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gossameres · 3 days ago

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chapter three, hook and eye

pairing: peter parker x f. reader

how exactly does one navigate making out with their friend? do you talk about it? pretend it didn’t happen? or maybe do it again but slower, messier, and way more complicated?

warnings: suggestive, swearing, intense making out lol

genres: college au, fake-dating, friends w. benefits

word count: 6.4k

prev. series masterlist! next.

Towering as the largest land animal on Earth, the African bush elephant averages a weight of 13,000 pounds.

But the one sitting between you and Peter in the middle of the library? Easily triple that, maybe more. Invisible but impossible to ignore—its presence bloated the air between you, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on your lungs with every breath you took.

The table was the same kind you’d seen in every campus building—long, wood laminate, scratched from years of student abuse—but tonight it felt like the most public stage imaginable. Ned sat beside Betty, knees pressed together like magnets, his body turned toward hers in an unconscious way. And you and Peter? You were back in your unofficial roles of third wheels, but this time it didn’t feel so innocent. Not after what happened in the closet. Not after his hands on your hips and his mouth on yours and that dizzy, breathless kiss that still snuck into your head when you were trying to sleep.

Betty, of course, didn’t know any of that. She hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in your posture around Peter, or how your gaze dropped whenever he looked at you too long. She didn’t know about the way your thighs had tightened around his leg or how he’d sounded when he whispered your name. So to her, this was just a casual night hanging out with her friends.

You had made a passing comment about how much you missed her, that she was always with Ned now and you never saw her unless it was between classes or when she was rushing back into your dorm to change outfits before another date. It wasn’t meant to be serious, or at least not entirely. But Betty, in her ever-earnest way, had taken it as a challenge. Her solution? Studying had never been your idea of hanging out. For Betty, though, it was the perfect social solution: “We’re stimulating the mind and the friendship,” she’d said, as if that made any sense at all.

That’s how you ended up here—at a table with a textbook in front of you, a dull ache growing behind your eyes, and Peter sitting inches away like a live wire you were trying your hardest not to touch. And you hadn’t even looked at him yet, not properly. Not since you sat down. You couldn’t bring yourself to because if you did—if your eyes met his, and he was already looking—you knew it’d feel like stepping right back into the previous night's rendezvous.

And this time, there were no doors to shut behind you.

Betty sat directly across from you, spine straight, her piercing blue eyes narrowed in barely masked suspicion. Ned kept glancing between you, Peter, and Betty like he was waiting for someone to confess something explosive. Peter sat to your right, a few respectful inches away, but close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from his arm. You kept your eyes on your textbook, but none of the words registered.

You hadn’t talked to Peter since last night. You hadn’t needed to. Not with the way your body remembered everything. Your senses sharpened around him—his voice, the rasp of it when it dropped too low; the warmth of his breath when he leaned too close; the way he sighed like he had the other night when you pulled back, lips swollen and eyes half-lidded. Even his quiet grumbles felt too familiar now, echoing far too closely to the sounds he'd made with you pressed into him.

You crossed your legs under the table, squeezing tighter, then tighter again. Peter hadn’t said anything since sitting down, but you could feel his eyes on you. You didn’t dare look.

“Okay, why are you acting weird?” Betty finally snapped, pushing her stack of books to the side.

You blinked up. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You know what I mean.”

You glanced at her, feigning confusion. “I’m literally just sitting here.”

“Yeah. Sitting there being weird.” She turned her gaze to Peter. “And you, too.”

Peter’s head snapped up. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Both of you. You’re being... jittery.”

Ned leaned in. “I think Peter’s always like that, babe.”

Peter shot him a look—a tight-lipped half-smile that was equal parts thankful and annoyed. Ned just grinned, entirely oblivious.

“I chugged a Celsius and a latte before this,” you said, coolly.

“At seven p.m.?” Peter asked, eyes finally meeting yours.

His were darker in the dim library light, rich with some unreadable expression. You held the gaze too long, making your heartbeat skid.

“I was planning to pull an all-nighter,” you replied, your voice thinner than intended.

“Right. That makes sense.” Peter looked away, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his flashcards.

Betty groaned. “This is torture.”

“What is?”

“This!” She motioned between you and Peter like she was drawing a crime scene diagram. “The energy between you two is insane. You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Ned offered, then glanced at Betty’s expression and quickly added, “But yeah, it’s definitely... weird.”

Betty groaned, dramatic and heavy, like she was physically trying to expel the tension from her body. Her fingers tapped restlessly against the table, her blue eyes narrowed in irritation. “God, I just don’t get why you two can’t be normal,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “Like, can we just study without it being weird and cryptic and—whatever this is?”

Ned leaned in, gentle. “Babe, it’s fine. Come on, don’t stress.”

She looked at him, brows pinched, and he gave her that easy, affable smile he always used when she got wound up. “Besides,” he said, glancing at his phone, “I gotta head out soon anyway. I have a lab that ends at like, nine-thirty.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s tonight?”

“Yeah, I forgot. We’re doing the physics demo, and if I’m late again, Dr. Evens is gonna kill me.” He stood, collecting his notebook and pushing in his chair with a small wince. “Come walk me there?”

Betty sighed, annoyed but not enough to say no. “Fine,” she said, rising with him. She grabbed her bag, then looked between you and Peter like she was sizing up a crime scene.

“And whatever this is,” she added, making a slow, deliberate motion with her finger to draw a large, theatrical circle around you and Peter, “better be gone by tomorrow.”

You didn’t answer. Peter didn’t either.

She stared at you both a second longer, her gaze sharp and unrelenting, before she turned and followed Ned toward the exit, grumbling something under her breath..

And then it was quiet again.

Your fingers clacked against your keyboard for the next hour or so, but for some reason, you couldn’t focus. Not because of Peter (though that didn’t exactly help) but because the library had become unreasonably loud. Conversations bled from nearby tables, the occasional obnoxious laugh cut through the air like glass, and someone had been smacking gum for at least fifteen straight minutes. It was maddening.

Your leg bounced under the table, jittery and restless. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Peter’s knee doing the same, his rhythm a mirror of yours, equally agitated.

Stupidly, you’d forgotten your headphones and now you were stuck drowning in noise. Peter had his in, of course, but there was no way in hell you were going to ask to share. You couldn’t even look him in the eye for more than two seconds without your brain short-circuiting and flashing back to things best left in the dark.

Still, the volume was unbearable. You tapped him on the shoulder.

Peter pulled out one earbud and turned to you, brow furrowed in concern. “What’s up?”

“Do people not understand the concept of a library anymore?” you grumbled flatly as you glanced over at the noise culprits—a trio of students laughing way too hard over something definitely not that funny—and rolled your eyes. “Wanna go back to my dorm? Or yours? I can’t think in here.”

Peter blinked, looked around, then back at you. There was a pause—just long enough for your stomach to tighten, irrationally expecting rejection.

“Yeah,” he said finally, nodding. “Yeah, let’s go. My dorm’s closer, if that works?”

“That’s fine,” you said, already closing your laptop.

You didn’t mention that you’d stopped thinking the second he sat down.

Normally, you would’ve flung your shoes off and collapsed dramatically onto Peter’s bed like it was your own. You had done it dozens of times before—mid-cram session, post-party, or just because his room always felt warmer than yours. But tonight wasn’t normal.

Now, the room felt different. Smaller, somehow. Like the walls had inched closer when you weren’t looking, like the air between the two of you had become charged and uncomfortable. You could still see the faint dent in the mattress, the subtle shift in the comforter from where the two of you had sat at the edge—close, then closer—doing things that were not rated PG-13.

So instead of stomping in and taking up space like you usually did, you bent quietly to slip your shoes off and followed him across the room, toeing the carpet with awkward hesitance. His side looked the same—same phone charger coiled on the floor, same tangled sheets, all unmoved—but it felt different. Less like a second home but rather more like a place where something had happened that couldn’t be fully undone.

The silence stretched, ballooning, until you both broke it at once.

“So—”

You blinked. He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing under his breath.

“Uh, you go,” he offered.

You shook your head, swallowing down whatever half-thought had risen to the top. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Really?” he raised an eyebrow. “That’s unlike you.”

“Guess I’m just... clear-minded tonight,” you said, dry. “No distractions.”

Peter gave you a look, skeptical. He didn’t push.

Another awkward beat passed. You sat down carefully on the edge of his bed, tucking one leg beneath the other, careful not to shift too far into the space you’d taken up last night. Peter stood for a second like he didn’t know where to go, then finally sat at his desk chair and rolled it slightly toward you.

“I thought you said it wouldn’t be weird,” he said eventually, voice quieter than usual.

“It’s not weird,” you replied a little too quickly, a little too defensively.

“Right.” He nodded, twisting a ring around his finger. “I just—I don’t want to mess anything up. Like... our friendship. I care about you a lot. And I’d never want something like... whatever that was... to ruin that.”

Your chest squeezed. The way he said it so sincerely, like he was laying out an apology for something you hadn’t even asked him to be sorry for.

You sighed, finally letting yourself relax a little, sinking further into the mattress. “I know. I care about you too, okay? And it’s not ruined or anything. I think I’m just... in my head about it.”

Peter tilted his head. “So Betty was right. You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re lying. Badly. It’s kinda offensive, honestly.”

You exhaled, something between a laugh and a groan. “Fine. Maybe a little weird. But like, it was weird! We made out! For a while. Like. Several whiles.”

Peter raised both hands in mock defense. “Hey, you’re the one who offered.”

“And you’re the one who asked and said yes!”

“I mean... would’ve been rude not to.”

That made you laugh for real, finally, and something eased in your chest. Some invisible line uncoiled.

You leaned back on your palms, glancing at him from across the small room. “You’ve gotten cocky.”

Peter shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. “You’re insufferable.”

Peter didn’t miss a beat. “Yet you’re in my bed. Again.”

You gave him a look, dramatic and pointed. “Feels like I’m being used, honestly. Just a convenient test dummy for some girl you’re actually into.”

His brows shot up. “What? No—what? There’s no girl.”

You raised a brow. “Then why are you so eager to learn? What’s the rush, Parker? Who’s she? Tell me everything.”

“I told you already,” he said, flustered. “I’m just embarrassed about being such a late bloomer and I thought... I don’t know. You’d be a good teacher. Because you—”

“Wow,” you interrupted, feigning offense with a hand over your heart. “Calling me a whore again. Didn’t expect it from you, but okay.”

He groaned, flopping back onto the mattress, face half-buried in his pillow. “Shut up. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Do I though?” you teased, turning toward him, chin propped on your palm.

He looked at you from the pillow, hair sticking up in chaotic tufts. “I don’t know! Can we just—can we not do that thing where you twist everything I say because you’re a little shit?”

You smirked, watching the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Fine.”

He let out a breath. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You paused, the shift in tone softening something in your chest. “I’m okay if you’re okay,” you said quietly. And it was true. “It was… fun. I mean, I haven’t really hooked up with anyone in a while.”

Peter looked up sharply. “Really?”

You nodded, a little self-conscious now. “Yeah. Thought maybe I was rusty, but last night didn’t feel like that. Not really.”

Peter blinked, clearly caught off guard. “No. No, it didn’t. You’re not… rusty.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I had fun too. A lot.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that hums when the words are there, just waiting to be said.

“I think,” you started, careful, “I just didn’t know how you felt about it. I didn’t want to assume.”

He hesitated. “I’m feeling good about it.”

You squinted. “Good?”

“Good,” he repeated, firmer this time. “It was... a good experience. For... learning.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh. “Oh yeah. Real educational.”

Peter cracked a small smile. “I’m a great student.”

“Debatable.”

He tilted his head, playful now. “You gonna grade me or something?”

You laughed softly, but your fingers were fidgeting in your lap, your posture a little stiffer than before. “I wouldn’t mind it. More, I mean.”

Peter blinked. “More?”

You nodded slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Yeah. Like, we’re good friends. And you had fun. And I had fun. So maybe we could…” You trailed off, shrugging. “Continue? As like… a teaching thing? Or maybe friends with benefits? I don’t know.”

Peter didn’t answer right away. You could feel your heart thudding, loud and obnoxious in your chest, and you almost wished you hadn’t said anything.

But then he shifted, leaned in just slightly, and said, “So… does that mean I get a second lesson?”

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re so cocky suddenly. Who possessed you?”

He raised a brow. “You did. Last night, if I remember correctly.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, then shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “You are unbelievable.”

“But am I wrong?”

“No,” you admitted, dragging the word out with a hint of disbelief as you studied him. “But this is so not the Peter I know. Like—what’s going on? Why aren’t you like this all the time?”

Peter hesitated, his eyes flicking up toward yours before dropping again, sheepish. “Honestly? No clue. That came out way more confident than I meant it to.”

You waited. He scratched at the back of his neck again, the gesture boyish and guilty.

“Maybe it’s just… with you. You make me feel different.”

Your throat tightened. A frog lodged itself somewhere between your lungs and logic, and your brain immediately launched into full interrogation mode: Different how? Compared to who? Was it good-different or bad-different? What about you had changed him? Was he implying you were special—or just unfamiliar?

You shut the spiral down before it could sink its claws in too deep. This wasn’t the time for overthinking—not with the weight of his hands still warm on your hips, not when your body was still buzzing from the kiss you’d barely stepped away from. The lines between you had already started to blur. Redefining them now would just tangle you both up.

So instead, you rolled your eyes and muttered, “God, I can’t stand you.”

Peter blinked, wide-eyed and grinning, that slightly breathless look he always gave you when he wasn’t sure if you were about to laugh at him or hit him with a textbook. “Well... is that a yes?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a long moment—at his tousled hair and flushed cheeks, the way he still hadn’t figured out where to look when you stared too hard. The tension that had felt so suffocating earlier was lighter now, like it’d been reshaped into something you could almost laugh about. Almost.

“We’ll see,” you said eventually, letting your voice go soft around the edges. You leaned back like you owned the mattress again, stretching your legs, dragging your eyes slowly over him. “Depends on how good you are at taking notes.”

That made his ears go pink again. “I’ve got a notebook?” he asked, like he was trying to play it off, but his voice cracked ever so slightly at the end.

“You’re such a dork.” you said, shaking your head, but your voice was fond.

He opened his mouth, probably to defend his honor or throw out another awkward quip, but you didn’t give him the chance. “Come here,” you said simply, and he did—crossing the narrow space between you and sitting down beside you on the bed.

Peter obeyed, climbing onto the bed with you but instead of stopping at just sitting, you pushed him back gently until his shoulders hit the corner where the wall met the mattress. He blinked up at you in surprise as you moved forward, straddling him with practiced ease and settling yourself onto his lap. His breath hitched slightly at the proximity, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him, hands on his shoulders for balance. Your bodies slotted together in a way that was impossible to ignore.

Peter blinked up at you, his cocky expression flickering into something far more honest—wide-eyed, flustered, very clearly trying not to combust.

“Okay,” you said, leveling your gaze with his. “How are you with criticism?”

Peter swallowed hard. “I mean… I’m a big boy. I can handle anything.”

“Right,” you nodded, resting your hands on his shoulders. “Well, first off—you’re a little teethy. Like, I don’t know what you were trying to do las time, but my teeth were clacking into yours like we were fencing.”

He winced. “Okay. Noted.”

“And your tongue was just...” You wrinkled your nose. “All over the place. Just follow my lead instead of trying to duel me with it.”

Peter bit his lip, his ears visibly reddening. “I feel like I’m failing a pop quiz.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re not failing.” You paused, cocking your head. “Just... clunky.”

“Geez,” he muttered. “I thought you said you were gonna be nice about this.”

“I said I’d teach you,” you corrected. “I didn’t say I’d lie on behalf of your ego.”

“You’re so judgy.”

“And a snarky bitch, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.”

Peter looked at you again, half-annoyed, half-amused. “What else do you hate about me? Let’s get it out. List it off.”

“That was it, actually. The rest was decent.” You let your hands trail to his shoulders, resting there. “Better than, like, ninety percent of the men I’ve kissed.”

Peter tried not to let that sting, but it did. Just a little.

“So your standards are underground,” he muttered.

You shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl when the options are limited.”

Then, before he could recover, you shifted your hips slightly against his, enough to make his breath catch from the brief friction. You leaned forward and wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, your voice dropping.

“But I’m trying to be nice and help you out. So… touch me.”

Peter stiffened just slightly. “Touch you?” he repeated, voice cracking just barely.

You raised a brow. “Yeah. Touch me.”

Tentatively, Peter placed his hands on your waist, light and unsure.

“Like this?”

“Yeah,” you said, then leaned closer, breath brushing his cheek. “But more. Grab. Squeeze. Slide. My waist, my tits, my ass—wherever. It’s free real estate.”

Peter blinked. “Am I playing Bop It?”

You laughed. “Exactly.”

He looked dazed. “Jesus.”

You reached up and brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead, fingers drifting down the side of his face, thumb grazing his cheekbone with something close to fondness.

“Now,” you whispered, “show me you listened.”

Without hesitation, he leaned in again, lips finding yours with more purpose this time—less hesitation, more intention. His hands, newly emboldened, slid from your waist to your lower back, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns along the ridge of your spine like he was reading braille. The kiss deepened gradually, not rushed, almost curious. Like he was trying to trace the map you’d sketched into him the night before, but this time without fumbling. His teeth grazed your bottom lip—softer now, just a ghost of pressure—and it sent a sharp pull through your chest, your stomach, lower.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging him closer until your bodies pressed flush. His breath hitched against your cheek, warm and shaky. Then your own soft moan escaped when his hands slid lower and found the curve of your ass, gently squeezing. The noise made something short-circuit in him; he instinctively bucked up beneath you, just a little, enough for you to feel the weight of him, and it pulled another sound from your throat.

It felt too natural—too easy, too good, too fluid, but you didn’t want to pull away. Not yet.

Eventually, though, you broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, your forehead brushing against his as your eyes locked.

“Better,” you murmured, a crooked smile playing on your lips. “You’re a quick learner.”

His cheeks flushed a deeper pink—rosy and high on his cheekbones—but behind the embarrassment was something else, something bright and buzzing and proud. He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. His hands stayed where they were, gripping you firmly, and then he pulled you even closer—firmly enough that your hips met his again with a shared inhale.

And then he kissed you again. Slower this time, but deeper. Hungrier. Like he knew exactly how you tasted now and didn’t want to forget it. His hands roamed more boldly—up your sides, along the curve of your waist, his thumbs pressing into your skin just enough to make you lean into him. His fingers wound into your hair, tugging slightly in that same way you were doing to him, and it pulled the softest whimper from your throat.

Your hands explored too—sliding down his shoulders, feeling the solid lines of him beneath his hoodie and t-shirt. He was wirier than he looked. You brushed over his chest, his abs, his arms—realizing as you did that there was so much more to touch than you thought and feeling it under your fingers like this made you ache with curiosity. The scent of him, all clean detergent (that you still needed to get your hands on) and faint sweat and some subtle cologne you couldn’t place, was dizzying.

When you pulled back again, barely, you saw it: his lips were flushed and slightly swollen, his eyes dark and wide and glassy like he wasn’t entirely in control of what he was doing. His chest rose and fell quickly beneath you, and you were sure you looked just as undone.

You slid your hands from his hair down to his shoulders, gripping tightly, and rolled your hips—slow, experimental, just a slight grind against him. Barely there, but enough to make him groan, low and gravelly, right into your ear.

That sound made you crave more.

You tilted your head and kissed down the sharp line of his jaw, soft at first, then more purposeful. You found a spot on the side of his neck and latched on gently, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make him shiver. Your hands tugged at the hem of his hoodie as your mouth kept working, kissing, sucking, dragging your lips just enough to make him squirm under you.

Peter got the message. He hesitated only for a second before his hands slid to your hips to lift you slightly as he tugged the hoodie off, over his head and to the side. You stared—maybe for longer than you should’ve. The white t-shirt he wore clung to him in all the right places, slightly see-through in the dim light. You could make out the shape of his chest, the subtle rise and fall of each shallow breath. Your mouth went dry.

You leaned in to kiss him again, but before your lips could meet, he flipped you.

Your back hit the wall gently, and suddenly he was on top of you—hands braced beside your head, his mouth dragging hotly down your neck. He was more intense now, less shy. When his lips found the space beneath your jaw, they were rougher, hungrier. He sucked, bit a little—definitely enough to leave a mark this time—but you didn’t care. Your head tilted back, breath hitching as his teeth grazed your skin again and again, branding you in the best way.

It was overwhelming, the shift in energy. He was mimicking what you did, but adding more of him to it. Less careful. More eager. More desperate.

And oh, how it was working.

His touch was becoming unbearable in the best way—too good, too fleeting, always leaving you craving more the second he pulled away. Your breath hitched again when his hand traced just under the curve of your chest, not quite touching, but hovering, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

You tapped his shoulder gently and he reacted immediately, pulling back like he’d crossed some line you hadn’t drawn. His face shifted fast, from flushed desire to open worry. He still held you, but it was tentative now. Looser. His hands ghosted over you instead of gripping, his fingers curling back like he was afraid of hurting you somehow.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless. “Should I stop?”

You blinked at him. Your heart was racing. Your lips were swollen. Your thighs were practically trembling from the tension building in your core.

“No—yeah. Yeah. Okay. I’m, uh, okay,” you stammered, brushing your hair out of your face with a shaky laugh. “Just—was thinking. Um. Do you... do you know how to take off a bra?”

Peter blinked. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Wanna learn?” you asked, voice quieter, laced with something almost teasing but still gentle—like an offering.

He didn’t speak for a second. Just looked at you with wide, stunned eyes, and then nodded slowly, cheeks flushing a pretty, warm pink. “I’ll learn,” he said.

Your lips quirked into a smile as you sat up straighter in his lap, your knees still bracketing his hips. “Okay,” you murmured.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head slowly—not to make a show of it, not really—but still aware of his eyes on you the whole time. When it dropped to the floor beside his bed, you sat back, now just in your bra, letting the room settle into the silence that followed.

He stared. Eyes wide, mouth parted, completely frozen.

You shifted slightly. “Say something.”

“Wow,” he breathed, completely overwhelmed. His eyes never left your chest. “Just... wow.”

A laugh bubbled up in your throat, soft and breathy. You reached for his hands again and gently brought them behind your back, guiding them to the clasp. “Okay, focus. This part’s important.”

His fingers hovered nervously at the back of your bra, brushing your spine so lightly it made you shiver.

You bit your lip. “Pinch the hooks,” you instructed, tilting your head. “Not too hard. It’s more finesse than force.”

His hands moved again, a little more focused now. He fumbled, of course. His fingertips brushed the clasp a few times before he actually got a grip. His hands were warm. Gentle. Careful in a way that made your stomach flip. You reached behind yourself, still holding the front of the bra tightly with one arm—just in case—while the other guided him through the motion.

“There,” you whispered, when he finally got it to unclip. “See? Not so bad.”

Peter exhaled like he’d just defused a bomb, his laugh sheepish and proud at the same time. “That’s... more complicated than it looks,” he mumbled, and his voice cracked slightly.

“You think this is complicated?” you teased, raising a brow. “You haven’t even tried putting it back on.”

“Okay. You forget I’m good at everything I do.”

