded you."

The commander scoffed again. His eyes are staring at you as if you were a court jester, humiliating yourself in hopes of crumbs of dignity or food from the less-than-caring overlord. In other words, Davros found you pathetic to the point of amusement. Perhaps he had realised his own mistake - he never should have allowed you near the prince. It was his lapse of judgement that you’ve found yourself in such an undignified position; he should have known better than to make you responsible for such an important matter.

"Like the noble prick blinded you, girl? At least power is not something that will cast you away when nicer tits come its way."

A corner of your lips twisted into a half-grin. The expression was nothing short of contemptuous.

"Then you know nothing about power, Davros."

You turned to leave the room when the commander called out after you for the last time:

"This will cost you your life."

Some part of you wanted to look at him, desperately hoping to see even the shadow of the man you had almost called your father. But you knew better than to tease fate. Your eyes remained blankly focused on the door handle and your hand wrapped around it.

"It already did,” you said under your breath. “You raised me, remember?"

The door shut behind you and with them - your life. It was quite clear that by sunrise, someone would be dead. If not prince Aemond, then you. Davros wasn’t the kind of man to simply give up or let go of a grudge. Even if you were to flee King’s Landing, he was bound to find you at some point. The king’s spymaster had crows everywhere, some winged and some not. Prying eyes and ears of Westeros would be more than willing to sell you out for the commander’s favour.

Truthfully, the choice wasn’t much of a choice to you. The thought of killing Aemond was unfathomable to you. And to continue living with his blood on your hands? No, you didn’t have the heart to do this. To suffer for decades on end until your time runs out. If it’s not Aemond you will kill, it leaves you with only one option - yourself.

No matter the outcome of this night, you knew you had to do something beforehand. If you must take your longing for the prince to your grave, the truth should be known. The very truth you had sworn to yourself never to reveal. However, if you’re not going to live to tomorrow, it is only fair that Aemond becomes aware of just what awful thing you have done to him. Maybe, if you actually were more than a cheap whore to him, the truth would make his grief lighter. Perhaps it would rid him of any heaviness that your death shall bring.

You waited until nightfall, well after supper. At this hour, Aemond should be in his chamber, unbothered by any visitors. Aside from you, that is.

The twilight inside the bedroom made him appear even more alluring than he already was. Candlelight paired with deep shadows danced across his features, painting him both divine and sinister. Aemond’s silver hair, flowing down his shoulders and back, brought memories of flawless pearls smuggled by a merchant. You obtained them through trickery as well.

He didn’t move from his seat by the table when you opened his window and came in. There was no doubt that he heard you in the silence of the night. Only assassins and thieves enter homes through windows or balconies in the dark. Aemond Targaryen was yearning to see one of them.

You’re no farther than a meter away from him when the prince acknowledges your presence at last:

“You finally came.”

As cold as his voice sounded, you heard the unspoken fear, longing and anger writhing under his skin. Both lovers and spies seemed to be able to listen closely to the other’s silence. And Aemond’s silence was never empty or quiet. It spoke of things grander than life, too viscerally human to be expressed in any known language.

His leather clothing creaked as he got up from the chair and looked at you. The twilight surrounding you captured his demeanour all too well - divine and sinister, loving and dismissing, rejoiced and furious.

But most of all, he appeared sad.

It was the sadness of a child once again forgotten, a lover once again scorned.

And there you stood in front of him, bringing more heartache in place of apologies. 

“This is hardly a social visit, my love.” As much as you wanted to look Aemond in the eye, you couldn’t. If you met his longing gaze, you were sure to do just another foolish thing. “I came…” You paused, only to take a deep breath and exhale in a sigh. “I came because there is something that you must know. I have no doubts that it will change your view of me. In fact, I’m afraid it will make you despise me. But it must be said before the morning comes.”

Aemond’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he regained control over his expression. How truly him it was, to put on a blank mask in naive hope of fooling himself into disregard for the emotional turmoil inside. You’ve learnt to see beyond that facade, to see the small boy begging the world to finally love him. And how cruel the world was to make the love come from you.

“Despise you?” he repeated as though these words were foreign to him. “Why would I do that?” Aemond’s voice was soft, airy. Flowing through the room like a fallen leaf, guided by the cold autumn wind. “Indeed, there are many things in this world that I hate but you will never be one of them. You can’t make me hate you, my beloved.” His fingers gently brushed against the side of your face and neck. “Even if you tried.”

You grabbed his hand and held it against your chest. If it wasn’t for the layers of clothing you were wearing, he could have felt your heart hammering against your ribs.

“I hope you’re right, Aemond,” you whisper, more to assure yourself than him. “I pray to the Gods that you love me just as much as you claim.”

He remained silent, quietly egging you on to finally reveal the true reason for your visit. His blue eye bore into you, as if attempting to read your thoughts before you can say them out loud. The intensity wasn’t intimidating, quite the opposite - Aemond was wordlessly begging you to open your heart to him, to be allowed to know you on the deepest level. If he could, he would crawl inside you and inspect your inner workings up close. Maybe then he would finally learn how you could so easily bewitch him entirely.

You held his hand a little tighter. It was a naive attempt at grounding yourself, foolishly proving to yourself that Aemond was here, right in front of you. He wanted to hear the truth.

“Our meeting wasn’t an accident,” you confessed. “It was calculated, very much so. Davros knew that you’re too smart and too guarded to speak of your ambitions with just anyone. He devised a plan that I should form a relationship with you. Everything you told me, I was meant to pass on to him. And in the beginning, I did.” Tears gathered in your eyes and fell down your cheeks despite your miserable attempts at stopping them. They rolled down your face only to drip onto your and Aemond’s hands resting against your chest. “I was so proud of myself. Finally, I was given a responsibility that mattered. I was doing something important for the kingdom.” You noticed his jaw clenching, muscles desperately flexing to stop Aemond from something. “But then you made me laugh, we talked into late hours of the night and I grew to trust you in a way I’ve never trusted anyone. You’re the only person that I feel truly safe with, Aemond. I don’t deserve it but Gods!” You let out a scoff, suddenly realising just how pathetic you must sound and look. But it didn’t really matter if you were going to die soon. “I want to deserve it. I want to deserve you because I love you. And I know that after what I’ve told you, my words mean nothing, less than nothing.” You choke on a sob, Aemond momentarily stiffens. Something dark and unspeakable clouded his eye. “But if there is one truthful thing I have said in my life, it’s that: I love you, Aemond.”

He looked away for a while. To anyone else, he might have looked unbothered or even annoyed by this scene. You, however, knew the prince quite well. The way in which he couldn’t meet your gaze, how he stood unnaturally straight, how his nostrils flared and jaw was more prominent - it all pointed to Aemond caving in on himself, a vulnerable part of him shattered like a glass vase thrown on the floor. His ever-calm resolve was cracking, revealing the raw, unhealed wounds beneath. 

"Why are you telling me this now?" He managed to say in a low, raspy bark.

Aemond tried to pull his hand back but you kept it still against your chest. Your hold was firm enough to feel the bones under his pale skin.

"Because someone has to die tonight.”

The blue eye found your face again. A glaze of anger and betrayal clouded it, making it appear as though it belonged to an animal rather than a person. It was the eye of a viper whose venom you would welcome.

A questioning look, a tense silence.

“Davros ordered me to kill you and I refused,” you finally revealed, after a long silence that felt closer to years than minutes. “By the letter of the law, that is treason.”

“So is killing the prince,” he retorted in an equally low tone. 

Perhaps if the two of you spoke any louder, malicious spirits lingering in the castle would hear you, bringing doom upon you for their own pleasure.

“Which means I will die no matter what happens.” The certainty in your voice was tugging at something primal deep inside Aemond’s viscera. His hand should hurt from your iron grip but he felt nothing. There was numbness in his limbs, as though your statement had made his heart stop beating. “That actually makes it easier.” Your lips twisted into a bittersweet smile. “I can’t run from Davros, there is no corner in the world where he couldn’t find me. Running is futile. The only choice I have is regarding the manner of my death.” 

Time seemed to slow down for Aemond, allowing him to fully comprehend the horror unfolding in front of him:

You reached into your coat, pulling out a sharp knife. It reflected the low candlelight, for a moment resembling the softness of water. But water can both cleanse and drown. What cleansing, what rapture, could this blade offer to Aemond?

Your trembling fingers held onto the tip of the knife. In the most submissive of gestures, you offered him the handle of the weapon.

“Do this for me, Aemond,” you whispered. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Was is fear or excitement? He couldn’t be sure. “If you have ever loved me, kill me. Please.” Your voice and hands trembled as you begged. “I don’t want to bleed out in some back alley, cold and alone. If I have to go, I want you to be next to me.”

Aemond took the knife from you. He inspected it closely, admiring the craftsmanship of the blacksmith who had forged it. There was a motto inscribed on the handle: “Virtue guide me”.

And virtue shall guide it.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the blade into the lit fireplace.

Before you can protest or ask what he was doing exactly, Aemond held your face in his hands. You were forced to meet his intense, fiery gaze as he spoke slowly, in a low voice:

"Gods be witness when I say this: if I ever raise my hand against you, its flesh shall rot down to the bone, resembling the fester and rot of my heart."

Tears fell down your cheeks again. Why did he have to be this way? His devotion was transgressive, turning from something romantic to delusional and viscous. As demented as it may sound, you didn’t want him any other way than treading the line between sane and sick.

“Don’t do this, my love,” you begged between whimpers. “Don’t make this harder than it already is. How can I die when you confess your love for me in such a tragic way?”

His hands felt delightfully warm against your skin. Your tears burned against his fingers. Their scorch travelled to his heart and further, into his viscera. It fed a flame you had set ablaze the first time your lips met his. This fire whispered to Aemond’s lovesick mind the most horrific promises and ideas. But the prince was a dragon - he didn’t know tender, innocent love. He only knew to devour and be devoured. Aemond listened to the whispers, slowly losing certainty where they ended and his own thoughts began. You had set his very spirit on fire and he welcomed the burn. Now the flames begged to be set free, to make true the violent vows of an immortal, all-consuming love.

Aemond rested his forehead against yours.

“Listen to me, my love,” he said. It wasn’t a plea but a demand. “If you die before me, I shall burn this world to ash. Noblemen and smallfolk alike will suffer like I do. The Gods will hear my cries of your name and they shall tremble in fear, for I will storm the gates of their castles. They will answer for taking you away from me.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. A sob was stuck in your chest.

