#Wave Race: Blue Storm

[posthumanwanderings]

[ Wave Race: Blue Storm - Ricky Winterborn Theme ]

[sm4e86]

Csobbanjunk a habok közé! - Wave Race Blue Storm

El se hinnénk, mennyi csodát rejt a Nintendo világa. Nemcsak a jól ismert franchise-okra kell gondolni, hanem azon sorozatokra is, melyekből csak néhány játék készült. Hasonlóan fantasztikus alkotásnak tartom a Wave Race sorozatot. A Blue Storm nyitócím volt Nintendo GameCube-ra, és bízvást mondhatom, hogy egy fantsztikust játékot vehettünk a konzol mellé a Wave Race “személyében”. Hangulatos…

[devileaterjaek]

[fierykitten2]

(Screenshots in this post are all from the F-Zero fandom wiki. I know fandom sucks I just found something interesting when I looked up “F-Zero Wave Race”)

1 (“initially titled F-Zero 64”) why am I not surprised? 2 (“several key Wave Race 64 programmers including the lead programmer made up the in-house F-Zero X development team”) very cool

3 (“they considered the game to rival Wave Race with its “perfectly fine-tuned controls and a fresh approach to racing”.”) I’m really on to something here

[magical-reid]

Beneath the Mask

Pairing: Bucky Barnes (some Winter Soldier) x Reader

Word Count: 900 Words

Summary: After an intense sparring session, you find yourself awkwardly daydreaming about Bucky Barnes, only for him to appear in full Winter Soldier gear, making you flustered with his teasing and undeniable presence. Despite the tension, Bucky reassures you with a soft smile, showing that, even in his intimidating suit, he's still the same man you've admired from afar.

The compound was quiet for once, a rare lull in the chaos that usually characterized life with the Avengers. The team was scattered throughout the facility, each preoccupied with their own business. You were tucked away in the training room, lingering far longer than necessary after your sparring session, nursing your usual crush-fueled daydreams about Bucky Barnes.

It wasn’t just the general aura of mystery, or his startlingly blue eyes, or even the way his rare, crooked smiles felt like tiny rays of sunlight piercing through clouds. No—it was also the fact that he’d taken his scarred past and made himself something better. Stronger. Kinder. Bucky wasn’t just beautiful, he was good, through and through.

Unfortunately, all that admiration made you hopelessly awkward in his presence.

You were seated on the bench by the wall, sipping water as you procrastinated returning to your room. Your mind had just started to drift—something about the way his metal arm glinted in the sun when he worked outside—when the sound of heavy footsteps jolted you back to reality.

You froze as he appeared in the doorway.

But this wasn’t just Bucky. This was the Winter Soldier.

He was in full tactical gear, his black combat suit hugging the sharp lines of his frame. His metal arm gleamed faintly under the fluorescent lights, each groove and plate illuminated in sharp relief. A black mask covered the lower half of his face, and his long hair fell in messy waves around his shoulders.

Your breath hitched.

“Hey,” he said, voice gruff. The mask muffled him slightly, but not enough to disguise the gravelly timbre that always made your knees weak.

“Hi,” you squeaked, praying you didn’t look like a deer in headlights.

He hesitated, leaning against the doorway with a casualness that belied how imposing he looked. “What’re you still doing here? Thought your training block ended an hour ago.”

“I—uh…” You scrambled for an excuse, your mouth dry. “Just, um, cooling down. Staying hydrated.”

Brilliant, you thought. Truly a masterclass in casual conversation.

Bucky tilted his head, his piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. He stepped closer, and the sound of his heavy boots on the mat made your heart race. You tore your gaze away, but it didn’t help; now you were hyper-aware of his presence, the faint smell of leather and gunmetal surrounding you like a storm cloud.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was softer this time, gentler, and that somehow made it worse.

You nodded frantically. “Yep! Totally fine! Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

He frowned, straightening up. His gaze flickered down, taking in your stiff posture, the way your fingers clenched the water bottle like a lifeline. And then… he smirked.

Oh no.

“Is it the suit?” His tone was teasing now, a hint of amusement lacing his words. “Does it bother you?”

“No!” you blurted. “I mean—no, it’s fine, I just—it’s…” You trailed off, heat flooding your cheeks.

This was mortifying.

To your surprise, Bucky crouched down to your level, his smirk softening into something closer to curiosity. He rested one arm on his knee, tilting his head slightly as he studied you. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “You just… look different, that’s all.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The Winter Soldier gear transformed him, sharpening his features, accentuating the lethal edge that lurked beneath his quiet demeanor. It wasn’t hard to imagine why people used to quake at the sight of him—but you weren’t afraid. Far from it.

“I look different, huh?” he echoed, his lips twitching behind the mask.

You nodded, unable to find your voice.

He reached up, his gloved fingers tugging the mask down. His face was still soft despite the tactical gear, the familiar angles of his jaw and the faint stubble on his chin grounding you. “Better?”

You nodded again, relieved. But then he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Or do you like it?”

Your eyes went wide, and you felt your pulse skyrocket. “What?”

The smirk was back, full force now. “You look a little flustered, that’s all. Didn’t know the tactical suit would have this kind of effect.”

You made a sound halfway between a squeak and a groan, burying your face in your hands. “Bucky!”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop teasing.” He paused. “But seriously, you don’t have to be nervous around me. I’m still me, y’know? Even in this.”

Peeking through your fingers, you found his expression sincere, his blue eyes warm despite the black suit and gleaming metal arm. It struck you then, how much effort he must have put into reclaiming this image of himself—how he’d taken the weapon Hydra had forged and turned it into something good.

“I know,” you murmured, lowering your hands. “You’re always you.”

For a moment, his expression softened further, and something unspoken passed between you. Then he rose to his full height, offering you a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before Sam comes looking for us and starts making fun of me.”

You took his hand, your cheeks still warm as his metal fingers closed gently around yours. And maybe—just maybe—you gave his suit one last lingering glance before following him out.

[keepfronting]

#waveracebluestorm #waverace #gamecube #nintendogamecube #nintendo #keepfronting

[mintyys-blog]

BLURRED LINES | mark grayson x pervert! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: reader has a wet dream about her best friend, perv! reader, sexual themes, unrequited love, stealing, self pleasuring, jealously towards Amber.

Mark’s voice filled the room like background music—comforting, familiar, and completely unimportant compared to the storm of thoughts whirling inside your head.

He was talking about a new comic he’d picked up—something about a crossover event, multiverse drama, a villain turning hero. You didn’t care. Not really. You just nodded, curled on your side on his bed, head propped up on your hand as you watched his mouth move.

God, his lips. His stupidly soft-looking lips.

Your thighs clenched slightly, and you bit the inside of your cheek.

Get a grip.

It wasn’t your fault he’d gotten so… tall. Broad-shouldered. That little curl in his hair fell just right now. Ever since puberty hit him like a freight train, your crush had twisted into something darker, more desperate. Every smile he gave you made your stomach do flips. Every laugh made your breath catch.

Every time he leaned too close, you had to try not to think about his hands on your hips, pulling you back into—

“—what do you think?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. Shit. You’d zoned out again.

“Totally,” you said quickly, nodding as if you’d heard a single word.

He grinned, bright and open, like he always did. That grin. It killed you.

Then his phone buzzed. He groaned, pulling it from his pocket. “Ugh. Hero stuff. I’ll be back in, like, half an hour. Don’t steal anything.”

You smiled sweetly. “No promises.”

He rolled his eyes, already heading to the window. “See ya, perv.”

Your heart skipped. He didn’t mean it. Not really. He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

You waved as he disappeared into the sky.

Once he was gone, the silence fell heavy. You sat up slowly, eyes scanning the familiar room. The comic posters. The cluttered desk. The heap of laundry in the corner. A part of you felt guilty.

The other part didn’t hesitate.

You slid off the bed and padded over to the hamper. Your fingers sifted through the pile until they found what you were looking for—worn, navy blue boxers.

Still warm from being recently worn. You bit your lip and smiled, slipping them into your purse.

A small trophy. A secret piece of him, just for you.

As you straightened, your eyes caught something on the nightstand.

Lotion. Tissues. Not exactly subtle.

Your stomach twisted with something that felt like hope. Was he… frustrated? Like you? Was he alone at night thinking about someone?

Thinking about you?

You swallowed hard.

It was too much. You needed to leave before you did something stupid.

On your way out, you found Debbie in the kitchen. You flashed her a smile. “Hey, something came up. Tell Mark I’ll be back tomorrow?”

She smiled warmly. “Of course, sweetie.” You stepped outside, the sun warm on your skin, but all you could feel was the heat simmering just under the surface—desire, shame, and something dangerously close to obsession.

The door to your room clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it for a moment, heart still fluttering from earlier. You’d seen him just an hour ago, and yet it felt like your skin still buzzed from being near him. From being in his space.

You slipped off your shoes quietly, a little smirk tugging at your lips as you set your purse down and carefully unzipped it.

There they were.

You pulled the boxers out gently, reverently—Mark’s boxers. Worn. Still faintly warm when you’d grabbed them, though now they’d cooled in your bag. But the scent clung. Faint, masculine. Him.

A shiver raced down your spine.

You turned and moved to your window, locking it with a sharp click before yanking the curtains shut. No moonlight. No street lamps. No light at all. Just the darkness and your mind. Way better that way—your imagination always ran wilder when there was nothing else to focus on.

You stripped out of your jeans, leaving them crumpled on the floor as you climbed into bed, the boxers clutched in your hand. The fabric felt soft against your fingers, against your cheek as you held them close. You closed your eyes and breathed in.

It hit you immediately.

God. It smelled like him. You pressed them harder against your face, your other hand slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, already damp with need.

In the dark, it was easier to picture it.

Mark above you. Leaned over, face so close you could feel his breath. Those big, warm hands gripping your thighs as he pulled them apart like he owned you. His voice low, maybe even a little rough—

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?”

You gasped softly, biting your lip as your fingers moved slow, teasing. Just the way you liked it. Just how you imagined he would touch you, if he ever looked at you that way.

If he ever knew.

Your legs tensed, back arching just slightly as you imagined him—eyes dark, cocky grin gone, replaced by something intense. Needy.

“You walk around acting so innocent,” he growled in your head, “but I know what you think about. I know you want this.”

You moaned quietly, pressing the boxers tighter against your mouth to muffle it. You could almost feel his weight on top of you. The heat of his body. The stretch. The pressure.

You moved faster.

Your breath caught. Your hips bucked. You whispered his name—once, then again, a little louder, unable to stop yourself. You came hard, stars bursting behind your eyelids as you trembled in the dark, teeth clenched to stop the cry that threatened to escape.

Silence returned slowly.

You laid there for a moment, chest rising and falling, Mark’s boxers still in your hands, damp now from sweat and something else.

You should feel guilty.

But you didn’t. You rolled over, clutching the fabric to your chest like it was sacred. And smiled. Tomorrow, you’d see him again.

The room was still dark when sleep claimed you.

Wrapped in a haze of warmth and the lingering scent of Mark’s boxers, your dreams turned quickly, twisting into something vivid and electric.

In your dream, you were back in his room. Mark was standing in front of you, shirtless, the faint glow from the window outlining his body. His expression was unreadable—intense, focused solely on you. His hands were on your hips, rough and possessive, and you couldn’t remember how you’d ended up bent over his desk, but you didn’t care. You moaned his name as he pressed against you from behind, and—

Your body jerked as pleasure flooded your senses. Even in sleep, your thighs tensed, back arching against the sheets as your breath came out in ragged little pants. You woke up just as the aftershocks trembled through you, a gasp slipping out before you could stop it.