“Oh, prove it then, genius.”

You watched him try—his fingers were clumsy again, slightly trembling as he fumbled with the small hooks and loops. You adjusted slightly so he could see better, guiding his hands without fully taking control, correcting his angles, biting your lip at the absurdity of how serious he looked.

After a few failed attempts and an embarrassed laugh from him, he finally got it. The click of the clasp felt like a victory.

He looked up, clearly proud of himself. “Boom,” he said, grinning. “Certified expert now.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to laugh. “Barely. That was like a C-minus attempt.”

“But passing,” he said smugly.

“Don’t push your luck.”

His hands settled at your waist again, warm and firm now, no longer hovering. You leaned in, kissing him slowly—rewarding him, almost. And when you eventually guided his hands back to the clasp and told him to try again—without you helping this time—he didn’t hesitate.

He practiced. Three more times.

By the end of it, you weren’t sure who was flustered more—him, for figuring it out, or you, for letting him try so many times while sitting in his lap in just your bra.

You were still laughing softly when a loud click broke the mood.

The door swung open.

Ned stood in the frame, eyes wide and disbelief written all over his face. “Oh my god.” His voice was a mix of shock and barely contained amusement.

You froze, heart hammering.

Ned backed away quickly, giving you two privacy without missing a beat. “I’m gonna… wait outside.”

You exchanged a look with Peter, both equally mortified, before you reached for your shirt from where it had been tossed across the duvet. You tugged it on quickly, fingers smoothing down the fabric like that could undo the chaos, like straightening the wrinkles might help you recover some sliver of dignity. It didn’t. But it gave you something to do with your hands.

Across the room, Peter was doing the same, standing slowly, hands raking through his hair like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or sink into the floor. His cheeks were still flushed, his ears tinted red, his lips a little swollen. You tried not to look at them. Or think about them.

You opened the door with cautious fingers to find Ned standing there just outside—pacing, dramatically shielding his face with one hand like he'd been personally victimized.

“Oh my God, my eyes,” he whisper-yelled, peeking between his fingers before spinning in a small circle.

Peter groaned behind you, rubbing his face. “Shut up. We’ve literally seen worse from you.”

“Okay, rude and also not true,” Ned muttered, flustered beyond recovery. He waved his hands like he was swatting away a traumatic memory. “I didn’t need to see that. I can’t unsee that.”

Peter tilted his head. “Thought you said your lab went ‘til nine?”

“It did, but it got canceled. Betty and I just grabbed dinner instead.” Ned was still trying to blink the image from his brain. “So—what the hell is going on with you two? Is this why you’ve been acting so weird?”

Peter glanced at you—only for a second, just a flick of his eyes—and for some reason, against better judgment, he said, “Yeah.”

You blinked. Turned your head to look at him, brows pulling together. “Yeah?” you mouthed silently, confused.

Ned’s jaw dropped. “Wait—wait. You guys are dating? Like, together? For real?!”

You and Peter both froze, expressions shifting at once. His eyes widened slightly. You opened your mouth like you were about to correct him. But then… nothing came out. You didn’t say no. And neither did Peter.

“I knew it,” Ned said, utterly triumphant. “The tension was insane! You’ve been making everyone uncomfortable.”

You exchanged one more look with Peter, this time tinged with mild panic, and then—too deep now—you simply sighed and offered a half-hearted wave toward Ned. “Goodnight, Ned.”

Peter cleared his throat, stepping closer, clearly looking for a way to end the scene. “It’s late. I’ll, uh… I’ll walk you back.”

Ned was still standing there like he’d just discovered a new species. “You guys are dating,” he repeated, to no one in particular. “Holy shit.”

“Good night, Ned,” Peter said, ushering you both past him and down the hallway before Ned could say anything else.

By the time you stepped outside, the cold air hit your face like a splash of water, crisp and sobering. The dorm door clicked shut behind you, sealing the night in. Campus had settled into quiet. Overhead, the lamplight hummed faintly, casting long amber shadows on the pavement. The only sounds were the soft crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant, hollow chatter of someone’s late-night phone call echoing off the buildings.

Peter held the door for you. You stepped out slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of your sweatshirt, not quite looking at him.

“It’s, uh… it’s okay,” you said softly, not stopping. “I can walk myself back.”

He paused for a second. You felt his hesitation behind you—like he wasn’t sure whether to argue or just let it be. But he didn’t push. You both kept walking, a quiet rhythm between your steps, footsteps syncing up as the silence grew heavier.

You crossed a patch of empty sidewalk before you finally turned your head just slightly, just enough to catch the faint lines of his face beneath the flickering glow of the nearest streetlamp.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, voice even but a little tight around the edges.

He blinked. “What?”

“You could’ve corrected him. About us dating.”

Peter slowed beside you. “I thought you were gonna say something.”

“Well… you said yes first,” you replied, glancing at him fully now. “It kind of felt like I was supposed to follow your lead.”

“I thought he was talking about us hooking up,” Peter admitted. “Like—that’s why we were acting weird. So I just… panicked and said yeah. I didn’t realize that was what he meant.”

You exhaled, something between a sigh and a tired laugh. “That’s why you said it?”

“I malfunctioned, okay?” he said, running a hand through his curls. “Like. Full-on brain crash. It all happened so fast and I didn’t want to be like, ‘No! Not dating! Just making out!’ That felt worse.”

“You could’ve just said no.”

“You could’ve said no.”

You paused. “Touché.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to drag you into the world’s most awkward lie.”

“It’s not the worst thing,” you muttered.

He looked at you. “You sure?”

You nodded, shifting your bag higher up your shoulder. “Honestly, it’s easier. Now Betty and Ned stop poking at it. It’s not like it’s real, so it doesn’t matter.”

Peter’s eyes flicked away for a moment, then back to you. “Right. Just easier.”

“Yeah.”

You kept walking. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw as he looked forward again, his His expression was unreadable again, eyes focused straight ahead like he was thinking too hard about something he’d never say out loud.

You didn’t press.

A few more steps passed in silence, the only sound the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement and the distant hum of campus life thinning out.

Then Peter spoke, voice soft and a little hesitant: “So... we’re fake dating now?”

You gave him a slow, wry look. “Guess so.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it in. Then a small, disbelieving laugh. “God, we’re bad at this.”

“The worst,” you said with a light shrug. “But hey—I get to live out my Lara Jean fantasies.”

That made him glance at you, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Wait. Does that make me... Peter squared?”

You snorted. “Seems like someone liked the movie more than they let on.”

He raised his eyebrows, mock-defensive. “I didn’t not like it.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Unreal. You really are a Peter.”

“Just not that Peter.”

“Mm. We’ll see.”

Before he could respond, you reached the edge of your dorm. The windows glowed gold above you, haloing the building in soft light. You slowed to a stop beneath the porch lamp, turning to face him.

“Well,” you said, tucking your hands into your sleeves. “Goodnight, fake boyfriend.”

He smiled, that lopsided, boyish grin you were starting to get a little too used to. “Goodnight, fake girlfriend.”

You lingered there for a beat too long—just enough to feel something settle unspoken between you—before you turned and walked inside. Peter watched you go, hands in his pockets, his breath fogging faintly in the air.

The moment hung there behind you, warm and weird and electric.

Neither of you quite knew what to do with it.

taglist: @keshet2k @caramelfondu @dayastarkorwtvr @coralperfectiondream @matts-247

#mdni! ☆#peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker series #peter parker smut #spiderman x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman smut #spiderman fanfiction #marvel x reader #tom holland smut #marvel #peter parker #spiderman #x reader

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cryscabbage · 2 days ago

Text

I can't stop thinking about butch4butch IceMav.

A shitpost that became a WIP below ⬇️

They both have their trusted people, Goose only found out accidentally. It just so happened to be when he first met Mav. He heard the sounds of someone getting their ass handed to them from down the hallway and sighed, knowing damn well he couldn't leave them to it. Carole had warned him to stop getting in fights, but he couldn't just ignore the underdog.

Everyone knows the story of him finding this skinny little kid in his boxers and t shirt like he was just about to go for a shower, cornered in the locker room by two massive men. He's never claimed to have saved Mav because the kid was surprisingly holding his own, he did however, back him up and get them to fuck off.

It wasn't until several minutes later, both of them sitting on the floor trying to catch their breath, that Goose registered an abandoned object out of the corner of his eye. He might not have even assumed it was Mav's if it weren't for the total fear all over his face when he saw what Goose was looking at, the way his breath quickened.

He only had a brief idea of what it could possibly be and he wasn't a judgemental person, that being said, growing up in the south meant he had very little knowledge about... Queers?

"Hey man, chill." Goose quickly shuffled over, removed his jacket and covered the offending object. "I won't say I understand, but I don't care. I'm not gonna say shit."

It took a while to convince Mav that his navy career wasn't over, but when he finally relaxed, he thanked Goose, took his packer back, and went for a shower.

He certainly wasn't expecting to find the man waiting for him in the locker room, and definitely didn't expect to be invited around for dinner. "Just cause I'm... Doesn't mean I like men, dude." He gruffly said.

Goose kind of guffawed a shocked, honking laugh. "I think my wife would have something to say if that was what I was implying."

It wasn't for several months that Mav explained it to them.

"I'm not a guy..." He shamefully admitted, sitting between Nick and Carole on the couch after Bradley had gone to bed, some old country Western film was playing in the background but he wasn't paying attention.

"Sure you are, Mav." Nick slung his arm around his pilot's shoulders.

"No, I'm really not. I'm uh.." Growing up he'd never had a term for what he felt like, he only saw how other little girls behaved and didn't get it at all, he preferred hanging out with his foster brothers over sisters. He kissed a girl when he was 14 and felt like he was halfway there. In a foster home in New York he learnt the term 'tranny' for someone who believed they were a different gender to what they were born, a lot of cases ended up in mental hospitals.

He felt the word around in his mouth but something didn't feel quite right.

Then he stumbled his way into a bar like no other at 16 and almost got in a fight with the most handsome woman he'd ever met because he flirted with her girlfriend. He learnt two terms that night, butch and femme.

He'd always wanted to get into the navy, be a pilot like his dad before him, but it was impossible as a girl. It was after a few nights in that bar that he finally saw his future before him in the form of Butch Al, a towering figure of a woman, with a deep voice and a moustache. He, as he introduced himself, was 'stealth.' Living life as a man to get better work and stop getting targeted by the police for being a pervert.

Testosterone was the solution to all his problems.

Well, most.

"I thought Duke Mitchell had a daughter."

"That's scuttlebutt for you, can't trust shit."

"So, you're actually a woman, like not even a dude in a woman's body, an actual woman?"

"It's called a butch lesbian, Goose."

"Well hey that's cool by me, what do I call you?" Nick's been trying, doing research since he figured Mav was different. But the 80s were a hard time for this kinda shit.

"Same as always, Nick. I know what I am deep down, people thinking I'm a dude makes no difference. Makes it easier, even."

-~-

Slider finding out was a lot simpler in some ways, worse in others. Ice's family was semi-accepting growing up, he had all sisters and that disappointed his navy father. He loved his girls, but he always wanted a boy to carry on the legacy, join the navy and serve the country.

A Russian man in the navy during the Cold War had a lot to prove and he wanted his son to try just as hard. Not try, do.

He never pretended to understand Tomara- Tom. But she wanted to join the navy, so he minded his own business, even if it did mean butting heads with his son? Daughter?

Admiral Antoly Kazansky was not a tolerant man, when he adopted Christianity to fit in better in America, he adopted the view that homosexuality is a sin. But Tomara promised she wasn't a homosexual, and didn't believe she was a boy either, she was just happy to impersonate one.

Slider knew more than his dad did.

He caught Ice making out with a girl in the bathroom of a bar when they weren't on deployment and laughed about it, he didn't understand why his pilot was so damn terrified about it all.

"If this gets back to my father... О черт." He continued to pace back and forth in their lodgings, muttering in Russian and English to the point that Ron wasn't even sure what was going on anymore.

"Tom, chill, you just kissed a girl. You're an adult, I don't see why this is such a big deal? You're an adult man for that matter, we all have urges."

"Because I'm not a man, Ron!" Ice shouted, then froze, mouth falling open.

"What?"

Ice didn't waste any time grabbing his keys and running from the house, jumping into his car and speeding away.

Slider was awake, barely, with a cup of tea on the couch when Ice finally came back.

"You wanna talk about it?" He asked, taking a casual sip.

Ice was silent as he crept around the couch and sat on the furthest cushion from his RIO.

"Look, Tom. I'm not gonna make you explain anything. You're my friend, my brother, that's not going to change regardless. If you want to talk about it, you can." Slider stood up, bones cracking and revealing how long he'd sat there, and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on again.

"You know I've made out with my fair share of men, right?" Slider admitted once Ice finished his story.

"What?" Ice grinned, shocked.

"Can't say I prefer it over women, but it was interesting." He paused, considering. "Now you have one of my secrets."

It was the 80s and no one quite understood, but at least there were the select few who didn't care.

---

Somehow this headcanon has turned into a full on WIP, should I write IceMav getting together?

I also know a lot of this is super unrealistic, I'm sure the navy would know if someone was impersonating a man, but idc.

@towering-book-piles @gaybirdnerd

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spotaus · 2 days ago

Text

A Night of Spirits (New Age AU)

Oh. Uh. Hi guys. Last you heard I was dying of the plague (still am) but due to my insidious nature, I decided that I'd write a loose and fast little drabble just to get my mind off other stresses! So, with little planning and even less weight to the plot in mind, here's a quick little slice-of-life!

Timeline-wise, this is a few months after Dust and Horror are proper guests in Nightmare's castle, and a few weeks before either of them are offered to train as Knights!

(@ancha-aus, @papiliovolens, @mutzelputz Hi guys! :] )

“You’ve… never been?” Horror muttered over the rim of his glass. There was a drizzle of mead still lingering in the bottom of the thing, but he wasn’t paying it much mind.

Dust shook his head silently, he was usually quiet, and peered up at him. Eyelights cut through the darkness cast by the hood of his new cloak. He seemed a lot less jumpy ever since the King had given it to him. Made Horror less antsy about the whole thing.

Killer scoffed, returning to the counter they were all slouched around. He set his, newly filled, glass on the wooden top with a clink that Horror did his best to ignore.

“I mean, I pickpocketed people at the outskirts of a few, but never really had the chance to sit and watch ‘em. It was a luxury.” He replied, elbows pressing as he hunched into the counter. “Fucking loud too. Always hated their stupid fucking hymns and mantras. Play some real music, y’know?”

Horror hummed into his glass, watching as Killer sort of deflated against the countertop. He was already a few glasses in, even though he’d been most recent to join the party. Or. Well. As much as this little gathering of three in the walls of the private kitchen could be called a party. Killer had invited them for drinks like this before, but usually he wasn’t late. He and Dust had started nursing their booze about an hour ago, sitting in semi-comfortable silence, waiting for their energetic senior to show. Supposedly, his training session with the King had taken longer than he’d planned.

“Too many people.” Dust muttered cryptically. His eyelights now focused on Killer.

Horror watched him as Killer seemed to reach across the countertop, almost knocking his own glass out of the way as he swiped at Dust’s with a clumsy, yet still lightning-fast, hand. Dust was only slightly faster, yanking it up and out of Killer’s grasp with half a second to spare. Killer whined with the thwarted ‘theft’ and sunk impossibly further onto the counter in a flare of dramatics. Horror heard Dust murmur ‘No mixing’ to which Killer only groaned like a scolded child.

Dust wasn’t bothered, though. Killer’s antics never seemed to bother him, as far as he could tell. At least, not for as long as he’d been willing to step anywhere near Dust. Horror had seen him from a distance, those first few weeks. Cagey, flinching, always sneaking around and disappearing into the shadows of the castle. Plus those bands. He was a criminal. Of course, Horror knew that now, but back then, it’d been obvious. He hadn’t wanted to get in Dust’s way. But… Killer had never gotten nervous about that. Back then, Horror assumed it was because he was Nightmare’s right hand. The King wouldn’t let any harm come to those under his protection, apparently. He thought it was a delusional amount of confidence that brought Killer to act like that. That wasn’t the case, though. Killer is just genuinely skilled enough to corral Dust on his own. Plus, Dust doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to start shit. Not anymore, anyways. Maybe never. Horror didn’t know.

“You?” Oh. Dust’s eyelights were back on him.

Horror lifted his skull, tilting it at a slight angle as he peered down at Dust. Thinking. How would he… His glass clinked lightly against his teeth.

“Yeah. Lots.” He said. The easy part. “Town I lived by… had a lot. For…” He paused again. Dust was still staring at him, that same faint pair of eyelights he’s always quickly looked away from in the past. They didn’t urge him, but he felt a weight in his chest regardless. “Harvests. Not lots of hymns… or song. Just dance.” He finally finished.

He stared blankly down at Dust as the too-small skeleton stared right back.

They both jumped at the loud clink presented yet again by Killer. Apparently he’d taken another big chunk out of his freshly-poored glass. Though, the usual smile that grace his face became a frown. He was staring at Horror, squinting a bit, and the black ‘tears’ which usually poured from his sockets seemed to gush a bit more quickly with the motion. Tar tracking down his cheekbones before disappearing under his jaw.

“Big man, how the hell does anyone dance without music? For fuck’s sake, that must be boring.” He seemed to demand an answer and give himself one all in the same breath.

Horror… didn’t know the answer to Killer’s question. He let his glass fall a little closer to the table.

Those days, back on the farm. He remembers when he was little, when his family first bundled him up in a sling and his mother tied him close to her back. He was really young back then, he’s not sure how this is one of the few memories he has. He’s grateful, though. For not having lost it. He could see perfectly over her shoulder, above the crowds (This was before she developed the hunch in her back and started to shrink with age. He got her height, she used to tell him.) of people who had begun to gather in the main streets of the trading village not far from their own hovels.

The marketplace square was cleared of carts and vendors, the only remaining peddlers being those who lived in the alleys, but even they seemed a bit brighter with the festivities. All of the space usually filled with a crowd too easy to get lost in was cleared, people instead lining side-streets and upper balconies of homes and shops. He remembers his mother speaking in their native tongue with someone through a door, while the wide mainstreet was still bare and empty. They, and more of his family, had been ushered quickly inside and led to a balcony of their own. Horror knows, because he remembers the way his cousin gripped the railing and tried to climb it the moment they came to a stop. His mother had only laughed at the antics as his uncle nearly keeled over from fright.

Though, it hadn’t taken long for that worry to be overshadowed. It wasn’t a long time at all before something on the street below changed. Horror had been an attentive little child, and he remembers the way that the torches lighting the main plaza had started going dim. He was pretty sure he was the first in the family to notice, even, because their voices still chattered over the visual silence that Horror was experiencing, staring at the darkened street. The sky was dark tonight, clouds even blotting out the moon and stars. Houses had no lights on (he remembered that now, though he hadn’t even thought about it in the moment) and the people below no fire. Even the two fire elementals in town had donned hooded cloaks and dimmed their flames so the faint glow became even less. It was pitch black.

Chk. Chk. Chk. Chsssss.

The noise had echoed down the street like a sudden rain. Voices hushed all in unison, and he was pretty sure that the darkness rippled with the movement of heads all turning the same way he had been staring. The growing darkness.��

Chsssss. Chk. Chk. Chk. Chk.

The lights went dark, one by one, until the street was plunged entirely into darkness. Complete quiet swallowed them all up. The noise was gone. The light was gone. All was gone.

His little fist twisted into his mother’s nice top, little claws pricking at the rough fabric to find purchase. He can still feel the warmth of her hand as it reached up to cover his own. Silent. Caring. Promising he was safe.

He knew he was safe. In fact, the thought of danger had never crossed his mind. Not that this felt exactly like the nights in which the forest would go silent and they would hide away for storms to come, or when raiders would attempt to loot their poor homes and he would tuck away with his cousins into the darkness of their covered store shed. No. This was something exciting. Something new. A darkness that announced itself, like the tail of a rattlesnake.

It was slow-going. His eyelights stayed glued on the street. Maybe his vision was playing tricks on him, there at the start, but he swore he could spot movement. Swift, faster than a person usually was, darting across the open area in patterns that left his head reeling. Had he really seen that flash of dark fur or was he imagining it? He still didn’t know.

Eventually, though, it all came to a head.

The torchlight did not return, nor did the chatter of the crowd. No. A loud shhhwwoooosh of air blasted forward, and just after, a rush of bodies. Well, back then he hadn’t known they were bodies. Flat and rumbling, fur cascading, like the scales of a great beast he’d only heard in stories dotted with a course hide between their joints, it had all at once burst to life. Thundering feet moved in unison as the shapes twisted and turned, only visible thanks to the glow. They were glowing, patterns and symbols atop each one, making the cascade of uniform stomps and shwooshing of fabrics and scraping of wood on wood, mesmerising and utterly captivating.

The sound was not unpleasant. At such a fast speed, these shapes and sounds practically sprinted down the length of the main street. Each jumped and flew between one another like there was no such thing as air at all, a delightful thrumming of feet against cobblestone echoing around between the walls closing them in. Looming over.

He must’ve gasped. Just as they passed by. He doesn’t remember making any noise, but his mother did glance over to him. Her eyelights were dimmed, but his own were bright and energetic with amazement. He caught just a hint of her gentle smile, before she heaved herself forward and off the railing a bit.

From here, Horror could see as the shapes and darkness danced away. Down, down, down. All the way until he couldn’t hear their thumping. Couldn’t see the way their lights glowed. They disappeared like a spectre.

When all was silent again, no one moved. No one looked away from the darkness left behind at the edge of town in its wake. Not until the torches, one by one, flickered back to life.

It couldn’t have been all but maybe five minutes? It had taken longer for his mother to walk to town than to see the festival. He… didn’t complain though. Not like his cousins. Whatever that had been, he would never ever complain about getting the chance to see it.

“I mean…” Killer’s voice pulled him clean out of the memory, the honey’d taste of mead replacing the cold dampness that thought always brought back. “You’re lucky. That town probably didn’ even have a temple to that witch bitch. Got outta the hymns shit.”

Horror blinked down at the table, not even really acknowledging the curses. Something he’d learned remarkably fast since being here? Nobody liked the old King. He’d never known her, not much at all, since his family did their best to stay invisible to her eyes and ears. It hadn’t really bothered him much when the news of the King being Nightmare instead of the crown prince. He wouldn’t have even known anything was wrong if it hadn’t been the only thing the market cared about for a month. …And then the flooding rains that followed.

“Had one…” Horror mumbled out, though he wasn’t sure why he even bothered. “Festival wasn’t… for her. Not allowed.” He explained anyways.

Right. Nim had strict rules about celebrations. Nightmare lifted those a while ago, he thought, but his aunties told him once. That all big parties were supposed to honor that God-King. That’s why they didn’t use music, or fireworks, or lanterns, or anything big and exciting… Horror always thought what they did was better than any of the rest.

Killer seemed to go quiet at that one, though Horror wasn’t looking up from the glass between his hands. Just the two he’d had were unsettling his stomach. He should probably eat something before he goes to bed… but he hated to steal any of the food in here. The Head of House made it all special for Nightmare’s meals. He’s pretty sure there’s stuff for them too, or so he’d been told, but he didn’t like using the nice snacks for his drunken munchies. Maybe he’d offer to cook something quick for the others?

