#and maybe run into them at the airport

[tina-hale]

The day I‘m arriving in Bangkok from Paris, with the tiny hope of meeting MileApo somewhere in Bangkok by some huge miracle… MileApo are leaving Bangkok and flying to Paris 🙃

[seven-oh-four]

it's probably not a normal household thing to be fantasizing about escaping and going no contact

[deepwoundsandfadedscars]

Just got home with some new shelves from ikea and I just want to put them up right away, but the wall they will go against needs to be painted and I don't want to do that right now 😭 I just want to organize my books, nothing else

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[beeseverywhen]

This thing drove past me in the airport. I have no words

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How I got scammed

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/05/cyber-dunning-kruger/#swiss-cheese-security

I wuz robbed.

More specifically, I was tricked by a phone-phisher pretending to be from my bank, and he convinced me to hand over my credit-card number, then did $8,000+ worth of fraud with it before I figured out what happened. And then he tried to do it again, a week later!

Here's what happened. Over the Christmas holiday, I traveled to New Orleans. The day we landed, I hit a Chase ATM in the French Quarter for some cash, but the machine declined the transaction. Later in the day, we passed a little credit-union's ATM and I used that one instead (I bank with a one-branch credit union and generally there's no fee to use another CU's ATM).

A couple days later, I got a call from my credit union. It was a weekend, during the holiday, and the guy who called was obviously working for my little CU's after-hours fraud contractor. I'd dealt with these folks before – they service a ton of little credit unions, and generally the call quality isn't great and the staff will often make mistakes like mispronouncing my credit union's name.

That's what happened here – the guy was on a terrible VOIP line and I had to ask him to readjust his mic before I could even understand him. He mispronounced my bank's name and then asked if I'd attempted to spend $1,000 at an Apple Store in NYC that day. No, I said, and groaned inwardly. What a pain in the ass. Obviously, I'd had my ATM card skimmed – either at the Chase ATM (maybe that was why the transaction failed), or at the other credit union's ATM (it had been a very cheap looking system).

I told the guy to block my card and we started going through the tedious business of running through recent transactions, verifying my identity, and so on. It dragged on and on. These were my last hours in New Orleans, and I'd left my family at home and gone out to see some of the pre-Mardi Gras krewe celebrations and get a muffalata, and I could tell that I was going to run out of time before I finished talking to this guy.

"Look," I said, "you've got all my details, you've frozen the card. I gotta go home and meet my family and head to the airport. I'll call you back on the after-hours number once I'm through security, all right?"

He was frustrated, but that was his problem. I hung up, got my sandwich, went to the airport, and we checked in. It was total chaos: an Alaska Air 737 Max had just lost its door-plug in mid-air and every Max in every airline's fleet had been grounded, so the check in was crammed with people trying to rebook. We got through to the gate and I sat down to call the CU's after-hours line. The person on the other end told me that she could only handle lost and stolen cards, not fraud, and given that I'd already frozen the card, I should just drop by the branch on Monday to get a new card.

We flew home, and later the next day, I logged into my account and made a list of all the fraudulent transactions and printed them out, and on Monday morning, I drove to the bank to deal with all the paperwork. The folks at the CU were even more pissed than I was. The fraud that run up to more than $8,000, and if Visa refused to take it out of the merchants where the card had been used, my little credit union would have to eat the loss.

I agreed and commiserated. I also pointed out that their outsource, after-hours fraud center bore some blame here: I'd canceled the card on Saturday but most of the fraud had taken place on Sunday. Something had gone wrong.

One cool thing about banking at a tiny credit-union is that you end up talking to people who have actual authority, responsibility and agency. It turned out the the woman who was processing my fraud paperwork was a VP, and she decided to look into it. A few minutes later she came back and told me that the fraud center had no record of having called me on Saturday.

"That was the fraudster," she said.

Oh, shit. I frantically rewound my conversation, trying to figure out if this could possibly be true. I hadn't given him anything apart from some very anodyne info, like what city I live in (which is in my Wikipedia entry), my date of birth (ditto), and the last four digits of my card.