Your sheets were tangled. Your legs slick with sweat. You blinked at the ceiling, heart still racing, biting your lip as you tried to collect yourself. The room was still quiet, save for the gentle hum of morning traffic outside. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Mark.

You stared for a second—almost laughed. You hadn’t even fully come down yet, and now he was calling? You were still throbbing. You took a breath, composed yourself as best you could, and answered. “Hey,” you said, voice just a little breathy.

“Hey! So, I was thinking, I never finished telling you about that comic yesterday. The one with the super-dog hero thing?” You bit your lip, your hand already wandering again, slow and shameless under the blanket. You wanted to hear him talk. Wanted his voice in your ear while your fingers slid lower.

“Yeah?” you whispered. “Tell me again.” He launched into it without hesitation—rambling about the dog’s powers, how he’d saved a planet, something about laser eyes. You nodded along, only half-listening. Your fingers found your sweet spot, slow circles that made your stomach clench.

You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped. He went silent. “Y/N…?” he said, voice laced with concern. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes flew open. Shit. “Oh! Yeah!” you said quickly. “I, uh—I just hit my toe on the bedframe. Kinda hurts…” You let out a fake whimper of pain, adding a pitiful little groan for good measure.

“Ouch, damn,” he said, sympathetic. “You okay? Want me to bring ice when you come over?” You exhaled in relief. “I’m fine. Promise,” you said, still breathless. “And yeah… I’m definitely still coming over.”

There was a pause. “Cool,” he said. “See you soon, then.” You hung up and let the phone drop beside you, fingers still moving, now faster—need sharper than ever. Gosh, you thought, biting down on a pillow this time. You were going to see him again today. And maybe—just maybe—you’d get a little bolder.

You arrived at Mark’s house about twenty minutes later, freshly showered, skin still tingling from your morning activities. You’d picked out your outfit carefully—casual, but flattering. Something soft, something clingy, something that might make him look twice. He never had. Not in that way. But you were patient.

You’d gotten good at being subtle. Quiet. Secretive.

A perfect best friend on the outside.

An undercover pervert on the inside.

No one would ever guess what ran through your mind when Mark’s hand brushed yours. Or when he lay on the floor beside you during movie nights, close enough for you to smell his skin. No one knew how often you pictured him above you, groaning your name instead of comic trivia. How you’d sometimes “borrow” things from his room. How you had a private folder on your phone titled Chem Notes—completely innocent-looking—where you kept screenshots of his texts, selfies, and clips from his training footage you shouldn’t even have.

You were very, very good at pretending.

But nothing prepared you for her.

Amber.

She was already at the house when you walked in. Sitting on the couch, legs crossed, hair perfect, wearing one of those effortless smiles that made you instantly suspicious. She stood when she saw you, brushing her hands on her jeans and walking over with polite confidence.

“You must be Y/N!” she said warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

You blinked, then forced a smile.

“Oh?” you said, stepping closer. “All good things, I hope.”

Mark walked in from the kitchen, grinning. “All good. I talk about you both too much, probably.”

Amber laughed. “You really do. But I like putting faces to names. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She extended her hand. You shook it.

Her grip was firm.

Yours was just a touch tighter.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” you said sweetly, eyes sharp. “Glad you could squeeze in time for his other best girl.”

Amber blinked—just for a moment. Then she smiled again. “Of course. I know how important you are to him.”

You were prepared to hate her.

But she wasn’t smug. She didn’t even cling to Mark. In fact, when he came over and brushed a kiss to her cheek, she gave you a quick glance first—like checking to see if it made you uncomfortable. And when she noticed you watching, she gently pulled back and moved to sit a few feet away from him on the couch.

You narrowed your eyes. That bitch. So considerate. So respectful. It pissed you off even more.

You kept the act up—laughing at her jokes, asking her fake-friendly questions, nodding along when she complimented your outfit. But deep down, you couldn’t stop thinking about how her lipstick had smudged just a little when Mark kissed her.

How her thigh brushed his when she leaned over to grab the remote. How it should be you. And it would be. Eventually. Because unlike Amber, you were always there. Every day. Every secret. Every late night.

You knew his favorite cereal, the way he snored when he was sick, the exact shape of his back muscles under his suit.

And Amber? She didn’t know shit.

Amber left not long after, giving Mark a kiss on the cheek—short, sweet, but enough to make your jaw tense. You kept your smile fixed in place, fingers digging into the hem of your sleeve as you watched her walk out like she belonged there.

As soon as the door shut, Mark flopped face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“So what do you think of Amber?”

“She’s cool,” you said flatly.

He grinned, rolling onto his side to face you, eyes lighting up. “I know, right? She’s amazing. Like, seriously. She does all this volunteer work, helps tutor kids on weekends, and she’s really into urban planning. Like who even cares about that?”

You offered him a tight smile and nodded, eyes not really on him.

Urban planning. Wow. She sounds so selfless and perfect. Maybe she should date the mayor.

“Mark,” you cut in, voice soft. “Can we just go to your room for the night?”

He blinked, surprised by the shift. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

You didn’t wait for him to offer more. You were already halfway up the stairs.

His room was the same as always—lived-in and warm, smelling like his detergent and whatever body spray he liked. You climbed onto his bed without a word and grabbed the remote from his nightstand.

“Netflix?” you offered casually.

He nodded, still a little hesitant, and joined you on the bed. You settled in close beside him, head on his chest, arm draped across his stomach like you’d done a thousand times before.

But this time, his body stiffened underneath you.

“Uh… Y/N, I have a girlfriend,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we should—”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a light, playful slap on the chest. “Mark, come on. We’ve been friends for over a decade. I wouldn’t try anything. We always did this.”

He sighed, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah… yeah, sorry. You’re right.”

You laid your head back down on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. Your fingers brushed lightly over the fabric of his shirt, subtle, slow.

Innocent enough.

But in your mind?

You weren’t thinking about Netflix.

You were thinking about peeling his shirt off. About straddling his lap and making him forget Amber’s name. About what it would sound like when he finally moaned yours.

You smiled to yourself in the dark, face buried against his warmth. One day, Mark. You’ll realize.

His hand hovered for a second, then dropped gently onto the bed beside him—not touching you, but close. Like he was still unsure. Still thinking about Amber.

Always Amber.

You kept your breathing even, face still nestled into his chest. You could hear everything—his heartbeat, the faint rumble of his stomach, the way his breath hitched every now and then when you adjusted your body slightly against his side.

You were so warm, so close. How could he not feel it?

The ache between your legs hadn’t gone away—not after this morning, not after Amber’s perfect little goodbye kiss. It had only grown worse. Being in his bed, curled up on his chest, inhaling his scent again…

You let your hand slide lower. Just a bit. Casual.

Resting over his stomach.

His muscles tensed beneath your palm.

You didn’t say a word. Just kept staring at the screen, pretending to focus on the show you’d chosen—some action series neither of you really cared about. Just noise.

His voice was quieter this time. “You, uh… good?”

You smiled against his shirt. “Yeah. You’re comfy.”

Another long pause.

You didn’t need to look at him to know he was thinking. Probably overthinking. Trying to convince himself there was nothing weird about this. That it was just like old times.

It wasn’t.

You knew it.

But he didn’t need to know just how different it had become for you.

Your hand drifted slightly again—barely a brush of your fingers over the hem of his waistband. Just enough to make his breath catch.

You bit back a grin.

He shifted, a nervous little movement under you. You could feel the heat rising in his chest. You wondered if he was hard already, or just trying not to be.

You tilted your head up slightly, voice syrupy sweet. “You okay?”

He swallowed. “Y-Yeah. Just… warm in here.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, then laid your head back down.

Your hand stayed right where it was—dangerously close.

Tempting.

And you waited, patient and still, while the sound of explosions on-screen filled the room. You could feel it—how distracted he was. How focused he was on every tiny movement you made.

The best part? You hadn’t even really started yet.

Mark shifted beneath you again, his body growing visibly more tense. You felt the flex of his abs under your hand, the tight swallow in his throat as he tried to keep his breathing steady.

Then he spoke—soft but edged with nerves.

“Maybe we should, uh… do something else.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t lift your head. Just gave the tiniest squeeze to his side and let your voice drip with innocence.

“No,” you murmured. “I like this movie.”

It was a lie. You didn’t even know the main character’s name.

But this moment? His warmth, his unease, the subtle pressure of your body molded against his—this was what you liked.

His heart thumped faster beneath your cheek.

He laughed, weakly. “Since when do you care about sci-fi junk?”

“Since always,” you said with a little smile, fingers now tracing a slow, light circle just above his waistband. “You just never noticed.” He tensed again. You felt it—how hard he was trying not to shift anymore, not to react, like the problem would solve itself if he just stayed still. Poor Mark. He was so good. So loyal. But his body didn’t lie the way his mouth did. And the best part? You weren’t even touching him wrong. You weren’t breaking any rules.

Technically.

But the way his body twitched beneath you, the way he cleared his throat and kept his hands stiff at his sides—it told you everything you needed to know. He was unraveling. Slowly. And you were going to enjoy every second of it. The silence stretched between you like a taut wire.

Mark wasn’t watching the screen anymore. His body had gone still—unnaturally so—and you could feel every muscle locked beneath your cheek. His breathing had turned shallow.

You shifted again, just slightly, brushing your thigh a bit closer to his. His waistband was right there beneath your fingertips, and you let your nails drag lightly along the edge. Nothing blatant. Nothing he could really call you out on. But it was enough. Suddenly, Mark jolted upright, nearly knocking you off his chest.

“I—” he started, then stood up from the bed in one quick, jerky motion, his hand raking through his hair. “Look. You need to leave.” You blinked, sitting up slowly. “What?”

“Right now,” he said, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it. “I’m serious.”

Your stomach flipped—not with fear, but heat. His cheeks were flushed, eyes darting anywhere but your face, and from where you were sitting, you could definitely see the stiff bulge straining against his jeans. He was hard. You had done that.

Still, you put on your best wounded expression, letting your eyes widen just enough. “Mark… what’s wrong? Did I—”

“You know what you’re doing,” he cut in, not quite meeting your gaze. “And I—I have a girlfriend. I can’t… we can’t…”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands over your thighs, letting the silence hang for just a second longer before you gave him a quiet, sheepish smile. “Okay,” you said softly. “If that’s what you want.” He nodded once, like he didn’t trust himself to say more.

You walked past him toward the door, the brush of your shoulder against his arm deliberate, slow. You paused in the doorway, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Just… thought we were still us.” And then you left.

But not before catching the way his jaw clenched. Not before hearing him let out a long, shaky breath the second the door shut behind you. He was cracking. And cracks? Always led to breaks.

You didn’t go home right away.

You sat in your car across the street, hands resting on the steering wheel, heart still thudding—not from panic, but from something darker. Something deeper.

You got to him.

That flash of frustration in his voice. The way his eyes couldn’t stay on you. The tent in his jeans. All of it played on a loop in your mind, over and over again like your favorite scene in a movie. You bit your lip, let your head fall back against the seat, and smiled.

Still, you knew how to play the long game. You’d pushed far tonight, and now you needed to reel it back.

Control the narrative.

So you pulled out your phone and started typing.

[Y/N]: Hey… I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier. That really wasn’t my intention. I guess I got a little too casual, and I didn’t mean to cross any boundaries. I respect your relationship, Mark. Just… sorry.