“Damn rulebreakers…” Once again, Killer’s voice was the most prominent in the silence of the darkened kitchen. For a brief moment, Horror wondered if he’d overshared. He didn’t think Killer of all people would- “You have GOT to take us sometime! I need to meet these balls of steel motherfuckers. They’ve gotta be a riot!”

Horror glanced up to him, surprised. (When had he slunk down to weigh his own arms on the counter? When did his glass hit the surface?) Killer was still slumped, chest flat, no doubt uncomfortably squishing his soul up against his ribcage where he lay. Though, now he was grinning at Horror playfully. Of course Killer would want to go to see them just to spit Nim.

Though, could he really blame him? Nim wasn’t part of his life. Not really. Killer seemed to have a personal vendetta against her, though. Something to do with why he was so loyal to the King now, maybe? Horror didn’t really want to pry. He didn’t need to puzzle it out, either. His head hurt even thinking about it.

“I almost… was in it.” He admitted.

Aaaand Killer immediately perked his head up. He even heard Dust hum from beside him where he was perched on a wooden stool he’d pulled up a while ago.

“The big man? Dancing?? Would I have loved to see that!” Killer practically barked the words, lifting his glass in the air. “What stopped you??” He sounded downright incredulous at the thought of Horror trying to get out of something. As far as Killer knew, he was always trying to get in. Into talks on farming, into kitchen duties, and most recently into training with the royal guard.

Horror stared at him in the silence. Killer just stared back.

He sighed, before waving his hand in front of the huge wound in his skull. It seemed his senior had already become just as numb to its presence as he was, because Horror could see the moment it clicked for him. Sockets widening from accusatory squints and mouth forming a great rendition of an ‘o’. It was almost comical. He would’ve laughed, but Dust shook his head disapprovingly and Killer seemed to curl in on himself like a misbehaving dog. It’d be bad to encourage him, even if the reminder didn’t bother him much.

“Sorry big man… stupid question.” Killer admitted loudly.

Horror just shrugged.

“Yer fine.” He replied. “ ‘s a harvest festival. I…” Another moment. “Wonder if the King’d wanna watch.”

A stupid suggestion, maybe, but then again… Then again, he’d never in a hundred years expected to see someone rich visit their little hovels, let alone share a dinner and (attempt) to hold conversation. He’d never expected his mom to ever invite someone like the King of Orchard back for dinner. Open invitation, too.

The King was different. It’d been obvious when he and Killer had showed up at the edge of their village and asked for him and his brother by name. …Of course, that hadn’t gone over too well. The entire group had almost gone into panic mode, but his brother had been nearby and heard the summons, and stupidly walked right up to face the dark and dripping God-King. His logic, later, had been that he was supposed to help run this place whenever mom retired, but it’d still been stupid and reckless to march up to a noble like that. He’d gotten a real lecture after dinner. But before that, somehow, the King managed to calm down his skittish folks and by the time word got to him (he’d been out, sitting with the chickens) the King and Killer were already ushered into the big meal-house and sat down with the elders for a little snack before dinner.

Horror had been able to clear things up, because apparently his brother was trying to translate with his shitty Orchic learning and had only gotten a few key phrases along such as ‘Carrot’, ‘Water’, ‘Sit’, and ‘Shut Up’. That last one wasn’t directed at the king, though. Horror definitely had an accent, but he was best at speaking it, so he was able to translate back and forth. The King had been patient. That was probably what was so different about him.

So, yeah. He didn’t mind suggesting that maybe the King would want to come see this harvest festival in the fall.

Killer didn’t get up immediately this time, but he did seem to roll it around in his skull for a second. The way his skull was tilted, some of the tar-like magic was dripping straight down off his skull. He may have planned for it though, because the drips caught on his own sleeves, soaking into the dingy red fabric covering his forearms.

“Mm. The Lord’s always got some sort of plans for the fall… but he’d probably make an exception if I really put on my best ‘sad face’.” He said matter-of-factly. He shifted himself so his back pressed against the countertop instead, his sockets drooping in a way that seemed unnatural on his usually giddy face. Horror was lucky that he wasn’t being subjected to its direct uncanniness, though. Instead, Killer had positioned himself so that Dust was just before him. “What do you think, Dusty? Do I look pathetic enough?” His tone was quivering in only the way a fake pout could, and he clasped his hands over his chest, just behind his soul- though only for a second, before they shot back to his sides to brace him against the counter.

Dust stared at him. To his credit, he didn’t seem particularly unsettled by Killer’s unfamiliar expression.

“Stick to the smiles.” Was all he replied, voice deadpan.

Apparently, the string tying together his little act was already fraying from the start, because he immediately burst into laugher, throwing himself ‘forward’ and pushing off the counter to stumble to his feet. Back to them, Horror felt himself glance at Dust.

They both shared a knowing look. Killer was definitely going to have a hang-over tomorrow. He only got loose with his bits when he was too far gone. Cooking would probably be off the table if they ever wanted Killer to be up for his duties tomorrow. And… while it wasn’t exactly their job to keep an eye on him, they both seemed on the same page about this one.

“Right… We can ask… tomorrow.” Horror said quietly beneath Killer’s cackling. Though, he was pretty sure the moon had already passed its peak, and Killer might not remember what was even discussed here by sunrise.

Though, he might not either.

He saw Dust nod again.

“Killer.” Dust said into the mess of fading hyena-laughs. When it elicited no response, he tried again. “Killer.”

Horror never expected anything to happen when Dust did this. The slight change in his tone of voice always felt like an impatient mother’s words when their child is misbehaving, and everything in him always assumed that Killer would hear it and insist that Dust fuck off… and yet he seemed to enjoy the shift. Like a sign that he had caused enough trouble to get a rise out of Dust.

As usual, Killer seemed to perk up at the sound of his name being called that second time and he sighed. A wistful glance at his cup, discarded and empty on the counter between them.

Horror was already moving before he realized he was doing it, picking up Killer’s glass and dropping it into the sink, just next to where he set his own a second later. Dust appeared shortly by his side to deposit his, but was gone just as quick.

“Take… water.” Horror called lowly over his shoulder before he twisted the tap.

The magic embedded in this castle was… nice. Something special. Nothing like the well they used back home, where they had to walk anytime they needed to drink, working up the thirst all over again. Here he could just pluck a new cup from the cabinet and hold it under the spigot above the sink, and wait for water to come rushing to him. He wasn’t embarrassed at how in awe he had been the first time he spotted the tub and sink in his own bathroom when he first arrived.

When he spun around, he noticed that Killer was already moving out of the door to the hall. Escaping at the mere mention of diluting his current inebriation.

Lucky for him, it looked like Dust was still in here. Waiting for him.

Horror sighed and handed off the glass gingerly, careful not to bump into Dust’s bones. (He’d done it once, by mistake. The guy had a lot of static shock.) Dust took it carefully.

“He’ll drink.” Dust muttered, as though a determined command to the skeleton who had already fled the scene. Honestly, Horror was impressed that Dust was already so willing to hunt down their superior, supposedly with the intention of making him down a glass of water for his own good.

“Thanks.” Horror muttered. And he was still similarly surprised to find that, even just a bit buzzed, he cared enough that the effort made him warm and fuzzy inside.

Dust bobbed his skull, a few times now, though he wasn’t looking at Horror as he turned away, towards that door.

“Night, Horror.” Dust said shortly.

“Night, Dust.” Horror returned.

He waited, listening for the door to swing gently closed and the latch to click against the frame. Dust’s steps never made any sound, no matter how hard he listened.

Only when he was sure that Dust was long gone, did he hunch over the sink, planting his elbows on either side of the basin before him.

While he was pretty sure the staff didn’t actually mind their jobs all that much, Horror just couldn’t stop himself. In all the months he’d stayed here, being pampered and treated like a proper guest, he couldn’t bring himself to not clean his plates when the chance showed itself. Whenever he left his platters on the table in the mess halls, or in the dining room after meetings, or even snack plates in the lounge, it felt wrong. He could practically hear his mother’s disapproving voice calling him from across the farm, wondering aloud if he was going to grow up to be a rotten boy and a lousy husband.

He chuckled quietly to himself.

Those sorts of calls had ended years ago. Or, his name never proceeded the curse accusations. Not after he got his skull caved in. He thought he remembered his mother crying when he couldn’t hold a glass steady enough in his hand to drink from it. He’d accidentally dropped it on his front, the cold water leaking between his ribs making him deeply uncomfortable, but he hadn’t moved to do anything about it. Couldn’t figure out how. Just sat there until someone wrestled the shirt off his back and laid a blanket over him. He’s pretty sure they just ended up pouring water into his mouth themselves, and he was lucky he remembered how to swallow. Even when he started walking around again, relearning how to talk and do chores, they never really gave him the hard ones. And apparently, dishes were some of the hardest ones. He’d always forget he even had a plate and just… wander off.

He set the last clean glass to the side of the sink with a little grunt. He’d come a long way since then.

He twisted the nozzle on the sink until the water quieted itself and he was left alone in the private kitchen with nothing but his own sorry thoughts, some damp glasses, and wet hands… Damn he needed to sleep.

With that thought crossing through his head, Horror twisted himself away from the cleaned dishes and lumbered past the counter where he had been sitting not minutes before, listening to two former criminals talk about all sorts of shit, then through the door to the hall, making sure it clicked safely shut in his wake. The castle didn’t like when doors were left open.

#new age au #Yeaahhh baby! Horror-pov!! Maybe- maybe for the first time ever???#I feel like I've done it once before #but I am also probably very incorrect lmao #This guy is so funny #especially writing him being stuck in a conversation with Killer Dust and himself. Killer is the ONLY yapper present and Killer also expect #people to respond to him because that's how he is #Horror can't think of answers fast enough and Dust just responds shortly because that's how he talks. So these #few nights where Killer invites them for drinks are usally spent with him non-stop storytelling! Which is great usually. Until he eventuall #gets to the trauma lol. He only dolls out a little bit this time :]#Okay enough commentary! This one is only deep if I feel like it and I feel EEPY #night y'all!#Oh wait. no editing as usual. This one is fresh off the press #(Also the reason I wrote this one is because I needed to finish something and the part 4 outline is 7 pages long JUST form outline notes. S #yeag. not happening in one night lmao-)

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dr-drckken · 3 days ago

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@oswaldxmarks

It took Drakken less than ten minutes to get everything back in order. The wire was a bit fussy, making him have to flinch away a few times when it shocked his fingers as he touched the interior rather than the safety of rubber (or whatever the Time Lord technological equivalent was), but he manged. He knew how to take care of his beloved ship, just as she would take care of him, too.

The same could not be said for his companion. By the time she was given her voice back to warn the doctor, it was too late. As soon as the wiring was back in place the warnings blared to life, the sound so sudden and loud it had Drakken flinching. He hit his head trying to move out from under the console, grumbling to himself as he crawled away until he could get on his knees, one arm up on the control panel to help him sit up to see the monitors.

WARNING! ALERT! WARNING!, they read, before telling him the issue. It was the same anomaly as before, the one that Fisk had planted. Which meant–

His head snapped, eyes darting around the room for– "Oswald?"

Drakken pushed himself up, slamming his palm down on the button that would put an end to the alarm's insistent noise. He waited. Only the familiar whirring of the TARDIS answered him. "Oswald!"

Again, he waited. When his companion did not reply he shoved himself away from the console, running down the corridor that Oswald had just walked down not fifteen minutes ago. There was a nagging in his head, a sinking in his stomach. Drakken ignored them, instead pushing his pace faster until he was slamming shoulder first into the wall beside the door to Oswald's room. He barely waited for them to fwip open, using his hands to shove them out of his way and barrel into the room.

He called the human's name with more desperation than had ever entered the Time Lord's vocal chords in all his lives, searching the quarters aimlessly. Empty spaces were all that he could find.

From the bed, the suitcase watched him.

Finally, chest heaving and brain spinning with no traction, as if he could feel its eyes on him Drakken turned to meet its gaze. He took slow steps toward it, fingers readjusting on his multitool as he started to point it toward the luggage. But he couldn't bring himself to press the button. To get the scan. To get the confirmation that it was the imposter, the trap. He lowered his arm again as he found himself at the edge of the bed, the fabric of his coat brushing the mattress. Drakken grabbed the handle of the bag.

Then he looked up, blinking, an idea sparking in his brain. He turned, running back out to the control room. The suit case was set down and he hauled a monitor over to himself, punching in buttons, breathing harshly from panic and exertion alike, hope simmering for a moment until–

A dot blinked on the screen. Drakken's dark eyes stared at it.

There was Oswald.

His location was right there on display. Telling Drakken exactly where he was, and that it was impossible for the doctor to go get him. For all that the TARDIS could do, it couldn't reach him inside another universe that had been sealed away. Not if he didn't want to destroy everything in the process. Even if that's what he felt like doing in that moment, he turned his head to look over his shoulder at that bag. How easy it would be to pop it open and let the disruption take everyone and everything out with them. He couldn't even go back in time to stop it from happening either because it had happened on the TARDIS, and he couldn't land the TARDIS in the TARDIS without causing more dimensional problems. Nor could he go back in time and stop it from happening either in the space station where Oswald had picked up the suit case, or on Fisk's ship, without causing a disruption that might also jeopardize the universe and all those who resided in it since it involved himself.

He let out a slow, stuttery breath before looking back to the screen where Oswald's biosignature remained and felt the weight of the human's lifetime settle around him. A minute passed. Another. And another. Each one seemed harder than the last to get through, slower than the one before it despite them each sharing the same amount of seconds. They grew into four minutes, then ten. Drakken continued to look at the screen because this is what his life was going to be now– an agonizing amount of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades that he was supposed to have with Oswald, now void of him but for this one little light and some memories. He rested the heels of his hands on the console, his head hanging forward, eyes shut tight as he tried not to let the sudden ache knock him to his knees. How was he supposed to survive like this? Knowing that every single second of a half a dozen more regenerations was going to feel like this? He was surprised one hadn't started yet, because it had the same feeling of one, of an end he couldn't escape.

Guilt ate away at him. For having not checked the bag, at having taken Fisk aboard, at having brought Oswald to the terminal earlier, at having met Oswald at all. If he hadn't, then the human would be back home. Safe and sound. Both of them spared this fate.

For all the technological advances he had, all the brain power, all the experience of many lives lived, and he couldn't do anything? No. He couldn't accept failure. It was not in his nature to even acknowledge such a thing. He would find a solution. He wouldn't stop until he had it in his hands, until his companion was back where he belonged. Where Drakken could hear his laugh and see his mocking smile and– not having to regret so much because he hadn't been able to realize that he didn't have to defend himself against Oswald like he had in the past. Because it had backfired now, the human having gone and torn both of Drakken's hearts out with him.

Then anger, as it always did, began to rise from that pit within. It slid over the despair and heart break to cover the fissures that were threatening to crack him open. Hot and volatile, black and sticky as tar. Drakken picked his head up, needing a place to aim his rage. He knew exactly who to blame for this, and where to find him. After all, Drakken had just dropped him off.

And without Oswald's kind voice of reason, soft hand of patience, and humanity there to talk him out of it, there was nothing standing in Drakken's way of ripping Fisk apart until his atoms were spread across this universe.

And who knew what would become of the doctor after that. Only time would tell.

A Worst Case Scenario || Blue Bug [Trope Extravaganza]

#title: (a worst case scenario)#ch: (oswald marks)#(blue bug)#trope extravaganza #and roll the credits <3 #woooo #put under a read more just because it's long lmfao #thank you for sticking with me on this!!!

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nenoname · 6 months ago

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ford hiding and being self conscious about his hands

(+ him using it to his advantage)

#gravity falls #ford pines #stanford pines #stan pines #stanley pines #someone pointed out him curling up his fingers when shaking that guy's hand years ago #and it's been impossible to ignore ever since....#i wonder how much of it is subconscious habit at this point #i wonder if stan copied it when he was doing twin switches with him #i wonder how much it pissed him off that the world made ford so ashamed of it despite his attempts to embrace this aspect of himself

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mohammedmtargaza · 4 months ago

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Imagine this:

Hello! Have you ever heard of a "city of the dead"?

It's a place where the living reside, but they're dead! They're doomed to die, either quickly through direct targeting or slowly due to the absence of vitality in their city

Wherever you turn, you find nothing but death, displacement, homelessness, destruction, hunger, thirst, ignorance, disease, and rampant infection.

It's my city! It was fully with life until the butchers passed through it! Since the beginning of the massacres, I've been struggling to save myself and my family.

I am Mohammed from Gaza I’m sharing my story with hope in my heart, because your kindness has already given us so much strength.

a 31-year-old living amidst the war in Gaza, a place deeply affected by conflict and hardship. I hold a Bachelor degree in Medical Laboratory Sciences , I graduated with very good But Unfortunately, I did not get a job opportunity.

my family

Before the outbreak of war, my family and I had a comfortable life in our beautiful home filled with cherished memories. However, since the conflict began, our lives have been turned upside down. We now find ourselves living in a small tent, exposed to the harsh elements and constant threat of violence.

Our home, which once embraced us, is now destroyed It became a remembrance

👉 Watch the video

A picture of me and my family in front of our destroyed house.

👉Our house was bombed in the 2008 escalation and we built it, and also in the 2014 escalation the house was destroyed again and we rebuilt it, and in this 2023/2024 war the house was also destroyed.

Every time we start again, the Israeli occupation destroys us again

Life is unbearable. It has become hell for us. destruction, no education, no future

We can't stand it anymore

The situation here is dire. Food and basic necessities are scarce, and famine and malnutrition have become rampant. Our lives are hanging by a thread, and we fear for the safety and well-being of our children every single day.

The cost of living here has become extremely high. All of our resources are going towards securing food and trying to escape from disaster, desperately seeking a lifeline.

We are yearning to escape this nightmare and rebuild our lives in a safe place.

However, the cost of traveling to a safer area was beyond our means.

Each ticket cost $5000 per person,

a sum that was impossible for us to bear. Now, the border crossing is closed, and things continue to worsen.

We want to collect donations to leave Gaza if the crossing opens

That's why I am reaching out to you, dear friends. Your generosity and compassion can make all the difference for me and my family. Your donations will enable us to flee this war-torn region and start anew, away from the horrors of conflict and instability.

How You Can Help Us Cross the Finish Line Even the smallest act of kindness can make a difference:

$5 may seem small, but for us, it’s a little relief, a moment of comfort, and a reminder that kindness still exists. ❤️

Can’t donate? Reblog this post to help us reach someone who can. Every share matters more than you know.

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #533 )✅️

verified by @bilal-sala7 ✅️ ( #36 )

With all my love and gratitude

Mohammed and family

Donation Link

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seafoam-taide · 10 months ago

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I love love love my dear Entropy I think about her all the time I love her <33 I have to write about her she is always in my thoughts. Don't click these tags open unless you really want to read them there is . There's lots. THERE WERE TOO MANY IT KILLED SOME OF THEM. WHY DIDN'T IT TELL ME TAG LIMIT I KEPT TYPUNG !!! That's so sad and I can't even put the rest that I typed up here bc I forgot it already because my brain fucking sucks. Whatever whatever whatever rahggg beams Entropy thoughts directly into your brain you know exactly what I mean now

#tide of consciousness #Trying to figure out if my obsession with fucked up scientists right now is because I am thinking of her all the time #Or if I'm thinking of her all the time because of my obsession with fucked up scientists right now #Much akin to ouroboros the end is the beginning and all that #I've been so distraught over the fact that she's not even supposed to be a character in the story #That I nearly forgot I can just make a different story about her ^^ so I write #Oc: Entropy.#Idk man just look upon the face of the unfathomable adversity and impossible reality and destroy yourself trying to flee #She's got so many problems all of them mine all of them hers to deal with and mine to ignore 👍#Literally I'll go ohhh wow that's a new fucked up brain thing I just realized I do.#👉 Go in the Entropy. That's Not My Problem now #She can figure it out #I like to imagine that all situations and people around her are exceedingly normal while she's going insane #She could be in a room full of people with normal lives and she would just sit there and think about The Problems #She's like if you went too deep in your head and then never left. She looks like 😑 and inside her brain she's spiraling into infinity #What if it all felt pointless and fake and none of it felt worth it and then you got express confirmation that those are not just feelings #And are in fact true and real . I mean she never gets that confirmation she just happens to be right and since nothing ever opposes this #Point of view she never thinks to question it and she has no friends or close family and she doesn't talk to anyone #So she just lives in this reality that is true and oh my god she wants out so bad but it's true? It's just real? And she can't can't can't #:)) she's so fine . She's so fineohhhh dot mention #And she keeps coming up with ways to fix this and finding things that feel like escapes #But in the end it all only makes it worse because she's incapable of existing in any way other then digging that hole deeper #She HAS to chase it she HAS to push it she HAS to break it she will always always always keep digging that hole.#It's predestined it's predetermined the outcome existed before she existed there is no other choice but to keep going #And the funny thing is she never realizes that everything she ever does to try to stop this predetermined SOMETHING #That she is only VAGUELY aware of #Is only ever going to bring her closer to it anyway. The only way for it to stop is for her to stop existing #Except that's not it either and she doesn't want that anyway. There is no other choice #Her every step is defined by this end point and always will be and always has been and it's haunting her so fucking bad #She wants to live so bad and she wants to die so bad but she doesn't want to die at all but to live is to exist

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autism-corner · 10 months ago

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the horrors shouldnt affect me. im literally a blond guy.

#guy is forced to remember what overstimulation without a way to handle it does to him #my brother has speakers with a loud bass that is. impossible to ignore.#so it grinds into my bones and i cant ever escape them.#and when i DID find something that worked my brain decided to 'be funny'#sillyposting #ooooh its been so long since this horror has been so strongg its awfull #=3= we cope. (<- they are NOT coping)#at least were not making it worse =w=bb surely listening to the horrors doesnt have lasting effects.#i hate this baka life.

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i2sunric · 19 days ago

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𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 (l.hs)

p.s. ─────── ୨ৎ ────── i already did

PAIRING: boss!heeseung x employee!reader (f)

SUMMARY: who knew an email sent in a moment of range could spark a burning desire between you and your boss?

WARNINGS: 95% smut 5% plot. fingering, dirty talk, reader is burnout, semi public sex, oral (m receiving), blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), sex while on the phone, pool sex (not really narrated), missionary, riding, creampie, office sex; fluff, established relationship, reader wears a tiny bikini, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 28th April 2025

WC: 9.4k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @princesstiti14

a/n: i’m so fucking sleepy i just wan to go to bed but hey! i’ve been dead on this app for sometime so lemme drop this. hope y’all like it and please LIKE & REBLOG to share + lmk your thoughts 🩷🩷 (enjoy my calligraphy in the picture).

It was one of those days.

The kind where your inbox filled up faster than you could breathe, the phones wouldn’t stop ringing, and the breakroom coffee had been left to die a slow, cold death in the pot since 8 a.m.

You hadn’t even had a chance to take more than two sips of yours— barely enough to take the edge off the brutal headache crawling behind your eyes.