Wait a sec.

He hadn't asked for the last four digits. He'd asked for the last seven digits. At the time, I'd found that very frustrating, but now – "The first nine digits are the same for every card you issue, right?" I asked the VP.

I'd given him my entire card number.

Goddammit.

The thing is, I know a lot about fraud. I'm writing an entire series of novels about this kind of scam:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

And most summers, I go to Defcon, and I always go to the "social engineering" competitions where an audience listens as a hacker in a soundproof booth cold-calls merchants (with the owner's permission) and tries to con whoever answers the phone into giving up important information.

But I'd been conned.

Now look, I knew I could be conned. I'd been conned before, 13 years ago, by a Twitter worm that successfully phished out of my password via DM:

https://locusmag.com/2010/05/cory-doctorow-persistence-pays-parasites/

That scam had required a miracle of timing. It started the day before, when I'd reset my phone to factory defaults and reinstalled all my apps. That same day, I'd published two big online features that a lot of people were talking about. The next morning, we were late getting out of the house, so by the time my wife and I dropped the kid at daycare and went to the coffee shop, it had a long line. Rather than wait in line with me, my wife sat down to read a newspaper, and so I pulled out my phone and found a Twitter DM from a friend asking "is this you?" with a URL.

Assuming this was something to do with those articles I'd published the day before, I clicked the link and got prompted for my Twitter login again. This had been happening all day because I'd done that mobile reinstall the day before and all my stored passwords had been wiped. I entered it but the page timed out. By that time, the coffees were ready. We sat and chatted for a bit, then went our own ways.

I was on my way to the office when I checked my phone again. I had a whole string of DMs from other friends. Each one read "is this you?" and had a URL.

Oh, shit, I'd been phished.

If I hadn't reinstalled my mobile OS the day before. If I hadn't published a pair of big articles the day before. If we hadn't been late getting out the door. If we had been a little more late getting out the door (so that I'd have seen the multiple DMs, which would have tipped me off).

There's a name for this in security circles: "Swiss-cheese security." Imagine multiple slices of Swiss cheese all stacked up, the holes in one slice blocked by the slice below it. All the slices move around and every now and again, a hole opens up that goes all the way through the stack. Zap!

The fraudster who tricked me out of my credit card number had Swiss cheese security on his side. Yes, he spoofed my bank's caller ID, but that wouldn't have been enough to fool me if I hadn't been on vacation, having just used a pair of dodgy ATMs, in a hurry and distracted. If the 737 Max disaster hadn't happened that day and I'd had more time at the gate, I'd have called my bank back. If my bank didn't use a slightly crappy outsource/out-of-hours fraud center that I'd already had sub-par experiences with. If, if, if.

The next Friday night, at 5:30PM, the fraudster called me back, pretending to be the bank's after-hours center. He told me my card had been compromised again. But: I hadn't removed my card from my wallet since I'd had it replaced. Also, it was half an hour after the bank closed for the long weekend, a very fraud-friendly time. And when I told him I'd call him back and asked for the after-hours fraud number, he got very threatening and warned me that because I'd now been notified about the fraud that any losses the bank suffered after I hung up the phone without completing the fraud protocol would be billed to me. I hung up on him. He called me back immediately. I hung up on him again and put my phone into do-not-disturb.

The following Tuesday, I called my bank and spoke to their head of risk-management. I went through everything I'd figured out about the fraudsters, and she told me that credit unions across America were being hit by this scam, by fraudsters who somehow knew CU customers' phone numbers and names, and which CU they banked at. This was key: my phone number is a reasonably well-kept secret. You can get it by spending money with Equifax or another nonconsensual doxing giant, but you can't just google it or get it at any of the free services. The fact that the fraudsters knew where I banked, knew my name, and had my phone number had really caused me to let down my guard.