You hit send before you could second-guess it. Short, sweet, remorseful. Just enough to seem genuine. The read receipt popped up almost immediately. Three blinking dots. Your heart jumped a little. Then his reply came:

[Mark]: Hey… no, it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I probably overreacted. It just caught me off guard, I guess. We’ve always been close, and I didn’t want things to feel weird between us.

[Mark]: So yeah. We’re good. Don’t worry about it.

You stared at the message for a long moment, then locked your phone and let it fall into your lap.

We’re good.

You could almost hear him saying it. You knew he meant it. He was too forgiving. Too soft with you. That’s why he’d always fall for girls like Amber—sweet, neat, easy. But you?

You knew him. Really knew him. In ways she never would. And if tonight proved anything… It was that his walls weren’t as high as he thought they were. You just had to be patient. Smile. Apologize. Play nice. Let him lower the drawbridge on his own. Because the next time you walked through it? You weren’t walking back out.

The next day, you didn’t text him.

You let him sit with your apology. Let him feel the silence a little. You knew him—knew how he’d turn it over in his head, wondering if he was the one who made it awkward. If he had hurt your feelings. Mark was soft like that. Honest. Guilt-driven.

And guilt always cracked the door open.

By the afternoon, your phone lit up with a text from him.

[Mark]: You still mad at me?

You stared at it for a beat, then typed:

[Y/N]: Nah. You were just being a good boyfriend. I respect that.

Another beat.

[Mark]: Still want to hang out tonight? Amber’s busy with some charity thing.

You smirked.

Of course she is.

[Y/N]: Sure. I’ll bring snacks. And I promise I’ll stay on my side of the bed.

[Mark]: Lol okay. Thanks.

You didn’t miss the little “thanks.” Like he was grateful you weren’t making it a big deal. Like he wanted things to go back to how they were. Or maybe… part of him missed it too.

When you got to his place that evening, he looked almost nervous opening the door. Hair a little messy, T-shirt soft and worn. You knew that shirt. He wore it when he was relaxed. Vulnerable. Guard lowered.

“Hey,” he said with a half-smile.

“Hey,” you replied, holding up a bag of chips and candy. “I come bearing peace offerings.”

He stepped aside to let you in, and you followed him into the living room. There was already a movie queued up—one you both liked. Safe. Familiar.

You sat beside him on the couch, close but not touching, your posture casual. He glanced at you a few times—like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

Halfway through the movie, he finally spoke.

“Hey… I meant what I said. I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

You turned to him, giving him a soft, honest smile.

“They’re not weird, Mark. I promise.”

He held your gaze a second too long.

And even though you didn’t touch him that night, even though you kept your word and stayed on your side of the couch, you could feel it.

Something shifting.

You were still the best friend.

Still the safe one. At least he seemed to think so.

It started with a text.

[Mark]: You up?

You were already halfway to his place before he sent it.

When he opened the door, he looked exhausted. His hair was messy, eyes rimmed red, hoodie slung over his shoulders like he’d been pacing, unraveling. You stepped inside wordlessly, letting him close the door behind you. He didn’t even make it to the couch before he started talking.

“I forgot a patrol shift today. Cecil chewed me out. Then I missed dinner with Amber because I got called in late. She was pissed. Didn’t say it, but… I could tell. It’s always something.” You sat on the couch, tugging your hoodie tighter around your shoulders, listening. He started pacing again, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do all this,” he muttered. “Be Invincible, be a student, be a boyfriend, be a good son—it’s like there’s no room left to just breathe.”

You let the silence hold for a beat, then said softly, “You’re allowed to not have it all together, Mark.” He stopped. His eyes met yours, and the frustration in them cracked—just for a second. And he slumped down beside you.

You reached over, pulled the small bottle of whiskey from your bag. No reason to pretend. You already knew he needed something to take the edge off.

He blinked at it. “You came prepared.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “You always text me when you’re close to burning out.” He didn’t argue. You passed the bottle between each other, the burn a welcome distraction. His body slouched more with each sip, eyes a little heavier, voice slower.

“She says I’m distant,” he muttered at one point, the bottle halfway empty. “Amber. I think I am. But I don’t mean to be. It’s just… this hero thing. It takes everything.” Your heart thumped a little harder. You nudged him lightly. “You shouldn’t have to explain yourself to someone who loves you.”

He glanced over at you. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The moment stretched. You felt the shift—the silence turned soft. Intimate. His gaze lingered on yours, more vulnerable than you’d seen in weeks. And that’s when he leaned in. You didn’t stop him.

It was soft, clumsy, the kind of kiss you could almost chalk up to alcohol, to stress. But his lips moved like he meant it—like he needed it. Your hand slid to his cheek before he froze. His eyes opened, wide and panicked.

“Shit,” he whispered, pulling back. “Y/N—shit, I didn’t mean—” You pulled your hand back fast, eyes wide with perfectly measured guilt. “I… I’m sorry. That was—God, I didn’t think you—”

“I have a girlfriend,” he said, almost like he was trying to remind himself.

“I know,” you said, biting your lip and looking down. “That’s why we should forget it happened.” He looked away, jaw tense. The guilt was already settling into his shoulders, thick and heavy.

You stood, grabbing your bag. “I’ll go. I shouldn’t have stayed so late. I’m sorry.” He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even look at you as you left.

But later that night? You lay in bed, the ghost of his lips still tingling on yours, and smiled. You didn’t need to push him. Not yet. The guilt would do it for you.

Mark didn’t text the next day.

Or the day after that.

It wasn’t surprising—not really. He was probably drowning in guilt, pacing in his room, avoiding eye contact with Amber, wondering if he initiated it, or if you had. Wondering if it meant something… or if it was just a mistake.

You let him stew.

You didn’t reach out.

You let the silence bloom into something heavy—noticeable. Until he felt it. Until the absence of you became its own kind of punishment.

On the third day, the dam cracked.

[Mark]: Hey… can we talk?

You waited twenty minutes before responding. Just long enough for him to start doubting if you would.

[Y/N]: Of course.

You met at the usual place—his bedroom. Not a coffee shop. Not a park. His space. Where he felt safest. Where you had always felt closest.

He looked like hell when he opened the door. Pale. Tired. Guilt hanging from him like a weighted hoodie.

“Hey,” you said gently, stepping inside. “You okay?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I haven’t been.”

You sat on the edge of his bed while he paced again, hands running through his hair. It was like déjà vu—only now you were the calm one. Steady. Watching him unravel.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping in front of you. “For the kiss. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

You didn’t look up right away. Just gave a little nod. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “Amber’s been nothing but good to me, and you—God, Y/N, you’ve been my best friend for years. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

You raised your eyes slowly. “I didn’t let anything happen, Mark.”

He blinked. “I mean—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Your voice softened, eyes searching his face. “You’re overwhelmed. You’re human. You needed someone.”

He sat beside you, hands wringing in his lap.

You didn’t touch him.

You didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Instead, you leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Do you love her?”

The question knocked the air out of him.

He stared at the floor. “I… yeah. I think so.”

“But?”

He swallowed. “But I don’t know if she really gets it. The superhero thing. The pressure. The secrecy. It’s not her fault, but sometimes I feel like I’m living two different lives—and she only fits into one of them.”

You stayed silent. Letting that sink in. Letting him say it.

He glanced at you then. “You always know what to say.”

You gave him a small smile. “That’s what best friends are for, right?”

He nodded. But something in his face twisted—confused, conflicted. His knee brushed yours and he didn’t move away.

“I don’t want things to change,” he said quietly. “Not with us.”

You leaned just close enough that he could smell your perfume.

“They haven’t.”

But they had. You both knew it.

And now?

Every minute he spent thinking about that kiss—about you—was another thread unraveling between him and Amber.

You wouldn’t have to pull.

He was already coming apart.

PART TWO

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗠𝗘 max verstappen x fem! reader ( fluff ) fic summary , You spend a season running—from him, from the feeling, from everything it could become, you call it a game, a fun chase. But in the end, under the lights of Abu Dhabi, something finally gives (3.1k)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

Venice, Italy – The Balcony

Venice smells like rain and old stone, like secrets exhaled from the cracks of a city that remembers everything. The air is thick with the ache of something ancient, ghost stories that cling to damp bricks and kiss your skin when you’re not looking. The Grand Canal glimmers below like a mirror that only reflects the past, gondolas gliding with a lazy elegance that belies the electricity in your chest.

You're on the balcony, fingers curled around cold iron, your silk dress slipping from your shoulder like it’s trying to escape before the storm hits. But the storm isn’t in the sky. It’s behind you—six feet of tension and temptation, wrapped in Dutch stubbornness and Red Bull blue.

“You keep finding me,” you murmur without turning, eyes on the water, on the world, on anything but him. But your voice is softer than your smirk, tinged with something dangerously close to longing.

Max steps closer, his presence like thunder. You can feel it before you hear it. The air tightens.

“You keep running,” he says, each word low and even, but there’s something trembling beneath the surface. A ripple in the calm. A warning.

You turn just enough to meet his gaze, and it hits you—harder than it should, as always. That ridiculous face of his. Beautiful in a brutal kind of way. All edges and sharp lines softened only by the strange gentleness he saves for you alone. His eyes, glacial and guarded with the world, melt when they land on you.

And you hate that you love it.

“It wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t,” you say, letting your smile curl slow and wicked like the smoke of a dying candle.

He’s too close now. The kind of close that sets off every alarm in your body but makes you want to stay anyway. He plants his hands on either side of you, caging you in without touching you—just heat and threat and want, radiating off him in waves.

“You left me in Amsterdam,” he says, voice a blade that nicks something just beneath your collarbone. “Again.”

You arch a brow. “Poor baby. Did you miss me?”

His jaw ticks, eyes darkening just a touch. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

And that silence—it says everything.

Your heart’s racing, traitor that it is. You wonder what would happen if you said yes. If you told him you missed him too. If you told him you keep running not to escape—but to be chased.

“Tell me,” Max whispers, his breath a brush of fire against your mouth, “do you ever miss me?”

You don’t speak.

You kiss him.

And the second your lips crash into his, it’s war. His hands fly to your waist, your hair, your jaw—gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again if he lets go. You drag your fingers through his hair, yanking just to hear that sound he makes when he loses control.

He’s never gentle with his love. It’s always been a wildfire. And this—this is an inferno. Burning every city you’ve touched, turning history into ash.

But you let him.

You always let him.

Paris, France – The Empty Bed

The morning is quiet in that cruel way only Paris knows—silver light slicing through the curtains like judgment, the kind that peels back the night and asks, what did you think this was?

Max wakes slowly, the warmth of dreams evaporating as his fingers search for you in the sheets. He’s still half-asleep when he reaches out, expecting the curve of your waist, the softness of your thigh, your breath dancing against his neck.

But all he finds is cold linen.

And silence.

His eyes crack open, and the room tells him the story before his brain does.

You’re gone.

Again.

The pillows still hold the ghost of your perfume—amber and something floral, sweet and defiant. The scent clings to the air like a dare, like a memory that refuses to leave, and it makes his chest tighten in that infuriating way only you can.

The sheets are twisted, evidence of a night spent tangling and unraveling. His hoodie is draped across the armchair—yours now, apparently, because you steal things you don’t ask for. Like hoodies. Like hearts.

On the nightstand, he sees it. That familiar scratch of your handwriting, scrawled in black ink on hotel stationery like you were in a rush—or maybe you just didn’t care.