Noon had come and gone, and your lunch sat forgotten in your drawer, untouched and already lukewarm.

You rubbed at your temples as you stared at the latest email that had just come in from her again— your personal tormentor for the past three weeks.

Mrs. Kim.

There she was, requesting the same impossible order you had already refused.

Not once. Not twice. Eight goddamn times.

You counted them.

You explained patiently and then less patiently that the items she wanted were discontinued, had been discontinued for two fiscal years now, and were no longer in the company’s catalogue.

You linked her to alternatives. You CC’d the product manager. You called her, even, and yet here she was again—

"Dear,

Following up again. I don't understand why this is taking so long. I’m requesting the original order from 2021. Can you process this today?"

That was it. The last thread of your patience snapped.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, possessed, every keystroke a satisfying clack of indignation.

You didn’t care.

You were soaked in stress and caffeine and the fading hope of ever having a quiet afternoon.s

"Mrs. Kim,

For the last time: we do not carry that product anymore. I have told you this eight times. Eight. I don’t know if you’re ignoring me on purpose or just incapable of reading full sentences, but either way, I’m not wasting any more time repeating myself. Maybe go get yourself checked.

You are welcome to refer to the updated catalogue I sent you four emails ago. If that’s too difficult, I’d be more than happy to point you to someone who does have time to coddle unreasonable requests.

Kindly, please, stop emailing me about this.

— Y/N"

You clicked "Send" with a sense of righteous satisfaction.

A victorious breath left your lungs as you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later that you saw the reply ping.

And then you saw who it was from.

Lee Heeseung

— Re: Mrs. Kim order.

Your blood turned to ice.

You forgot.

You completely forgot about the BCC—the default blind courtesy copy to your boss, a setting meant for transparency, accountability, and gentle professional oversight.

You’d set it up months ago during performance review season and then never gave it a second thought.

You clicked on the thread like you were opening your own coffin lid.

"Hi Y/N

Well… that was certainly a passionate response.

I think she noted on the product being discontinued.

Let’s circle back to this client later. maybe I can take over if needed.

For now, step away from your inbox and grab a coffee. Deep breaths. :)

— Heeseung"

Your stomach dropped so fast it might as well have hit the basement.

He didn’t even sound mad. That was the worst part. There wasn’t a single reprimand, not even a passive-aggressive comment.

He was giving you a chance to fix it yourself.

You stared at the screen for another full minute, then slowly stood, your legs weak as you grabbed your employee badge and took the elevator upstairs.

The executive floor was always eerily quiet compared to the chaos below.

Carpeted hallways absorbed all sound, and the scent of fresh espresso floated from the machine that Heeseung insisted on using himself every morning— never the breakroom sludge.

You walked past the glass meeting rooms, the sleek decor, until you reached the wide double doors that marked his corner office.

You paused. Knocked.

"Come in," came the voice. low, smooth, always relaxed in a way that somehow made it more intimidating.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, trying to keep your posture from crumpling into guilt.

Heeseung sat behind his desk, blazer off, sleeves rolled, laptop open. His eyes flicked up to you.

"Hey," he said, not unkindly. "Surprised you didn’t run straight to the fire escape."

You swallowed. “I… I’m so sorry, sir.”

His brow arched slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the edge of the desk.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just waited, giving you enough silence to make your own words echo back at you.

“I didn’t mean for it to go out like that,” you rushed, nervous now, your throat tight. “I was just so— so overwhelmed, and she’s been driving me insane for weeks, and I know that’s no excuse, I just… I completely forgot the BCC was still on. I wasn’t trying to be unprofessional… well, okay, I was, a little, but I didn’t mean for you to see it, and that’s not better, I know, but—”

"Take a breath," he interrupted gently.

You did.

Inhale. Exhale.

He tilted his head, looking at you with a calm you were desperately trying to borrow.

"You clearly didn’t mean for me to see it," he said with a hint of dry humor. "That was obvious by the way you said, ‘incapable of reading full sentences.’"

You winced. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry, that was… I was just frustrated.”

"Yeah, I got that part loud and clear." He smiled faintly. "You know, if you’d added one more insult, I think the server might’ve flagged your email as harassment."

You dropped your face into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He laughed quietly.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was soft. Understanding.

Which only made the heat crawl up your neck worse.

"I’m not mad," he said, and you looked up, cautiously.

He stood, walking slowly around the desk to lean against the edge.

His arms folded casually across his chest as he looked at you.

"I’ve seen worse. Much worse. Hell, I’ve sent worse. You’re not the first employee to lose it on a client who doesn’t listen, and I doubt you’ll be the last."

"That doesn’t make it okay," you murmured.

"No, it doesn’t. But it makes it human. And it tells me you care enough to be pissed.”

That surprised you. You blinked up at hiem.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I don’t need perfection. I need people whoho get frustrated when things go wrong. But I also need people who can recognize when they’ve gone too far and come up to say what you just did."

You looked at the floor. “Still… I should’ve handled it better. She might report me.”

"She might," he agreed, not sugarcoating it. "But I’ll handle it if she does. I’ve got your back."

You swallowed hard. His voice was calm, but firm. Final. He meant it.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "Really."

"You’re welcome. And hey…" He pushed off the desk, walking toward the espresso machine behind him. "You didn’t have lunch yet, did you?"

Your stomach growled traitorously. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

"Didn’t think so. I’m ordering in. You’re having a rough day, so I’ll let you pick the place."

You blinked at him. “Are you… rewarding me for that email?”

He smirked. "No. I’m rewarding you for surviving the week without quitting or combusting, consider it a boss’s mercy."

You laughed, finally, the tension bleeding from your shoulders.

He handed you his phone with the food apps already open, the glow of the screen warm against your palm.

And as you scrolled through the options, still feeling the flush of embarrassment under your skin, you thought— maybe it wasn’t the worst day after all.

☆.

Today was the worst day.

It had already gone to hell by the time it hit 6:45 p.m.

You were the last person left on your floor. again.

The office was a graveyard of abandoned coffee cups and empty swivel chairs, the windows dim with evening light as the sun dragged itself under the horizon.

Everyone else had mysteriously developed urgent appointments or nonexistent deadlines that somehow meant they couldn’t stay late to help with the mountain of archival reports dumped unceremoniously onto your desk.

You were hungry.

Tired.

Your back ached from leaning over outdated filing codes, and your fingers were permanently smudged with printer toner and dust.

Your last message in the team group chat asking “anyone still around to help scan the last batch?” had been left on read.

Of course it had.

You swore under your breath, stuffing another stack into the ancient office printer that had already groaned at you three times.

The stupid thing was older than your internship

. It made this grinding, death-rattle sound every time you asked it to scan anything double-sided. You were halfway through cursing at it when the overhead lights flickered once.

Twice.

And then the power cut out completely.

A sharp click of darkness. Then silence.

You stood frozen in place, fingers still on the edge of a document feeder. A beat passed. Then another.

You stared into the void, blinking, the only sound the faint tik-tik-tik of the unplugged printer slowly powering down like it was dying dramatically in your arms.

You sighed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You waited. Surely the backup would kick in.

It didn’t.

The battery emergency lights flicked on around the hallway, casting everything in a soft red glow like the inside of a submarine.

Your entire floor looked apocalyptic.

It would’ve been funny if you weren’t thirty pages away from finishing and aching to get home.

"This is so stupid," you muttered to yourself. You paced around your desk, cracked your knuckles, and then, because the universe clearly had it out for you, tripped slightly on a cable.

You whirled around, eyes narrowing at the printer like it had personally insulted your intelligence.

You weren’t usually violent, but something about the whole day had ignited a very specific brand of frustration in your chest— the kind that made you want to break things. Or cry. Or both.

So when the lights buzzed for a brief second and the printer beeped at you with a snide error code for the fifth time in a row, you snapped.

“Alright, you boxy little demon,” you hissed. “Let’s dance.”

You kicked it.

You meant it to be symbolic. A warning. An expression of just how done you were.

Unfortunately, your foot caught the corner of the machine.

And because karma is very real and very punctual, your boot slid awkwardly through the paper tray, lodging itself inside the machine with a humiliating clunk.

“Shit,” you whispered, staggering forward and grabbing the desk for balance. “No, no— come on.”

You tugged. Nothing.

You yanked harder..

“Are you kidding me?” you groaned, now bent awkwardly sideways over the printer, one foot completely jammed in the lower tray, arms flailing for something to grab.

The evil machine wobbled, and you grabbed it to keep from tipping it over, your hair falling into your face as you tried to wiggle your leg free.

The overhead lights snapped back on all at once.

Power returned with an electric hum.

Machines came alive. Computers rebooted.

The lights flickered to life overhead like judgmental gods bearing witness.

And at that exact moment, you heard a door open down the hall.

You froze.

Slow footsteps. Leather shoes on carpet.

You knew that walk. You’d memorized it over the last few months without meaning to— those long, easy strides. That quiet confidence.

Lee Heeseung.

Of course he was still here. Of course he chose now to emerge from his corner office.

You tried to untangle yourself, but the paper tray refused to budge, your boot stuck in such a cursed angle you briefly considered removing your entire leg.

Heeseung’s voice was much too close when he finally spoke.

“…Am I interrupting something?”

You froze, eyes wide.

You didn’t even need to look at him to hear the amusement dripping off every syllable.

“I—” You cleared your throat. “No. I mean, yes. I mean— I’m fine.”

you finally risked a glance up… and there he was, standing a few feet away in his usual dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, tie loose, a sleek laptop tucked under one arm.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that was just unfair. And he was smiling. Very clearly trying not to laugh, but smiling.

“Should I even ask how this happened?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the situation.

You, half-folded over a printer like a modern art sculpture. One foot swallowed alive by outdated office equipment.

You groaned and dropped your head against the top of the machine. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He chuckled under his breath, moving forward. “Alright.”

Your head snapped up. “Really? You’re not gonna ask why I did this?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s clear you have some anger management issues.”

You blinked at him. Well, he ain’t wrong.

He crouched down beside the printer, setting his laptop carefully on the floor. “Let me take a look, don’t move.”

“Oh yeah,” you deadpanned. “I’ve got so many options.”

He shot you a grin. “Careful. Keep being cute and I might leave you here.”

You flushed, instantly. “Sorry, Sir.”

“What?” he said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just saying, I’ve never had an employee try to merge with office machinery before. It’s a new milestone.”

You buried your face in your hands as he gently maneuvered the paper tray open from the opposite side, humming softly to himself.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “I see the problem.”

“Is it me?”

“Mostly.” He grinned, grabbing onto the corner of the tray and wiggling it slightly. “But also, this machine is trash. You were absolutely justified in assaulting it.”

You bit back a laugh. “Don’t tell HR.”

“HR’s gone home. And besides, I’m the one you report to.”

You paused. “So you’re saying I could commit minor office crimes and get away with it?”

He glanced up at you from under his lashes, dark eyes amused. “I’m saying if anyone’s going to report you, it won’t be me.”

The tray finally released with a snap, and your boot came free all at once, nearly sending you toppling backward. Heeseung caught your arm before you could fall, his grip warm and steady.

“There we go,” he said, helping you balance. “Foot intact?”

“Barely,” you mumbled, brushing your hair out of your face. You looked down at your scuffed boot, then back up at him. “I think we might need a new printer.”

He smirked. “I think you need a break.”

You hesitated. The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Because he was right.

You’d been drowning lately, taking on every overflow task, every weekend shift, picking up the slack whenever someone else dropped the ball.

You hadn’t complained. Not out loud.

But your body was exhausted, your head full of static, and your foot was living proof that you were about five seconds from completely losing your mind.

Heeseung must’ve seen it in your face, because his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You don’t have to keep doing everything on your own.”

You looked away. “It’s fine. Everyone’s busy. I can handle it.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

There was a silence. A long one. He stepped a little closer.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said softly. “Not in a creepy way— just… I see how hard you work. How you take on more than you’re asked to, how you stay late every night, even when it’s not your responsibility. You think that goes unnoticed?”

You swallowed. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he said. “You don’t have to burn yourself out to prove you belong here.”

The words hung between you, heavy and warm and real.

You finally looked up at him and found him already watching you, his gaze steady, thoughtful.

You felt something in your chest shift. Something small, quiet, and undeniable.

Heeseung smiled gently. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner, you’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “You’re bribing me with food.”

“I’m rescuing you from this cursed printer,” he corrected. “It’s part of the job description.”

You laughed, a real one this time, and let him lead you away from the graveyard of scanned archives and haunted machinery.

His hand brushed yours as you walked side by side out of the office, and neither of you moved away.

☆.

You hadn’t expected anything beyond some greasy takeout and maybe a few jokes to soften the edge of your embarrassment.

But somewhere between the second round of dumplings and Heeseung trying to guess what playlist you put on when you're really mad, something shifted.

You found yourself laughing more easily than you had in weeks.

He was funny in a sly, dry sort of way— casual but sharp, with this low warmth in his voice that made everything he said sound like it had a double meaning.

Not that he was flirting.

Not exactly.

But there was something in the way his eyes lingered on yours a second too long after every shared joke, something in the way his thumb brushed too casually along the rim of his cup when you took a sip of yours and left a glossed fingerprint behind

And you weren’t exactly not leaning in when he talked.

When you came back to the building, it was after an hour, There was a kind of stillness that made your footsteps echo across the marble floors and made the flicker of vending machine lights look cinematic.

He’d offered, half-jokingly, to let you finish up your work in his office, because his A/C actually functioned, and his desk chair didn’t creak like it was on the verge of collapse.

You said yes. Obviously.

Heeseung unlocked his door and held it open for you.

His office smelled faintly like citrus, due to the candle lit in the corner, and something a little woodsy, probably the cologne that clung to his shirtsleeves.

The overhead lights were dimmed low, and the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk stretched out into the city, glittering in the dark.

You stepped in and paused, suddenly aware that you were somewhere very personal. It was tidy, precise.

You turned to thank him, but he was already watching you from the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

“Take the desk,” he said, smiling softly. “I won’t even be mad if you kick it.”

You smirked and dropped your bag onto the guest chair. “Don’t tempt me.”

He moved past you, loosening his tie the rest of the way and tossing it onto the coat rack.

The click of his laptop followed, and then music— something R&B and low enough that it almost felt like background noise to the silence around you.

You settled behind his desk, relishing the cool burst of air from the functioning A/C vent. The chair was absurdly comfortable.

You kicked off your boots and leaned back with a soft sigh of relief.

“Better?” he asked from his corner.

You nodded. “Miles better. I might not leave.”

He raised a brow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

There it was again— that something.

just enough weight behind the words to make you pause. His voice had dropped half a note lower.

You reached for the folder you’d been working on earlier that you brought there, suddenly conscious of the faint buzz under your skin.

You tried to focus on your work, but your mind kept slipping.

The room was warm now, and so was the space between you, too heavy with something unsaid. Every glance he gave you seemed a little longer, like he was debating something in real time.

You looked up from the folder and found him leaning against the edge of the window, arms folded, watching you.

“You’re different when you’re not in the middle of a crisis,” he said.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re quieter, but in a good way. Like you finally have room to breathe.”

Your heart gave a small, unwanted flutter. “Is that your way of saying I’m usually too stressed out to function?”

“No.” He stepped closer. “It’s my way of saying I like seeing you like this.”

The space between you collapsed by inches.

He was standing just on the other side of the desk now, one hand resting lightly on the polished wood, eyes locked on yours.

The city lights outside were a soft blur behind him. Your breath caught, stuck in your chest.

“Heeseung…” you started, uncertain. Because somewhere between fries and dumplings, he gave uou the green light to call him by his first name.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” he said softly, cutting you off without force. “But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about this… about you.”

You swallowed. The tension had shifted into something tangible now.

It pooled in your belly, a tightness threaded with heat. You felt it in the curl of your toes against the carpet, in the quick, darting beat of your pulse.

“I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it,” you murmured.

“You weren’t.”

You stood slowly, the chair gliding back with a soft scrape.

He didn’t touch you yet.

“I meant what I said,” he said, voice low and even. “I’ve seen how much you carry. You work so damn hard, and no one ever makes space for you to just be. I want to do that, even if it’s just for tonight.”

There was something deeply sincere in his voice. Like this wasn’t just wanted. It was something more careful. Something he’d been holding back.

You stepped into his space, breathing shallow, and said, “Then show me.”

The moment he touched you, it was with a reverence that made your knees weak.

His fingers grazed your jaw, tilting your face up.

He paused, just long enough to make sure— long enough to let you lean in first. And when you did, he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting.

His mouth was warm and slow against yours, lips parting gently, breath mingling. His hands found your waist, grounding and sure, pulling you closer.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt, the soft cotton warm from his skin. He deepened the kiss gradually, coaxing you into it, tasting the hesitation out of your mouth until you melted into him.

When you finally broke apart, you were breathless.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “Still okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not done.”

He walked you backward toward the desk, hands steady on your waist, until you were pressed against the wood.

He kissed your neck softly, then more deliberately, leaving a slow trail to your collarbone as his hands skimmed under the hem of your blouse.

You gasped when his fingers touched your skin, warm and unhurried, exploring every inch like he wanted to memorize it.

You reached for his belt, nerves trembling with anticipation.

He caught your wrist gently “Let me take care of you,” he said, voice like velvet.

You nodded.

He moved with purpose now, pulling your blouse off with a soft sound of approval, eyes dark as they raked over you.

He leaned you back over his desk, fingers gliding down your hips, lifting you slightly onto the surface. The wood was cool under your thighs, the air sharp against your skin.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

His mouth returned to yours with renewed urgency, hands trailing over every curve, every line, until you were sighing against him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally undressed you fully, it wasn’t rushed.

It was deliberate. Worshipful.

He pressed kisses to the inside of your thighs, your hips, your ribs, like he was chasing every sigh that left your mouth.

And when his hands finally slipped lower, when his fingers teased and stroked and coaxed you into a slow, building pleasure, you arched under him, gasping his name.

“Heeseung— oh—”

He smirked, slipping a finger inside you, and then a second one.

You were so worked up already, your thighs trembling around his waist as he pressed kisses on your neck.

“Fuck,” you sighed, “Faster.”

“Milady.” he complied, hurrying his fingers, curling them right where you needed them.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Let me hear you, let go.”

And you did.

You came undone with your back arched off his desk and his name on your lips.

Later, as he tucked you into his chair with your shirt back on and a glass of water in your hand, he knelt beside you, brushing your hair gently from your face.

“Still okay?” he asked again, voice soft.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “Whatever happens after this— I want to be the one who makes space for you.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I think you already are.”

☆.

It had started with an email. And it continued with an email now too.

You were half-conscious, running on your second cup of coffee and buried in quarterly reports, when your inbox pinged with that familiar chime.

Most emails in your morning queue were mind-numbing— reminders from admin, updates on broken copy machines, requests to “circle back” on things that no one ever wanted to circle forward in the first place.

But this one was from Heeseung.

The subject line read:

urgent file request – please review ASAP

Your stomach twisted the way it always did now when his name popped up on your screen. A quiet, breathless little flip.

You clicked it open, expecting a report or some scanned doc he wanted reviewed.

Instead, you found:

From: Lee Heeseung

To: You

Subject: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Can you come to my office and check if the file I’m thinking about is tucked between your thighs?

Might need to examine it closely.

Very closely.

– H.

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Heat rushed to your cheeks and your neck as you jerked your head up— he was in his office, of course.

Glass walls, the blinds open. He was pretending to be on a call, holding the phone to his ear, nodding, totally composed.

But when your eyes met his, he winked.

The phone probably wasn’t even on.

You sunk a little lower in your chair, your thighs tightening automatically.

That look he gave you set off a ripple down your spine.

It had been three weeks since the first time he pulled you across that desk and showed you just how good things could feel.

Since then, everything between you had changed.

You still worked. Still got things done.

but now, when he passed by your desk, he let his fingers brush your shoulder a little too casually. When he asked you to stay late for “filing,” the door always locked behind you. And now, apparently, he was taking it to email.

You typed back before you could second-guess it:

From: You

To: Lee Heeseung

Subject: RE: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Sorry, that file is confidential. You’ll have to check with your hands. or tongue.

I’m available in five.

— Y/N

You slipped into his office with a folder in your hands purely for cover.

He was seated behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The city glared behind him in the afternoon light, and his laptop was open— but he barely glanced at it when you stepped inside.

He leaned back, dark eyes dragging over you from head to toe.

“Lock the door,” he said quietly.

You did. And closed the curtains for privacy.

When you turned back around, he was already on his feet. He crossed the room in a few slow steps, standing in front of you, taking the folder out of your hands and setting it blindly on the shelf.

He cupped your face, tilting it up, and kissed you without hesitation.

It was slow at first, teasing— his lips soft, mouth coaxing yours open as if he had all the time in the world.

You sighed into it, your hands going instinctively to his waist, curling into the soft cotton of his shirt.

The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking over yours, and you whimpered softly when he slid a hand down your back and pressed you against the door.

“Lord,” he murmured, mouth brushing against yours, “you taste like cinnamon today.”

You swallowed hard. “Too much coffee.”

“Perfect amount,” he whispered, and kissed you again.

He backed you toward his desk, trailing kisses from your mouth to your jaw, down the line of your neck.

Your hands fumbled with his buttons, needing him closer, needing something to fill the ache that had been growing ever since that first email.

When he sat down in his desk chair, he pulled you into his lap without asking.

You straddled him, your skirt already hiked up. His hands settled on your thighs, slow and warm, thumbs stroking upward.

“You always get so worked up when I tease you,” he murmured against your ear. “You like getting those emails?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “You’re going to get me fired.”

He laughed softly, low in his throat. “No one’s firing you. Not when you do such a good job to me.”

You kissed him again and rocked forward just enough to hear the sharp inhale he tried to swallow down.

His grip on your hips tightened. You could feel him through his slacks, warm and firm beneath you, and the pressure of your body against his made your skin feel hot all over.

He tried to pull your blouse open, but you caught his wrist.

“Let me,” you said, voice just above a whisper.

His breath stilled.

You slipped off his lap, slowly, sinking down between his legs.

His brows lifted, mouth parted, but he didn’t say a word.

Just leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands, fingers slow and deliberate.

The clink of metal filled the quiet room, followed by the soft drag of his zipper. Heeseung exhaled hard when you brushed him through his boxers, already hot, already thick.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” you said, looking up at him as you lowered his waistband.

He let out a breathy laugh, voice tight. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

You smiled.

“No.”

And then you took him in your mouth.

He groaned instantly, his hips twitching up, one hand flying to your hair but stopping short of gripping it.

Always waiting for you to take the lead. Always making sure.

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, tongue gliding along the underside, savoring the weight and heat of him. He cursed, low and raw, his other hand tightening around the edge of the chair.

“Fuck—” he breathed. “You’re too good at this.”

You hummed around him in response, and he shuddered.

The thrill of having him like this, head tipped back, jaw clenched, breath uneven, sent sparks through your veins.

His thighs flexed under your palms, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were half-lidded and glazed, locked on you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Baby, wait—” he said suddenly, voice cracking. “You keep going like that, an I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled back slowly, your mouth wet, lips swollen. “Isn’t that the point?”