“Don’t do this to me, Aemond, please,” you continued to beg him. “Have mercy on me.”

“I will not grant you mercy, for it is not yours to be begged for.” His cold tone gave you goosebumps. This cool anger could strike fear in the heart but not in yours. To you, it was comforting - like leaning against a cold wall in the heat of summer. “You’re mine,” he whispered, droning out the last word. “You’re mine as I am yours. If you wish to die, you will have to take me with you. If you wish death on anyone, my hands will be yours.”

Gently, you held his wrists. You were unsure whether to keep his hands on your cheeks or to pry him away from you. It was quite clear that the longer you remained in Aemond’s grasp, the less willpower you had. Truly, he could simply stand in your vicinity and gain control over you with nothing more but a stare or a mischievous half-grin.

“I can’t kill you, Aemond. I couldn’t even kill myself.”

He tilted his head backwards enough to look straight into your eyes. Your noses were brushing against one another.

“Then ask me to kill Davros.”

“I can’t, it’s-”

“Ask me,” he demanded. The cold blue of his iris stared through you, gazing into the marrow of your bones, the very fibre of your spirit. 

To be precise, Aemond wasn’t asking your permission. No, his goal was quite more sinister. He was going to kill Davros anyway. What he craved was absolution - if he committed a sin in the name of love, not hate, was it truly a sin? Was he not akin to a saint if he slew out of devotion?

“Help me,” you whispered, barely audibly.

His lips softly pecked your forehead. Aemond found some wicked satisfaction in seeing you so broken and desperate. The vulnerability hidden under your resolve was for his eye only. Only his ears will hear your whispered pleas. He was a cruel man and he could use this weakness for malice. You, well-aware of his dreadful character, ripped your heart open just for him. It was proof enough that your love for him was equally mad.

“You’re mine, my love,” he whispered into your ear. “And I will do horrible things just to remain yours.”

Aemond Targaryen was black of heart and he knew it. There was no doubt about it. He always thought that being loved would mend his cruelty, that it would fix whatever was broken inside him. It did no such thing to him, quite the contrary - it made him indulge in the most unspeakable of fantasies. He should feel ashamed, shouldn’t he? But Aemond knew no such emotion when you trembled against him, your salty tears wetting the pads of his fingers.

‘Shame is for good, honest men,’ he thought. ‘They feel ashamed because they know right from wrong. I only know her.’

Tonight, the venomous viper will meet a fire-breathing dragon, only to learn that its venom and fangs are useless against the beast of legends.

[wonderlanddreamer]

I was wondering if you could write something on Alfie? Alfie seeking comfort in the reader after a bad day? Or soft seduction after a long day, either works

His Serenity.

[Alfie Solomons x Reader]

Summary: After a bad day, Alfie just wants to be alone, or so he thinks. But then there's you, with your own sensual way to bring him serenity.

Warnings: Explicit content. Oral sex [m receiving]. 18+MDNI.

Word Count: 3086

The faint, musty scent of old books and aged wood fills every corner of Alfie Solomons' office as you meticulously sort through the stacks of paperwork on his cluttered desk. The hum of the bustling distillery outside seeps through the walls, a comforting backdrop that provides a steady rhythm you've grown accustomed to over the months. Golden sunlight filters through the small, grimy windows, casting long shadows that stretch across the room, signalling the end of another arduous day. Just as you finish organising the last stack, the door slams open with a force that sends a shiver down your spine and rattles the windows.

Alfie strides in, his presence like a storm brewing in the confined space. His face is a mask of fury; his eyes are wild, and his teeth are gritted as if he's biting back a torrent of words. Papers cascade off his desk in a chaotic flurry as he sweeps an arm across it, sending documents flying. The sound of glass shattering pierces the air as he hurls a bottle against the wall, the remnants glittering on the floor like jagged stars.

"Get out!" His voice is a thunderclap, reverberating through your bones and echoing in the small room.

You freeze, your instincts screaming at you to obey, but something deeper holds you rooted to the spot. Leaving him like this feels wrong, unbearable, as if abandoning a ship in the midst of a storm. Despite the danger radiating from him, you step closer, your heart pounding so loudly you fear he might hear it.

Alfie's eyes narrow on you, his breath coming in heavy, ragged bursts that speak of barely contained rage. He snatches a bottle of whiskey from a nearby shelf, the motion abrupt and aggressive, and slumps into his worn leather chair. The fury in his movements still simmers just beneath the surface as he takes a long, hard swig, the tension in his frame almost palpable, like a coiled spring.

Ignoring the voice in your head that begs you to leave, you move behind him, your steps careful and deliberate. Your hands rest gently on his broad, tense shoulders, and you start to knead the tight knots of muscle with a practised touch. He tenses beneath your fingers, a low growl escaping his lips, a sound that mixes frustration with reluctant relief.

"I said, get out," he mutters, but the command lacks its former bite, sounding more like a plea than an order.

His protests grow weaker as your fingers work their way into the tension, soothing the rage bit by bit. The knots of stress begin to unravel under your touch, and you remain gentle, your hands a source of comfort to him and a balm to your own worry. Gradually, you can feel the tightness leaving his muscles, his breaths becoming more even and less ragged, as though the storm within him is slowly abating.

Feeling the tension slowly ebb from his body, you continue to massage Alfie's shoulders with a gentle, reassuring touch. His breathing steadies, the furious edge softening as the anger drains away. You can sense him becoming more receptive to your presence, his body relaxing under your ministrations as the tempest within him begins to calm.

After a long, silent moment, Alfie leans back slightly, his eyes closed as he savours the relief your hands have brought him. His rough exterior seems to crumble ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerable man beneath the tough facade. Without warning, his hand reaches up to cover yours, holding it in place as if to anchor himself in the newfound calm.

He lets out a low, rumbling sigh, and before you can react, he gently pulls you around to the front of his chair. The look in his eyes is different now, softened by exhaustion and perhaps something more profound. He guides you into his lap with surprising tenderness, his strong arms encircling you protectively.

For a moment, you hesitate, unsure of this sudden shift in his mood. But the warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear offer a strange, unexpected comfort. Alfie's rough hand strokes your back in slow, soothing motions, his touch seeking out the solace you provide.

"Stay," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper that carries the weight of unspoken emotions. "Just for a while."

You nod, relaxing into his hold, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest.

As you settle into Alfie's lap, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, your hands continue their gentle caress. The heat from his skin radiates through the fabric of his shirt, mingling with your own warmth and creating a cocoon of intimacy. You can feel the tension leaving him in waves, replaced by something softer, more intimate. Your fingers trace along his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your touch, a soothing cadence that matches your own.

In the quiet of the office, the only sounds are the distant hum of the distillery and the soft, steady breaths you both take. You become acutely aware of the subtle shift in Alfie's breathing, the way his chest rises and falls more deliberately. His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly, and you feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against you. A flush of heat rises to your cheeks, your skin tingling with the electricity of the moment, but you don't pull away. Instead, you let your hands explore more deliberately, your touch both soothing and inviting, each stroke a silent promise.

Alfie's eyes meet yours, dark and intense, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. But you hold his gaze steadily, your own eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity, acceptance, and something deeper, an unspoken understanding. The corner of his mouth twitches into a small, almost vulnerable smile, as if seeking your permission, a rare glimpse of the man behind the hardened exterior.

In response, you lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear with a feather-light touch as you whisper, "I'm here, Alfie. I'm not going anywhere." The words hang in the air, a vow as much to yourself as to him.

He closes his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as he pulls you even closer, your bodies fitting together as if they were meant to. His arms encircle you with a protective strength, and the tension melts away, replaced by a profound sense of connection. Your hands slide down to the small of his back, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his desire and the depth of his need, a silent communication that passes between you.

Feeling the palpable tension and desire between you and Alfie, you decide to take things further. Your hands slowly slide down his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles with deliberate, tender movements. You shift your position with care, easing yourself off his lap and sinking to your knees between his legs, your eyes never leaving his. The intimacy of the moment deepens as you look up at him, your touch a blend of reassurance and invitation.

Alfie's eyes follow your every movement, dark and intense, filled with a mixture of surprise and anticipation. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, a silent communication that speaks volumes. The atmosphere in the room seems to thicken with every passing second, the air charged with a palpable tension. Your hands, now trembling slightly with the gravity of the moment, fumble with the buttons of his trousers.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you work to free him from the confines of the fabric. The sound of your breathing mingles with his, creating a symphony of shared anticipation. Alfie’s hand reaches down, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture.

"Are you sure?" Alfie's voice is a low, gravelly whisper, laced with both desire and a hint of uncertainty. The question hangs in the air, a delicate balance of vulnerability and need.

Looking up into his eyes, you nod, your own voice soft but firm. "I've never been more sure about anything." The conviction in your words seems to resonate with him, his eyes darkening further.

His hand gently cups your face, his thumb tracing a slow, path along your cheekbone. With a sense of newfound determination, you finally manage to undo his trousers, your hands moving with more confidence as you begin to explore the warmth and hardness beneath. The fabric parts easily under your touch, revealing the intense heat and the throbbing evidence of his desire.

With Alfie's trousers undone, the anticipation between you grows thicker, almost tangible. You take a steadying breath, your lips trailing soft, exploratory kisses along his shaft. Each touch is a silent promise of what's to come. The warmth of his skin against your lips sends a shiver down your spine, your senses heightened by the intimacy of the moment.

Alfie's breath hitches, his fingers tightening in your hair as you continue your tender assault. The sensation of his touch, the way his breath catches, fuels your confidence. You take your time, savouring the moment, allowing the tension to build like a slow-burning fire.

As your kisses reach the tip, you feel a surge of electricity pass between you both. Your tongue flicks out, tasting him, eliciting a low, guttural moan from Alfie. The sound spurs you on, your movements becoming more confident, more purposeful, your touch a blend of reverence and hunger.

Your tongue begins to work along his length, tracing patterns, exploring every inch of him with desire. Alfie's hands, once tense, now cradle your head, guiding you gently, his breath coming in ragged gasps that speak of the pleasure you're giving him.

"Christ," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper filled with awe and desire. "You're fuckin' magic, sweetheart." The words, spoken with such raw emotion, sparked your ignition, your movements becoming even more deliberate, more intense, as you seek to bring him the pleasure he so clearly craves. You look up at him, your eyes locking onto his, and you see the raw need and admiration there. The intensity in his gaze seems to fuel your determination to pleasure him, to bring him relief from the storm that had consumed him earlier.