Je t’aime bien plus quand tu dors. I like you much more when you sleep.

He stares at the note for a moment too long. Not blinking. Not breathing. Not sure if he wants to laugh or scream.

“Fucking hell,” Max mutters, dragging a hand over his face. His voice is low, wrecked from sleep and something worse.

You always do this. Slip away while the world is still dim, while his guard is down. Like a thief who only wants the thrill of the chase, not the prize. Never the prize.

And he should hate it. Hate you. Hate the games, the vanishing acts, the lipstick on his collar and the cigarette burns in his soul.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sits up, bare-chested and exhausted, the note still in his hand like a brand. His thumb smudges the ink, and it feels like desecration, but he doesn’t stop. He never stops.

He reaches for his phone, voice steady even as his pulse betrays him.

“Call Lena,” he says to no one in particular, to the room, to the ghost of you still echoing in the corners.

A pause. Then—

“Book me a flight to Tokyo.”

Tokyo, Japan – The Hotel Room

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality.

Tokyo hums behind the glass, neon lights bleeding into the night like bruises—red, violet, electric blue. The air tastes like rain and sakura petals, like a story just starting even though it’s been written a hundred times before.

And he’s already there.

Max Verstappen, framed by the window like something out of a fever dream. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. Jaw tight. Still wearing Red Bull team gear, like he came straight from the paddock, still humming with engine heat and fury and the weight of a thousand expectations. But none of them matter now.

Not here. Not with you.

Your pulse stutters in your throat. Just a beat.

“You’re in my room,” you say, voice even, but there’s something sharp under the surface. Surprise, maybe. Or dread. Or hope you’re not ready to name.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches you with that look—the one that’s both fire and glacier, the one that melts and freezes you in the same breath.

“This is new,” you say again, a touch more amused this time.

“You’re predictable.” His voice is calm. Icy. Like he rehearsed this moment on the plane. “Every time you run, you come here.”

You click your tongue, letting the silence stretch as you cross the room, hips swaying, heels clicking against the polished wood like punctuation marks in a poem no one dares read aloud.

“And yet . . .” you purr, eyes glittering, “you still chase me.”

You reach out—just the ghost of a touch, fingers aiming for his collar, for something real—and that’s when he moves.

Fast.

His hand closes around your wrist, not hard but firm, pulling you into him like gravity always wins.

Suddenly, it’s skin on skin. Heat on heat. Breath shared and shallow. You’re close enough to feel the thunder of his heart. Or maybe it’s yours.

“I don’t want to chase anymore,” he says, low and rough and dangerous.

Your smirk wavers, just for a second. A crack in the mask. “That’s a shame.”

You twist, slipping from his grasp like smoke between his fingers—like you always do.

But Max follows. He doesn’t give you space to run this time. He crowds you back, herding you across the room with silent fury until your back hits the glass. Tokyo sprawls out behind you in chaotic beauty, but all you see is him.

“You think this is a game?” he growls, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.

Your eyes narrow. Your chin tilts up like a dare. “Isn’t it?”

His hands land on your hips. Not to restrain. To anchor. To remind.

“Not to me.”

Then he kisses you.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

He kisses you like punishment. Like confession. Like he’s empty and you’re the only thing that can fill the void.

It’s teeth and tongue and fingers in hair. It’s breath stolen and given back. It’s every late-night call, every whispered don’t go, every bruised heart and burning look. It’s everything he’s never said carved into the curve of your lips.

When you finally pull apart, gasping, dizzy, wrecked— He doesn’t let go.

And for once, neither do you.

Monaco – His Apartment

It took a lot to get you here.

Phone calls you ignored.

Voicemails left in the middle of the night—raspy and tired and a little desperate.

A dozen texts that never quite said please, but every word was laced with it.

And finally, Max himself. At your door. Rain-soaked and stubborn. Eyes wild with something too tender for a man like him.

He said your name like a confession. Said come with me like a vow. Said I don’t want to chase anymore with his voice cracking like the sky.

And somehow . . . you said yes.

So now you’re here.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies, perched on his marble kitchen counter like a question he’s still afraid to answer. The sleeves swallow your hands, and the hem brushes your bare thighs. You look too soft in his space. Too dangerous.

Because this isn’t a hotel.

It isn’t Tokyo or Madrid or a back alley in Singapore.

It’s his home.

And the sunlight in Monaco is different.

Softer. Gentler.

Less about the thrill of pursuit, more about the ache of what comes after.

Max moves through the kitchen like he’s done this before—like this is normal. Like you are.

He’s barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, eyes focused as he flips something in a pan with the kind of precision that usually only lives on race tracks.

It’s unnerving.

This quiet. This domesticity.

The hum of something almost peaceful blooming in your chest.

You stare. Unblinking. Curious. Like he might vanish if you stop.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, without turning around.

You hum, stretching lazily, your back arching like a cat in sunlight. “I’m trying to decide if you’re real.”

That gets him. He turns, spatula still in hand, expression unreadable but eyes locked on you like you’re the only fixed point in the world.

“And?”

You swing your legs. Feet bare. Heart not quite. “Jury’s still out.”

He huffs a laugh, low and warm, shaking his head like you’re something ridiculous and holy all at once. He mutters something in Dutch under his breath—something you can’t quite catch but feel all the same.

But he’s smiling. Small. Barely-there. Real.

And it hits you, quietly, like all the best truths do:

This is what it looks like when a wildfire learns to stay.

The Côte d'Azur – Mid-Summer

You’ve never spent more than one night with Max.

It’s always been fleeting. A few hours wrapped in linen sheets, breathless silences in penthouse suites, the distant hum of a city that never quite felt like yours. Always a whisper of what could be—never enough time to see it through.

But then summer arrives like a dare. And somehow, he convinces you to stay.

At first, you think it’s a trap. Some beautiful illusion disguised as reality—a mirage with his arms around you and the Mediterranean just outside the window.

But the days bleed into one another with startling ease.

Mornings become late afternoons.

Late afternoons become dinners on the balcony, wine-stained laughter and fingers interlocked beneath the table.

And suddenly, you’re not counting hours anymore.

You’re just . . . here.

And it’s disorienting. The way he touches you now—like you’re made of something delicate. Not fragile like glass, but rare like a secret he never wants to lose. Like he’s not trying to catch you anymore, just hold you. Just keep you close enough to memorize the shape of your stillness.

One afternoon, you find yourselves on a quiet stretch of beach.

The sun melts over the horizon in shades of gold and fire, and Max lies beside you, one arm flung carelessly across his eyes, the other tracing patterns on your stomach. His fingers are lazy. Warm. Reverent.

“Stay,” he murmurs, almost too softly to hear.

You glance sideways, catching the shadow of him behind golden lashes. “I already am.”

He turns, props himself up on an elbow. The sand clings to his skin. His voice, however, is clean and clear.

“No.” There’s a catch in the word. “Stay after this.”

The wind tugs at your hair. The sea sighs behind you. And your throat tightens like it always does when he shifts the rules of the game.

“Max—”

“I’ll win for you,” he says, sudden and sharp. Like a promise he’s been holding on his tongue all week.

“Every race. Every championship. I’ll give you everything. Whatever it takes. Just . . . don’t leave.”

You let out a soft, startled laugh. Because what else can you do? He already wins. He already conquers the world at 300 kilometers per hour.

“You already do that,” you say, your voice a breath away from shaking.

He shakes his head, brushing a thumb across your cheek, his touch feather-light but grounding. “Not for me,” he whispers. “For you.”

And gods—it’s terrifying. The way he says it. Like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t change everything.

Because you were never meant to be loved like this.

Not so completely. Not so sincerely.

You were born to run. To vanish. To slip between fingers and leave only the echo of your laughter behind.

But lying there, in the afterglow of a half-formed future, Max’s heart beating steady against your shoulder, your fingers tangled in the space where promises go to rest . . .

You wonder. And yet. Maybe you don’t want to run anymore. Maybe—for once—you want to stay.

Round Fourteen – Singapore

It took weeks for Max to convince you.

Calls that stretched into the early morning. Messages you left on read. Voice notes you almost didn’t listen to. He begged without shame—told you he didn’t care if you stayed in the paddock or the hotel or halfway up Marina Bay Sands—he just wanted you there.

And god, you wanted to say no. But the way he said your name made it sound like home. So you came.

You wore black. Slipped into the paddock with quiet grace and sunglasses big enough to hide the hesitation in your eyes. Max spotted you immediately—grinned like the sun came back just to light up the weekend.

He kissed you like he’d already won.

But then Sunday came.

And Max didn’t.

The win streak snapped like a rubber band, loud and cruel. A slow pit stop, a strategy that unraveled, traffic that swallowed him whole. He didn’t even make the podium.

And the thing is—you didn’t care.

You didn’t care about the trophy or the points or the standings. You only cared about him—the way he clenched his jaw, the way he avoided your eyes after the race, the way his hand slipped from yours before you could ground him in something softer.

But somewhere in the mess of post-race silence, a horrible thought bloomed.

You ruined it.

You, with your cursed presence and clumsy heart. You broke the rhythm. The magic. The momentum. He had begged you to come, and you came, and he lost.

So you left.

Quietly. No note this time. No cryptic French.

Just your absence. Your perfume in the sheets. Your toothbrush missing from the sink.

And when Max returned to the hotel—tired, aching, and already looking for you—you were gone.

He stared at the untouched wine glass you left behind and felt the loss like a punch to the ribs. And then he assumed the worst.

She left because I didn’t win.

Because that’s what you do, right? You chase winners. You haunt champions. You don’t stay for failure.

Something cracked open inside him that night. Not anger. Not even grief. Something quieter. Something hollow.

So he did what he always does.

He drove.

Japan. Qatar. Austin. Mexico. Brazil. Vegas. 

Every race, he drove like he could undo the loss in Singapore. Like he could put the broken thing between you back together with lap times and champagne.

And he won.

God, did he win.

But every time he looked up at the crowd—at the garage, the grid, the VIP lounge— You weren’t there.

No slow smile behind oversized sunglasses. No click of heels across the concrete. No ghost.

Max kept driving. But the victory never tasted sweet again.

Abu Dhabi, The Final Race

Lap 58 of 58.

Nineteen wins. A season written in gold and sweat.

A symphony of records shattered, rivals silenced, legends carved into carbon fiber.

Max takes the checkered flag like a man possessed. Not with hunger. Not with fury. With purpose.

He parks the car. Throws the wheel aside. Climbs out to the roar of a world on its feet.

And still, he feels . . . incomplete.

Until he sees you.

Not in the VIP suite.

Not hidden behind tinted paddock glass.

You’re on the other side of parc fermé—leaning against the rail, heels digging into the concrete, that unmistakable silhouette framed by twilight and floodlights.

For a second, he thinks he’s hallucinating.

The ghost he’s been chasing all season.

But then you tilt your head, and that teasing, infuriating smile curves across your lips—so real it knocks the wind out of him.

You came.

You came to him.

And god, it guts him—because for once, you’re not the one disappearing into the smoke and silence.

You’re not the one he has to run after.

This time, you found him.

He’s still standing on the podium when his eyes catch yours again.

They hand him champagne. He barely notices.

His gaze never leaves you—not through the anthems, not through the trophy lift, not through the artificial rain of celebration.

Because nothing else matters. Not the title. Not the cameras. You’re here.

Later, in the half-lit quiet of his hotel suite, you walk toward him like a slow exhale, barefoot and sure, wearing one of his shirts like you never left in the first place.