He blinked hard, laughing breathlessly, and pulled you to your feet.

“I’m going to owe you for that,” he said, voice rough, still out of breath.

You climbed back onto his lap, letting him tug you close. His hands found your hips again, holding you there like he never wanted to let go.

“You already do,” you whispered against his mouth.

And when he kissed you this time, it was slower. Deeper.

Less urgent, more full. Like he wasn’t just thanking you with his mouth, but promising something.

His fingers slipped beneath your skirt again, and this time you didn’t stop him.

He pulled your panties to the side and you sank down on him with a sigh.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, already thrusting up into you “You feel like heaven, baby,”

You hummed, already squeezing around him “You’re so big.” you murmured, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

You felt him twitch inside you “You can’t say things like that.”

Heeseung glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have three more minutes before someone gets suspicious.”

“Then you better hurry.” as those words left your lips, Heeseung thrusted up fast and hard, chasing both of your highs.

He planted a hand on your mouth and held your waist with the other, so tight a bruise would probably form the following day.

You squeezed your eyes shut as white washed over you, a particular deep thrust getting you over the edge, tightening to the point of pain around him.

“Fuck.” he groaned and pulled out to jerk off, but you quickly slapped his hand away and put him back inside you.

The mere action caused his hot release to spill, coating your walls.

“You didn’t have to do that.” he said, breathless as you got up on wobbly legs and put your panties into place.

“Oh please.” You fixed your hair “You’d rather me havig to explain why there’s a white stain on my skirt?”

He smirked, tucking himself back in his trousers, “Touché, baby.”

☆.

California sunlight spilled golden through the glass balcony doors, bathing the entire suite in that soft, lazy kind of warmth that made your skin glow even when you weren’t trying.

You were floating in the center of the hotel room’s private pool, limbs stretched out on the flamingo inflatable mattress, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose.

Your legs dangled in the cool water, barely kicking, your only real effort being adjusting your position every few minutes to stay in the shade of the swaying palm tree outside.

It had taken you exactly one hour on the first morning of the trip to finish the task Heeseung had “urgently” brought you to California for: color-coding and organizing his meeting schedule and dinners with clients.

One hour.

Sixty minutes of tapping at your laptop while sipping overpriced coffee from the mini bar and watching your boyfriend move shirtless around the suite while on a call.

Then, nothing.

The rest of the two-week “business trip” had been one long, uninterrupted vacation— for you, at least.

You weren’t entirely sure if Heeseung had ever actually needed your help or if he just wanted an excuse to bring you along without raising eyebrows at the office.

Either way, you weren’t complaining.

He was in the bedroom now, getting ready for another meeting with suppliers, while you basked in complete, indulgent peace, a mango drink resting on a floatie beside you.

The silence was broken only by the soft splash of water and the hum of light music playing from the speakers in the corner of the suite.

“Baby,” Heeseung called from inside the room, his voice slightly muffled.

You lifted your sunglasses with one hand, squinting toward the balcony door. “Hm?”

“Where’s my tie? The navy one.”

“You mean my navy one,” you corrected, smirking. “The one you let me use for my aesthetic outfit.”

He emerged into view then— black slacks hugging his legs, crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his hair still wet from the shower.

He looked at you, at the pool, the view, the drink, and let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

“You’re telling me you brought it just to never actually use it; since you’ve been floating for a week.”

“No,” you replied, raising your drink. “I brought it for aesthetic purposes. I was actually planning on using it today.”

He shook his head with a grin, disappearing for a couple of minutes before reappearing with the tie in hands.”

“You’re the most spoiled assistant I’ve ever hired.”

“I’m not technically your assistant,” you pointed out.

“You were for an hour.”

“And I was excellent.”

He crouched down beside the pool, tying the silk around his neck with practiced fingers.

The way he stood in the sun, looking so put-together and elegant while you floated in a barely-there swimsuit, made the corners of your mouth twitch up in appreciation.

He caught the way you were looking at him and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You tilted your head, letting your fingers drag through the water. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Just remembering how I was supposed to be working on this trip.”

Heeseung stepped closer, knelt down again so your faces were almost level. The sun lit up his eyes, made the edges of his smirk gleam.

“You did,” he said. “You organized my entire schedule in an hour and got me a better restaurant reservation than the company’s PR manager could. You're essential.”

You scoffed. “Please, you just wanted an excuse to have me in a bikini while you take calls.”

He smiled wider, unapologetic. “Guilty.”

You watched him adjust his tie, watched how he paused to smooth his shirt over his stomach before finally stepping back with a low whistle.

“How do I look?” he asked.

You pulled off your sunglasses, dragging your eyes from head to toe and back again.

“Like you’re about to cheat on your fiancée with your poolside mistress.”

Heeseung let out a bark of laughter. “Good thing my girlfriend is also my poolside mistress.”

He walked over to your float and, with no warning, shoved it gently with his foot.

You yelped as the mattress tipped slightly, water splashing over your legs.

“Rude!”

“You started it,” he said, lips twitching with amusement.

You kicked water at him in retaliation. He dodged it, barely, and pointed at you like he was scolding a child. “Do not make me cancel this meeting.”

“I dare you.”

He gave you one last look, long and deliberate, like he wanted to say something but was holding back, then sighed and backed away.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Three tops.”

“Don’t hurry on my account.”

“You saying you won’t miss me?”

“I’m saying you should make it up to me for dragging me across the country and making me do sixty minutes of labor.”

He chuckled again, stepping into his loafers by the door. “Oh, baby, I plan on making it up to you every night.”

You raised your glass. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Then the door closed, and he was gone.

You sighed deeply, happily, as you turned your face toward the sun and whispered, “Best fake job ever.

☆.

The sun had shifted from blazing overhead to a slow, golden creep across the hotel balcony, casting palm leaf shadows over your stretched-out body on the poolside chaise.

The water made soft sloshing noises nearby, and the air carried the sweet, heady scent of chlorine and sun-warmed skin.

Your cocktail glass sat empty on the tile. Your fingers had gone limp around your sunglasses, which had slid just enough to let one eye peek through.

But you didn’t move. You were somewhere between sleep and heat-drunk bliss, limbs too heavy to care.

The faintest breeze kissed your thighs, cooling the warm sheen of sun on your bare legs.

The strap of your bikini had shifted slightly. Your breasts curved gently out of their fabric prison, unnoticed by you in your half-dozing state.

The suite’s private pool was wrapped by stone walls and the tallest hedges you’d ever seen. The kind of privacy only the wealthiest or most mischievous sought after. No one could see in. And you didn’t expect anyone to be watching.

But someone was.

You stirred when you heard the creak of the glass door sliding open behind you.

Then footsteps.

Then a pause.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice “This is what I come home to?”

You cracked one eye open, squinting up into the dusky light.

Heeseung stood by the edge of the pool, jacket off, tie loosened, top two buttons undone, a grocery bag of overpriced room snacks in one hand.

His eyes were dark. Hungry. Like he hadn’t had a sip of water all day and you were the first drop.

You blinked at him sleepily. “Hi.”

He dropped the bag. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I was sleeping.”

“You were melting.” He moved closer. “You were— fuck, your tits are just out.”

You lifted your head, lazily looked down, and shrugged. “It’s your fault for buying me a swimsuit two sizes too small.”

“And I’d do it again,” he muttered, already crouching down in front of you.

You giggled, eyes fluttering closed again. “Good meeting?”

“Don’t care,” he said, brushing a hand up your thigh. “Missed you.”

You felt his fingers, warm and familiar, sliding over your skin.

You sighed. “I got tan.”

“You got delicious.”

You opened your eyes just as he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a slow, sun-warmed kiss.

His lips tasted faintly of mint and something sweet, and when he groaned softly against you, you felt it everywhere. You kissed him back lazily, smiling into it, dragging your fingers through his damp hair.

And then, because you couldn’t resist—

You shoved him.

Hard.

He didn’t have time to react. A yelp of pure, startled betrayal escaped his lips as he tipped backward, arms flailing, hitting the water with a spectacular splash.

You burst into laughter, doubling over on the chair, clutching your stomach as the water rocked with the force of his fall.

His head popped up seconds later, soaked and blinking, his once-perfect shirt plastered to his chest.

“You—” he sputtered, coughing once, glaring at you with water dripping from his lashes. “You menace.”

“I warned you not to flirt near the pool!” you said between gasps, wiping your eyes.

He grabbed the edge of the pool, hair slicked back, mouth twitching in a way that should’ve warned you.

“You’re so dead,” he promised. “I’m gonna end you.”

You squealed and tried to scramble off the chair, but it was too late. his hands gripped your ankles and yanked.

You hit the water with a splash and a shriek, the cold shocking your overheated skin instantly.

You surfaced, breathless and gasping, blinking salt out of your eyes.

“You asshole!”

“You started it!” Heeseung was laughing, fully soaked now, his shirt and pants clinging to his body like a second skin.

He was unfairly hot, even wet. Especially wet.

You swam toward him with furious strokes, water flying around you both, and he caught you around the waist as soon as you got close enough.

“Say sorry,” he said, lips grazing your ear.

“Never.”

His mouth met yours before you could say more, hard and deep

He wrapped his arms around you beneath the water, pulling your body against his like he couldn’t bear the idea of even an inch of space.

The way his hands moved over your skin, palming your ass, your thighs, sliding beneath the useless scraps of your swimsuit, made your breath catch in your throat.

“You feel like summer,” he murmured against your neck. “Warm and soft and fucking perfect.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair and tilted your head back, your breath hitching when his lips traveled lower, kissing a slow trail down your jaw, then your collarbone. The water lapped gently around you, your bodies floating in the privacy of the pool, lost in each other.

When he pulled the top of your swimsuit aside, exposing the bare curve of your breast, you didn’t stop him.

And when he kissed over your nipple, dragging his tongue slowly around it before sucking it into his mouth with a quiet, greedy sound, you moaned, arching into him.

You pressed your mouth against his temple, whispering, “You’re still in your clothes.”

He lifted his head, breathing heavily, his eyes dark.

“You planning to take ‘em off me?”

You bit his earlobe. “Maybe.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, sliding his hand between your thighs underwater. “You’re already so wet.”

“It’s a pool, genius.”

“You know what I mean.”

And you did.

You kissed him again, slow and wet and needy, wrapping your legs around his waist as he held you up, the water making everything feel weightless.

His hand found that perfect spot between your thighs and pressed, rubbing slow, delicious circles that made you tremble in his arms.

The sky overhead darkened into soft pinks and golds, casting both your bodies in sunset glow. The water shimmered. The world blurred.

But all you could feel was him.

All you could taste was his breath in your mouth, his fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge, and the low, ragged way he whispered your name against your shoulder when you gasped, legs tightening, your body pulsing around his hand.

And then, grinning against your lips, he asked, “Still think I wore this shirt just for business?”

You laughed into his mouth, breathless and drunk on him.

“No,” you whispered. “You wore it so I’d rip it off later.”

He smirked. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

☆.

And you didn’t.

After his act of pleasure in the pool, Heeseung brought you inside, not caring about you both being damp, and laid you down on the suite bed.

You undressed each other with the kind of fire that ignited sparks between your burning forms.

And then he was inside you.

The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, casting sharp golds and deep blues against the curves of his body, his bare chest above you, sheen of sweat at his throat, fingers pressing hard into your thighs as he moved inside you like he owned you.

Like he wanted to prove something.

The only thing you could still feel was how he looked between your legs, the way his voice rasped when he told you, “You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve had every part of you.”

You were already wrecked, your body limp from the last orgasm he’d dragged out of you.

You weren’t even sure if this was the second or third round now. His thrusts had gone deeper, slower, more deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring you.

And then his phone rang.

You both froze for half a second. The sound cut through the room, vibrating against the nightstand.

Heeseung groaned into your neck. “Ignore it.”

But then he glanced at the screen. His jaw tensed.

“Shit,” he muttered. “It’s Mr. Dufour, from Paris investors. I have to—” He was still inside you. Still rock hard. “Just… don’t move.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and flushed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he said through clenched teeth, swiping to answer with one hand. His other never left your waist. “He’ll lose his shit if I don’t pick up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but then—

“Bonjour,” Heeseung said smoothly, voice dropping into french, polite and practiced as he settled more firmly between your legs. His hips shifted.

You gasped.

He was still moving.

Not hard, not fast— but deep. Lazy, unhurried strokes, his eyes locked on yours while he spoke like everything was normal.

“Oui, Mr Dufour. Vous allez bien?” (yes, mr. dufour. are you doing well?)

You bit your lip, hard, trying not to moan.

The sheer insanity of it, his voice so calm, words sliding like honey in another language while he kept fucking you, slow and deliberate, hips rolling with obscene precisione

“J'ai envoyé le rapport sur le plan d'investissement hier.” (i sent the report on the investment plan yesterday.)

You dug your nails into his shoulders. He didn’t flinch.

His free hand slid between your bodies, brushing your clit with teasing strokes.

You whined, quietly and desperately but he only smiled.

Not sweetly. No, this was the smile of a man who knew he was driving you insane.

“Oui, je vous serais reconnaissant de me faire part de vos commentaires une fois que vous l'aurez examiné.” (yes, i would be glad if you could give me a feedbacks when you review it.)

You clenched around him, and for a split second, his voice hitched, only slightly, but he recovered fast.

You wanted to scream. Instead, your breath came out in little gasps, your back arching under him, heat rising through you in thick, dizzy waves.

“Heeseung,” you whispered, pleading.

He didn’t break eye contact. Just leaned closer, breath brushing your lips, and whispered back, “Be quiet.”

He was still speaking French into the phone. Still sounding professional. Still thrusting into you like he had all the time in the world.

You were unraveling beneath him.

His fingers found your clit again. Pressed lightly. Rubbed in slow, careful circles.

uour lips parted, and he kissed you hard, swallowing your cries as your climax built dangerously close again.

“Non, il n'y a pas de problème. Je vous contacterai bientôt.” (no, no problem. i’ll call you back soon.)

He ended the call.

There was a beat of silence. You could barely breathe.

Then his voice dropped to a low growl. “You didn’t listen.”

“I—” You were panting now. “I tried.”

He slid out of you slowly, only to slam back in with no warning.

You cried out, loud this time, legs tightening around him instinctively.

“I told you to be quiet,” he said again, but he was grinning now, breathless and wild and just as undone as you.

“You were, fucking speaking another language, what did you expect? That was hot as fuck.”

He grabbed your jaw and kissed you like he’d been starving for you all over again.

“Next time,” he said against your mouth, “I’ll put you on speaker. See how well you stay quiet then.”

You moaned into the kiss. “You’re insane.”

“And you fucking love it.”

And you did. Every slow, punishing thrust he gave you after that call, until you came again, clutching him so tightly he groaned your name like a prayer and finally followed you into oblivion.

Heeseung collapsed over you, breath hot against your shoulder, both of you sticky with sweat and utterly destroyed.

You lay there for a long time, your hand tangled in his damp hair.

“Just so we’re clear,” you murmured eventually, still breathless. “If you ever do that again, I’m going to break your phone.”

He laughed into your neck.

“I’d like to see you try.”

☆.

California wasnt so quiet at night, it still held its chaotic and festive atmosphere; but it was less noisy than day.

Heeseung stood barefoot in the kitchen, phone pressed between his shoulder and cheek, one hand cupped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other resting loosely on the marble counter.

The clock read 3:12 AM, but the supplier he was talking to was halfway across the world in Malaysia, bright-eyed and loud over the line.

“Yes, I got the spec sheets. I’ll forward the revised invoice before tomorrow,” he murmured, trying not to sound like he was barely two hours out of bed, or that he was still aching in every limb from the way you’d pulled him into you earlier that night.

His other hand scrubbed at his face, jaw rough with sleep-stubble.

He wore nothing but a loose pair of gray sweats, the waistband low on his hips, his skin still warm from your touch.

Every time he blinked, he could still see you— flushed, breathless, tangled in his sheets like sin wrapped in silk.

He should’ve stayed in bed. Lord, he wanted to.

But the time zones wouldn’t bend for him.

“Right, just make sure the quantities are adjusted. I don’t want to see another backorder excuse in the next—”

He didn’t hear the sound of you approaching. You always moved soft like that— barefoot, sleepy, half-dreaming when you woke.

It wasn’t until you slipped your arms around his bare torso that he felt you.

You hugged him from behind, face nuzzling into his back, your body covered only by the warm duvet you’d stolen from the bed.

Your skin was flushed with residual heat, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

He paused mid-sentence.

Your voice came out soft, “Come back to bed.”

He swallowed, throat tightening around the words he’d meant to say.

“Just a second,” he murmured into the phone, gently pulling it away from his ear. “Hold on.”

You didn’t let go.

In fact, your arms curled tighter around his waist, and he could feel the slow drag of your bare chest pressed to his back, the way you breathed in the scent of his skin like you needed it to fall asleep again.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, not even turning around yet, his hand covering yours where it rested low on his stomach. “You should’ve stayed under the covers.”

You mumbled something unintelligible and a little whiny against his skin, still half-asleep.

“I got lonely,” you finally whispered. “Bed’s too big without you.”

That nearly broke him.

He glanced at the phone still clutched in his hand, hearing the faint crackle of the supplier’s voice on the other end.

He could’ve finished the call. Should’ve.

But your breath was slow and warm against his back, and your fingers were tracing lazy little circles against his abdomen like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Heeseung tilted his head toward the phone and spoke quickly. “Sorry, I’ll get back to you in an hour. Something urgent came up.”

The line clicked off. He didn’t care if the supplier was annoyed.

You didn’t say anything at first, not even as he set the phone down on the counter and turned slowly in your arms.

You looked up at him through heavy eyes,, hair a tousled halo around your face, skin lit by the faint blue haze of early morning.

The duvet stayed wrapped around you, but he could see the line of your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the flush in your cheeks.

You looked like something out of a dream.

His voice came out rougher than he meant. “You’re dangerous.”

You tilted your head up at him, blinking innocently. “Me?”

“You.”

He ran his fingers through your hair, thumb brushing your cheek. “You do things to me I can’t explain.”

You leaned into his chest again and murmured, “Then stop trying to explain and just come back to bed.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Pushy.”

You tugged him gently by the waistband of his sweats. “You like me pushy.”

He did.

Buthe liked you like this, too— soft and quiet, in the middle of the night when the world was paused just long enough to let him hold you without pretending.

So he kissed your forehead and reached down, scooping you up in one smooth motion.

You squealed, the duvet slipping a little, exposing your legs as you curled instinctively into him. “Heeseung!”

“You woke up,” he said as he carried you down the hall, voice mock-serious. “Then interrupted my call. Now you’re going to make up for it.”

“I missed you,” you said, chin tucked against his shoulder, “You’re the one who left me naked and cold in your enormous bed.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t steal all the covers and kicked my back”

He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and carried you back to bed.

The mattress were still warm where you’d been. He laid you down gently and crawled in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You’re such a clingy sleeper,” you mumbled.

“I like sleeping with you,” he said, pulling the duvet higher around you both. “Shut up and let me enjoy it.”

You smiled sleepily, eyes already drifting shut again, your body melting into his.

And there, under the weight of blankets, limbs tangled together, his breath evening out beside yours, you both slipped back into the kind of sleep that only came after passion, laughter, and the slow certainty that neither of you wanted to be anywhere else.

It started with an email, and it ended with love.

3K notes · View notes

justwinginglife · 5 months ago

Note

hello hello Hannah! Hope you’re having a great timezone!

So I read your fic for Jinshi since I finally started watching Apothecary Diaries the show has a tight grip on me now and I was wondering if maybe you could do something for Jinshi again if you feel up for it?

Can be whatever you want, full fic, head canons (although my one request would be to ask if it could be smut?) even that if you don’t feel like it then fluff is perfect too.

Thank you if you do and no worries if you don’t want to!

Helloooooo! I'm so happy you've discovered Apothecary Diaries! I apologize in advance, I know this was supposed to be smut, but I had too many good laughs writing this and it ended up lowkey being comedic material lmao. I love Jinshi. Anyway, thanks for the request, and welcome to the Apothecary Diaries fandom!

NSFW Warning

The Missing Piece

He had a dick.

He had a dick, he had a dick, he had a dick. Oh fuck, Jinshi had a dick. He wasn’t supposed to have a dick. But he had one. He had one and it was very big and it was very hard and it was pushing up against your butt at this very moment. You’d tripped and he’d caught you -at the cost of his secret- and now you were both planted firmly on the ground, one with a raging boner and one with a soaked cunt. And, GOD, was it embarrassing. You’d never once questioned that he was a eunuch, even with all of his flirting and flouncing around, but now you were very much aware that he was not, in fact, a eunuch AT ALL.

You quickly pulled yourself off of him, cheeks flushed and underwear stained. You hurriedly excused yourself, spitting out a quick thanks for him breaking your fall, and then booked it the fuck out of there. You could hear him laughing behind you, but you paid no mind. You were too busy overthinking every encounter you’d ever had with him. All the times you’d poked fun at his lack of a member. All the times you’d whispered innuendos into his ear, teasing him with what you knew he couldn’t have. And now you’d been one cloth away from reaching home base with him after one stupid fall. And your stupid body had the stupid nerve to be soaked.

If you could’ve avoided him for the rest of your life, you would’ve. Alas, a week was the best you could do, and even that was pushing it. In the rear palace, Jinshi was in control of anything and everything, and it was near impossible for anyone, least of all you (he liked to keep you close in particular) to take a step without him knowing about it. You could only plant so many obstacles to keep him busy, but you knew eventually he’d find you. Besides the fact that you were his closest confidant and most useful informant, reporting on all happenings within the palace as one of its court ladies (ranking high enough to have access, but low enough to be virtually invisible), you were also just his favorite form of entertainment and he’d damn near lose his mind if he didn’t have your company to cure his boredom. So it was only a matter of time until he caught up to you; the only real question was, when he finally caught you, did you ignore the massive elephant in the room or did you poke it with a stick?

“You know I pay you to report to me, right? And I’ve not had a report for almost a week now. Wonder why that is.” A voice chimed out from behind you and you could almost hear his smirk. He was having too much fun with this situation.

Your brow twitched. So the bastard was going to be smug about this? Fine. If he was relishing in the discomfort this was causing you, you might as well even the score. You plastered on a faux smile and turned to face him, giving him an obligatory curtsy. “Jinshi, to what do I owe the grand pleasure of your presence?”

He chuckled, amused at your fake show of manners. “Drop the formalities. It’s just us. You can speak freely.”

“You have a dick.” There. Now you were both uncomfortable.

He choked on his own spit. He did say you could speak freely but you never failed to surprise him with just how freely you spoke. “...I suppose I can’t convince you it was nothing more than just my tunic bunching up?”

You snorted. “Jinshi, does your tunic have a tip? And does that tunic’s tip pulse?”

He let out a short laugh. “It appears I’m caught. Alright, I concede. I have a dick.”

You blinked. You hadn’t expected him to outright admit it. You’d expected to dance in circles with him, make him sweat a little, before finally wringing the confession from his throat.

He could tell you were struggling with his sudden admission. It made him grin. “And before you ask, yes, I’ve had it since birth. I didn’t just glue it on.”