The risk management person and I talked about how the credit union could mitigate this attack: for example, by better-training the after-hours card-loss staff to be on the alert for calls from people who had been contacted about supposed card fraud. We also went through the confusing phone-menu that had funneled me to the wrong department when I called in, and worked through alternate wording for the menu system that would be clearer (this is the best part about banking with a small CU – you can talk directly to the responsible person and have a productive discussion!). I even convinced her to buy a ticket to next summer's Defcon to attend the social engineering competitions.

There's a leak somewhere in the CU systems' supply chain. Maybe it's Zelle, or the small number of corresponding banks that CUs rely on for SWIFT transaction forwarding. Maybe it's even those after-hours fraud/card-loss centers. But all across the USA, CU customers are getting calls with spoofed caller IDs from fraudsters who know their registered phone numbers and where they bank.

I've been mulling this over for most of a month now, and one thing has really been eating at me: the way that AI is going to make this kind of problem much worse.

Not because AI is going to commit fraud, though.

One of the truest things I know about AI is: "we're nowhere near a place where bots can steal your job, we're certainly at the point where your boss can be suckered into firing you and replacing you with a bot that fails at doing your job":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

I trusted this fraudster specifically because I knew that the outsource, out-of-hours contractors my bank uses have crummy headsets, don't know how to pronounce my bank's name, and have long-ass, tedious, and pointless standardized questionnaires they run through when taking fraud reports. All of this created cover for the fraudster, whose plausibility was enhanced by the rough edges in his pitch - they didn't raise red flags.

As this kind of fraud reporting and fraud contacting is increasingly outsourced to AI, bank customers will be conditioned to dealing with semi-automated systems that make stupid mistakes, force you to repeat yourself, ask you questions they should already know the answers to, and so on. In other words, AI will groom bank customers to be phishing victims.

This is a mistake the finance sector keeps making. 15 years ago, Ben Laurie excoriated the UK banks for their "Verified By Visa" system, which validated credit card transactions by taking users to a third party site and requiring them to re-enter parts of their password there:

https://web.archive.org/web/20090331094020/http://www.links.org/?p=591

This is exactly how a phishing attack works. As Laurie pointed out, this was the banks training their customers to be phished.

I came close to getting phished again today, as it happens. I got back from Berlin on Friday and my suitcase was damaged in transit. I've been dealing with the airline, which means I've really been dealing with their third-party, outsource luggage-damage service. They have a terrible website, their emails are incoherent, and they officiously demand the same information over and over again.

This morning, I got a scam email asking me for more information to complete my damaged luggage claim. It was a terrible email, from a noreply@ email address, and it was vague, officious, and dishearteningly bureaucratic. For just a moment, my finger hovered over the phishing link, and then I looked a little closer.

On any other day, it wouldn't have had a chance. Today – right after I had my luggage wrecked, while I'm still jetlagged, and after days of dealing with my airline's terrible outsource partner – it almost worked.

So much fraud is a Swiss-cheese attack, and while companies can't close all the holes, they can stop creating new ones.

Meanwhile, I'll continue to post about it whenever I get scammed. I find the inner workings of scams to be fascinating, and it's also important to remind people that everyone is vulnerable sometimes, and scammers are willing to try endless variations until an attack lands at just the right place, at just the right time, in just the right way. If you think you can't get scammed, that makes you especially vulnerable:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[mistyjessart]

The Odyssey Modern AU: Christmas edition

For your consideration: the Odyssey but as a Hallmark Christmas movie where Odysseus travels to New York for work and is trying to get home to Hawaii?? (I needed a long domestic flight shhhhh it was either this or Vancouver to Newfoundland) in time for Christmas dinner with Penelope and Telemachus after missing it for the last 20 years straight

The Trojan War is some really big business venture or something that took literally forever for them to sign but they finally did it!!