You press a kiss to his jaw, soft and smug. “You look hot when you win.”

Max laughs, breathless, the sound cracking open something inside him.

“I win for you,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin.

You don’t run.

You don’t vanish with the sunrise.

You stay.

Fingertips in his hair, lips at his throat, body tucked into the space beside him like you were made to be there all along.

And maybe—just maybe—the chase is finally over.

Or maybe . . .

Maybe this is what it feels like when you both stop running.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"You're fucking cheating dude," Sterling sweeps the plastic chips from the table.

Colin and Trent cackle and Ryan cradles his head, a few too many cans stacked around him. The other girls giggle as they set on the foldout sofa. You watch from your perch near the window, uneasy from your run-in. You're almost sober. 

"You're a sore loser," Trent hurls back and belches. "And drinking all my beer." 

"The fuck ever. You said help myself." 

"Not much help can save you," Colin chirps. 

"Would you all stop whining? God, little boys," Angelique cackles. 

"Little boys?" Trent scoffs. "Not what you said last time--" 

"Average at best," she retorts. 

"Compared to some," Colin smirks, catching your eye. You glower and look at the wall. He's such a slime, yet you have bigger things to worry about. 

You turn and peer out over the deck. You squint into the dim blue and the stirring waves beyond the coastline. Did Bucky really mean it? Is he really watching you? 

Well, he said it himself. He told you, he warned you, how many times, and you were so set on what you wanted. So much so that you just didn't care about what he wanted. You can't really blame him after all. 

You put your palms to your neck and shudder. He said he went to prison. What did he do? You should have worried about that sooner... you should have thought a lot more about all of this. 

"Missing the geezer?" Harley snarks as she struts up, another bottle of neon swill in hand. 

"No, I'm just... tired. The sun..." you shrug, unable to finish the lie. Half a lie; you are exhausted. 

"You didn't tell us everything," Hazel approaches. "How big was it?" 

"Jesus," you gasp. 

"Oh, your prude days are over," Tracy snorts. "So," she puts her hands up before her, "tell me when." She starts to move them apart and you scoff.  

You roll your eyes as heat creeps up your neck. You want to stop thinking about him. Desperately so. You want to believe that if you do, he'll just go away. Bucky was great but scary. You played with fire and now you don't want to get burned any more than you already have. 

"You guys are children," you push away from the window frame and march buy them. "I need some air." 

"Were his pubes grey? Like one of those scouring sponges?" Colin taunts. 

You ignore him with a shake of your head and stomp behind his chair. You feel the air stir as he reaches for you. You dodge him and storm out into the balmy evening. The door snaps shut behind you and you huff. 

You cross your arms and pace up and down the porch. The boards creak and have you spinning with paranoia. You stop and stare out into the trees. It's too dangerous for anyone to be out there. Even him. 

You sit on the top step and lean your elbows on your knees. You cradle your head. You think about all the red flags you raced past. That shady bar and his bruised knuckles. Did he hurt someone that day? 

Then there's that other chill. Not fear, but deeper. The way he made you feel. His patience, his calm intent as he devoured you bit by bit. It was amazing but you're young and it just doesn't make sense. What do you really know about Bucky? You don't even know why he went to prison. People don't go for stealing five cent candy... 

The door swings open and the hinges squeak. You don't look up. It's probably Angelique coming to tell you you're being a buzz killer. Not really. You separated yourself from the situation. Better then sticking around and moping. She only knows how to make her problems everyone else's. You could blame her for all of this. She dared you to do it. Still, you did it. 

Footsteps tramp heavily up next to you and hop down on the second step. Colin drops beside you on the step and slings his arm over your shoulder. You shrug him off as he snickers. 

"You know, the old man's not around..." 

"Stop," you mutter and cross your arms. 

"Come on. It's vacation. Have a little fun," he plants his hand behind you, leaning against you. "I've been hard all day." 

"You've been a creep forever," you sneer. "I want you to go away." 

"Why? I mean. You wear that suit all day, ready to pop out, and you expect me not to notice?" He slides closer, nearly crushing you against the railing. 

"I didn't wear it for you," you push your elbow into his side. "Take a hint, buddy." 

"I took all the hints," he caress the top of your ass. 

You growl and lift your hand. You reel back but before you can swing, he flies forward and lands at the bottom of the steps. You squeal and look up as a deep black shadow puffs above you. Bucky steps to the edge of the top stair as Colin wheezes on the ground. 

"What-- How--" You stand and he catches your upper arm. 

"You're leaving. Now." He snarls. 

"Bucky, I was dealing with him--" 

Colin coughs as he writhes in the dirt. 

"Sure you were. Barely," he growls. "I seen men like him in the pen. Animals. He wasn't gonna stop." 

"Let go--" 

To your surprise, he does, but only to barrel down the stairs. He grabs Colin as he tries to sit up, gripping his wrist as he pushes his middle finger back. The pop of his joint roils in your stomach. Colin hollers. 

"Bucky!" You hurtle down and latch onto him. 

"Fucker! Touching my woman," he grabs another finger. "Wanna see what happens to rats like you--" 

"Bucky! Stop. Please. Don't hurt him--" 

"What the fuck is this?" Angelique's whiny screech comes from behind a flash. You turn as she lights up the seen with her phone. "Oh my god! Are you serious?" She slams each foot down as she crosses the porch. "You invited this loser? Withou even asking?" 

"No, I--" You cling to Bucky as you tug on him. "I didn't--" 

"Don't fucking worry," he throws Colin's arm away and boots him in the side. "I don't wanna fucking be here." He turns to face the others as they follow the chaos outside. "I came here to take her away from you filth." 

"Filth?" Harley gasps. "Excuse you. You might be hot as fuck but you can't talk to us like that." 

Bucky walks up the steps calmly. "You gonna stop me?" 

Harley backs up and grabs onto Hazel. Both of them hide behind Sterling who just stares, a drunken droop in his eyelids. The others gape, sharing looks as aimless as your own. What do you do? 

You're jostled from behind and stumble. Colin staggers up the steps only for Bucky to spin and send him plummeting again. The crack of his fist carries up into the sky. He shakes out his fingers then points at you. 

"Go get your stuff. Now." 

The thunder of his voice, the violence he's wrought, it has your throat in a snare. You can't breathe, you can't think. Why is he doing this?

"What the fuck--" Kissie exclaims. 

"Bucky, please--" you put your hands up. "Don't hurt anyone else, okay? I'm going to.... I'm going to get my things. Alright? Just no more hitting." 

He glares at you then tilts his head. "Five minutes." 

You gulp and sidle past him. As you get to the top of the steps and Angelique postures, "yeah, get the fuck out of here, slut." 

You flinch. It was always a joke before. Whore, slut, bitch; not anymore. The venom in her voice makes your insides sour. 

"Ang?" 

"You ruined this whole fucking night," she shoves you. 

She squeals as suddenly her arm is wrenched back. Bucky spins her, pulling her wrist between her shoulder blades. Trent and Sterling step up but Bucky doesn't relent. 

"Trying it, you skinny fuckers," he barks. 

They stop. Trent clears his throat, "look, dude, let her go and get out of here." 

"I will," Bucky looks at you. "Go on, doll. Before anyone else does something stupid." 

You look at him. His face is cast in darkness but you feel the anger roiling off him. You turn and flit inside. The door is caught behind you. 

"Are you fucking serious? You brought that criminal here?!" Harley's on your heels. "He's hurting Angie." 

"I'm going, okay? I'll get rid of him." 

"Doesn't change that you led him here--" 

"Would you shut up?" You grab our phone and spin to face her. "And grow the fuck up. Stop whining. All of you are so immature and maybe I'm better off without you. Even if it's with him." 

Ryan falls out of his chair and belches. "Shhhhhh, sleep." You stare at him as he all but reaffirms your statement. You frown at Harley and throw your hands up. 

"Wow, you're a bitch," she sneers. 

"Sure. Yeah, whatever you say," you drop your shoulders and brush by her. 

You go down the hall and grab your bag out of the room. You turn back and ignore Harley and Hazel as they stand just inside the door.

You step out, your stomach plunging, the sudden drop of your heart nearly folding your legs. Kissie is down with Colin as he whimpers and holds his hand. Bucky release Angelique and she whines. She stops a few inches from you. 

"Get the fuck out of here!" She snivels and bats her lashes against a wall of tears. 

You don't say a word. You're too embarrassed, too afraid. You don't have much of a choice. Your so-called friends wouldn't let you stay even if you could stand up to Bucky. What friends? Shouldn't they protect you like they did Angelique? 

Bucky grabs onto your wrist as you near and drags you down the steps. You stumble but keep your feet moving. You don't look back. You can hear Angelique hurling insults under her breath as everyone else comforts her. Your eyes sting. They really don't care about you. 

"Come on, doll," Bucky lead you into the dark, not hesitating as the gloom surrounds you. "They ain't no good for you." 

You let him. You give in to your own bad decisions. How stupid! 

It’s jarring how only last week, you were so excited, thrilled about this man. You were intoxicated by him and now you are terrified. That liberation has turned into entrapment. 

He stops you as you trip over an unseen root. He pauses then a light blooms ahead of you. He uses his phone to light the way. His bike is just ahead, like a beast against the evening hue. 

He takes your bag and shoves it into the saddle bag. Your phone drops as he does and he quickly swipes it from the ground. He puts it in his pocket. He grabs a helmet and puts it on your head. You wince as he secures the strap. 

“Bucky,” you croak. “Bucky, please...” 

“It’s late.” 

“Yes, and dark. It’s not safe--” 

“Don’t tell me what’s safe,” he snaps. “Not after today.” 

He puts his own helmet on then grabs the jacket draped over the seat. He puts his leather coat on you. The summer night has a sliver of a chill on it. He zips it to your chin then taps the rear seat. The one he installed only days after you met. 

He straddles the bike and extends his arm out. He helps you on behind him and you squeeze his shoulders to steady yourself. He exhales and leans back into you. 

“You know, doll, I missed you. I didn’t come to punish you,” he sits up and straightens the bike. “I came to save you.”  

He twists the ignition and the bike roars to life. It rumbles beneath you and you wrap your arms around his middle. You rest your head against his back as he twists the throttle. As the bike tears forward and he steers along the narrow path, your tears spring forth. A tunnel of wind encases you, adding to that sense of suffocation. 

He told you who he is. He told you what he is. Why didn’t you listen to him? 

[posthumanwanderings]

[ Wave Race: Blue Storm - Nigel Carver Theme ]

[amirasainz]

Can you do reader is the youngest of the drivers and practically everyone’s baby

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💕

F1's Darling

The paddock was alive with the hum of cameras, the chatter of mechanics, and the occasional roar of engines. At the center of it all stood Y/n Y/l/n, the 18-year-old phenomenon who had taken Formula 1 by storm. As Red Bull's youngest ever female driver, she wasn’t just talented—she was adored. A natural behind the wheel, witty in interviews, and effortlessly charming, Y/n had an uncanny ability to bring out a protective streak in everyone around her.

"Y/n!" A familiar voice called out as she stepped out of her garage after a gruelling practice session. She turned to see Carlos walking toward her, a warm smile on his face and a sandwich in hand.

"You need to eat," he said in his accented English, offering her the snack.

Y/n chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Carlos, you know I have a team that feeds me, right?"

"Yes, but they don’t feed you properly," he countered, waving the sandwich in front of her. "Eat. Now."

Laughing, she accepted it. "Thanks, dad."

Carlos grinned. "Don’t let Fernando hear that."