“Well, duh!” You spit out. What, now he had jokes?? Didn’t he know this was the stupidest thing to be joking about?? God, he drove you crazy.

He seemed to be enjoying your reactions. He took a step closer to you. “Wanna touch it? Confirm its existence?” He teased.

If he wasn’t the most high ranking official here, you would’ve slapped him. You gave him a pinched smile. “Sure. I’ll touch it with my shoe, just let me wind up real quick-”

His eyes widened. “Wait, wait, wait! That’s not what I meant.”

Your brow twitched again. “Oh, I know what you meant.” PERVERT. You didn’t say it but he knew you were thinking it.

He exhaled. “Okay, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I’m just messing with you. How about we both just go back to the way things were before you found out? Yeah?”

You wanted nothing more than to do that. Buuuut…. You couldn’t. How were you supposed to go back to falling asleep at his desk when you were too lazy to go back to your room, after a daily report turned into a lengthy strategy session? How were you supposed to go back to ripping the blankets off of him after he’d overslept and tugging at his clothes to try and change him yourself? How were you supposed to not overthink every time that he touched you, wondering if maybe he wanted to touch you longer, to touch you lower?

You bit your lip. Did you even mind when he touched you? It’d never been an issue before. He was always fidgeting, always needing to play with your pinky under the table at a meeting, or needing to tug at your bracelet while he poured over paperwork, or needing to nudge your foot with his, and you never minded before, but would you mind now? Would you mind if he wanted to touch you differently, if he wanted to touch you urgently? Your cheeks began to grow warm. How had you never seen how you’d felt about him until he suddenly had a dick? Were you that shallow? God, you hoped not. Of course, you’d always thought he was attractive objectively (though you’d never tell him or he’d gloat for ages), and his company was at times pleasant to enjoy (and you’d never tell him this either or he’d never leave you alone), but maybe you’d never seen him as a love interest before because he wasn’t someone you could settle down and start a family with. But now, what if he was?

And it didn’t help that he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was teasing, he was taunting, he was downright torturous. It seriously made you want to slap him.

But right now, he was looking at you like you held the world in your hands. Like his world might collapse if you didn’t agree to going back to what you were before. Like he might lose something precious to him if you didn’t. And you didn’t want to overestimate your own worth to him; after all, you might just be a useful pair of eyes to him at the end of the day, but the way he was looking at you now made you feel like something to him, even if it was barely something. Did you want to be something to him?

He broke the silence. “You’re not going to ignore me for another week, are you? Please don’t, I can’t take it.”

God, he couldn’t just say stuff like this. It made you want to kiss him and stay by his side forever. “I won’t.” You said finally.

He exhaled. Then he grinned. “Good, cuz I need my favorite plaything.”

Oh, this asshole. “You know what? I’ll touch it.”

His smile dropped from his face. “Wh-what?”

You smirked, stepping dangerously close. “You asked me earlier if I wanted to touch it, right? Sure. Let me cop a feel.”

He swallowed and backed up a few steps. “I was j-joking. I wasn’t serious…”

“Oh come on. Pretty face like yours. I’m sure you must’ve done it tons of times before; it’s not like this is anything new to you. And you must be pretty pent up, working in the rear palace. I’m sure you need to let off some steam, right?” You purred, trapping him against the wall with your next few steps.

His eyes widened when his back hit the wall.

You almost wanted to stop, you weren’t even sure where you’d found the nerve, but it was like he’d lit a fire within you and it was too late to back out now. “Jinshi…” You murmured, before trailing a hand up his thigh.

“Wait! I’m a vir-” Your hand trailed up his length and brushed across his tip. In an instant, the front of his tunic was soaked. He slid down the wall, gasping for breath as he collapsed on the ground. “gin…” He finished through panted breaths, head arching back to rest on the wall as he rode out his orgasm. It wasn’t like he’d never touched himself before, but you touching him was something completely different.

You pulled away suddenly. “You’re a what??”

He laughed, half exhausted and half ashamed. “Caught me. I’m a virgin.”

Oh shit. You dropped to your knees in front of him, and bowed low to the ground. “I’m so sorry! I was only teasing, I didn’t know you were a virgin. And I sure as hell didn’t think you’d…you know…”

“Come on my clothes?” He offered weakly.

Your cheeks filled with crimson. “Yeah. So did I… I mean was that your first… did I take your…?” You swallowed, completely unable to finish your sentence.

He laughed again and you were glad he could laugh because you certainly couldn’t. “I hardly think brushing across it counted as my first time. At least, I’m not counting it. So you didn’t take anything. And it’s not like I haven’t touched myself before, you know.”

You scrunched up your nose. “Ew- okay, I did not need to know that.”

He grinned and leaned in close to your ear. “In fact… I’ve done it a couple times to you.”

Your breath hitched.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Don’t think you’re the only one who can play the teasing game. I bet you wanna know what it’s like when I’m touching myself to you, yeah?”

Before you could protest (you weren’t sure how you’d protest anyway; it was suddenly very hot in here and your throat was suddenly very dry), he had his cock in his hand, precum drizzling over his fingers, mixing with his previous messy release. If you hadn’t just seen him come a minute ago, you would’ve thought he’d never gotten off a day in his life, with how painfully swollen it looked, veins engorged along his rigid length.

Your previous assessment of him from the few seconds you’d spent in his lap turned out to be completely correct. He was huge. And you were drooling. Without even realizing it, you’d reached a finger out to dance over his tip. He hissed and bit down on his lip to keep from coming again.

“You’re such a tease,” He groaned.

Before you could pull away, he seized your wrist and pulled you into his lap. You landed exactly where he wanted and exactly where you hoped you wouldn’t. But there was no denying how good it felt. Especially when he began to thrust his hips upwards to meet you with delicious friction.

You let out an involuntary moan.

He inhaled sharply. “God, the sounds you make…” His hands found your hips, holding you tightly in place, like he thought you might try to make another escape before he could get off again. You wouldn’t, not this time. Not now that you knew how good he felt.

You matched his rhythm, grinding against his erection in a similar fashion.

His eyes widened when he realized you were giving in to him. “Fuck…” He pulled you in for a kiss. It was sloppy at first, desperate. Too much tongue and then too much teeth, like he didn’t know how much time he had before you wanted to stop. When you wrapped your arms around his neck, sighing against his lips, and settling yourself closer to him, he finally relaxed, realizing you wanted this just as bad as he did.

His lips trailed a bruising path down your neck, painting his desire for you in pinks and purples across your skin.

“Jinshi…” You murmured, arching your head back in pleasure.

“I don’t think…” He pressed another hungry kiss to your collarbone, “My name has ever sounded so good…”

When his hands began to undress you as his kisses made their way lower and lower on your body, you finally stopped him. “Wait, wait.”

His brows furrowed. “What is it? Change your mind?”

You shook your head quickly. “It’s just… do you really want your first time to be with me?”

His gaze softened when he realized what your concern was. “And why wouldn’t I want it with you?”

“Don’t people usually save their first time for someone special?”

“They do. So I guess I’m in the clear.”

“I-what?”

“You are someone special-” His lips found the curves of your breast and you shivered, “-to me, you’re special. You’ve always been special.”

“Jinshi…” You whispered in awe. You’d hoped to be something to him, but you never would’ve dared to dream you’d be this.

“If you want to stop, we can stop. But tell me now, or I won’t be able to hold myself back.”

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging his head away from your chest. When he looked up at you in surprise, you pressed a deep kiss to his lips. “Do I look like I want to stop?” You gasped out.

He chuckled. “Whatever you say, princess.”

He laid you back on the floor, resting you on top of your discarded dress. For a moment, he just stared at you, taking in your beautiful, naked form beneath him.

“Don’t tell me you’re all talk.” You teased.

He scoffed, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Can’t I just look at a gorgeous woman for a moment?”

“Not if she’s naked and cold. Better warm me up quick, Jinshi, or I’ll find someone else to take my first time.”

His eyes widened. “Wait you… you’re a virgin?”

Your cheeks darkened. “Well, I’m about to not be a virgin in two seconds, so hurry it up please.”

You thought he’d laugh at you but all he could do was smile like a kid on Christmas. He smiled like you held the world in your hands and his heart right beside it. It made you want to kiss him. So you did. You pulled him towards you and buried him in your lips. And he lost himself in you, tongue finding yours eagerly, like he wouldn’t stop until he couldn’t tell your taste apart from his. You were so love drunk and sky high, you almost didn’t realize he was lining up to your entrance.

But your lungs nearly collapsed when you felt him spear through your eager entrance.

You groaned, loudly.

He stopped abruptly. “Did that hurt?” He started to pull back out.

“Don’t you dare.” You hissed, wrapping your legs around him tightly and yanking him back to you.

He gasped as he sunk deeper into you, your cunt swallowing every hardened inch of him greedily. “Princess…” He whined and it nearly killed you.

His head rested on your chest as though he didn’t have the strength to both hold himself up and thrust into you at the same time. His thrusts were carefully measured, like he wasn’t sure how much you could handle. Like he wasn’t sure how much he could handle.

“Jinshi, look at me.”

He lifted his head slightly, innocent eyes meeting yours. You’d never seen his eyes so pure before. So in love. It was like looking into your own eyes. Because you were sure you were looking at him the exact same way.

“I can take it.”

He looked away.

“Jinshi. I’m serious, I can take it. I need you.”

His head whipped back up to you, eyes darkening as he took in your words. “You need it, huh? I suppose if you need it…” He spread your legs wider, and before you had a chance to breathe, he snapped his hips forward, driving himself balls deep inside you. You yelped and it only encouraged his speed. One of his hands braced itself on your hip, while his other hand reached up to intertwine with yours, pinning it to the ground. For how roughly he was fucking you, you found the gesture strangely romantic.

Sweat and arousal drizzled down your trembling legs as he continued his assault, and he took it as a sign of your satisfaction.

You could tell he was getting close, because he started murmuring the sweetest nothings to you as he pistoned in and out of your dripping cunt.

“I… fuck… I love… I love you…fuck…” He panted as his pace quickened.

“I love…you too…”

His eyes widened as though he hadn’t expected you to reciprocate. Suddenly he yanked his cock out of you and keeled over to the side, hips bucking wildly at the air as hot ropes of milky cum shot out of him in wild spurts, staining the ground.

As he rode out his orgasm, you suddenly felt the urge to cover your mouth with your hand. He raised a curious brow at you. Then he heard your muffled laughter and his cheeks flushed red.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… it’s awfully romantic that my love confession made you come.” You teased.

He pouted slightly but then a devilish look crossed his face. “I wouldn’t be so cruel to the person who holds your release in his hands. You still haven’t got off yet, right? I could just hover you on the edge of an orgasm all night.” To prove his point, he spit on two fingers and drove them deep inside you.

You inhaled sharply. “Jinshi!”

He smirked and curled his fingers, hitting your g-spot in a teasing manner before quickly withdrawing, opting to play with your clit instead.

“Fuck!” You groaned, exasperated at the absence of his fingers.

He grinned deviously.

“I said all night, didn’t I?”

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"I'm calling in sick tomorrow."

"Well, I hear your boss is exceedingly handsome and even kinder too, so I'm sure he can make an exception for his favorite employee."

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Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @ouiouimochi @inkytypewriter @minasfwoopyponytail @ectopodl3 (just tagging you cuz we were talking about this fic)

#jinshi apothecary diaries #apothecary diaries jinshi #jinshi x reader #jinshi #the apothecary diaries #apothecary diaries smut #jinshi smut #anime fanfic #han's library

3K notes · View notes

goorgeousz · 10 days ago

Text

girl crush | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first. content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something! word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible) a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽 dividers by @uzmacchiato

masterlist

The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.

Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.

“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.

He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.

Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.

You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.

Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.

Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.

“Beth!”

Oh.

“Oh”

“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”

Oh (but harder).

“That’s… good?”

“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.

“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.

You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.

“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.

“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.

They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?

Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.

So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?

Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.

As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.

When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.

And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.

You felt like an outsider.

The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut.

When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.

Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.

It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.

You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.

When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.

Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.

One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.

Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.

When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.

You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.

You wanted her gone.

The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?

It was maddening. It had to stop.

It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.

When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.

Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.

You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.

Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.

But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.

So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.

It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.

You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.

“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.

Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.

“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.

“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.

Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.

“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”

You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.

Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.”

Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.

“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.

“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.

“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.

Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.

When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.

“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.

“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.

Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.

“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.

Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”

He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.

“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”

“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”

“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.

“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”

And that’s when it hit you: he knew.

“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.

“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.

“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.

“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.

“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”

You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”

“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.

“Stop.”

“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”

“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”

“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”

“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.

“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”

“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”

“And you don’t?”

You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”

“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”

“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”

“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”

You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.

“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.

“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.

Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.

When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.

Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”

Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.

You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.

“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”

Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.

“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.

He blinks. And then chuckles.

When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.

“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.

“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.

“Your name?”

“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”

“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.

“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.

“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.

You try again “It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t.”

That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.

His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?”

“I… there’s a lot going on.” you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”

Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.

“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”

He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.

“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”

“Bullshit.” he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”

“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.”

He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”

“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?”

“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.

“I didn’t, you did.”

“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.

“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would never…”

“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.

“There's no he. It’s Beth.”

Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”

“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”

“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”

Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”

“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.

“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.

“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”

“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”

The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should.

When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.

You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.

A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”

“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”

“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”

Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”

Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.

How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.

“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”

You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.

“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”

“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.

“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.

“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”

“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.

“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”

After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.

He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.

Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”

“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.

“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”

You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.

When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.

“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”

“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.

“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.

“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.

“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”

“Jack will see it.”

“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.

“That’s rude. And humiliating.”

“That’s what you get for stealing.”

Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”

“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.

“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.

“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”

You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”

Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna

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artficlly · 3 months ago

Text

the art of pretending [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x agent!reader

being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, shower sex, unprotected sex, fingering, forced proximity, one bed, kissing, enemies to lovers-ish?, sexual tension, sparring, mentor bucky, bickering, insults, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, bucky has issues, protective bucky, slut shaming (not from bucky), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 12.4k

A/N: hi! this is for some requests i received (one and two). i combined two of the requests because they were pretty similar, hope thats okay and i hope you enjoy! this took me... so long to write. i hope it doesn't flop <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You had two goals for the night: get shitfaced and get railed. So, catching your asshole boyfriend wrist-deep in some girl’s panties, doing the kind of finger work he never even bothered to learn for you, wasn’t part of your itinerary.

You could’ve cried, you could’ve begged, or collapsed into a sad cliché with a tub of ice cream and Sex and the City reruns. But no, you had a mission, and one mission alone. Get so unbelievably drunk on whatever you could get your hands on, so drunk in fact that you wanted to black out before midnight and preferably unconscious until sunset the next day.

Tony’s penthouse parties weren’t usually your scene. Too many sleazy rich men with superiority complexes, trophy wives sipping champagne through botoxed grins, and a carousel of extras that Stark always vehemently denied were hookers. What you did know was that, being an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D., your name was always on the list, and tonight, free top-shelf booze felt like divine intervention.

You just had to get in, get drunk, and avoid eye contact with your co-workers long enough to pull off a quiet mental breakdown and ignore the fact that you were rather underdressed for the type of party Stark was hosting. Scantily clad club clothing clashed hard with the pearls and Prada crowd.

A few raised brows and vague greetings followed you as you slithered through the gathering.

But you held back a groan when you spotted the trio parked at the bar: Yelena, Steve, and Bucky. Great. The Greek god chorus of shame, in all their sculpted, judgmental glory. They looked just as uncomfortable as you felt, loitering by the bar instead of mingling with Stark’s circus.

You ignored their stares and made a beeline for the shelves behind the bartender—some poor kid who looked far too green for this gig. He gave you a look of dismay as you grabbed a bottle of tequila without asking. Slamming down a shot glass, you poured with shaky hands and knocked it back with the elegance of a car crash.

You barely registered the silence that followed until you glanced up and saw the stunned expressions staring back at you.

Yelena was the first to speak. “What happened to you? You never come to these things.”

You poured another shot. “Free drinks,” you muttered, then downed it, already lining up the next. No salt. No lime. Just pain, raw and unfiltered, sliding down your throat.

“I thought you were going out with your boyfriend?” She continued to press, while Steve looked rather scandalised as he watched you swallow back your third shot in a row with a shudder.

Yelena reached over and snatched the bottle from your hand before you could pour again. “You should slow down.”

You blinked at her, teeth gritted, blood thrumming loud in your ears. She meant well. Of course she did. You’d always gotten along—ever since she’d been assigned as your mentor in your early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. You two had clicked effortlessly. It was all a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s long-term strategy to make field missions run smoother and reduce casualties. Avengers were paired with up-and-coming agents to pass down their experience and training, with the hope that one day, those hard-earned skills would save lives.

But everything changed when they reassigned you.

You’d been told it was to ‘broaden your skillset’, that it was about growth, adaptability, and learning from different leadership styles. What they didn’t say was that it would mean training under James Buchanan Barnes, aka Mr. No-Praise-All-Pain.

You’d tried. Really. At first, you gave it your all. Took his criticism, bit your tongue, pushed harder. But Bucky didn’t bend. He didn’t compliment. Didn’t guide. He just judged, cold and final, like every failure confirmed whatever low expectations he had of you.

Five months of that, and you were drowning. You begged for reassignment—back to Yelena, to Natasha, to anyone—but were denied every time. Some higher-up probably thought your mutual disdain was ‘motivating’, like locking two angry wolves in a cage and expecting them not to rip each other’s throats out.

And now here he was. Bucky Barnes. His suit jacket was slung carelessly over the back of his bar stool, his tie loosened just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His dress shirt clung to his muscular frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those unfairly defined forearms and the gleam of vibranium wrapped around a bottle of beer. His expression was stony, but familiar—stern brow, mouth set in a tight line, like he was already displeased with you and you hadn’t even said a word yet.

That look. That look you couldn’t stand.

Disappointment, or maybe pity. You couldn’t tell. Either way, it made your skin itch.

You wanted to punch him in his sullen, pouty face.

Instead, you laughed bitterly and reached for the bottle again, only for Yelena to hold it further away, firm.

“I said slow down,” she warned.

You made a face at Yelena. “Uh, you can’t talk. I saw you do shots out of a candle holder once.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Yes. And you called me messy. So I stopped.” She turned away just long enough to vanish the tequila bottle from sight like some sleight-of-hand magician. “This is me returning the favour. Stop it. You’re being messy.”

You barked out a harsh laugh and rubbed a hand down your face, smearing frustration across your cheeks. “You know what’s messy? My boyfriend. Well—ex-boyfriend.”

Across the bar, Bucky shook his head and muttered something low under his breath. You didn’t catch it, but you were sure it was vile because even Steve glanced over at him in disbelief, his eyebrows climbing high. Great. Judgment from Captain Morality and the Tin Soldier. Just what you needed.

Yelena sighed, already exhausted. “What did he do this time?”

You could tell she was reaching the end of her patience, and honestly, it was fair. She’d been your reluctant witness through the entire tragic saga of your love life. Two and a half years of emotional landmines and loser boyfriends who all somehow managed to be worse than the last. It was impressive, in a bleak kind of way.

You gestured vaguely, your expression somewhere between rage and disbelief. “I was supposed to meet him at some sleazy club downtown, his buddy was DJing—-fucking terrible DJ by the way. I’d barely walked in the door when I caught him in a back booth, fingering some girl who wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it!”

Yelena’s lips pursed. Steve stared like he’d never heard someone use the word ‘fingering’ out loud before.

“What did you do?” Yelena asked, her voice low, careful.

“Oh, the usual,” you said sweetly. “I punched him. Hard. He hit the floor like a sack of shit. Then I stepped on his hand until I felt something snap.”

Steve choked on his beer, coughing violently into his elbow. Bucky just watched you with the world's best poker face, a slight clench in his jaw muscles.

You smiled at Steve, feral and unbothered. “Don’t worry, Cap. He won’t be playing DJ with anyone’s body parts anytime soon.”

Yelena gave a low whistle, somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “You actually broke his hand?”

“Felt like justice.” You shrugged. “Plus, he was always texting with that hand. Two birds, one stomp.”

“That’s assault,” Steve managed, his voice slightly strangled.

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “We’ve all done worse.”

Across the bar, Bucky finally spoke, his voice gravel-edged and unimpressed. “And now you’re here, drinking like a lunatic in front of half the team. Real graceful recovery.”

Your shoulders tensed, that familiar heat creeping up your spine.

“I’m not showing up for training tomorrow,” you said flatly. “Hell, I don’t plan on being conscious tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “It’s going on your report.”

Your mid-year report. Just another excuse for Bucky to publicly drag you, whining to the higher-ups about what a terrible mentee you were. How you needed to ‘apply yourself’, ‘show initiative’, or whatever corporate nonsense they lapped up. And of course, those same higher-ups were always looking for a reason to cut dead weight. One misstep, and you were done.

“Of course it is,” you snapped, spinning on your heel. “You miserable, ancient cunt.”

Steve choked on his beer again.

Without another word, you reached behind the overwhelmed bartender, who looked about five seconds from quitting, and grabbed the nearest bottle. You didn’t even look at the label. You stormed off with tequila already burning in your veins and spite lighting the way.

—

You were leaning casually against the wall outside the gym’s changing rooms, dressed in workout gear that was probably a little more flattering than necessary. Tight enough to flatter your waist, breathable enough to pass as practical. Around you, the low hum of chatter buzzed from a small group of fellow agents. You were killing time before your dreaded one-on-one training session with Barnes.

Theo leaned a shoulder beside yours, towelling sweat from the back of his neck. He’d been an agent about as long as you had—charming, competent, and a little too easy to get along with. The two of you were part of that unofficial after-hours crew: drinks on Fridays, complaints about the job, stumbling home tipsy and hungover texts on Saturday mornings.

“You’re on sparring duty all week too?” Theo asked, glancing at you with mock pity. “I swear Rogers gets off on making me eat mat.”

“I know what you mean. Barnes definitely loves making me suffer,” you replied with a grimace. “That man has a personal vendetta against me.”

Theo grinned, tossing the towel over his shoulder, and he gave you a playful sidelong look. “When I get knocked on my ass, promise you’ll kiss it better?”

You arched a brow, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Careful. I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me.”

“Starting to?” he shot back, unfazed. “Let me make it clearer. If I don’t get my ass handed to me by Rogers, I’ll buy you a drink Friday.”

You leaned back against the wall, arms folding over your chest. “And if Rogers wins?”

Theo leaned in, voice low and smooth as his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering just a moment too long. “Then I’ll buy you two,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to respond. Flattered, a little surprised, already mentally debating whether it was worth shaving your legs, when a voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

“Agent. You’re late.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That gravel-edged tone, sharpened with disapproval, could only belong to one man.

Bucky stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, jaw set like granite. His black compression shirt clung to every sculpted line of his chest, joggers slung low on his hips in a way that really shouldn't have been legal. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a combat simulation and into a fitness magazine.

But the expression on his face? Full-on battlefield.

That signature scowl was locked in place, thunderclouds brewing behind his eyes as he stared straight past you, straight at Theo. Typical. You hadn’t even done anything, yet somehow, he already looked pissed.

“Training doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.” You reminded him.

He didn’t seem interested in whatever argument you were about to make, and he turned on his heel without another word.