With each stroke of your tongue, each gentle suck, you feel him responding, his body tightening, his hips subtly moving in rhythm with your ministrations. The room feels charged with an almost electric energy, the air thick with the scent of his arousal and the sound of your shared breaths.

Alfie's grip on your hair tightens, his breaths turning into soft, broken moans. The sounds he makes, the way his body reacts to your touch, is a symphony of pleasure that echoes in the quiet room.

With Alfie’s moans echoing in your ears and the palpable tension between you, you decide to take the next step. You pause for a moment, looking up at him, ensuring that this is what he truly wants. His eyes, dark and intense, meet yours, and the gentle pressure of his hand in your hair is all the confirmation you need.

Slowly, you part your lips and take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before gradually taking him deeper. The warmth and taste of him fill your senses, and you feel his whole body shudder in response. Alfie’s hand tightens in your hair, not forcefully, but in a way that guides and encourages you, his fingers threading through your strands with a tenderness that belies the raw desire between you.

You start with slow, deliberate movements, your mouth creating a rhythm that matches the rising and falling of his chest. Each time you take him deeper, you feel his body tense and hear the soft, husky sounds escaping his lips. The way he responds to you, the way his body reacts, pushes you to give him everything you have.

"Fuck," Alfie groans, his voice rough with pleasure. "You're fuckin' incredible. Don't stop." His words are a command and a plea, filled with a desperate need that resonates with your own.

Your hands find their place on his thighs, gripping them for support as you continue. The muscles beneath your fingers are tense, coiled with the anticipation of release. You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction, and you can feel him responding to every move you make. The taste of him, the feel of his hardness against your tongue, and the sounds of his pleasure create a heady mix that drives you to go further, to push him closer to the edge.

Alfie’s hips begin to move in time with your motions, his breathing becoming more erratic. You can feel the tension building within him, his body on the edge of release. Your mouth works him with a determined rhythm, each movement designed to bring him closer to the brink, to draw out his pleasure.

As Alfie’s moans grow louder, you look up at him, your eyes meeting his. The connection between you is electric, charged with a shared intensity that transcends words. In this moment, you are his anchor, his solace, and his desire, all wrapped into one.

His grip on your hair tightens one last time as a deep, shuddering moan escapes his lips, signalling his impending climax. You brace yourself, ready to take all of him, determined to bring him to the release he so desperately needs. The anticipation builds within you as you feel him teetering on the edge.

Alfie’s body tenses, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. With a final, deep moan, he climaxes, his release filling your mouth. The taste of him is a heady blend of salt and musk, a testament to the intensity of his desire. You do your best to take all of him, savouring the moment and the intimacy it brings.

As the waves of his pleasure subside, Alfie gently but firmly pulls you up to his lap. His eyes have softened, now a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, more profound. He cradles your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheeks as he helps you clean up. The intimacy of the moment lingers, a quiet testament to the bond you've just deepened.

"Come ‘ere," he murmurs, his voice still rough from the intensity of his release. He reaches for a handkerchief from the desk, carefully wiping away any remnants with a gentleness that contrasts with his earlier ferocity. His touch is tender, each stroke of the cloth against your skin filled with a reverence that takes your breath away.

You sit straddling his lap, your arms resting around his neck, allowing him to care for you. There's a vulnerability in the way he tends to you, a silent acknowledgment of the connection between you. The room feels smaller, cosier, as if it has been transformed from the earlier chaos.

"Thank you," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. The words are simple, yet they carry a weight of sincerity that resonates deeply within you. "You have no idea how much I fuckin’ needed that."

You smile softly, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I’m here for you, Alfie. Always." The promise in your words is solid.

His eyes meet yours, filled with a complex mix of emotions—relief, gratitude, and a burgeoning affection. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a protective embrace. The world outside may be chaotic, but in this moment, you both find a rare, fragile peace in each other’s arms.

Nestled in Alfie's lap, you find a comforting rhythm in the gentle sway of your bodies. His fingers trail up and down your back, leaving a path of warmth and tenderness in their wake. The roughness of his hands contrasts beautifully with the softness of his touch, each stroke sending shivers down your spine. The feeling is intoxicating, grounding you in the moment.

You lean in closer, resting your head against his shoulder, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your touch is a soothing lullaby. Alfie presses a soft kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin, a silent promise of his presence and devotion.

"You're somethin’ else, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice a quiet rumble that vibrates through your entire being.

You lift your head to meet his gaze, a smile tugging at your lips. "I could say the same about you, Alfie."

He chuckles softly, the sound deep and rich, filling the small space with a rare sense of contentment. His eyes soften as he looks at you, the hard edges of his usual demeanour melting away to reveal a man capable of profound tenderness. The transformation is striking, and it fills you with a sense of awe and affection.

You shift slightly, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. "It's nice to see you like this," you admit softly, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. "At peace." The admission is vulnerable, but it feels right, a reflection of the honesty that defines your relationship.

Alfie leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as if to savour the moment. "You bring out the best in me, darlin’," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. "I dunno how, but you do." The admission is raw, honest, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

Alfie's hands continue their gentle exploration of your back, each touch a silent promise of safety and affection.

With a tender smile, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips, feeling the way he melts into the kiss. It's not urgent or passionate, but slow and lingering. The sensation is intoxicating, a perfect blend of tenderness and desire.

When you finally pull back, Alfie's eyes are half-lidded, a serene expression on his face. "Stay with me," he says quietly, his voice carrying a vulnerability that tugs at your heartstrings. "Just like this."

You nod, your fingers threading through his hair as you lean in closer. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," you whisper, your voice filled with a quiet certainty.

The two of you share a lingering kiss, a reaffirmation of your promises and the unbreakable bond between you. As you sit there, wrapped in each other's arms, you know that this—right here, right now—is where you both truly belong.

[yuta-nakamots]

Buck Off - B.Barnes

Pairing - TFATWS Bucky x C.I.A. Agent!Female Reader

Genre - Fluff, Action

Warnings - featuring Sharon Carter and Sam Wilson, canon typical violence, John Walker negativity, slight canon divergence (i haven’t fully watched TFATWS) 

Summary - When you follow Sharon Carter into the shadows of Madripoor, you break every rule you were trained to follow. You’re not a soldier, not a spy, but somehow you end up standing beside them anyway, navigating secrets, snark, and the slow-burn of gravity towards Bucky Barnes.

Word Count - 3.5k

Author’s Note - I can’t believe I wrote all of this just because I wanted to tell Bucky to buck off. Here's to my longest work for Bucky yet

Now Playing: Love At First Fight - LANY

You used to work in a glass building with clean desks, badge scanners, and coffee that tastes like burnt-out optimism. Now? You work in Madripoor, where the streets never sleep and the air smells like sweat, sea salt, and secrets. 

Your official title is ‘Logistics Consultant’, but unofficially, your role is to do whatever Sharon Carter needs you to do without asking too many questions. That was the unspoken rule around here. Don’t ask, don’t look, don’t get involved. 

But lately, Sharon’s been disappearing for hours, sometimes days on end, coming back looking like hell and brushing it off with lines like, “you should see the other guy.”

You try not to worry. You try to stay in your lane. But it’s hard not the notice the bruises hidden under the collar of her trench coat, or the blood she wipes off her knuckles before coming into briefings, or the way she sometimes stares off in the middle of a conversation, like she’s calculating five ways to kill someone using only the cup of coffee going cold in her hands.

It’s even harder when she won’t tell you anything. So you do what you probably shouldn’t. You snoop. Not in a spy thriller way. No hacking into mainframes or dramatic rooftop chases, just checking her badge scans, watching her body language, tracking the patterns in her absences. And when the pieces start clicking together, when you see the same coordinates pop up again and again, something shifts in your gut. Because wherever she’s going…it’s not about trade. 

You follow her one night. Just once. Just to make sure she’s safe. But that’s the night everything went sideways. There was gunfire and shouting. Meanwhile, you’re hiding behind an overturned crate, praying you don’t die because you didn’t listen to the one rule: don’t get involved. 

That’s the night you met him. James Buchanan Barnes. He doesn’t introduce himself, obviously–he’s a little busy tossing a Flag Smasher into a stack of shipping containers like he’s playing dodgeball with human beings. You only recognize him from photos and footage. The vibranium arm kind of gives him away. Also, the glaring. So much glaring.

You’re frozen behind a crate, heart pounding, too terrified to move, too stupid to run, which is exactly why one of the Flag Smashers spots you. You duck, but it’s too late. He’s sprinting toward you, and you’re trying to remember anything from that one self-defense course you were forced to take at the beginning of your time in the C.I.A., when someone grabs the back of your jacket and yanks you backwards like a sack of groceries. 

“Stay down,” a voice growls–gritty, low, and very, very pissed. 

You look up into sharp blue eyes and a scowl carved out of years of trauma. “What–”

Before you had the chance to piece words together, Bucky Barnes is already gone again, charging into the fray like a human wrecking ball. You’re left sprawled behind a wall, heart hammering in your chest, adrenaline buzzing in your fingertips. 

That was how it felt to break every rule in your career in one night.

When the dust settles, Sharon finds you. She’s bleeding from her shoulder and furious in that quiet, clipped way she gets when she’s too tired to yell but too mad not to say something. “You followed me.”

“Technically, I saved you.”

Sharon scoffs, eyes flicking over you like she’s deciding whether or not to punch you. “You saved me?”

“I distracted the guy. He almost took Bucky’s head off.”

She pauses. “You know who that was?”

You roll your eyes at the question. “I’m not an idiot. Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers, the arm, the serum. I connect dots for a living.”

Sharon crosses her arms. “You can’t tell anyone what you saw tonight.”

You cross yours right back. “I want in.”

Which is how you end up, two days later, standing awkwardly near a coffee machine in a makeshift safe house, wondering how you got roped into the most dysfunctional after-action report on Earth. Sam is talking with his hands. Sharon is pacing. Bucky is slouched in a chair in the corner, glaring into his cup like the liquid inside it personally insulted him.

You’re trying to mind your business. Really, you are. But something about Bucky Barnes’ silence is loud. It’s not just the brooding, it’s the judgment. You can feel it across the room, pointed directly at you like a sniper scope. 

Eventually, he speaks, voice flat and cold. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He finally looks up, expression unreadable but sharp around the edges. “You followed someone into an active op without backup, weapons, or training. You think that’s brave? It’s reckless…and stupid.”