---

Later that evening, Y/n found herself wandering through a shopping district with Charles. The Monegasque driver had insisted on treating her after seeing how exhausted she looked post-qualifying.

"Y/n, this will look amazing on you," Charles said, holding up a sleek leather jacket.

"Charles, I can’t afford half the stuff you’re picking," she protested, though she couldn’t help but admire the jacket.

He gave her a mock-serious look. "Did I ask if you could afford it? You’re not paying. That’s the rule."

"You spoil me too much," she said, blushing as he led her to the counter.

---

Race day arrived with its usual chaos. As Y/n climbed out of her car after a gruelling 60 laps, Lewis was already waiting by her garage. He had a towel in hand, which he draped over her shoulders before handing her a bottle of water.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Y/n nodded, her breathing still heavy. "Yeah, just... tired."

Lewis crouched slightly so they were eye level. "You did good out there. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise."

Her lips quirked into a small smile. "Thanks, Lewis. That means a lot."

"Of course," he said, patting her shoulder. "Now go rest."

---

The post-race press conference was brutal, as always. A journalist attempted to insinuate that Y/n's lack of experience cost Red Bull the race. Before she could respond, Max cut in sharply.

"Excuse me, but that’s completely out of line," Max said, his voice cold. "Y/n drove exceptionally today. She doesn’t deserve this kind of question."

Y/n glanced at Max gratefully, her nerves easing. After the conference, he pulled her aside.

"Don’t let them get to you," he said, his blue eyes serious. "You’re one of the best drivers here. Don’t forget that."

---

One afternoon, while sitting in the paddock, Y/n struggled with a stubborn bottle of water. She twisted and twisted, her frustration growing by the second.

Before she could ask for help, Fernando appeared out of nowhere, took the bottle from her hands, opened it effortlessly, and handed it back without a word.

"Thanks, Fernando," she said, startled but grateful.

He gave her a small nod before walking off, leaving her to chuckle at his understated kindness.

---

Lando was the team's unofficial mood-maker, and Y/n was often his favorite target.

"Knock, knock," he said one morning, leaning into her motorhome.

"Who’s there?" she asked, already grinning.

"Orange," he replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Orange who?"

"Orange you glad you have me to brighten your day?" he said, bursting into laughter.

Y/n groaned. "That’s terrible, even for you."

"But you’re smiling," he pointed out, grinning.

---

During a rare off weekend, George invited Y/n over to his place in Monaco. Over tea, he patiently explained racing lines and strategies that could help her in the upcoming season.

"You’ve got the speed," he said, gesturing at a diagram on his tablet. "Now it’s just about perfecting your consistency."

"Thanks, George," she said, scribbling notes in her notebook. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"Learn slower," he teased, earning a laugh from her.

---

The camaraderie wasn’t lost on the fans or the media. They loved seeing how the drivers rallied around Y/n, treating her like their collective little sister. It wasn’t unusual to see clips of Lewis helping her out of a car, Carlos feeding her snacks, or Max standing up for her during interviews.

Y/n adored her team, but it was the broader F1 family that truly made her journey special. They didn’t just see her as a driver; they saw her as their driver.

"Y/n," Max called one evening as they were leaving the track. "You coming to dinner with us?"

"Depends," she said with a playful smile. "Is Carlos bringing food?"

"Always," Carlos replied from nearby, making her laugh.

As they walked off together, Y/n couldn’t help but feel grateful. F1 was a tough world, but with her self-appointed paddock family by her side, she knew she could handle anything.

[goldfades]

PROTECTIVE P──BUECKERS⁵

request!

─ summary | paige finds you in tears after watching stepmom and, misunderstanding the reason for your distress, instinctively comforts your with her protective nature.

─ pairing | paige bueckers x fem!reader

─ warnings | omg nothing, so short and sweet. paige is being slightly overdramatic, but reader is crying sooo... yeah. literally nothing at all it's so sweet.

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

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Tears blur your vision, the dim light of the room making the screen in front of you seem like a watery painting. You quickly swipe at your cheeks, though the attempt is pretty useless considering how soaked the tissue in your hand already is. The closing credits of Stepmom roll in a soft melody, tugging at your chest like a string you can't sever. You take a shaky breath, hugging your knees tighter to your chest, the weight of the movie's ending pressing down on you in waves.

The room feels oddly still, like even the air is holding its breath alongside you. The last few scenes play in an endless loop in your mind: the bittersweet embrace, the tearful goodbyes. It all claws at you, pulling at emotions you hadn’t prepared for. Your heart aches in that way only a well-crafted story can make it—like you're mourning something personal, something real. And as much as you want to pull yourself together, the lump in your throat only grows, tightening with every labored breath.

You stare blankly at the dark screen now, the credits long gone, but the emotional storm inside you rages on. The empty room echoes with the quiet sniffles you fail to hold back. A part of you feels silly for crying over a movie you've seen a million times, but to be completely fair, you were about to get your period.

Suddenly, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching. Before you can react, the door creaks open, and in walks Paige. The look on her face shifts instantly as she takes you in, sitting curled up on the couch, your tear-streaked face lit only by the soft glow of the television.

"Baby?" Her voice is low, gentle, but you can hear the edge to it, like she's holding something back. Her eyes—those sharp, intense blue eyes—narrow as they sweep over you. She's scanning, assessing, the same way she does when she’s reading a defense on the court. "What happened?" she asks, her tone both concerned and commanding, demanding an answer even as her voice stays soft.

Your throat tightens, and you shake your head, unable to explain through the wave of emotion still crashing over you. You know you don’t look great right now—puffy eyes, blotchy skin, a crumpled tissue that’s no match for the tears—but Paige doesn’t care about that. No, she’s laser-focused on the fact that you’re upset, and that’s all she needs to see.

In a heartbeat, she’s crossing the room, long strides eating up the distance between you. She drops down beside you on the couch, her arm sliding around your shoulders in one smooth motion, pulling you in against her chest. Her grip is firm, possessive, like she needs to protect you from whatever caused this. Even if she doesn’t know what “this” is yet.

"You don’t have to talk," she murmurs, pressing her cheek against the top of your head. Her voice is like velvet, low and soothing, but underneath it, there's a quiet storm brewing. Her protective instincts are flaring up, you can feel it. She’s always been like this—fierce when it comes to you, like you're something precious she’d fight the world to keep safe.

Her hand gently cups your cheek, turning your face up toward hers. Paige’s eyes are intense, practically burning with emotion, the warmth of her palm grounding you despite the whirlwind inside. "Whatever it is, I got you," she whispers, and you believe her. You always believe her.

But the softness in her touch contrasts with the edge in her voice. There's a possessiveness there that makes your heart race, a deep need to fix whatever has you so broken right now. She tightens her hold on you, like if she hugs you hard enough, she can shield you from whatever hurt is eating at you.

"Baby-"

"No, it's okay. Shh..." She interrupts before you can finish, and you feel your cheeks flush in embarrassment. She looks ready to go to war, to tear apart anyone or anything that could have possibly made you cry.

You try to pull away slightly, to create some distance, but Paige isn’t having it. Her grip tightens, drawing you back against her chest as if she’s physically unwilling to let you go. "Don’t do that," she says, her voice low but firm. "Don’t hide from me." Her fingers trail down your arm, her warmth seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and you feel the goosebumps rise in response.

You open your mouth, ready to explain, to tell her it’s nothing serious, just a movie, but the way she’s looking at you stops the words before they can even form. There’s something fierce in her eyes, a protective edge that goes beyond simple concern. It’s possessive, almost primal, like she’s ready to tear down anyone or anything that might hurt you—even if that thing is your own emotions.

"Paige, really, it’s not—"

"I said shh..." She cuts you off again, her voice dropping lower, more insistent. Her other hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, gently pressing your face into the curve of her neck. She smells like fresh sweat and a hint of soap—probably from the quick shower after practice—and the familiar scent makes you relax a little more, even if your heart is still racing.

"Just let me take care of you," she murmurs, her lips brushing your hair. "You don’t have to explain anything. I’m here, okay? I’m here." There’s a soothing rhythm to her words, each one a steady beat that matches the rise and fall of her chest.

You can feel her heartbeat under your cheek, strong and steady, grounding you even as you’re still battling the emotional aftershocks of the movie. It’s almost overwhelming—the way she’s holding you so close, her arms wrapped around you like she can shield you from everything, including yourself. And maybe that’s exactly what she’s trying to do.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, massaging your scalp with slow, deliberate strokes, and despite the embarrassment still gnawing at the edges of your mind, you can’t help but relax into her touch. Paige always has this way of making the world disappear when she’s near you, like nothing else matters as long as you’re in her arms.

"Who hurt you, baby?" she whispers, her voice darker now, and you feel the intensity of her question deep in your chest. It’s not just a question—it’s a promise. A dangerous one. You know she’d go to extremes to protect you, to make sure nothing or no one ever makes you feel like this again.

"It’s just... a movie..." you manage to mumble into her neck, but even as you say the words, you can feel Paige tense beneath you.

"A movie?" she repeats, and though there’s a hint of relief in her voice, there’s still a trace of suspicion, like she’s not quite ready to believe it. "You’re crying like this over a movie?"

You nod against her, the heat in your cheeks returning in full force. "Yeah. Stepmom."

Paige lets out a long breath, and you can feel her relax slightly, her grip on you loosening just a little. But even then, she doesn’t let go entirely, keeping you close like she’s not ready to fully release you from her protective embrace.

"Baby, you scared me," she finally says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. Her gaze softens, and a small, almost sheepish smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "You know I can’t stand seeing you like that."

"I’m okay," you whisper, though the way her eyes linger on yours tells you she’s not entirely convinced.

"Next time, just tell me," Paige says, her thumb brushing your lip in a feather-light touch. "I’m here for all of it—the good, the bad, and the sappy movie tears. You don’t ever have to hide from me. Got it?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you," you let out a teary laugh as you look at her. She rolled her eyes, her lips quirking up in that sweet smile you love so much. Paige presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than usual, her lips warm and gentle against your skin.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[fierykitten2]

I think it would be very funny if Nintendo decided to (for the lols mainly) have Ayumi appear in an F-Zero game and Robert appear in a Wave Race game (y’know what? Neither series is a stranger to crossover characters. Wave Race has Akari, Rob and Ricky from 1080 while F-Zero has James from Star Fox (although they’re officially just different characters with the same name and fashion sense) plus several characters made to be references to other stuff including two based on Samus from Metroid - Jody and Jane). I mean given Blue Storm retconned Ryota and Akari to be siblings because of their shared surname it would be interesting to see the explanation for Robert and Ayumi’s shared surname, especially given there’s no indication Wave Race is set anytime other than (what was then) the present day whereas F-Zero is canonically set in the future. I mean the explanation could just be “this is Ayumi/Robert Stewart, she/he* turned up one day, we don’t know how she/he turned up but it happened and now she/he is very interested in the F-Zero Grand Prix/jet ski races because it was “just the kind of thrill** [she/he] was looking for” and now Robert/Ayumi is claiming a relationship to Ayumi/Robert although will not elaborate further than that (and now Ayumi has a surprising affinity for the planet Big Blue)”

*Since both of them are canonically a binary gender and use she/her and he/him respectively, I’m referring to them in this way because I was trying to show my idea of an explanation and the explanations are so similar it’s just a case of substituting different names, pronouns and phrases. I’m sure I don’t need to add this disclaimer but I wanted to just in case

**Robert’s love of thrills is taken from one of his interviews in GX. Ayumi’s love of thrills is taken from her vibe in Blue Storm

[a-pute11as]

off balance - leila ouahabi

word count - 2.1k | summary - you overhear an argument between leila and one of the coaches that has you worried about your relationship

-

walking down to the hallway to the changing room, your ears caught the sound of two heated spanish voices.

you froze.

remembering leila had a ‘talk’ with one of the coaching staff after lunch had you shudder as you realised it was her in that room, there was no way it wasn’t her.

leila never shouted like that unless she was on the pitch or the few times she got incredibly angry, but that rarely happened. sure she could be loud, she always had the loudest laugh in the room but angry shouting wasn’t her.

spanish wasn’t your strong suit, you had learned enough to hold a conversation with leila’s family and friends, but the increasingly fast words, plus the wall muffling most of it, it was impossible to know everything that was being said.

you knew you shouldn’t try and listen in, it was pointless anyways given your lack of understanding, but part of you felt like you needed to be there for leila even if it was behind a wall.

there were a few words that stuck out to you, words you thought you knew the translation of.

distraction. relationship. performance.

then the door handle shifted. your eyes widened.

without thinking, your legs picked up as you ran towards the dressing room, your heart was pounding as your raced through the halls as quickly but quietly as possible.

you tried to walk in with a smile on your face, but it was more of a vacant smile as your mind was more focused on trying understand the context of the words you had heard.

sitting down in your cubby, you began swapping your gym shoes for your trainers, your hands moving automatically as you dazed out and undid the laces.

distraction. relationship. performance.