You sighed, uncrossing your arms as you pushed off the wall and flashed Theo an apologetic smile.

Jogging to catch up, your boots thudding against the hallway floor, you called after Bucky. “You know, there’s this really neat thing called a schedule. Maybe try sticking to it?”

He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. “You could use the extra time.”

You scoffed in disbelief at his audacity. Classic Barnes, gruelling, joyless, always ready with a critique and never a compliment. He’d made it his mission to grind you down, one scathing remark at a time. And yet, you knew you were one of the top agents. The higher-ups had told you as much in your mid-year review, even going so far as to say that your mentorship with Barnes was working brilliantly. You hadn’t bothered correcting them, though it irritated more than you liked to admit. All your hard work, and somehow, he got the credit.

Bucky didn’t stop until you were both inside one of the gym’s private sparring rooms. The door clicked shut behind you. No audience. No distractions. Just him and you and the electric tension that always seemed to spark the moment you were alone together.

“Seriously, Barnes, what’s your problem today?”

Bucky stepped onto the mat, gesturing for you to follow.

“You’re here to train, not flirt in the hallway.”

You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Bucky always had a problem whenever your love life even breathed into the conversation. Said it was irrelevant. Unprofessional. A distraction.

Back when Yelena was your partner, the two of you used to spar and gossip at the same time, her dodging your punches while you gave dramatic play-by-plays of whatever your latest fling had done to you in bed the night before. She lived for it. Bucky? Not so much.

He’d cut the conversation short every time. Couldn’t even stand the sight of you laughing a little too long with someone else. He’d yank you away with some bullshit excuse like, ‘distractions on the field will get you killed’, or ‘do I need to report you for slacking off?’ Like you were breaking protocol instead of just being a human being.

You stepped into position across from him, tightening your stance, heat already prickling beneath your skin. From the glare he was giving you, he looked ready to fight. Good. So were you.

“Are you always such an asshole,” you said, voice flat, “or is that just a special little treat you save for me?”

He gave you a look, deadpan and infuriating. “Only when I’m working with someone who’s constantly late, distracted, or hungover.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and threw a lazy jab, just to shut him up. He deflected it with a flick of his wrist like he could’ve done it in his sleep.

“And yet,” you muttered, circling to your right, “you wrote me a glowing mid-year report.”

His hand faltered for a split second. It was brief, but you caught it, a crack in the armour he hid behind.

“So you read it,” he replied, already shifting back into motion.

“Hard not to. Maria practically quoted it word for word at me in the hallway.”

His mouth flattened. “It was accurate.”

You scoffed and came at him again, this time with more force, a blow aimed at his jaw. He blocked with ease, catching your wrist mid-air and twisting just enough to tip your balance. You staggered, caught yourself, then stepped back with a glare.

“‘Most adaptive mentee in the current program,’” you quoted, circling him again.

A jab. He blocked it.

“‘Performs under pressure.’”

You followed up with a low kick aimed at his calf. He side-stepped like you were moving in slow motion.

“‘Good instincts in the field.’”

Another punch, this one he met palm to palm, stopping your momentum cold. You grit your teeth and shoved him off.

“‘Promising.’” You swept your foot in a feint and then struck at his ribs. He pivoted out of reach, breath barely changed. “‘Capable.’”

He lunged this time, arm out, trying to lock your elbow, but you twisted under it, ducking away, the mat skimming under your feet.

“‘Excellent recall.’”

You squared off again, eyes locked on his.

“Why the hell,” you asked, low and angry, “are you always such an asshole to my face when you’re singing my praises behind my back?”

He didn’t answer right away, moving like a shadow around you, eyes locked on yours.

“As much as it pains me,” he finally spoke, tone flat, “you are my best mentee. Even if I dislike you personally, I felt your report should reflect that.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown. That was… probably the most praise you’d ever got from him—buried beneath the usual bullshit, sure, but praise nonetheless. On a good day, you might get a grunted ‘good’ if you were lucky. Most of the time, training with Bucky was just an endless list of everything you were doing wrong, punctuated by a jab to the ribs for emphasis.

“Do you always make your compliments sound like insults?”

“It wasn’t a compliment. Just the truth.”

You threw a kick toward his side, fast and impulsive. He caught your ankle and held it, grip firm around your calf for a second too long. His vibranium fingers were cold, even through the fabric of your leggings. You could’ve sworn they tightened around the muscle just a fraction as your eyes swept up to give him a look of disbelief. But instead of pulling away, you leaned into the moment and used the hold for balance. You pivoted hard on your grounded foot, letting the captured leg swing inward. Then you launched yourself forward, hooking your other leg around his waist, aiming to bring him down with you.

For a half-second, it worked. His balance shifted. Your hips were flush against him, legs locked tight around his torso as you twisted your weight, trying to drag him off his feet.

With a grunt, he straightened, twisted, and you suddenly found yourself airborne.

You hit the mat hard, slamming against it with a thud that knocked the breath out of you. The ceiling lights above blurred for a second as the impact rattled through your spine. His shadow hovered for a beat, chest rising with exertion, jaw clenched.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared down at you, maybe it was the oncoming concussion you probably just suffered, but you could’ve sworn there was a flash of concern in his eyes.

“Next time, I won’t let it slide if you don’t turn up because you’re hungover.” He wiped a forearm across his brow.

“How do you know my heart wasn’t broken?” You asked, shaking off the blow as you rose to your feet once more, feet finding their usual stance.

He arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Don’t you have sympathy for me?” you asked, somewhere between a joke and a challenge.

“I wouldn’t call it sympathy,” he said coolly. “More like pity.”

That stung more than you cared to admit. You rolled your shoulders, stepping in again. Your guard was up, but there was a crack in it now, frustration flaring under your skin.

“I can’t imagine you were actually that sad about it.” Bucky bit out, not even bothering to hide his annoyance now. “Don’t you have a new fling every other week? Sure sounded like you were lining up another one in the hallway.”

“Oh wow,” you drawled, voice harsh. “Slut shaming? This isn’t the 1940s, Barnes.”

“It’s not my fault who you choose to date.”

You exhaled, long and low. The tension between you had teeth now, gnawing at the air. “Y’know, for someone who hates me, you sure pay a lot of attention.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, poker-faced.

You waited, ready to shoulder any insult he laid on you. You could see irritation simmering under his skin, jaw ticking, knuckles white.

“I think you should take a lap or two around the room.” He huffed finally. “Your blocks are late, your punches are soft, and your stance is a joke. Try warming up before you embarrass both of us.”

You grinned back at him, though it was closer to baring your teeth than a show of amusement. “But I’m still your best mentee, huh?”

“Let’s make it five laps then.”

You gave him a lazy salute and turned for the edge of the mat.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

As you jogged the first lap, footsteps echoing lightly in the private room, you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement and watching you like a hawk, like a fuse lit, waiting.

And damn it, you ran a little faster because of it.

—

If you’d known how this mission was going to turn out, you would’ve called in sick. Faked a family emergency. Broken your own damn leg. Anything to avoid being stuck alone with Bucky Barnes in a freezing H.Y.D.R.A. bunker from hell. You’d even considered whispering a desperate prayer to whatever all-seeing god might be listening—or hell, maybe begging Stephen Strange to yank you into an alternate universe where this wasn’t your reality.

Gunfire rattled somewhere outside the cement walls, and you imagined your fellow agents in the middle of all the fun, chucking grenades, dodging bullets, living the dream. Meanwhile, you were practically glued at the hip with Sergeant Sunshine, babysitting an ancient Soviet-era computer that looked like it still ran on dial-up.

You were perched on the edge of a desk, legs swinging, having shoved aside a mountain of dusty files scribbled in Russian. All completely useless to you.

“What is it with H.Y.D.R.A. and brutalist architecture?” you muttered, eyeing the thick ceiling. “Why does concrete get them so hard?”

“I can’t concentrate with all your whining.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s literally the first thing I’ve said in ten minutes, Barnes.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even throw you one of his signature grunts. Just kept clicking away like the keyboard had wronged him personally, eyes narrowed at the screen as if trying to decode the goddamn Rosetta Stone.

You groaned and rolled your head back, staring up at the ceiling.

More concrete.

You weren’t usually this unbearable on missions, but this? This whole situation felt like a personal attack. You’d been mid-flirt with Theo on the quinjet (who had been very committed to making bedroom eyes at you) when they’d called out team assignments. The second you heard your name paired with Barnes, tasked with data extraction while everyone else got to blow things up, you’d spun around to glare at him.

He’d been sitting there in his usual cold, statue-like stillness beside Steve, as if this wasn’t a death sentence. You’d stormed over, demanded if he knew anything. He just shrugged and muttered something about ‘higher-ups’.

The walls shook suddenly—another explosion—and dust drifted from the ceiling. You blinked it out of your lashes and slid lazily off the desk, sauntering over to where Bucky hunched at the terminal.

“Can you hurry it up? At this rate, they’re going to bury us alive in here.”

“Give me a second,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

You leaned in slightly, eyeing the screen. A wall of Cyrillic met you, completely unreadable. You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that left your lips.

“Remind me again why we’re the ones doing this? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to send someone who actually speaks Russian to help you? Or, I don’t know, someone who has the patience to teach you how to use a flash drive?”

He didn’t answer, just kept typing and clicking, as if the keys owed him money.

You crossed your arms, scowling. The only thing more miserable than being stuck in a concrete crypt was being stuck in one with him. When he was distracted, like now, he forgot to wear that usual look of thinly veiled disappointment. His brow furrowed in focus, lips twitching as he muttered to himself in low, clipped Russian. He looked—God help you—human. Not like the cold-hearted pain-in-your-ass who’d spent the last six months tearing you down. But like someone thoughtful. Careful. Quietly brilliant.

And stupidly, stupidly attractive.

You hated how your eyes lingered on the way his rolled-up sleeves hugged his forearms. The way the shadows danced over his cheekbones and the little groove between his brows. The way that little furrow deepened when something didn’t go his way, like he was trying to wrestle the entire world into submission with sheer concentration alone.

It would’ve been easier if he were just awful. Easier if you didn’t catch glimpses of something else beneath the gruffness. Something that made your chest tighten a little when you weren’t focusing.

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to the screen. What was wrong with you?

The download bar finally appeared on the screen, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. You exhaled loudly, half in relief, half in impatience.

“About time,” you muttered.

He shot you a look, cold and flat. “You wanna do it?”

You turned your back on him, pacing the room. Your nerves were coiled tight, the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions growing louder. The base was a pressure cooker and the damn download bar still hovered at 34%.

While you were busy taking your own turn brooding, the heavy metal door at the far end of the room slammed open with a deafening clang, nearly launching you out of your skin. Three armed H.Y.D.R.A. agents stormed in, rifles raised, eyes locked on target.

So much for the diversion. Clearly, it hadn’t been enough—or worse, H.Y.D.R.A. had seen through it. They must’ve realised it wasn’t a full-blown William-the-Conqueror-style invasion, just a cleverly dressed-up distraction.

“Company,” Bucky muttered, pulling his sidearm in one smooth motion.

You were already moving, instincts kicking in before your brain could catch up. You dove low, sliding across the slick concrete floor as a hail of bullets tore through the room. You grabbed the nearest overturned chair, dragging it into place just in time as metal pinged and sparked against it.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. A single, precise shot rang out, dropping the first H.Y.D.R.A. agent without a flinch. You didn’t stop to think. You surged forward, catching the second agent by surprise, your knee slamming into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. He doubled over, right into the crack of your gun butt across his temple. He crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.

Then you saw the third.

Rifle up.

Aimed right at you.

“Get down!”

The shout was raw, sharp enough to slice through the chaos. You barely had time to turn your head before a body crashed into yours. His arm slammed into your torso, hurling you sideways just as the trigger was pulled.

The shot cracked like thunder.

Your back hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor. Pain flared along your shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the sound that followed, the harsh, guttural grunt that tore out of Bucky’s throat.

You twisted around.

He was down, gasping, clutching at his side and blood already soaking through the black fabric of his suit.

You scrambled back to him just as the final agent aimed again. Snarling, you fired three quick shots into the bastard’s chest before he collapsed in a heap.

The air went still for only a moment, then the ground trembled violently before you had a chance to assess the damage done to Bucky. Chunks of the ceiling cracked and began to rain down. Concrete groaned like a beast waking from a long sleep.

You turned to the computer, some unreadable symbols flashing across the screen, but you were quick enough to decipher that it meant the download was complete. Snatching the flash drive, you spun back to Bucky, who was trying to sit up, blood spilling between his fingers as he pressed them hard against the wound in his side.

“Get up,” you barked, crouching beside him. “We need to move, Barnes!”

—

The two of you had spent nearly two damn hours stumbling through the snow-blanketed mountainside, following the rough coordinates burned into your mind from the mission briefing. By the time the cabin finally came into view—half-buried in the snow, smoke long gone from the chimney—you were soaked to the bone and one more smart comment away from throttling him.

The escape had been messy, the H.Y.D.R.A base nearly becoming your tomb. You’d been forced to bolt through a collapsing back corridor, dragging the injured super soldier along with the last of your adrenaline. Between the debris, the gunfire, and the growing dark stain across his side, you weren’t sure how either of you had made it out. Worse still, you’d missed the quinjet extraction window by twenty minutes. The skies had turned black with storm clouds, wind howling across the range as ice and snow stung your cheeks. The base had finally picked up your call for aid on the mission-assigned satellite phone, but due to zero visibility and increased H.Y.D.R.A activity in the area, the replacement quinjet wouldn’t arrive until first light.

Which meant you were stuck together. In the cold. For the whole night.

The safehouse, at least, was still intact. A small timber cabin tucked between trees, barely standing but just enough. It had a lounge no bigger than a broom closet, a wood-burning stove long dead and cold, a bathroom you prayed had running water, and a single bedroom with a mattress that looked like it had seen better decades.

Your breath misted in the air as you slammed the door behind you, the wind nearly ripping the handle from your grip. Bucky collapsed onto the torn couch by the stove without a word, letting out a low groan that he probably thought you didn’t hear.

You should’ve made starting the fire your first priority. But one look at the blood soaking through Bucky’s side made that choice for you.

Now, kneeling between his legs with the remnants of the first-aid kit splayed out on the coffee table, whoever had been here last hadn’t restocked it properly. You glared up at Bucky as he shifted under your touch again. “Stop squirming.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you hissed, dabbing antiseptic across the wound with a gauze pad. “You keep flinching.”

“Because you’re digging in like you’re trying to punish me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” you muttered.

He scoffed, muscles twitching beneath your hands as you pressed down. “Are you always this demanding?”

“Are you always this whiny?”

His glare was instant, eyes narrowed. “Is it your goal to piss everyone off?”

“I’m a fucking delight, and you know that.”

He gave you a deadpan look. “I think you’re mistaken. I definitely don’t like you.”

You lifted your brows, trying to keep your voice light despite the roiling mix of emotions spilling out. “You say that like you didn’t just take a bullet for me.”

You hadn’t even had the time to process it when it happened. The crash of his body slamming into yours, the sound of the gunshot, and the sickening thud of him hitting the ground. But now, with him sitting across from you, shirt dark with blood and a fresh gash still weeping crimson, the weight of it began to settle in.

He took a bullet for you.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Part of you expected him to twist it somehow, to throw it back in your face as some kind of lesson that you were careless. That you’d left an opening. That he had to clean up your mess. You were already bracing for it, the sting of snide remarks spread over weeks like salt in a wound, little digs during training about how you ‘owe him one’ or how ‘distractions get people killed’.

And yet... he hadn’t said any of that.

Instead, he just shrugged, wincing slightly. “I heal faster because of the serum,” he muttered, voice gruff but quieter than usual. “I’ll be back on the field faster than you ever could.”

You stared at him.

At the stubborn line of his jaw, the tight press of his lips as he tried not to show how much pain he was in. The way his hand gripped his side was too tight. The blood beneath his fingernails.

Why had he done that?

You weren’t always the easiest to get along with. You’d spent months pushing each other’s buttons, arguing, fighting, constantly locked in a cold war of insults and bruises. So why? Why would he throw himself into a bullet’s path for you?

It was hard not to feel... something. Flattered, maybe. A little shocked. And, against your better judgment, grateful. You didn’t want to be grateful—not to him, of all people—but your stomach wrenched every time you replayed the moment in your head.

You didn’t ask him to do it. And yet, he did.

And now he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t made a split-second decision to put your life before his own. What if that bullet had hit a little higher? His heart? His throat? His skull?

“Sure,” you drawled, trying to cover for your sudden silence. “Great excuse.”

“It’s the truth.” He muttered.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the floor and said nothing.

Which, somehow, said everything.

You stared at him for a moment longer, shaking your head as you tossed the bloodied gauze into the small bin beside the couch. The cold was starting to settle into your bones, your fingers stiff with it.

“Whatever. I’m going to try to find some firewood before we freeze to death.”

He glanced toward the boarded-up window, ice clinging to the edges. “You sure there’s any left out there?”

“Nope.” You pulled on your jacket. “But I’d rather get eaten by a bear than stay in here with you.”

You were halfway to the door before you paused, glancing over your shoulder.

“Can you get to that bed yourself, or do you need me to do that for you, too, super soldier?”

His answer came quickly, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

You couldn’t deny the nausea in your stomach. Not from worry. Definitely not that. Just frustration. That’s all it was.

The wind nearly ripped the door from your hands as you stepped outside. Snow came in sideways, biting at your skin the second you crossed the threshold. You tugged your jacket tighter and trudged into the blizzard, squinting against the blur of white.

The woodshed was exactly where the briefing had said it’d be, about ten feet from the side of the cabin, half-hidden by trees. Or at least, had been. What you found instead was a crooked mess of collapsed timber and broken beams. Snow had settled deep into the heap, and every piece of wood you managed to drag free was soaked, the logs heavy with ice and rot.

You swore, breath clouding in the air.

You searched anyway, fingers numb, arms shaking. You tried the back of the cabin. Nothing. Even the branches scattered beneath the trees were too damp. No kindling, no dry bark, not even a damn pinecone. The cold was sinking deeper now, crawling down your spine and settling like an anchor in your chest. You didn’t want to push further into the wilderness, not in this weather and not with H.Y.D.R.A. agents crawling all over the mountainside.

By the time you stumbled back inside and forced the door closed again, you could hardly feel your fingers or toes. Every limb ached like they were five seconds away from turning purple and black from frostbite. The cabin felt just as cold as the outside, but it was a momentary relief to be out of the wind that cut through your thick layers.

Bucky was on the bed, half-sitting up against the wall, the blanket pulled low across his hips. His eyes flicked up as you entered, taking in your dripping hair and shaking hands.

"Let me guess," he muttered. "No luck?"

You didn’t answer right away, just peeled your jacket off and dropped it near the door with a wet splat. “Everything’s soaked. The shed’s collapsed.”

He exhaled through his nose, chest deflating with the effort. “You’re freezing.”

You ignored him, stomping the snow off your boots. “I’ll live.”

“Not if you keep acting like a damn idiot.”

You turned to glare at him. “I’m sorry, which one of us got shot again?”

You crouched down, your knees protesting as you bent to untie your boots, but your fingers were too stiff, trembling from the cold. The laces had frozen slightly, the knots tight and uncooperative. You hissed through your teeth, fumbling and cursing under your breath as you tugged uselessly at them.

Bucky watched from the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t move to help, but you could feel his eyes on you. He tilted his head slightly and gave you a look that was half-concerned, half-exasperated, like you did this to yourself.

With a final frustrated yank, you freed your boot and kicked it off, followed quickly by the other. A damp string of muttered profanities trailed from your lips as you scrambled back to your feet, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

“Which one of us,” Bucky spoke pointedly, breath fogging in the air between you, “went outside to play in a blizzard and came back looking like a drowned rat?”

You were shivering now, teeth on the verge of chattering, but you still squared your shoulders and stared him down, as defiant as ever. A bead of melted snow trailed down your temple. He stared right back.

“Get over here,” he said finally.

“Excuse me?”

“You need to warm up.” His tone was flat, too practical. “And the bed’s the only warm place in this shithole.”

“Oh, now you care about my well-being?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Just lifted the edge of the blanket.

You hesitated, eyeing the small mattress like it might bite you. "You’re the worst."

"And you’re still standing in wet clothes. Take them off and get in."

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“Not all of them,” he said, eyes rolling. “Just the top layer before you die of hypothermia. Stop being dramatic.”

With a theatrical sigh for good measure, you peeled off your wet sweater, leaving the thermal shirt beneath and then your pants. You did not check to see if he was watching you shivering in your underwear, cheeks flushed. You padded toward the bed like it was a walk to your own execution, hesitating again at the edge.

You tried—really tried—not to let your eyes linger on the broad plane of his chest, but it was impossible not to. His shirt was rumpled and half-untucked, the hem tugged up where he’d peeled it back to expose the bandage on his side. The white gauze was already marred with deep red, blooming in uneven patches that made you pause with something halfway between guilt and concern. Your gaze drifted to the sharp curve of his waist, the ridge of muscle visible beneath the bloodied wrappings.

It was distracting.

He was distracting.

But what you tried hardest not to think about was the bed. Specifically, how absurdly small the mattress looked with him sitting on it, shoulders nearly brushing both edges. There was no way you’d both fit. You’d be pressed against him. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to thigh.

You swallowed hard and told yourself not to think about it.

But you were already thinking about it.

“Don’t make it weird,” Bucky muttered.

“I’m not making it weird.”

He let out a low, tired huff, the kind that told you he was in pain but too stubborn to say it. You rolled your eyes in reply, more at yourself than him, and climbed in carefully, slipping beneath the blanket with a reluctant shiver. The bed was warmer than expected. Or rather, he was. Bucky radiated heat like a furnace, the kind that seeped into your skin and made your limbs relax before your mind could catch up. You hovered near the edge of the mattress, body stiff, spine straight like it might help you keep your distance. But it was a hopeless attempt. The bed was tiny—criminally small, really—and with him taking up so much space, there was nowhere to go but closer. One wrong move and you’d be on the floor.

“God, you’re warm,” you muttered into the pillow, trying not to sound too affected.

“Serum,” he replied shortly, his voice rough with exhaustion.

Slowly, inch by inch, you gave in. The chill in the air made it too easy to justify. You shifted toward him, the blanket tugging between you as your arm brushed against his. Then your hip. Then your thigh. Until, somehow, your bodies were nearly flush.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word.

And that somehow made it worse.

The silence settled between you, heavy and warm and intimate, like the air itself had thickened. You could hear his breathing, steady, but a little too deliberate. You could see his chest rise and fall from the corner of your eye. And worse, you could feel him. Every inch of him. The solid line of muscle at your side. The way your knees had somehow locked together under the blanket. How your forearm grazed his with every breath you took.

You needed a distraction. Desperately.

Reaching over to the nightstand, you snatched up the battered satellite phone, almost too quickly. The cold metal was jarring against your palm. For a moment, you considered activating the self-destruct protocol and blowing both of you up to end your shared misery. You flicked it on, the screen’s pale light casting long shadows across the room and across him.

Your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.