His words hang in the air like smoke. Sharon sighs but doesn’t intervene. You set your coffee down. “I didn’t exactly have time to enroll in Avengers Academy before the bullets started flying.”

“You shouldn’t have been there in the first place,” he insists. 

“I was trying to help.”

Bucky scoffs, muttering, “yeah, well, next time try helping from behind a desk.”

The burn hits. Hard. It shouldn’t, but it does. Because maybe you don’t have combat experience, or a vibranium arm, or a legacy that spans over seventy years like he does, but you do have instincts. And heart. And you’re sick of people treating you like you’re fragile just because you’re not wearing tactical gear. 

So before you can stop yourself, you cross your arms and fire back. “Oh, Buck off, will you?”

The room goes still. Bucky lowers his cup slowly, his brow furrowed like he’s not sure he heard right. “Did you just–”

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “Buck. Off.”

He stares at you for a long moment, jaw working like he’s trying to decide whether to be annoyed or impressed. Then, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and gives you a look so unamused it might be classified as a war crime against humor. “Really? That’s what we’re doing now?”

You shrug. “You walked right into it, Buck.” 

He lets out the longest, most exhausted sigh known to man, shaking his head. “I fought in a way, survived HYDRA, got blipped out of existence, and somehow, this is what I get for surviving it all.”

Sam bursts into laughter. Sharon tries to hide her smirk behind her hand. And you? You take a long, satisfied sip of your coffee. Later, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, you catch Bucky half-smiling into his cup like he’s almost forgiven you for existing. 

The shift is subtle at first. You’re still technically the outsider, no super serum, no wings, no shady government past, but after a week of close quarters and several heated strategy debates, you find your rhythm. Sam calls it chaos with purpose, Sharon calls it tolerable, Bucky doesn’t call it anything, but he stops flinching every time you walk into the room, so you’ll count that as progress. 

One morning over rationed protein bars and stale coffee, Sam nudges Bucky with his elbow and grins. “Still can’t believe you let her call you ‘Buck.’” Bucky’s chewing, slow and silent, but you don’t miss the way his eye twitches. Sam presses on. “I call you ‘Buck,’ you threaten to break my fingers. She calls you ‘Buck,’ and you smirk like she invented sarcasm.”

“I did not smirk,” Bucky says flatly. 

You raise an eyebrow. “You kinda did.” 

Sam slaps the table. “Exactly! And I’ve known this guy for years. Years!”

By the second week, you’re tagging along on recon runs. Your Madripoor connections come in handy. Grease-stained club owners, quiet couriers, shady tech dealers who trust your face more than they do a man with a metal arm. You translate coded whispers and identify subtle shifts in loyalty long before the others catch on. You’re not a soldier, but you are something else. Useful. 

Bucky pretends to be annoyed. “You’re loud,” he says one afternoon, watching you bribe a bouncer for intel. 

You cringe. “You’re broody.” He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t argue either. 

The real turning point comes during a supply drop gone wrong. Three ambushers. Close quarters. Sam is airborne, Sharon is pinned, you and Bucky are on the ground. One attacker comes up behind him. You don’t hesitate, you pull the knife from your boot that Sharon insisted you carry just in case, and bury it in the guy’s side. Bucky spins, catching the body before it hits the ground. His eyes meet yours, wide, surprised, grateful. 

“You okay?” you ask, panting.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You barely make it back to the safe house before the arguing starts. Sam hits the ground, keeping stride with his wings still folding down as he rounds on Bucky. “You wanna explain what that was?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer. He just peels off his jacket like it’s the most important task in the world. 

“I saw the footage,” Sam continues, gesturing toward Redwing, who’s docked in a corner like a smug little drone. “You were this close–this close–to getting stabbed. And who bailed you out? Not me. Not Sharon. Her.”

You try to fade into the background. You’ve mastered this particular tactic. Blend into the walls, sip your water, pretend not to exist. It doesn’t work this time, though.

Sharon tosses her jacket on a crate and levels you with a look. “You carry that knife like you’ve done it before.”

You blink. “I mean, you said to keep it on me.” 

“Yeah, for self-defense. Not for saving the goddamn Winter Soldier.”

“She didn’t even hesitate,” Sam adds, eyes darting between the two of you. “Like she knew he wouldn’t be watching his six.”

Bucky finally speaks, voice low. “She did well.” You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

Sharon notices, of course, she does. “Oh no,” she says under her breath, grabbing a first aid kit but not breaking eye contact with you. “Absolutely not.”

You frown. “What?”

“That,” she says, pointing vaguely between you and Bucky. “Whatever that is.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sharon hums, snapping on gloves. 

Bucky sits on the edge of a crate, adjusting the bandage on his shoulder, pretending he’s above it all, but his ears are pink. 

Sam snorts. “So let me get this straight, I call him ‘Buck,’ and it’s a federal offense. She stabs a guy once, and suddenly he’s a poet about her instincts?”

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Sam continues. “You grumbled for three days straight because of the one time she almost got herself killed following Sharon, but when she almost got herself killed saving your ass, you’re all ‘she did good’ like it’s a line from a war diary.”

“I bet he still has his war diary,” you quip.

“Not the point!” Sam interjects. “The point is, if you die, I have to deal with grumpy Barnes again, and no offense, but I like the current level of grumpy just fine.” You can’t help but smile. And so does Bucky, just barely, but you see it.

Later, when the teasing dies down and Sharon is disinfecting a graze on your arm, she says under her breath, “you like him.”

You sigh. “No.” She raises an eyebrow while dousing your wound with a little more disinfectant than necessary. “Okay, maybe,” you manage to get out while grimacing. 

She doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ She just grins smugly, knowingly. And that’s worse. 

It starts with a call that cuts out mid-transmission. Sharon’s tracker goes dark fifteen minutes into a solo lead she insisted on taking. The safe house goes quiet, too quiet, as Sam scrubs Redwing’s last feed frame by frame. 

“She’s gone,” he states finally, jaw tight. “They planned this.”

You and Bucky exchange a look. You’re already moving before anyone gives the order. 

Madripoor is darker tonight. Meaner. You navigate back alleys and coded passphrases while Bucky stalks behind you like a shadow, silent but coiled. You know the look in his eyes. It’s the same one he wore the night you met, only sharper now, more brittle. 

You’re halfway through interrogating a guard when it happens. The crowd parts just enough for you to see who’s on the opposite end of the street, flanked by two other operatives and wearing that god-awful knockoff of a symbol you no longer trust. 

John Walker.

You feel Bucky freeze beside you. His breath comes out hard, his shoulders square. Every muscle in his body locks up like a loaded weapon. “Bucky,” you whisper. “Don’t.”

But it’s too late. Walker sees him and smirks. That was the match to the flame. Bucky lunges.

It takes everything you have to catch up, to push through the crowd, shouting his name, shoving yourself between his body and Walker’s like a human buffer. Walker steps back, smug and satisfied, letting the chaos erupt around him like some twisted sport. 

“Bucky!” you snap, grabbing his left arm. He shoves you off without thinking, sending you flying into a wall. His eyes are wild, frantic. You take a breath, bracing against the pain in your shoulder where you hit the wall, then step back into his space again. “Buck,” you say, louder this time. Nothing. 

So you do something rash, something stupid. You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart, and press. “Hey,” you say, firm but not unkind. “It’s me. I need you to come back to me. Now, Buck.”

He blinks a few times, and his jaw unclenches. The seconds drag, but finally his fists loosen and Bucky Barnes returns to himself, though Walker is already long gone. 

You find Sharon two hours later, bruised but alive, in a shipping container turned holding cell. She gives you a once-over when you cut the lock and heave the door open without help from the super soldier watching your six. 

“What took you so long?”

You glance back at Bucky, who’s watching you like you hung the stars. “Got a little sidetracked.”

Back at the safe house, Sam and Sharon disappear into a conversation about John Walker’s relation to the Flag Smashers, but Bucky lingers outside the doorway, like he’s debating something. You find him leaning on the wall with the kind of heaviness that doesn’t just come from battle. You join him without a word, and that’s when he speaks first. 

“I saw red.”

You nod. “I know.”

“I couldn’t stop myself,” he admits. “Not until…It was almost like…”

“Until you heard me,” you finish.

Bucky nodded, going silent for a beat. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” he says quietly. 

“I didn’t do anything special,” you reply. 

He turns his head, just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah, you did.” The wind shifts. Somewhere beyond, Madripoor simmers, but here, it’s just the two of you and a truth too fragile to break. “I don’t know what I’m doing most days,” he shares. “Feels like I’m just…waiting for something to go wrong so I can blame myself for it.” Your heart aches at the honesty in his voice, at how small it sounds coming from someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like punishment. It feels like…possibility.”

You don’t say anything right away. You simply reach out, tentative yet steady, and let your fingers brush his. He doesn’t pull away. 

It didn't take long until the moment was ruined. Sam slams the door to the safehouse shut and turns on Bucky, eyes blazing. “What the hell was that?” Bucky doesn’t answer. “Don’t make me say it twice,” Sam growls. “You lost it. In public. In front of Walker. You know what that looks like?”

Your stomach knots. You try to step in. “Sam, he just–”

“I’m not talking to you,” Sam cuts in sharply, not mean but not soft either. “You’re a civilian asset. You don’t get to be a part of this conversation. That’s half the problem.” Bucky’s jaw clenches. 

Sam doesn’t let up. “You’re already skating on thin ice with the U.S. government, and now you've got footage showing you lunging at a government-assigned, albeit a knockoff, Captain America while endangering a civilian on foreign soil. You think they’re gonna look at the context?”

Bucky finally speaks. “He was baiting me.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. He was. And you bit.” There was a long pause. Sam exhales. “I’m not saying you were wrong, but this thing we’re trying to build? It only works if we’re not giving them excuses to shut us down.” He looks at you then. “And you, you’re valuable. But if something happened to you tonight, it wouldn’t just be a loss. It’d be a scandal. You get that right?” You swallow hard, guilt settling in. You do get it, all of it. 

The next day. Sharon pulls you aside. “This isn’t personal,” she starts, which is how you know it absolutely is. 

You’re still bruised, exhausted, and blood dried under your nails from the ambush. “You’re benching me?”

“I’m pulling you out of the front lines. For your sake, and ours.” Her tone is clipped. Final. “You’re being reassigned. You’ll get a new ID and a new post in D.C.”

“You’re exiling me.”