“mate, are you okay?” alex asked, dropping down next to you.

it wasn’t that you were ignoring her, or that you hadn't heard her, you hadn’t even processed the words. your mind was spinning, the words repeating as if there was a record on loop in your head.

alex nudged your shoulder lightly, your eyes flicked up, finally meeting hers.

alex had been like your big sister since you joined city, you’d grown close on england camps but nothing compared to the connection you shared when you both started playing in blue. she’d always been there, with advice, comfort, never judging and always offering you a shoulder to cry on.

which is why she knew exactly what was happening.

“your mind is somewhere else, isn’t it” she asked softly, her eyes full of concern.

you nodded, your chest getting heavier as your thoughts crashed into each other like waves. you were trying to steady your breathing but it was hard.

distraction. relationship. performance.

suddenly the door slammed open.

leila stormed into the room, her face visible with frustration. usually the sight of leila bought you comfort, she was like your anchor, the one person who could ground you when your head got too much.

but not right now.

the look on her face made your heart beat faster, your palms sweat and your head dizzy.

“get your things so we can go”, it should’ve been a question, but it sounded like a demand. a cold edge in her voice that you were used to. as if it was directed at you.

your eyes stared up at her as if you were a deer caught in headlights, biting the inside of your cheek, picking at your nail beds as you let out a silent plea for your girlfriend's comfort.

“dios mío, are you listening to me?” she snapped. her voice was louder now, like she’d run out of patience completely.

alex shifted beside you, about to speak before leila cut her off, “i’m leaving, find your own way home”

with that she had left the changing room, leaving with her bag and her car keys in hand and yet you were still sitting in your cubby, frozen.

your head instinctively turned to alex, tears threatening to spill as your breathing picked up again.

she opened her arms and you collapsed into them. you didn’t hold back. you couldn’t, even if you tried.

“it’s okay chick, you’re safe” alex whispered, her hand rubbing up your back gently as she whispered about how she was going to figure out what happened.

after a few minutes, your breathing had somewhat settled and tears stained your face. your voice cracked as you began to speak.

“i heard them arguing, i walked past the office and i heard shouting. i didn’t mean to eavesdrop, it’s just i heard leila and she was yelling so i thought i needed to stay but i recognised a few words”

alex leaned in, listening closely.

“i heard the coach say something about performance and that leila’s changed since we got together because i’m a distraction and that this relationship isn’t good for her career.”

alex’s face dropped, her expression somewhere between shock and disbelief, “okay okay, are you sure that’s what you heard?” she asked.

“yes yes it was-” you looked around, laia catching your eye as you motioned for her to come over. “laia what does ‘ella es una distracción, no es una buena relación’ mean?” you questioned, your voice still trembling slightly.

she sat down beside you, concern flickering across her face, “it means ‘she’s a distraction, it’s not a good relationship’, who said that?’”.

“okay and ‘rendimiento’, it means performance, right?” you asked again, needing confirmation.

she nodded slowly, “what’s happened? i saw leila come in and start shouting, but then she left and you got sad”.

you sat in silence, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as alex filled in her in about what had happened.

“i think she’s going to break up with me” you muttered, not even bothering to look up in case the tears started falling again.

laia’s arm wrapped around your shoulder immediately, pulling you close into her, “no no chica, she loves you so much, she talks about you like you’re the only person in the world, she’s obsessed with you”.

alex stood up, scanning the room as her eyes locked on lauren, “hempo come sit here whilst i go talk to someone”.

lauren’s eyes widened as she followed the instructions from her captain, taking alex’s spot beside you as she disappeared.

“uh well- maybe um would you like to see my lego?” lauren asked, reaching for her phone in her pocket, a hopeful smile on her face.

“lauren, now is not the time to show your lego” laia sighed, shaking her head with a small eye roll.

their stark differences made you laugh, the two the same age yet on two different wavelengths, you sniffled slightly “i’d actually really like that”.

lauren beamed as she opened her camera roll, revealing dozens of photos of all the lego she had scattered around her house, as well as all the lego sets she was planning on buying.

soon enough alex reappeared.

she knelt in front of you, her voice soft.

“you were right. but it isn’t something everyone agrees with. in fact, most of the staff think the connection between you and leila has made you both better on the pitch” she explained, “nick’s handling it” alex continued. “but for now you should go home. talk to her. figure out what’s really going on”

you nodded slowly, still resting your head on laia’s shoulder, lauren’s phone still resting on your knee as the three discussed who would take you home.

alex agreed to drive you home, hesitant when you declined her offer to walk you up to your apartment but she knew not to push.

leila hadn’t come home yet, but you already knew that when you couldn’t see the car in the parking garage.

you headed straight for the shower, wanting to wash off the lingering feeling of everything that happened, the anxiety still present in your stomach. opting for one of leila’s more oversized hoodies to give you some much needed comfort.

you tucked yourself up on the sofa, putting your favourite show on, another thing that you were hoping to bring you comfort.

yet the only thing that would bring you actual comfort was somewhere else entirely.

you checked your phone, hoping there would be a message or missed phone call, instead it was just a picture of the two of you on holiday earlier in the year.

just as you felt yourself drifting into sleep, sleep trying to take over, the door swung open as you automatically sat up. your eyes met, hers red and bloodshot, it was clear she was exhausted.

she stood in the doorway for a second, holding herself together by the thinnest thread, yet she didn’t say anything. she looked at you like she wanted to, like there were a thousand things she wanted to say, yet she walked straight past you. she walked straight into the bedroom, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

your heart sank.

you sat still for a few seconds, trying to figure out what you should do, what if she still needed space? what if she wanted you to go in after her?

you stood slowly, padding down the hallway, gently knocking at the bedroom door.

there was no answer, but you opened it anyway.

she was sat on the edge of the bed, her back to you, elbows on her knees and her hands rubbing at her face.

“did you agree with him?” your voice was barely above a whisper.

her head turned slightly but she didn’t respond, “what he said about me being a distraction, that our relationship isn’t good for your career”.

“yo no dije eso” her voice was quiet, raw and low, the complete opposite of the usual leila you’d grown to love. (i didn’t say that)

“he did”.

she turned to face you, her eyes glassy as she stood up as if she couldn’t sit still anymore. “he said that you were the problem, that i'm off my game because of you and that being with you made me lose my focus, that this relationship is too emotional for someone ‘like me’”.

“i lost it, i shouted and told him he was out of line, that i’ve never felt better, more myself, more trusting in my actions on and off the pitch than i do with you.” she paused, running her hands through her hair.

“i defended us, i defended you” she started pacing, her hands balling in and out of fists, “then i realised, you remember a few months ago, when you said he made you uncomfortable at the christmas party, that he was being too friendly?” she asked, her voice shaking with fury.

your stomach dropped as you nodded slowly, “when he told me to ‘keep my options open’ after i rejected his dinner offer”.

she let out a dry angry laugh, “joder, debería haberlo visto, he couldn’t stand that you picked me, he saw how happy we are, and he couldn’t stand it”, she looked up at you, pain in her eyes, “i let it get to me, it got twisted in my head until i snapped at you” (fuck, i should have seen it)

you stared at her, the feeling in your chest loosening, just slightly. “why did you yell at me? you left me there like i meant nothing, as if i was the problem”.

“because i was scared of you seeing me like that,” she admitted, “i should’ve protected you from this, lo hice mal and i failed, i couldn’t protect you from him or what he was trying to do but i took it out on you instead”. (i did bad)

her eyes searched yours, pleading, “lo siento, i’m so so sorry cari”.

you stood frozen for a second, chest tight, heart pounding, and then finally you reached out.

leila moved into your arms like she’d been waiting for permission to fall apart. she held you tighter than she ever had before.

the two of you stood there for what felt like hours, you didn’t need to say anything, you knew she was hurting just as much as you were hurt, but both of you needed this.

“let me make it up to you” leila suggested, her hands cupping your cheeks as she looked down at you, “we can order your favourite food, watch silly movies and i’ll even touch your feet”.

“lei you’re making it sound like i have a foot fetish” you squinted up at her, a teasing smile forming.

she rolled her eyes, “cállate, i mean rub them like a massage, or your shoulders, if that's less weird” she suggested, wiggling her eyebrows as if it was an incredibly one time only deal.

you laughed at her, the tension easing in your chest for the first time all day, the stupid eyebrow wiggle always got you, “sounds perfect, mi amor”.

you were safe again.

thank you for reading! any feedback is always appreciated, my asks are open <33

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Widow's Bite of Love🕷️ | Johnny Storm Imagine

Link to my Marvel masterlist | part 2 here

Characters & Pairings: JosephQuinn!JohnnyStorm x black widow!reader (romantic), the Fantastic Four (platonic).

Content Warnings: fluff, profanity, flirtatious banter, mentions of canon violence, canon divergence | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 2.7k

Requested 📨 yes/no

Premise: Having returned from an intense mission with the Fantastic Four, Johnny Storm receives a welcome home from his girlfriend that's both a reminder to always remember making his presence known, and that behind her rough exterior there's a softness reserved only for him.

note: yeah, Joseph's Johnny Storm already has me in a chokehold and the movie isn't even out yet. I'm having to improvise of course since we don't know much but I'm having fun creating AUs in the meantime. Enjoy 💌

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Johnny knew better than to not announce himself when he entered the apartment past midnight after returning home from a week's long mission. It’d take him a second to shout, “Honey, I’m home!” but all the energy in him was exhausted. The mission took longer than planned. He was bruised and covered in dried blood from superficial cuts to his face and shoulders. Staining the crisp blue and white suit he wore. All he wanted was to get out of the suit, spend an hour in the shower, and bury himself under the covers to sleep until the end of time. 

However, that would have to wait. 

As Johnny practically dragged his feet across the floor in the direction of his bedroom, forgetting to turn on the main light in the living room, he was knocked off his feet with a knee to his stomach. “Ummph!!”