Polyphemus keeps them after work threatening to get HR involved because they accidentally ate his lunch that he left in the fridge, Polites and some of his other coworkers get stuck there but Ody and the rest manage to escape the office

Athena is Odysseus' boss (and childhood friend) who told him to get everything done more efficiently so he could leave earlier but noooooo he didn't listen and guess who's cutting it close again

The wind bag: Aeolus (from another department, maybe distribution??) sends them home with snacks that they forget to declare and Poseidon the airport security guard sees them after Eurylochus opens the bag in the waiting area and pulls them into the security room until they miss their flight

Circe owns a local motel and wanted to kick them out because she doesn't trust so many dudes around her employees after past incidents, but her and Athena's mutual friend Hermes gives Odysseus some of her favourite tea as a peace offering and he tells her about his wife and kid and she's just like "fineeeeee okay you're a wife guy, I guess I can find you a room"

She calls them a taxi to the airport the next day and the driver Tiresias just keeps giving them ominous life advice and seems to know like... way too much about them and also they're not entirely sure he actually has his license

Odysseus gets a call from his mom like "where are you we're waiting for you" and he's like "I'm on my way home I promiseeeeeeeeee I'll be there this time"

The sirens are various sales reps at the airport

Scylla (baggage check employee) keeps some of them cuz their bags are too heavy so Ody and the rest head to the gate without them

Eurylochus brings snacks again (thinking Chicharron-style snacks, ones you're not supposed to bring on a plane) and Zeus detains them

The suitors are just the neighbourhours who bully Telemachus like "oooOOOOhhhhh ssuuuUUURrreee your dad is tOOOOtally gonna show up to Christmas this year" and making jokes about his mom

Athena (who did leave early and catch the original flight) scares them away and reassures Telemachus that his dad is on his way (while texting Odysseus "see I told you so")

She finds out Zeus is the one detaining them so she calls her dad like "please can you at least send Odysseus on his way, you literally know him, he's just a dumbass sometimes" so Zeus let's Odysseus go catch his flight but keeps the rest of them in security

Calypso is some lady he's seated next to on the plane who hits on him for the entire ten-hour flight

Poseidon, who got transferred to the other airport, recognizes Odysseus from before and pulls him into security again and Odysseus just rips into him until he lets him go

The neighbours are bullying Telemachus while he's out getting last-minute ingredients for dinner when some dude turns up and tells them off and threatens to get their parents so they all run off

Penelope's just like... "who are you and what have you done with my husband, how are you actually on time"

Insert sweet and sappy Christmas dinner with the entire family until Odysseus' sister goes "wait... where's Eurylochus?"

Eurylochus turns up at the door the next morning like "ODYSSEUS YOU MF I HAD TO CATCH ANOTHER FLIGHT-"

[seresinhangmanjake]

Forgetting

Jake Seresin x reader

Summary: Jake forgets to pick you up at the airport because of his ex, and for the first time, you think maybe you and Jake aren't mean to be.

Notes/Warnings: Angst, but ends fluffy. Fighting. Cursing. This was a request that I said I'd have done in a couple days and it took me a week and a half. Sorry about that. Also, please be gentle. I haven't written for Jake in what feels like a millennium.

Words: 2700

Jake Seresin Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List

As much as it would kill you to know that he could be hurt, you hope he’s hurt. You hope he’s on his way to the hospital to receive life-saving treatment because if he’s not hurt, if he’s not receiving life-saving treatment, then he simply forgot about you. And that makes your heart want to claw its way out of your chest and scamper across the floor until it’s well out of your range to catch it. 

Your call goes to voicemail for the fourth time. You send your twelfth text: I hope you’re ok. I landed an hour ago. Please call me. Nothing different than the eleven other messages that have gone unanswered. Forty-five more minutes pass of you sitting on a bench by the airport exit before you finally surrender your last shred of hope and call Bradley to come save you. 

Within the hour, you’re sighing in relief, the sight of a friendly face almost bringing you to tears. He approaches you with open arms and you fall right into the embrace, comforted by the hug that should be in your boyfriend’s arms, and the warmth that should be from your boyfriend’s body, and the forehead kiss that should be from your boyfriend’s lips. 

“Please tell me he’s ok,” you say against your friend’s chest. 