“I’m protecting you.” Her eyes soften, just slightly. “And maybe giving a certain super soldier with a staring problem some time to realize what he’s losing out on.”

You freeze. “What?” Sharon just smirks. “No. Absolutely not,” you mutter. But you’re already packing and shipping out two days later. 

D.C. is cold in a sterile kind of way. The office is quieter, the suits blander, and the coffee weaker. You file reports, write threat analyses, and review flagged footage from Madripoor like it’s someone else’s war. 

Every once in a while, you catch yourself wondering where they are. If Sam’s suit still squeaks when he moves. If Sharon finally cleaned that one knife she always uses. If Bucky…is still pretending not to brood. 

You’re in the middle of one such thought, halfway through a boring intel summary, when someone knocks on the glass wall of your office. You glance up and your jaw nearly drops. 

“Hey,” Bucky greets, hands in his pockets, smiling sheepishly while leaning against the doorframe.

“What the hell are you doing in a C.I.A. office?”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d stop by. You missed out on all the action.”

You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “And?”

“And…” he steps inside, voice softening. “Maybe I was wrong. About you being behind a desk. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look good behind it. Very intimidating. But…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “Look, I’m sorry. For before. For snapping at you. For not trusting you sooner. You saved my life, and I treated you like you were just some liability. That was unfair.”

You sit forward, resting your forearms on the surface of your desk. “You feeling okay?”

Bucky chuckles, looking away from you. “Don’t make me regret this.” When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You helped me. More than I probably deserved. So, thanks.”

You look at him for a long moment, then grin. “Are you going to cry in my office?”

“Oh, Buck off,” he mutters. You burst out laughing. “You want to get dinner?” Bucky asks, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just blow into your little office like a hurricane and drop apologies and thanks like landmines. 

You stare him down, trying to figure out if this is some sick joke he’s playing. “Like…dinner dinner?”

He shrugs again, hands still in his pockets. “Yeah. You know, food, sitting, maybe fewer life-threatening situations this time.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “You do realize I work for the C.I.A., right?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky hums. 

“And you’re still technically an unstable asset who goes rogue more often than he follows protocol.”

“I’m improving,” he states. 

“Barely. You’re still on half a dozen watchlists.”

“Only the interesting ones.”

You tilt your head. “Buck.”

“What?”

“You’re a walking liability.”

His lips pull into a sly grin. “And you’re still considering it.”

You sigh, dramatically. “Maybe I’ll get dinner with you when you’re not a threat to national security and my employment.”

He leans forward, resting his palms on the edge of your desk. “So…I’m hearing I’ve got time to prep then.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “Charming.”

“I meant it,” he says. “You make things feel less like punishment.”

You study him for a long moment. “That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

You roll your eyes. “Get out of my office.”

He starts backing away, pausing at the door. “Soon, though. Dinner.”

“Only if you promise not to bring Sharon or Sam.”

He smirks. “Only if you promise not to stab anyone this time.” And with that, he’s gone. Footsteps fading down the hall, tension lingering like static in the air. 

Maybe this desk job wasn’t so bad after all.

Autoplay: If you like this, you may also like [2:39pm] Bucket - B.Barnes

[lotuscontainers]

Container stacking | LOTUS Containers

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[zwhoreo]

mommy kink luffy? 👀

ok so I don’t think luffy would ever actually use the word mommy but I think the rest of the kink can apply hehehe

nurture me - luffy x f!reader

smut

summary: missing the comfort of a nurturing female figure as a child, luffy sometimes turns to you to get that feeling back. and sometimes, he wants sex

contains: mommy kink (the word mommy is never mentioned), very innocent luffy, he’s pretty sub in this one, soft dom reader

words: 2k

_______________________________

Luffy is upset today, he’s not sure why, he’s feeling this rush of some sort of unplaceable loneliness even though he isn’t alone at all, surrounded by people to love and spend time with and hug. He had fallen and broken a stack of glasses in the kitchen yesterday, and he was chastised for his clumsiness, smacked by Nami, shoved out by Sanji. He had cut his arm on the glass, nothing deep, nothing a couple bandaids from Chopper’s office couldn’t fix, but it still made him a little sad and distressed for some reason. He needed comfort but pushed it away and forgot about it.

So now he’s sitting on the bow of the ship and picking at the bandaids. He wants to go bother you, he needs some comfort, a hug from you seems to be an immediate fix for times like these. And maybe something more, he thinks, like playtime, sort of.

You’re reading a book Robin gave you, curled up on your cabin’s chair, the porthole open next to you for that crisp sea breeze. You’re delighted at those little sandal steps, your door opening, large, glittery eyes looking at you excitedly.

Luffy hops on your bed, rolling on his back and kicking his legs and reaching for you, a teasing grabbing motion with his fists. Absolutely adorable.

You lean over to take his hand, he squirms and giggles at the contact and he’s smiling so brightly.

“[naaame]…” he whines, trying to pull you to him but you pull instead, still holding his stretched arm as you sit back in the chair. He pouts and stretches his other arm out to you.

“No pulling, Luffy,” you say, gently removing one arm from your waist knowing his intention to yank you into bed.

“Please… can we please cuddle… I wanna really bad…” Luffy’s squirming again, begging, you just can’t resist him.

You set down your book, walking over to your bed and sitting by him which makes him squeal in delight and open his arms for a hug. You lay back and pull him up onto you, letting him bury his head in your chest and find a comfortable position as you pet his hair.

He likes to be nurtured. It’s a childish part of him that comes out sometimes, especially when he thinks about his old village and Ace and Sabo and Shanks, when he misses getting to play and explore all day and just be a kid. But he didn’t really have anyone back then to take care of him like this. Makino was the closest, he got a taste of the affection a mother could bring, but mostly he was just raised by himself and his brothers, and bandits, and he wasn’t really ever cuddled or held when he was young. So now you’re his person, he gets to be extra close to you and he’ll never be too much.

And usually he’s more dominant, even in his innocence and softness, he’s your captain and you’re his to take care of and keep safe, he picks you up and carries you and holds you against his chest, you’re his, he likes being in control.

But that doesn’t have to be always.

Those times like now where he paws at you and lays on you all slack like a baby, you just curl up with your arms around him and murmur comforting things in his ear. There’s those deer eyes again, searching, he’s leaning in to kiss you and you catch him halfway with his cheeks squished in your hands. Arms circle your waist needily and this poor boy has squirmed his way between your legs because he wants friction, maybe.

“Lu, hun, what do you want?” you coax gently, tracing his shoulders, you know he wants you so bad but he has to try to say what he wants if he wants something, that’s what you’re teaching him.

“Um… I dunno, I guess uh…” Luffy’s mind is cloudy, he wants your body but he doesn’t know what to ask for so when your thigh comes to naturally rest between his legs he just settles for this, at least.

You laugh lightly as he begins to grind on your leg, hips rutting, rhythmic but messy, he starts making these little whimpering noises in your ear as he rubs himself on you like a puppy in heat. You let him, hugging gently and just laying there listening.

“I… mm! I wanna suck your breasts?” He seems excited to have found words, talking casually as he continues to get himself off on your thigh, aching and growing beneath his pants. You can’t refuse him.

“Sure, hun.” This is perfect because you’re a little tired. Let your boy enjoy himself and relax with him and it’ll all be ok. And you pull off your shirt, you let him see you, and he grins before squeezing you tightly and latching on, suckling gently on your nipple while looking up at you with stars in his soft brown eyes.

“S’ good…” he growls, mouth full, nuzzling and gripping against you.

You lift him into your arms after a few minutes, when he gets teeth-y with your skin, he whines at the loss of contact with his mouth but lets you pick him up and place him in your lap, squeezing his face in your hands, giving him a caring hug.

“Luffy, baby, you want more, huh? C’mon…” You place your hand on the small of his back, rubbing his skin.

“Mmf… I wanna put my dick in you,” he says, voice in the most amount of innocence he could possibly sound with those words. You weren’t expecting this, usually he’s more innocent when you two play, when he asks for something, but you won’t complain.

You smile. You pet him lovingly, gentle praise. You kiss his cheek and then his mouth and he’s still in a teething mood so you need to pull away when he bites your lip, but you press his face into your neck because you always like biting there.

“Want some help?” you coo to him, tugging at his clothes, and he nods happily against you and makes a tiny sound.

His shirt is open, easy to slide off. Glistening warm skin meets the cool sunlight of the porthole, wave reflections, he’s so beautiful when you can see his bare shoulders. You take a moment to lean in and kiss them. And then his jeans, you have to sort of pick him up again to unbutton and remove them and his cock slaps your wrist, no underwear, you ignore your aching need to touch it and continue to take care of him, settling his twitching hips and tossing his clothes to the side.

Soft and bare, dripping with sweetness and innocence, he’s draped on you, sitting in your lap, naked and waiting to be touched in a gentle way.

Your shirt’s off. Now your jeans, your panties, Luffy starts moaning and thrusting into nothing at your scent and the feeling of your skin but you have to calm him.

“No, baby, let’s be patient ok?” You poke his cheek and he whines but just curls into you a little more, trying to wait like you’ve taught him.

You switch the positions of your legs, you’re on his lap, propped up on the bed, sort of straddling him, he’s sitting in front of you with his cock rubbing through your wetness, eyes hooded in pleasure, he’s waiting for your command because he’s yours to comfort and hold and protect right now.

“[naaame]…” he whines in such a little voice, staring up through his hair, begging.

“Move like this…” you murmur, lining up his hips so he can rub against you for a while, and get you wet. He does so in a careful way, biting his lip as he tries not to plunge within you just yet. You’re still so tired, you want lazy, careful sex. But Luffy’s the one who needs to be looked after and cared for right now. Nurture me, is what his eyes say, mind in a space so far away.

So once you’re warmed up and once Luffy’s being tortured by need and the rising and falling of his chest is pressed to you with brutal pressure, you smile and reach down to line him up yourself. He squeaks as he feels the touch of your hand down there, and the cocoon of velvet enveloping him, you can move just be gentle like I taught you, your smile says.

So he does. Instinctual thrusting fueled by pure love and appreciation, his hands reaching to grip your ass and lift you up more against him, he’s getting a little more dominant but just in an excited, playful sort of way. You hold him, you put your arms around his shoulders and breathe in his scent.

“So good, Lu, you’re doing so well…” you whisper in his ear as he works you into pulp, grabby hands, needy whines.