His attacker pushed him into a wall, his body ricocheting off and dodging the next kick which would’ve hit his side. Their arms wrapped around him, maneuvering him with brute force to put him on his back and Johnny groaned at the pain that shot up his spine. He may not have broken any bones but that didn’t mean he was in great condition. 

Using what little strength he had, Johnny put his whole body in pushing the figure off him. They let out a grunt and Johnny froze. It was hard to see, but there was something familiar about the moves his attacker was throwing at him and the familiar grunt that echoed in his ears. Then he caught a glimpse of their side profile thanks to the moonlight flickering in from the living room blinds.

‘Oh fuck…’ 

Johnny scrambled up and he heard her do the same. But whereas he raced to the light switch, she went to the coffee table and Johnny felt his blood drain. Thankfully he reached the switch first, flicking it on right as a dreading *click* filled the space. 

“Baby!” his hands waved frantically, matching the tremor in his tone. “It’s me, baby! It’s Johnny!” The gun trained on him hesitated, and Johnny let out a breath of relief when he saw the instant recognition in her face. The relief only lasted a second though, because then he winced as it was replaced by fury. 

“Jesus Christ, Johnny!! I could’ve killed you!!” Her scream echoed off the walls and matched her eyes full of wrath. “What the fuck did I tell you about sneaking up on me like that?!” 

“I know! I know--I’m sorry!” his hands stayed up, threatening to fall down but he didn’t want to use any sudden movements knowing she was pumped full of adrenaline. Judging by the sweats and tank top she wore plus the wildness of her hair, she had to have been asleep and heard him come in. Sending her into agent mode. “I--I was distracted and I forgot to shout. I didn’t know if you were--I don’t…I don’t…” the words struggled to fall. His mind, fogged with fatigue, was racing with thoughts making it difficult for Johnny to get a grasp on them. 

Plus, his heart was pumping from nearly being shot by his girlfriend. 

Y/n, taking in his appearance fully for the first time since their unorthodox reunion, frowned and clicked the safety on the gun, tossing it on the coffee table where it’s usually hidden. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come at you like that without confirming--.” Johnny gently cut her off.

“No, you have nothing to apologize for.” His arms fell to his side as he moved to ease his body on the armchair closest to him. Every muscle in him screamed, and while the fire that consumed his veins helped, it wasn’t enough. “It’s one in the morning. You were probably asleep and I knew better than to just walk in and expect you to know immediately that it was me. After all,” he grunted with a wince, watching as she moved to the kitchen to flick on the kettle before approaching him. “We were supposed to be back two days ago.”

“Yeah I figured something went wrong when Sue refused to answer my calls,” her body crouched down so she was level with his knees. “I was tempted to come after you guys.”

“Why didn’t you?” he leaned forward with a wince, smiling sheepishly at her look at disapproval. He obviously wasn’t great at hiding his pain from her. 

“Because you always have everything under control. You’d pull through,” she assessed his features, glowering at the cuts that marked his skin painted with dried blood. The splotches on his suit and slight tears in the fabric. “Looks like this time you had a little more cut out for ya.” 

Johnny chuckled, “you could say that.” The whistle of the kettle sounded, and Y/n got up to begin making Johnny a cup of herbal tea. Handing him the steaming mug before squatting once more. The heat of the cup was comforting, and thanks to his powers Johnny didn’t have to worry about burning his tongue when he took the first sip. “Thank you, darling.” 

Her hand came to his cheek, making him lean into her touch as she pressed a kiss to his temple that was free of blood. His bottom lip was bruised with a small abrasion, so she refrained from kissing his mouth and instead left one on the corner. Laughing when he tried to catch her lips, but she pulled away causing him to groan. 

“Wait here and drink your tea while I go run you a bath,” she squeezed his knee as she started to stand. 

“Wait, no, no, no, baby--I don’t need a bath.” His hand snatched hers before she could walk away. Y/n let him hold her in place, but her brow raised with a knowing look. Johnny gave her his best puppy dog eyes, “The shower is perfectly fine and you have training in the morning. You go back to bed--I’ll be fine.” 

Y/n scoffed lightly, “Bold of you to assume I’m not taking the day off, Johnny Storm. You just got back and I’m not letting you out of my sight for at least three days.” His face flushed red, causing a smirk to appear on her. “Plus, as if I need training. You and I both know it’s really for my sparring partners. Not me.” 

“Which is why--,” he pulled her forward, letting his chin rest on her stomach as he tilted his head up. Sighing when her hands cupped his cheeks. “They are counting on you. You’re the best person for the job, Widow.” 

“I’m off the clock,” Y/n smirked at the name, fingers going up to his hair to smooth it out. “That name only works on me when I’m on. Now stop trying to switch the subject.” She scolded, stepping away despite his refusal. “You’re going to drink this tea, get out of this suit and have a nice hot bath. Then you’re going to bed and sleep the rest of the day. Got it?” She left no room for argument, and Johnny wasn’t going to attempt, nodding with a tired yawn.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she leaned down to kiss his temple one last time. “Don’t move till I tell you to.” The response she got was a lazy two finger salute, and Y/n retreated to their bathroom. As the water filled the tub, she went to Johnny’s drawers to remove a t-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers, placing the clothes on the countertop before grabbing a packet of Epsom salt, bottle of bubble bath, lavender oil, a fluffy towel, a face towel and some candles from the cabinet. She also made sure to grab the first aid kit hidden beneath the sink. 

She poured the bubble bath liquid once the water reached about ⅓ of the tub. Then lit the candles and placed them on the stained-glass windowsill. Shutting the water off when it got just below the brim of the tub, Y/n poured a cup of the Epsom salt and let it sit for a minute before returning to the living room. 

“Alright, pretty boy, let’s get you cleaned up.” The smile on Johnny’s face was enough to light up a galaxy. If someone would’ve told him when he first gained powers rivaling the sun that his heart would be captured by a woman with deadly skills like the spider she’s named after, he’d say they had lost their mind. But the universe had a funny way of proving him wrong. 

Carrying the brute of his weight, Y/n’s left arm went over his shoulders while the other wrapped over the front of his waist. Encouraging him to lean on her as she helped him off the chair and to the bathroom, “Baby, we’ve been over this before, you’re not going to hurt me,” she grumbled when he tried to keep himself steady. 

Eventually they made it to the bathroom, perching Johnny on the edge of the tub where Y/n unzipped his suit and got it down to his torso before turning to allow him some privacy while he removed the rest and eased into the water. 

“All good?” she asked, opening the first aid kit to retrieve bandages and alcohol pads. 

“Yeah,” he moaned, welcoming the hot water as it hugged him. Instantly soothing the strained muscles that were already relaxing. Yeah the shower would’ve been a bad idea. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do for putting you down when you were already,” Y/n’s tone was apologetic, and Johnny gave her a look. Silently telling her to stop being sorry for the incident ten minutes prior. Y/n dismissed his look, bringing the wipes and bandages over as she took a seat on the stool beside the tub. “Also, how many times have you done this for me?” Now it was Johnny’s turn to smirk.

“A few, give or take.” More like a dozen. Y/n’s returned back from missions covered in blood and bruises so much that Johnny’s already got the bath set when her jet lands. 

“Exactly,” she says with a hum, bringing his face toward with one hand while the other gathers water on the face cloth. “Now let me take care of you.” 

For the next 40 minutes, Johnny soaked in the bath as Y/n wiped the blood off him and tended to his wounds. She washed his hair while he relayed the details of the mission. Telling her how he came to be all battered and bruised thanks to an explosion he didn’t anticipate, too close to the line of fire. With the lavender oil Y/n massaged his shoulders and back, paying careful attention to the bruising so as to not hurt him any further. 

When she was all done, Y/n pressed soft kisses all over his face. The contours of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the space between his brows. His temple, his jaw, the corner of his lips. By the end of it Johnny was begging for her mouth on his. He craved it. Going as far as to murmur, “Please, baby,” when she pecked his chin. Eventually Y/n caved in. Meeting his plush lips for a shot, but sweet, tender kiss. There was a bit of pain on Johnny’s end due to the cut, but he didn’t care. He needed this. 

The water remained warm due to his elevated body temperature, but once satisfied Johnny got out of the tub and dressed while Y/n put everything back in its place. The two then left the bathroom, Y/n flicking the lights off on their way out and led Johnny to the bed. “Oh,” he moaned just like the bath, relishing the feeling of the plush mattress gave him. It felt like laying on a cloud. “That’s so nice.”

Y/n laughed, urging him further into the bed so she could pull the comforter over his torso. Practically tucking him in before moving around to her side, joining him under the covers. Instantly Johnny pushes himself onto his side to curl up against Y/n, who laid on her back and welcomed him with opened arms. As he tucked his face in the area by her shoulder and neck, one hand went to her stomach to sneak his hand beneath her tank top and rest it on her waist. 

“You know tonight reminded me of the first time we met.” He spoke after a minute, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of her fingers move to card through his blonde hair. The action made him shudder, pressing himself further into her side.

Her chuckle made his body move slightly, a teasing tone in her reply, “You mean when I tried to kill you?” He could hear the smile in her voice, and it caused his own to appear.

Johnny remembered it like it was yesterday. He and the Fantastic Four were on a mission to locate a highly dangerous radioactive substance that could level an entire country. Recovering it was crucial God forbid it landed in the wrong hands. So they should’ve expected they weren’t the only ones after it. 

Something they found out the hard way. 

During the extraction, Johnny found himself face to face with the barrel of the gun in the hands of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Dressed in a black tactical suit with too many weapons for him to count and a stare enough to send him to the grave. Johnny felt a bunch of emotions at once. From fear at having a gun on him, to confusion at the red hourglass on her belt. 

The encounter ended with Johnny getting a taste of what he would come to know as the widow’s bite. An electroshock weapon via gauntlets on her arms. Strong enough to put Johnny on his ass allowing her to escape with the package. The next day during the Four’s debrief, they discovered her identity. 

Her name was Y/n L/n. A highly trained and enhanced assassin of the now disbanded and classified program, the Red Room. Called the Black Widow, Y/n was an expert marksman, master of weaponry, professional in hand-to-hand combat and possessed equipment the Fantastic Four had never seen. The files indicated she’d been a key part in the dismantling of several European governments and linked to a dozen political assassinations. The records alone were enough to make their skin crawl. And frankly the Four were confused as it was common knowledge that when the Red Room disbanded, they killed all the Black Widows under their command to prevent their secrets from getting out. 

Turns out, they missed one. Who happened to be their best asset ever produced. 

Why was she after a radioactive substance? They didn’t know. But whatever it was they needed to find out fast and locate her before whoever she was working for got it. 

Their answer took weeks to uncover. And when they did the events following resulted in Y/n turning on the man she initially stole the package for and aligning with the Fantastic Four to bring him down. Initially they were suspicious, naturally so. Y/n was a spy, breaded and forged to become the best Black Widow the Red Room had ever produced. She was formidable, highly intelligent. A weapon in her own right. 

But she was their best chance at beating the guy. She knew his weaknesses. Knew his plans. It was an unlikely alliance, but the odds were against them. 

That was years ago. Now after saving the world too many times to count and nearly losing their lives, the assassin turned agent laid in Johnny’s bed in their shared apartment of Baxter’s Building. Holding him in her arms with a softness that took his breath away. The complete opposite of the threatening aura she possessed in the field. 

“I love you, Y/n,” He breathed into the night as sleep overtook him. Succumbing to the exhaustion as his heart fluttered at the feeling of her lips attached one last time to his forehead. 

“And I love you, my darling Johnny Storm.”