A heavy palm rubs up and down your back. “No one could get ahold of him.”

Your head jerks back so you can meet his eyes. “Oh my god!”

“I’m sure he’s fine, kid. Don’t worry.”

“How can you say that? He was supposed to be here and he’s not and–” You pause when Bradley looks away from you, and a hefty stone settles in your gut. You know your friend well. He’s a good man, honest but sensitive, and when that honestly meets that sensitivity, it results in his inability to look someone in the eye if he thinks the truth might hurt them. You’ve seen it a hundred times, but never with you. 

Your posture wavers with your lengthy exhale. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Another great thing about Bradley: he doesn’t make you play any games. You don’t have to jump through hoops. You don’t have to ask the right questions in the right way in order to get what you need out of him, unlike many men, your boyfriend included, who recently has found ways to skitter around telling the full truth. 

“Javy said he saw him a couple of hours ago,” Bradley says.

Your back teeth clench. Your mind shoots to one conclusion. “With her?” you ask. Bradley’s eyes drift from yours again and you nod, a tear at the ready to leak down your cheek. “He forgot about me because he’s with her.”

“We don’t know that for sure, and–”

Your hand scrubbing down your face cuts him off. Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose before you suck in your whimper and say, “Rooster, why did he even ask me to come here?”

“Because he…I mean, we thought he–”

“You thought he gave a fuck about me.”

“He does,” Bradley says, stressing his words in an attempt to reassure you. “He never shuts up about you.”

“Sure,” you say. “He gives so much of a fuck that he forgot about me to be with his ex. How can you explain that?”

Rooster sighs. His hands slip into his jeans pockets just to have something to do with them. “I can’t.”

“Exactly.” 

No one can explain it. Not you, not Bradley, not Jake. Everyone you know back home would be telling you to run for the hills right now. They were already wary of this ‘Navy guy��� that they’d only met twice around the holidays, who lives a decent distance away from your entire life and who constantly requests that you be the one to hop on a plane rather than the other way around. 

For the duration of your time together, you’ve been understanding of that sacrifice. You know his schedule doesn’t allow impromptu trips out of state, but that hasn’t made it any less exhausting for you. And maybe that’s a sign. Another sign. A nail in the coffin. Maybe you and Jake aren’t meant to be. And why would you be? You met him on a brief vacation to visit a friend who doesn’t even live in the same town anymore, and somehow, during those few days, he convinced you to take a chance on him. So you took the leap. But being that bold doesn’t guarantee you won’t fall flat on your face, and you think that’s exactly what’s happening. You’ve tripped over a guy only to realize he doesn’t care about you to the same degree that you care about him. 

However, you’re not the type to avoid confrontation. If Jake Seresin is going to mistreat you because of his ex, then he is going to do it to your face. He’s going to look you in the eye when he shows himself to be the liar he is. It may hurt more to go to him rather than get on the next plane home without so much as taking in a breath of fresh Californian air, but you’re too upset to let that thought fully develop, and a moment later, Rooster is following your stomps out the door. 

—

You find him at the Hard Deck, standing at a hightop with a beer glass in his hand that clinks against the one in his ex’s before he takes a sip. Bradley’s comforting hand lands on your back in solidarity. You only met him because of Jake, but the two of you bonded despite their differences, and having him by your side now makes him nothing short of a life-saver. 

He helps guide you through the crowd to the table, and when Jake spots you, he chokes around the liquid going down his throat. His blown-out emerald eyes rival saucers and his mouth gapes like a fish, but then his stare flicks to Bradley, and those eyes shrink into narrow slits. His face heats to a boiling red. 

“What the fuck!” Jake snaps, shocking the composure right out of his ex’s poised stance. Bar patrons close by turn their heads but quickly return to their own conversations. Jake steps away from the table, coming to a halt in front of you and his squadmate. “What the hell is this?”