He likes to feel grown up but still be cared for. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing but he likes to be shown how. He likes to be cradled but to feel you so deep, his infinitely loving girlfriend who knows his needs, who would give him the world.

It comes eventually, that confusing knot in his stomach, now is the time he wants to be held the most. You squeeze him so tight and let him squirm in your arms as you carry him in coaxing gentleness through his powerful climax. He drips within you, you’ve claimed him with the comforting warmth of your body.

You make sure to pull him out and wipe him off and even in his hazy, submissive state he still makes sure to rub your hips and thighs and make sure you’re ok and nothing hurt you. “Was that good? Did I do good?” he murmurs as he squirms onto his back in your arms like a cat looking for affection.

“So good.”

Luffy’s restless now, he needs to occupy his mouth which he often does before sleep for self-soothing, and he’s going to nurse right now, curled up in your arms. So he reaches for your breasts again but that’s when you see his arm.

“Hey Lu, what’s that? Did you hurt yourself?” You lift his forearm for examination and he blushes in slight shame. Because you then say, “when did this happen? You shoulda told me!”

“Um, yesterday. I dunno… I fell and broke some glasses and I thought you’d get mad, it’s just a scratch, I’m fine.” He avoids your eyes.

“I’d never be mad at you for something like that, it’s ok, accidents happen.” You run your hand through his hair. “These bandaids aren’t fresh, we gotta get you new ones, hun…”

“N- no! Don’t leave… I don’t wanna let go!” Because he’s attached to you in a tight embrace and can’t picture a world without your arms right now.

“It’ll just be a minute-”

“Carry meee! Please, please, please-” He’s scrambling up your body as you begin to sit up so you let him. You stand up shakily because Luffy is glued to your back, arms around your shoulders and face buried in your neck.

You get bandaids from your cabinet, you have to pry Luffy off of you and let him curl up in your lap again so you can gently change clean and re-bandage his scraped arm. This protective kindness lulls Luffy, it makes him sleepy and happy and like he needs to take a long nap with you which, from the beginning, is what you were excited for. Pulling a curtain over the porthole you’re back to laying on your bed, letting Luffy drift off with his mouth on your breast, calming and grounding for both of you. His hands find yours in his dreamy state, holding on, wanting you to know how much he loves you, in a quiet and innocent way.

[squibsformers]

Feral Fears, Ch. 1

Human x Transformers fic

MTMTE/Lost Light, First Contact AU

Rating: M

Word Count: 1,004

Desc: After needing to stop off for more supplies, the Lost Light gets a strange, displeased, new passenger.

AN: Hi hi hello I hope you like this! This was the poll winner, maybe I'll do another chapter soon. If you like it let me know! I enjoy reading tags and comments on my things a lot. This one's short to kinda get me back into the swing of writing.

[Next]

“How in the pit have we gone through this much energon so quickly…?” Yellow servos tapped rapidly against the owner's desk, glaring at the report from Ultra Magnus. 

“If you bothered to pay attention, you would have heard me when I said the breach in the ship had us LOSE much of our stock, as well as how quick we went through our repair supplies... We can refuel and pick up more once we hit the next stop off, but we may be stationed at the outpost longer than you'd like.”

The prime sighed. “Longer as in a few vorns or-”

“Cycles. We have to wait for them to get us what we want if they don't have it.”

“Slag. Well… Damn. Okay, I guess we don't really have a choice- Set a course for the nearest outpost, tell the crew they're getting a… surprise few days of tourism to go run around and do whatever it is they please.”

“...That's not-” Ultra Magnus sighed. “That's bound to lead to trouble.”

“You wanna explain to everyone they're grounded to their rooms while we're parked and picking up supplies?”

Ultra Magnus sighed. “No…”

“That's what I thought. Plot a course! Let's get moving, the ship isn't gonna fuel itself!”

–---

Legs carried them desperately, ducking and weaving along unshipped cargo and barrels of fuel.

They had to keep moving. Keep moving, keep quiet, keep running. Your lungs burned, feeling like hot embers were popping in your bronchial tubes, making them hiss and whine quietly as they flex, their feet thumping quietly, trying to run on the balls of their feet as they scurried through the shipping bay.

They had to keep moving. Keep moving, keep running, keep pushing and going, it can't stop, if they stop they're FUCKED so utterly fucked-

“♠︎£°▪︎¤#%¡¡¿ ~×&%ꕥ˚꒦꒷꒷﹆¡¡”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck-

They ducked down between two shipping containers that barely had enough space that they could squeeze between, cutting down the row and looking around.

Where to go. They had to hide, running wasn't going to work, they were so much bigger, so much stronger and faster and smarter- but they could be crafty. Ohoho and could be sneaky.

….I mean they couldn't see shit but. Well. That would just be an obstacle to work past.

The organic looked around, squinting while leaning back against a crate… and stumbled some, feeling the massive box's frame was warped. Frowning, it looked up, and noticed a small, dark spot waaay up at the lid.

….Hole. That had a hole.

Hopefully, a hole the human could wedge itself into.

To the right, they spotted some metal pallets…and started climbing, grunting and huffing with effort. The makeshift knapsack weighed them down some, but they kept moving, desperate for an escape, for freedom. The fleshy's hands slip at one point and they drop, letting out a pain-filled wheeze and hearing a nasty, wet crack.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it, don't do it. Barely even slowing down, the human heaves themself up, panting. Their free hand reaches over…and they whine as they clench the break, sliding the bone into…relative place. It looked…okay. Perfectly fine. Yes.

Absolutely. Couldn't even tell it had a staircase break.

….Time to climb again.

The human sighed and began scrabbling up, wincing and trying to ignore the obvious injury it had. They didn't have time to worry about that, and they needed to get to safety-

“^^□●₩◆°°°▪︎°%”

Fuck. Those fucking robots were close.

One pallet, two, three, four, six, eight-

When the organic reached the top of the pallets stack, they looked over to that crate, judged the little distance you could out…

And leapt across the gap, purposefully overshooting the edge so it wouldn't miss but stumbled and landed hard, cracking their already damaged arm, letting out a yelp of pain.

“!#$♤♤□♡°•°¡¡”

Time to hurry. That sounded very aggressive.

Feeling along the edge of the crate, they finally found the hole… and blindly smushed themselves inside, falling a small distance onto a pile of…something.

Cabling? It felt like cables, it had the outer layer of rubbery plastic…

Geez it was dark.

……Geez it was really dark.

They heard metallic footsteps storm closer, and the little organic being covered their mouth, taking slow breaths to try and stifle the sounds of being… well, alive.

They stayed that way for what felt like hours, the dark slowly pressing more and more in on you, stifling and terrifying but at the same time a sanctuary, a safety net. They listened as those pedes paced about, searching, scouring, seeking them out. They heard the strange “Vrr wrr chtcht chitter krr bzrtkr krrrzst” that was their strange natural language. Aggressive tones. Still mad. They heard…

….

They heard beeping. Something is getting closer, beeping is getting louder. Heard new footsteps, old ones fleeing once the shouting began. Heard the beep directly outside their cable sanctuary.

And then… felt movement. The crate jostled and shook, and you held your breath, waiting for the lid to be ripped off and you to be found….

But…that didn't happen. Instead…. the crate moved. And you were moving along with it, whether you wanted to or not.

There was chatter, again. Lots of chatter. Then there was an obnoxiously loud beep near one side of the crate, another more.. blippy-beep next to that spot…And the crate moved once more, rattling a bit, before there was a hiss, a soft thud and the sound of pedes leaving.

The little human stayed in that crate. Stayed in it for hours. 

And then there was a new noise. A louder noise. A deep, thrumming, hum, that evolved into a bone and brain rattling roar, of impossible machinery kicking in, engines revving, turbines whirling, and a feeling like, for a brief moment, their soul was pulled from their body.

When they felt relatively normal again, the human slowly peeked out from the hole in the crate, and squinted.

They had a feeling they were on another stupid ship.

[zx-ta]

Evergreen Harbor - Port Promise:

"The Caboose" (30x20) Bar The Caboose Reno lot by LisePacifique on the gallery

"The Old Mill" owned by Sterling Rico family (30x20) The Old Mill Renovation lot by jorelie1992 on the gallery

"The Shipping Views " Café (30x20) Container Cafe lot by kokotask on the gallery. It seems that my mime works there.

"The Waterfront" Community Space (40x30) The Stacks lot by Simproved on the gallery (YT video)

Not showing "The Portmouth Promenade" because I kept EA's lot.

[movingmusically]

hiii, how are you? :) I keep thinking about austin talking about how he used to go to Disneyland with his mom and how cherished those memories are so I was wondering if you could write something about austin taking his girlfriend to Disney for the first time (like, her first time but also his bc he hadn't been there since ages) and making new memories <3 thank you

Word Count: 2k

Masterlist

The Happiest Place on Earth

The morning air was crisp, the kind of rare, perfect California day where the sky stretched endlessly in a soft blue haze—warm but not stifling, with just enough of a breeze to make it comfortable. You stood at the entrance of Disneyland, fingers laced tightly with Austin’s, your excitement barely contained.

It had been years since he’d been back—not since a past relationship, long enough that the memory felt distant but not so long that the nostalgia wasn’t there. And for you? It was your first time. You’d never had the chance to go as a kid, never known the giddy anticipation of waiting in line for your favourite ride, or the magic of seeing the castle light up at night. But today, that was changing.

“You ready?” Austin asked, squeezing your hand, his blue eyes alight with something that looked an awful lot like boyish excitement.

You grinned up at him, your stomach fluttering. “More than ready.”

The moment you stepped inside, it was overwhelming in the best way. The music, the scents of churros and popcorn drifting through the air, the cheerful buzz of families and couples moving through Main Street—it was everything you’d imagined and more. But the best part was Austin.

You watched as his gaze flickered over the familiar sights, his features softening, a quiet sort of nostalgia settling into his expression. He didn’t say it outright, but you could tell—being here meant something to him.

He caught you watching and huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Man, this is weird.”

“In a good way?” you asked, brushing your thumb along the side of his hand.

He nodded, glancing around. “Yeah. It’s just been so long. I used to come here all the time with my mom and sister when I was homeschooled. Some days, my mom would just wake us up and say, ‘Let’s go to Disneyland,’ like it was no big deal.”

You smiled at the thought. “That sounds amazing.”

“It was,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “We’d come on random weekdays when it wasn’t too crowded. My mom would let us pick one thing each that we had to do—my sister always wanted the teacups, I wanted Pirates of the Caribbean.” His lips curved slightly. “I remember being obsessed with the ride as a kid. I used to close my eyes and pretend I was actually on a ship.”