He was already staring at the ceiling, the faint furrow between his brows still present even in rest. His profile was defined in the low light, long lashes, strong nose, and the stubble on his jaw catching just a hint of light.

You forced yourself to look back at the tiny screen to check for any new updates.

Nothing. You were well and truly in for the night.

You scrolled to the mission briefing instead, flicking through the files to pass time, anything to distract you.

And then you saw it.

There, buried under the pre-mission notes, weather expectations, and extraction protocol, was a small addendum in the personnel request section.

Operation HARVEST: Agent Barnes, James B.Requested field partner: Agent 00149. Request approved.

You stared at it, the room suddenly quieter than it had been all night.

That was your agent number.

He asked for you.

The same man who had spent the last six months grunting his way through every interaction, who seemed perpetually annoyed by your existence, who had made a point never to give you more than an ounce of credit, had explicitly asked to be paired with you.

You felt your throat tighten.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, as if he could sense your world shattering around you. His voice was low, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion

You didn’t answer right away. You sat there, still curled under the heavy covers. The warmth of his body was helping, yes—but your blood was starting to simmer for a very different reason.

You turned slowly, holding the satellite phone up between your fingers.

“You want to tell me why it says on the briefing notes that you requested me as your partner for this mission?”

Bucky blinked once. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“I asked you on the quinjet if you knew anything,” you went on, voice harsh now. “You told me it was a higher-up’s decision. You lied to my face.”

Bucky sighed through his nose, already bracing himself as he sat up straighter against the headboard. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Didn’t matter?” you scoffed, pushing yourself to your knees to face him, ignoring the goosebumps that rose as the blankets fell from your shoulders. “You picked me. You had me assigned to a mission with you, just the two of us, didn’t tell me, and then lied about it.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You did lie.”

He dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, but there was tension in the movement, an edge of frustration barely restrained. “I didn’t want you partnered with the other guys, alright?”

You faltered, unsure if you heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“No, you can’t just say that and not explain—”

“Fine!” He groaned, exasperated. His eyes dropped away from yours, fixing instead on a knot in the cabin’s dark wood wall. “I heard them talking. Theo and a few of the other agents.”

“What?” you asked, voice tight. “What were they saying about me?”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and awful.

“Just say it,” you bit out.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And it hit you square in the chest, something dark and protective burning behind his eyes. But it was reluctant, too, as if he hated that he was about to say it out loud.

His voice was low and rough when it came. “That you’re easy. That it’d be simple to get you into bed because you’re always asking for it. That you’re a slut. I gave them a piece of my mind and reported them, but I still don’t want you around them.”

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

Your breath caught, the sting behind your eyes immediate and hot. You blinked once. Twice. The words echoed, raw and ugly, and for a second, all you could do was try not to let them settle too deep. Not to let them stick.

You weren’t naïve. You knew you didn’t sleep around any more than anyone else your age. You knew that if the situation were flipped, if you were a man, no one would bat an eye. And still, the weight of it settled heavy in your gut, all twisted up with something darker. Dread. Shame. Fury. And under it all… that sick, crawling feeling that maybe Bucky had said something. Given them reason to think they could say it. That maybe he thought the same thing deep down.

That, maybe, to him, you were just some mess he had to clean up.

The words came fast, your voice shaking. “And what, you thought you’d ride in and defend me like some white knight? You know I could easily drop Theo, I could easily drop any of those assholes!” Bucky blinked, caught off guard, but you were already going, bitter heat rising in your throat like bile.

“You thought that would make it better?” you snapped. “You think that helps? They’re probably all laughing behind my back about how I can’t defend myself—”

“I wasn’t going to stand there and let them talk about you like that!”

“Why?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t want to hear it? Or because you’ve thought the same fucking thing?”

His eyes flared with disbelief, maybe even insult.

“I would never think of you that way,” he barked, and his voice cracked like thunder. “Let alone say it out loud. Because I’m not an asshole. Not like those guys you date.”

You laughed, blunt and hollow. “Why do you care who I date?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t come up with any words, but to your surprise, he exploded before you. “Maybe because you deserve better!” he shouted, the words ripping out of him before he could take them back.

The silence after that was suffocating.

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest, a strange cocktail of feelings in your stomach that you didn’t care to identify. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak again.

“Jesus,” you muttered. You weren’t foolish enough to believe him, to fall victim to whatever joke he was trying to play. “Give me a break.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled this time.

You turned your face away. “Oh yeah? Like you could do any better? Don’t be ridiculous.”

His breath hitched, like you’d slapped him. You could feel him shift beside you under the covers.

“You really think that?” Bucky asked in disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But Bucky didn’t let it stay quiet.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and rough, as if the words had been caged for too long in his throat. “Fine.”

You turned back toward him, uncertain what expression you were even wearing anymore.

“I’ve liked you since the first damn time I saw you,” he said. “Group training. You were paired with some agent twice your size, and you still knocked him on his ass.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I thought you were… brilliant. And sharp. And confident. And yeah, beautiful too. You had this way of looking right through people—through me—and it scared the shit out of me. When they assigned me to mentor you, I panicked,” he said, with a dry, bitter laugh. “I thought if I pretended, if I was distant, if I acted cold, I could make it go away. Trick myself out of it.”

“But it just got worse,” he went on. “Every time I saw you smiling at some sleaze who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, every time I had to watch you flirt with some smug asshole agents, I wanted to break something. Because it should’ve been me.”

You shook your head slowly, stunned. “Bucky…”

“I hated watching you get your heart broken over and over again,” he said. “Hated seeing you walk into training after pretending like nothing happened. You didn’t deserve that. Not when I knew I could treat you better if I just had the fucking guts to say something.”

Your ribs felt suddenly too small for your body, bones pressing into your lungs.

“And now we’re stuck on a mountainside,” he said, his voice softer, hoarser, “and I’m here bleeding in a bed with you, still lying to you, still trying to act like it doesn’t kill me every time you look at me like I’m just your mentor who you hate.”

You gaped in stunned silence, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bucky watched you expectantly.

No. No, that couldn’t be what he meant. Not really.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel joke you’re playing on me,” you finally said, voice shaking, fingers knotted in the sheets. “I don’t get it. You’ve spent this whole time being…”

“I’m being serious,” he said, eyes locked on you. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I’ve fucked this up too many times. But I swear on my life, I’m not playing a game.”

You stared at him, blinking hard. “So what, this entire time you’ve been an asshole because you were what, pretending? Pretending that you didn’t like me, pretending that you weren’t jealous, when you could’ve just talked to me?”

His silence was immediate. Heavy. It told you everything you needed to know.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your mind was spinning, flipping through every memory like a film reel: his cold shoulder, his clipped instructions, the scowls when you joked with someone else, the way he always hovered a few steps too close in combat zones. The way he always caught you when you fell. There had been moments. Tiny fractures in his mask. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The time he bandaged your hand without a word, but so gently it had made your throat tighten. The night you caught him staring at you across the gym like he was in pain.

How had you missed it?

“I need to…” You whispered, slumping back under the sheets, pulling the blanket higher around yourself as if it might guard you from the ache in your ribs. “We should sleep. It’s late. Evac’s coming once the sun is up.”

He didn’t protest. He just nodded once, jaw tight.

Neither of you said another word.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

—

You hadn’t seen much of Bucky since you were both airlifted off the mountain.

He’d been recovering from his wound, officially. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was avoiding you. No texts. No nods in the hallway. No eye contact across the cafeteria. Just cold silence.

Coward.

You’d spent the past week half-waiting for him to come to his senses. The other half had been consumed wondering what the hell you’d do if he did. Because yes, you found him infuriating. Yes, he was emotionally constipated and moody and had the charm of a brick wall. But he was also gorgeous in that tortured-soul, sharp-jawed, arms-too-big-for-his-shirts kind of way. He cared about you, in his own twisted Bucky way. He’d taken a bullet for you. Defended you. Chose you.

And now he was just… gone.

You were leaning against the wall at the edge of the main gym, arms crossed, purposefully not looking at Theo and the other assholes you had suspected Bucky had been right about, when you heard footsteps and someone cleared their throat beside you.

Yelena stood beside you, her smirk suspiciously wider than usual.

You turned, brows knitting in apprehension. “Hey.”

“Congratulations,”

“For what?” You replied hesitantly, watching as her brows lifted in delighted surprise.

“You haven’t heard?” Her voice was alarmingly gleeful, like she was especially thrilled to be the bearer of whatever news she was about to lay upon you. “Barnes finally accepted your mentor transfer request.”

Your heart flatlined for a second.

“What?”

Yelena, oblivious to your distress, continued to dig further. “I don’t know what you did to him up on that mountain, but… damn. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“I didn’t ask for a mentor transfer,” you muttered, dread settling in your chest.

Yelena’s expression faltered. “Oh. Well, you have one now. You’re with Thor. They tried to pawn you off onto me, but you know, got my hands busy with the new group coming in—”

“Thor?!” You snapped, interrupting her spiel, “He’s a drunk! And he’s not even here half the time, too busy in Asgard—”

Yelena gave you a helpless shrug, and that’s when the doors to the gym opened and in walked the ghost of your week-long frustration.

Bucky was in full training gear, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, compression shirt clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was ruffled, pushed back half-heartedly like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, a few strands falling into his eyes. The corded muscles of his arms were on full display, the glint of his vibranium arm catching the light with every step. He looked unfairly good, carved from grief and sleepless nights. But it was the way he wouldn’t look at you that struck harder than anything else. His jaw was tight, lips set in a permanent pout, that brooding scowl etched so deep it felt deliberate. He looked everywhere but at you, like you weren’t even there.

Your blood boiled.

Without a word, you peeled yourself from the wall and marched toward him. He spotted you mid-stride, his posture tensing like he was preparing for impact.

“Hey—” he started.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, voice low and venom-laced.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the other agents filtering in behind you. A few of them had already glanced over curiously, settling in for whatever show was about to unfold.

“Too late,” you hissed. “You requested a mentor transfer for me without even telling me?”

“I thought it was what you wanted.” You both knew he was lying, and he refused to meet your eye. This wasn’t about what you wanted. It was about him feeling embarrassed after his outburst on the mountain.

“Oh, really?” You stepped closer. “Because I don’t remember asking you to make my career decisions for me.”

“I was doing you a favour.”

“Yeah? Maybe try talking to me like a normal fucking person, and then I’ll tell you what I want.”

His eyes flickered up, stormy blues locking onto your face. “And what is it you want?”

You stared him down, tilting your head slightly, weighing the war going on inside you.

You.

I want you.

The thought was immediate, impulsive, and so painfully real it made your chest ache. But you shoved it down, crushed it before it could breathe. No. That was stupid. Why the hell would you want him—this man-child who’d ghosted you for a week, who’d spent the last six months acting like every word out of your mouth was a personal offence, who seemed to find joy in making you feel like nothing?

But then again… maybe you both had been trying so hard to deny the truth, burying something under six months of thinly veiled insults and sparring matches that got too rough. Maybe he was pushing you away because he didn’t trust himself to keep it professional. And maybe you were just as bad, biting back, rising to the bait, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered or the way his voice softened when you were actually hurt.

You had to know if it was real.

The shuffle of movement and muffled chatter around you signalled the start of group training, slicing through your heated stand-off. Agents around you began to pair off, leaving you and Bucky still locked in place, face to face, breath mingling.

You lifted your chin. “Be my sparring partner?” you asked, voice loud enough for the others to hear, but eyes fixed solely on him.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, tight-lipped, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all along.

You squared off on the mat, bouncing on your toes, adrenaline already coiling in your veins. Bucky moved like a soldier, controlled, fluid, annoyingly graceful.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he muttered as you circled.

“I’m not,” you said, “Just testing a theory.”

He raised a brow. “What theory?”

You lunged, caught his arm, and twisted into a low grapple—just enough to draw him in.

His chest brushed yours. His breath hitched.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

Your lips crashed against his mid-motion, stealing the next move right off his tongue. You felt him freeze, just for a heartbeat, before his hands twitched at your waist like he didn’t know whether to shove you away or pull you in. You felt the tension roll off him in waves. The way his body reacted was instinct. Shock. Hunger.

His movements hesitated, and to your delight, despite the entire gym watching, he began to kiss you back.

And that hesitation?

It was all you needed.

You shifted fast, breaking the kiss, then ducking low, hooking your leg behind his knee as you spun. In one fluid motion, you swept his legs out from under him and used the twist of your momentum to pull him down with you. He stumbled, off-balance, and you moved like lightning, hips snapping around his waist, thighs locking tight. You rotated with the drop, forcing him onto his back as you rolled with the momentum.

He hit the mat hard.

You were straddling him, thighs clamped around his ribs, palms flat on his chest. You smirked down at him, panting.

Bucky stared up at you, winded, stunned, and very, very pinned. “That was dirty.”

You leaned down, your face just inches from his again. “So was your little mentor stunt. Call it even.”

Throughout the room, the entire gym was dead silent, staring. You gracefully dismounted him and marched off the mat, but Bucky scrambled up and followed you.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” you snapped as he caught up beside you.

“You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like that!”

“Why not?”

“You kissed me to mess with me.”

“I kissed you to see if you meant what you said on the mountain.”

The two of you burst through the gym doors and into the hallway. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Bucky’s heavy footsteps were right behind you, his presence unmistakable, all coiled frustration and breathless anger.

A few agents stood frozen near the water station, others lingering by the mission board, all of them caught mid-conversation as they turned to witness the fallout. You were aware of the eyes on you, the awkward silence that followed, but you didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them gossip.

You stormed past them without pause as Bucky chased you like a dog on a leash that was just about to snap.

“You just kissed me in the middle of sparring,” he shouted after you, voice ragged and accusing. “In front of everyone. Is this a joke to you?”

You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. The elevator was too slow, too exposed. Instead, you veered to the stairwell and shoved the door open with enough force that it bounced off the wall. The clanging echo followed you as you started up, two steps at a time.

“Oh my god, would you just shut up already?” you snapped over your shoulder, breath catching as your hand slid along the metal railing, spiralling up the concrete stairwell.

Behind you, Bucky cursed under his breath. “It was unfair.”

He reached for you and just missed your wrist. You yanked it away before he could try again, your skin buzzing with the ghost of contact.

“Isn’t that what you taught me to do? Use anything to my advantage?” you bit out, pushing through the next door as you reached your floor. The hall here was quieter and dimmer. You passed rows of familiar doors. Your apartment was at the end of the corridor, and every step toward it made your pulse throb louder in your ears. “What, you have a problem with me using my assets against you?

“Assets, huh? You know, you really are unbelievable—”

You let out an exasperated groan, cutting him back. “You kissed me back.”

That stopped him.

His boots scraped the floor as he slowed a few paces behind you, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock.

“What?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your key in the door. The metal clicked, and you pushed it open with a little more care this time.

“You kissed me back,” you repeated softly, almost to yourself this time and stepped inside.

Bucky barged in after you.

“You don’t understand—I’m… I’m trying to protect you!” His voice followed you into the room, desperate.

You kicked off your shoes without looking at him. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Would you just listen for once—” he snapped, shutting the door behind him.

You rolled your eyes and started pulling off your shirt, tossing it onto your bed and turned to face him, arms crossed. “I am listening, you’re the one not listening to me.”

Bucky stood just inside the door, like he hadn’t decided whether to walk out or burn the whole damn building down.

“I shouldn’t have told you that on the mountain, it was unprofessional of me.” His voice cracked as his words poured out faster than it seemed he could stop them, emotion thick in every syllable. “I requested the mentor switch because I don’t trust myself to keep pretending. I can’t control myself around you!”

You padded barefoot across the room to the small bathroom.

“How am I supposed to go on training you?” He muttered, gesturing vaguely in your direction. He was repeating himself now, rambling like a crazed man completely oblivious to your actions. “You pull that stunt in the middle of training, humiliate both of us in front of the others, and then act like it meant nothing? Jesus, I can’t even think straight when you—”

You peeled your leggings off and let it fall to the floor behind you.

“—and don’t even get me started on that assets comment! What the hell does that even mean? You can’t just go around weaponising your—”

You unclasped your bra and bent to turn on the shower. The hiss of water filled the room, steam already curling up the mirror.

“—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You just, what? Decided to tackle and kiss me like it was some kind of training tactic?! That’s not even…Are you using my confession against me? God, you’re impossible, I swear—”

He looked up.

And stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-breath.

There you were, back turned, steam catching on the bare curve of your spine and trailing over the lines of your thighs, standing in nothing but your underwear.

His words died in his throat like a car slamming into a wall.

Mouth slightly open. Eyes locked.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, saw the exact moment it hit him and raised a brow, feigning casual curiosity as you stepped toward the open shower door, letting the foggy heat billow around your legs.

“You joining me?” you asked sweetly. “Sure sounds like you need to cool off.”

He said nothing.

Just stared.

Like you’d just knocked the wind out of him for the second time that day. Just that haunted, hungry look in his eyes like he was trying to figure out if he’d died and gone to hell. Or heaven.

His mouth opened, like he had something to say, some half-assed rebuttal, some snarky comeback.

But no words came out.

Only a low, helpless breath.

“I wasn’t using it against you.” You clarified as you dragged your underwear down your legs, tossing them somewhere across the room. “I was seeing if you meant what you said.”

You stepped nto the shower, leaving him stood stunned in the bathroom doorway. A soft sigh slipped from your lips as warm water poured down your shoulders and back, washing away the dull ache in your muscles. For a moment, you simply stood there, facing the stream, eyes closed, the patter of droplets against your scalp soothing like white noise in a storm.

Then came the soft rattle of the shower door behind you. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was him.

The subtle swish of movement was followed by the cool press of metal against your waist, his vibranium arm snaking around you, cool against the heat of the water and your flushed skin. Goosebumps prickled instantly across your stomach, nipples peaking at the contrast.

You turned slowly, steam swirling around you in thick waves as you met Bucky’s eyes. His wet hair was slicked against his neck, droplets clinging to the dark strands and sliding down his jawline. Beads of water traced the line of his throat and the rise of his Adam’s apple, disappearing over the muscle of his chest. His hands found your hips, warm and solid, the grip almost possessive.

You tried not to look down, tried not to let your eyes drift to the answer to a question you’d been too proud to ask. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you stepped into him, letting your palms slide up the hard planes of his chest, past his dogtags and looped around the back of his neck.

“I think this is going to do the opposite of cooling me down,” he muttered, voice husky, half-lost beneath the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, and then you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

Your mouths crashed together like you’d both been holding back for too long. Hungry. Desperate. Sloppy. The water only made it messier, lips sliding, catching, breath hissing as teeth grazed. He kissed like he needed to claim this moment before the world snapped back into place. You returned the kiss with equal urgency, fingers threading into his wet hair, tugging, needing more.

His hands slid down your back, firm, sure, guiding you until your spine pressed against the slick wall of the shower. You wrapped a leg around his hip, instinctive, needy, and he growled softly into your mouth as his hand dropped to support your thigh, holding you steady. You ground your hips into him, once, twice. His grip tightened, and the next thing you knew, he was lifting you, hands firm on your ass as he carried you effortlessly from the shower. The bathroom was thick with steam, fog curling along the edges of the mirror and dripping from the ceiling. Water trailed down both of you, soaking the tiles as he strode across the room.

Your back met the edge of the counter with a soft thud, followed by the chill of the fogged-up mirror behind you. The coolness shocked your skin and made your spine arch sharply, drawing a low noise from your throat. Bucky didn’t miss a beat. He was still kissing you, still swallowing your gasp as his hands ran down your thighs and urged them further apart.

He stepped in, slotting himself between your legs, his body flush against yours. The sensation of him made your head spin. Water from the still-running shower continued to hiss in the background, steam billowing out and filling the room like a cocoon. You were both soaked, skin slick and glistening, lips swollen, breaths short. Your fingers found the back of his neck again, anchoring yourself as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was savouring every second.

His hands slid down your hips and tugged you forward until your thighs bracketed his waist. You felt his cock, solid and insistent, pulsing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and your breath caught.

“I think I’ve dreamt of this moment.” He confessed between kisses, before consuming you again.

It took little resistance for him to push into you in one smooth motion. You weren’t just drenched from the shower. Your whole body sang from the shock of it, a strangled sound tearing from your throat as your fingers fisted in his wet hair. His mouth tore from yours with a ragged gasp, trailing down your jaw, your neck, leaving fire in his wake. Bucky braced a hand behind you on the counter, the other gripping your thigh, steadying you as his hips began to move precise and relentless.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this?” he muttered into the curve of your neck, voice wrecked. His lips brushed against your pulse, the edge of his teeth grazing the skin like he was half a second from losing control. “How many nights I told myself I couldn’t touch you... shouldn’t want you, couldn’t have you.”

You let out a breathless laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as his hips snapped forward again.

“Keep going,” you rasped, one hand clawing up the curve of his back, the other buried in his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His only reply was a low, broken groan against your skin, like he was coming apart just from the feel of you wrapped around him. You locked your ankles behind him and rocked your hips forward, drawing him deeper. A spark of pleasure flared up your spine, making your head fall back against the fogged-up mirror..

“I tried so fucking hard to keep my distance.” He chuckled low against your collarbone, though the sound was strained, caught between shallow pants and a raw groan of need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His vibranium hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with gentle strokes, and your body jolted in response. An uncontrollable whimper left you as your thighs trembled around him.

“I’ve been dying to hear those sounds from you.” Bucky panted against your ear.

You pressed closer to him, shaking legs tightening around his waist as you pursued his fingers. He chuckled at your poorly hidden desperation, chest vibrating from the sound. As his fingers swirled, cock pumping in and out, you felt your body clench involuntarily around him, drawing a moan from him.

“Fuck, Bucky, ” you breathed, barely able to form the word as your pleasure surged, unrelenting and dizzying. “If I’d known this was what you were holding back, I would’ve pushed harder.”

Bucky’s rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming uneven and desperate, chasing the high he could feel coiling tighter in both of you. Your raw moans echoed around the small bathroom, rising above the hiss of the shower and the frantic beat of the slap of wet skin. Your climax broke over you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, legs trembling as you whimpered, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure tore through you like lightning, leaving your nerves sparking in its wake.

With a guttural groan muffled against your neck, Bucky followed you over the edge. You felt him twitch inside you, warmth spreading as he spilt into you, his hips stuttering erratically as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His arms tightened around you, as though he needed to hold you close to keep himself grounded.

For a long, breathless moment, you stayed like that. Tangled together, trembling, the heat of the afterglow. The water still rained behind you, forgotten, as you both came down slowly, limbs heavy and slick with sweat and steam. Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head to look at you. His hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands, water trailing down the lines of his cheekbones and along his jaw. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched yours with a mix of dazed satisfaction and something else. A flicker of awe, maybe. Or disbelief.

You gave him a slow, wicked smirk and reached up to brush a dripping lock of hair off his brow, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I need you to pull that transfer request, by the way,” you murmured, voice low and rough with breath. “There is no way in hell I’m training with Thor.”

His lips twitched, a hoarse laugh escaping him, short and surprised. But the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. If anything, it darkened.

“I’ll pull it…” he said, voice thick with promise as his hands slid back down to your waist, “…when I’m done with you.”

From the way his fingers gripped your hips, you had a feeling that wouldn’t be anytime soon.

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