You bit back a smile. “So you were a pirate kid?”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” he said without hesitation. “Had the little sword and everything.”

The mental image made you laugh. “I need photographic evidence.”

“You’ll have to ask my grandma,” he teased. “She probably still has a stack of pictures somewhere.”

Your heart swelled a little at the thought—his childhood memories, his grandma saving old photos, the way Disneyland still felt like a piece of home to him, even after all these years.

You leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “Then we have to go on Pirates at least twice. Make little Austin proud.”

He chuckled, but there was something tender in the way he looked at you. “You’re gonna love it.”

And you did.

You weren’t sure what was more fun—the ride itself or seeing Austin slip into full tour guide mode, pointing out little details along the way, sharing trivia he’d clearly known since childhood. He was grinning before the boat had even left the dock, and when you hit the first drop, he turned to you immediately, watching your reaction more than the ride itself.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” you said breathlessly as you floated past the animatronic pirates, taking in every detail. “This is incredible.”

Austin beamed. “Told you.”

By the time you stumbled off the ride, your excitement was still buzzing through you, but Austin had something else in mind.

“Okay,” he said, his grip tightening around your hand. “I have something important to show you.”

“Another childhood favourite?” you guessed, letting him lead you through the crowds.

“More important than that,” he said, stopping abruptly in front of a cart.

Your eyes flickered over the stand’s display, and your lips parted with understanding. “Mickey ears.”

Austin nodded solemnly. “It’s a requirement.”

You laughed. “I knew this was coming.”

“I was gonna give you a choice, but now I’m thinking I should just pick for you,” he teased, eyeing the selection.

You beat him to it, grabbing a pair of classic rose gold sequined ears and settling them onto your head. “There,” you said, striking a dramatic pose. “How do I look?”

His lips twitched, eyes scanning you with exaggerated scrutiny. “Like a walking Instagram post.”

“Perfect.” You grinned, then grabbed a plain black pair and handed them to him. “Your turn.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Just classic black? Not even the Sorcerer Mickey hat? No light-up ones?”

“These suit you. Classic, understated, effortlessly cool.”

He squinted at you. “Are you describing me or the ears?”

“Both.”

Shaking his head, he took the ears and placed them on his head.

You stepped back and tilted your head, pretending to inspect him. “You know, I think they really bring out your eyes.”

He laughed, the sound rich and full, and you knew you’d remember that sound long after today.

“I have to admit,” he said, nudging you as he pulled out his phone. “We look pretty damn good.”

You leaned in as he snapped a quick selfie, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he angled the phone. The screen reflected the two of you—his Mickey ears slightly askew, your rose gold ones glittering obnoxiously in the sunlight, matching grins on your faces. He looked at the picture and smirked. “Alright, we’ve officially reached peak Disney couple.”

“Speaking of peak Disney,” you said, slipping your hand back into his. “I believe I was promised a churro.”

Austin’s expression turned serious. “A fair request.”

You barely made it three steps before he spotted the nearest churro stand and led you straight to it. The line moved quickly, and soon, he was handing you a warm, cinnamon-dusted churro. He watched as you took your first bite, eyes scanning your face for a reaction.

You closed your eyes for effect, humming dramatically. “Oh my god. This is life-changing.”

Austin chuckled. “That good, huh?”

You nodded solemnly. “I might need three more.”

“Noted,” he said, already taking his own bite. His eyes closed briefly, and you could practically see the nostalgia washing over him.

When he opened them again, his voice had softened. “Man, I forgot how good these were.”

You swallowed your bite, nudging him lightly. “What’s your favourite memory here?”

He exhaled, eyes flicking around the park before settling back on you. “Honestly?” He paused. “Probably watching the fireworks with my mom and sister. I remember she’d hold me on her hip so I could see better, and she’d whisper stuff like, ‘Make a wish, baby.’” He smiled a little, lost in the memory. “And I always did.”

You felt something ache in your chest. “What did you wish for?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t even remember. Probably something dumb, like unlimited ice cream.”

“Solid wish.”

“Right?” He grinned, bumping your shoulder. Then, a little softer, “I think she knew, though. That I wasn’t really wishing for things. I think she just wanted me to believe in something.”

You squeezed his hand, the moment stretching between you.

“She sounds incredible.”

“She was,” he said, his voice full but steady.

You both took a few quiet steps, the noise of the park filling the space between you. Then, in an effort to lift the mood, you bumped his hip gently.

“Okay, new tradition. We have to watch the fireworks together tonight.”

His lips curved. “Oh, is that the rule?”

“Absolutely. You have to make a wish, too.”

He considered it for a second. “Only if you do.”

You pretended to think it over, then nodded. “Deal.”

His grip on your hand tightened for just a second before he turned to you with a smile. “Come on,” he said, tugging you forward. “You’ve got a lot to experience.”

The next stop was Space Mountain. Your stomach twisted as you looked up at the sleek white dome, the distant screams of riders echoing from inside. You weren’t scared, exactly, but there was something about the unknown that made you grip Austin’s arm a little tighter.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” he teased.

“Not nervous,” you lied.

He chuckled, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”

And, of course, he was right. The rush of the ride, the sharp twists and sudden drops, the way the darkness swallowed you whole before the stars blinked around you—it was exhilarating. When you stumbled off at the end, breathless and grinning, Austin was already looking at you with a satisfied smirk.

“Told you,” he said smugly.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “Fine. You were right.”

The day blurred into a perfect whirlwind of colour and movement. Austin took the lead, guiding you from ride to ride. Thunder Mountain, Indiana Jones, the Matterhorn—each one had you laughing, screaming, gripping onto him for dear life. And each time, he held onto you just as tightly.

You screamed your way through and laughed until your stomach hurt when he dramatically recounted his childhood “trauma” from Splash Mountain’s drop.

The afternoon stretched on, a golden haze settling over the park. He bought you a Dole Whip, and you sat together in the shade, sharing spoonfuls as people bustled past.

The moment that settled deepest in your chest came when you wandered through Fantasyland. It was slower here, quieter, a step away from the high-energy thrills of the day. Austin slowed his pace, his fingers lacing more gently with yours as he glanced around.

“This was my mom’s favourite part,” he said softly. “She loved the little details. The window displays, the music. She always said this was where the magic really was.”

You squeezed his hand. “Do you miss it?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… it’s nice being here with you. Making new memories.”

You rose onto your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Then let’s make some more.”

And so you did. You pulled him onto the carousel, despite his mock protests that it was “for kids.” You convinced him to ride It’s a Small World, and despite his complaints, you caught him humming the tune under his breath afterward.

By the time the sky darkened and the fireworks began, you found yourselves standing in front of the castle. Austin stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your head. When the first burst of light exploded in the sky, you felt his breath catch slightly, just for a second.

Neither of you spoke. You just watched, letting the moment wrap around you. It felt big—like something was shifting, settling.

You turned in his arms, tilting your face up to his. Austin was already looking at you.

“Best day ever?” he asked, voice teasing, fingers tracing gentle patterns along your back.

You smiled, looping your arms around his neck. “Best day ever.”

You looked at him, the fireworks reflecting in his eyes. It wasn’t just fun or nostalgic or sweet. It was important.

You weren’t just making memories. You were stepping into ones he’d carried with him his whole life. And now, you were part of them.

He grinned, but before he could speak, you tugged him down into a kiss. It was slow, unhurried, the kind that made everything else fade away. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a beat longer.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For sharing this with me.”

He kissed you again. “Always.”

You leaned in. “Making a wish?”

His lips quirked. “Maybe.”

You smiled, looking back up at the sky.

And made one too.

Neither of you said it out loud.

But you had a feeling they were the same.

And somehow, under that glowing sky with your hand in his, it didn’t feel like your first visit anymore.

It felt like coming home.

[formulafanfics13]

Love love your writings so much! Can I request one with Carlos? Maybe he finds the reader smoking and they argue? Thank youuu

Don’t Lie To Me, Querida - CS55

Masterlist

Summary: Carlos finds you behind the Ferrari garage smoking — something you promised you'd quit. What starts as a confrontation spirals into a raw, emotional argument about trust, control, and the fear of disappointing the person you love. It’s not about the cigarette. It’s about the lie. And Carlos makes it clear: he’s not angry because you slipped. He’s angry because he loves you.

Warnings: Includes emotional confrontation, smoking/relapse themes, mentions of addiction and withdrawal symptoms, lying to a partner, yelling/arguing, guilt, hurt/comfort, and deeply personal vulnerability. No smut. Intense but healing. A soft, realistic depiction of love under pressure.

It started with the smell. Sharp. Chemical. Faint but unmistakable,  smoke, acrid and ugly, clinging to the late afternoon paddock air like it didn’t belong.

Carlos froze. He was halfway down the back corridor of Ferrari hospitality, headset still looped around his neck, a fresh telemetry printout folded in one hand. It had been a long day. Long sessions, long meetings, long everything. He was tired. Hungry. Annoyed.

But now? Now he was pissed. Because that smell wasn’t just cigarette smoke. It was you.

He followed it like a bloodhound, footsteps sharper now, fast and precise. Turned the corner past the media door, past the stacked crates near the delivery ramp, to the hidden gap in the chainlink fencing at the very edge of the team’s private loading bay. 

And there you were. Perched on the lip of a shipping container, knees tucked up, sunglasses on, lips wrapped around a cigarette like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t promised. Like you hadn’t stood in his fucking kitchen four months ago and told him you’d stopped.

Carlos didn’t speak right away. He just stared. And you? You didn’t look shocked. You looked… guilty. Not scared. Not even ashamed. Just caught. “…Carlos,” you said, voice soft around the exhale.

He didn’t answer. Just walked forward. Slow. Careful.

You stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of the metal before he could speak. Tried to hide the motion like it would change anything. Like the smell hadn’t already soaked through your hoodie, into your hair.

"Since when?" he asked, low and calm.

You didn’t reply.

"Since when, cariño?"

"Don’t call me that right now." The words were barely out of your mouth before you regretted them. His jaw tensed. Eyes narrowed.

"I will call you whatever the fuck I want," he said quietly, "when I find you hiding behind a garage like a teenager trying to kill yourself one puff at a time."

You dropped your gaze. "It was just one."

"Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not-"

"Don’t lie to me."

Your mouth snapped shut. The silence was sharp. Tense. Carlos took a breath. Then another. Paced once. Twice. Stopped with his back to you, hands on his hips, head tilted toward the sky like he could exhale the anger out of his bones. "You told me you stopped."

"I did."

"For how long?"

You hesitated. "A while."

He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "A while. Okay."

"It’s not a big deal."

Carlos turned. Fast. Too fast. "Not a big deal?"

"Don’t raise your voice."

He didn’t, not really. Carlos never shouted. He simmered. He seethed. He let his silence stretch long enough to make you sweat and then delivered the final blow like a scalpel to the ribs. "You think I give a shit about your lungs because I like being dramatic?" he snapped. "You think this is about some health brochure?"

"No, but-"

"This is about trust," he cut in, voice sharp now. "You promised me."

"I didn’t think-"

"That I’d find out?"

"No!" you exploded, standing now. "That it would matter!"

Carlos flinched. Just a little. But it was enough. The space between you buzzed. His face fell into something unreadable, hurt, frustration, anger all swirling in the tight line of his jaw.

"It matters to me," he said, softer now. "Because I love you."

You froze.

"And watching you do something that hurts you, something you said you were done with, something you hid from me?" He shook his head. "That fucking matters."

You folded your arms. Defensive. "It’s not heroin, Carlos. It’s a cigarette."

"That’s not the point."

"Then what is the point?" you snapped. "That I’m not perfect? That I slipped? That you don’t actually get to control everything I put in my mouth?"

His eyes darkened. "Don’t twist this."

You blinked. Swallowed. That came out wrong. You hadn’t meant it like that. But now it was out there, ugly and raw and bitter. Carlos stepped closer. "You think this is about control?"

"I think you like things neat. Clean. Predictable. And I’m not that."

"No," he said. "You’re not."

"Then maybe you’re with the wrong girl."

The silence that followed nearly made you sick. Carlos stared at you like you’d just kicked him in the chest. And maybe you had. "I’m sorry," you whispered, instantly.

"No." He stepped back. "Don’t do that. Don’t pick a fight just because you feel guilty. Don’t say shit you don’t mean."

"I’m scared," you said, suddenly too loud, too honest. "Okay? I’ve been trying to quit and it’s fucking hard and I’m tired all the time and my skin hurts and everything tastes like mint gum and I didn’t want to disappoint you but I already have so what’s the fucking point-"

Carlos grabbed your face. Not roughly. Not to kiss you. Just to still you. His hands cradled your jaw like you were porcelain, thumbs pressed just below your cheekbones. "You haven’t disappointed me," he said. "You scared me."

You blinked fast. Your nose burned.

"Do you know what it feels like," he said, voice low, "to walk out of a garage after three hours of strategy work and smell smoke and know it’s you?"

"I didn’t mean-"

"To hurt me? I know." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. Soft.

"Then why do I feel like the bad guy?" you whispered.

"Because you care," he said. "Because you’re not the kind of person who can lie without it tearing you up inside."

You nodded, slowly. Tears welling now, right behind your lashes. "I’m sorry."

"I know."

"I shouldn’t have lied."

Carlos stepped forward, resting his forehead against yours. "Next time?" he whispered. "Tell me when you’re struggling."

You nodded.

"I’m not perfect either, mi vida."

"I just didn’t want to ruin today."

"You didn’t," he said. "You scared me. That’s different."

You stood there for a long moment. No words. Just your hands on his chest and his thumbs at your cheeks, the buzz of motors and paddock chaos far away.

Finally, Carlos pulled back. "Come on," he murmured. "Let’s get you a drink. Something cold. No nicotine."

You laughed, wet and shaky. "Bastard."

He smiled. Kissed your temple. "Mine."

And when he laced your fingers with his on the walk back to hospitality, you knew this was love. Not the perfect kind. The real kind. The kind that stayed, even when you slipped.

[andy-15-07]

Hi! Could you please do either a Pedro Pascal or Javier Peña x Reader where the reader is plus sized and doesn't give him the time of day because she doesn't think he would ever be attracted to her? A feisty reader is appreciated! Thank you so much! Smut is whatever the author feels is right! Thank you thank you thank you!

Agent of My Heart

PAIRING:Javier Pena x reader

WORD COUNT: 1167 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Javier Peña crouched behind the overturned crate in the dim warehouse, sweat slicking his brow as he loaded another round into his service weapon. Bullets ricocheted off concrete walls in the distance, mixing with shouts in Spanish and the thud of heavy boots. Across the room, his partner Steve Murphy returned fire, cursing under his breath.

“Peña!” Steve barked, ducking behind a stack of pallets. “We’re pinched tight! Where’s the exit?”

Peña’s gaze flicked to the grated window high above. “Only way out is through the back corridor!” He fired a burst, then motioned. “Cover me!”

Steve leaned out, returning fire,and then a voice sparked Peña’s attention.

“Hey, macho, watch the exit!” it called, sharp and amused.

Peña’s head whipped toward the voice. You,Y/N,stood in the center of the chaos: smartly dressed in dark cargo pants and a fitted tee that showed off curves you shrugged at, and a flak vest that left no doubt you knew what you were doing. You raised your pistol with easy confidence and let two shots fly at the nearest gunman, who collapsed. Then you pivoted on your heel, heels clicking on the concrete, and disappeared down a side corridor.

Peña stared. “Did she just,?”

Steve cut him off. “She did. Let’s move!”

They followed you into the corridor. You rounded the corner, dropping into a quick crouch and firing again. Peña and Steve fell in behind you, a surprising trio as you bounced from cover to cover.

Once you reached the emergency exit, you yanked it open. Fresh air slapped your face. You vaulted outside, Peña and Steve close behind. Bullets ripped through the wooden door moments later.

You slid down the wall, panting. “That went… well.”

Steve grinned. “I owe you a beer.”

You gave him a cool once-over. “I work solo, agents. I don’t do beers with sidekicks.”

Peña stepped forward, chest heaving. “We’re not sidekicks, and I’m not an agent.”

You laughed, eyes bright. “Peña. Javier Peña, right? DEA?” You tucked a curl behind your ear. “I’ve heard about you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You have?”

You shrugged. “I follow the headlines. Wanted to see if the legends were true.” You cocked your pistol at his knee, playful. “And you are.”

He swallowed. “You’re pretty… accurate with that gun.”

Your grin turned wicked. “Lucky shot.”

They exchanged glances. Steve rolled his eyes and wandered off toward the street. Peña remained, hands in his pockets.

“Look,” he began, voice lower, “I,thank you. That was a hell of a extraction.”

You pushed off the wall, dusting gravel from your pants. “Don’t mention it. I wasn’t about to let them drag you into a shipping container.”

Peña stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “You think I would ever… could ever be attracted to someone like you?” He flicked a glance at your hips, your smile.

You stiffened, arms folding. “Someone like me?”

He sighed. “Yes,like you. Strong, smart… fearless.” He paused. “You’re not even looking at me.”

You looked away, jaw set. “I’m plus size. I’m not exactly the leading lady type.”

Peña’s hand reached out, brushing your arm. “I’ve seen lead actors in Hollywood,I’ve never seen anyone move like you do. You’re commanding.”

You swallowed, gaze flickering. “You say that to all your… contacts?”

He shook his head. “No. Only the ones who can shoot first and ask questions later,and still smile.”

Your heart thudded. You turned back, eyes narrowing. “You’re charming.”

“Not trying to be.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I,look, Y/N. I’d like to see you again. Over coffee. Or something.”

You bit your lip. “I don’t do coffee with DEA agents.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Then what?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “I’m busy. I have a network to manage.”

He nodded, respect in his eyes. “Understood.”

You steeled yourself to walk away,then paused as Peña gently took your hand. “But, if you ever want company,” he said quietly, “I’d be honored.”

You stared at your joined hands, warmth spreading. Whatever you felt,business, adrenaline, something more,you nodded. “Alright. Maybe coffee.”

He smiled, genuine. “It’s a date.”

A week later, Peña stood outside a small café in Chapinero, sky gray with the promise of rain. He checked his watch. 3:10. You were late,but not surprising.

The bell over the door jingled. You entered in a trench coat and boots, hair in a high ponytail. Peña stood, heart stuttering.

“Sorry,” you panted, shaking water from your coat. “Traffic. This city…” You exhaled. “Coffee’s on me.”

He waved you to the table. “You saved my life. I insist.”

You sat, folding your arms. “Just answer one question,why me?”

He took your hand across the table. “Because in a world full of whispers and shadows, you’re the human spark.”

You blinked. “Don’t quote me that next time.”

He laughed, warm and deep. “No promises.”

You studied him, feeling your walls crack. “You’re… different from what I’d expect.”

He smiled softly. “I guess I’m not your usual type.”

You shrugged. “My usual type is nonexistent.”

He squeezed your hand. “Then we’ll write a new type.”

Your heart fluttered. Conversation flowed,laughter, shared stories, a spark neither wanted to deny. When you stepped out into the drizzle, Peña offered his umbrella.

You slid under it with him. “Thank you.”

He tipped the umbrella. “Always.”

In the weeks that followed, you fell into a rhythm: late-night stakeouts (you preferred intelligence; he preferred field work), off-duty dinners in barrio eateries, and,eventually,drinks at the bar you’d originally spotted each other in. Each time, you challenged him,feisty comebacks and fearless banter,while he met you,steady, admiring.

One night, after a particularly grueling raid, he found you on the rooftop of the safe house, staring at the city lights.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

You nodded, then sighed. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He wrapped his arms around you, protectively. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You leaned into his chest, his heartbeat a balm. “I was stupid,” you whispered. “Thinking no one like me could ever…”

He lifted your chin, eyes unwavering. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”

You closed your eyes against the rush of emotion. “And you… what do you see in someone like me?”

He brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Exactly what I needed to see.”

You tilted your head, breath caught. “That sounds like a pickup line.”

He smiled. “The best kind. Honest.”

Your lips curved. You rose on tiptoe and kissed him,light and electric. He responded, arms tightening around your waist.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. “Stay with me.”

You laughed softly. “Until the next raid?”

He chuckled. “Until forever.”

Back in L.A., Peña found himself staring at your last text: Safe? He typed back: Safe. Thinking of you. Then stared at the second line, deleting and rewriting it.

Finally: Couldn’t do this without you.

He hit send. A moment later, your reply: I’ll always have your six.

He smiled, heart full. And across two cities, two hearts matched rhythms,plus sized, feisty, fearless,writing their own legend.