You figured he’d be bothered if you showed up with Bradley in tow. And good, that’s what you feel he deserves. Jake’s been wary of the other Dagger’s closeness to you for a while, and even though you know—as does Bradley—that it’s an asinine concern, you have no problem using it against him now. But still, the intensity of his reaction manages to surprise you. You didn’t think he would be this angered by the sight of you with another man that it would have him overlooking his mistake of forgetting you.

Your arms cross. “This is your girlfriend and the guy who saved her when her damn boyfriend left her stranded at the airport.”

“Excuse me?”

Jake’s ex’s prying gaze tugs at your attention, but when you glance over his shoulder to catch her in the act, she quickly looks away—just more proof that whatever the fuck she’s doing with your boyfriend is something to be ashamed of. 

Bradley’s saying something. You can’t quite hear him over the anger-induced fuzzing in your ears, but you’re pretty sure it’s a scolding based on the twisting of Jake’s features as he shoots back his own words of aggression. And then your hand is in his and you’re being pulled through the bar, out the back door, and onto the deck where the only intrusive sound is the lapping of waves on the shore. 

“Why are you here?” he asks. 

You scoff to mask the heartbreak that comes with that question. “Because you asked me to be here.”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“It’s Wednesday,” he says. 

“It’s Thursday, Jake.”

“No, it’s—” he freezes, and you don’t know if he’s tipsy or stupid, but it takes him a minute to come to the same conclusion: it is indeed Thursday. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Your lower back meets the edge of the railing, and you sigh, thankfully keeping in the tears. “What are you doing with her?”

“What the fuck are you doing with Rooster?” he returns much more forcefully. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I called, I texted, I left voicemails,” you tell him, “But clearly, she was more important.”

Jake’s hands pat down his pockets, mouth setting in a frown when he can’t find his phone.

“Don’t bother. Phone or no phone, you forgot about me because of her. Last time I was here, you were late for one of our dates because of her. You spent fifty percent of our time together stepping away to take her phone calls,” you say, trying and failing to avoid the bitter taste on your tongue. “Just fuck her, Jake, if you haven’t already. I only came here to tell you that she can have you.”

You’ve never seen him fall apart the way he does. You’ve never seen the blood drain from his cocky face. You’ve never seen his features break and crack and contort into the vision of pure devastation as they do. His parted mouth must’ve gone dry because his next words come out slightly hoarse.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, but it’s more of a plea than anything. “Why…Why would you–” He swallows. A wrinkle forms between his brows and he shakes his head. “You love me. You didn’t mean to say that.”

You do love him—terribly so—but you’re willing to be one of those people who won’t view love as enough if it also means laying you out as a fool. “Jake–”

“Take it back,” he says. His steps are quick, and then you’re trapped where you stand, his hands on either side of your body, gripping the rail. Eyes drill into yours, and for a second, you feel a pang of guilt. “Please, baby, take it back. She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“And I mean less.”

“No!” he says. “That’s not true. You’re everything, ok? You mean everything to me. She was just helping me, that’s all.”

“Helping you,” you mimic with a roll of your eyes. “Helping you what? Get off?”

With a little whine, Jake’s head drops between his shoulders, his blond hair brushing your collarbone. “Please. Please quit saying things like that.” His hands slide closer to your body and land on your hips. You don’t push him away—you can't—and his touch softens you ever so slightly.

“Then tell me the truth,” you say. “Right now. I’m giving you one shot.”

His head snaps up. His eyes flick back and forth between yours, ironically searching for your honesty, as if you’re the liar on trial here. 

“It was a surprise,” he tells you. “She’s a realtor now, and for the last few months she’s been helping me find a new place, one that’s bigger than what I’ve got because I was going to ask you to move in with me.” Your heartbeat stutters. A layer of goosebumps coats your arms. When you don’t respond, he continues, “I hate missing you. I hate how unfair it is that you’re always the one to come here because I can’t fly out at the drop of a hat. I know it’s a big step, but I figured if I had a place, I could show you how great things could be. That’s why she and I came here. We were celebrating because I’m signing on a house first thing tomorrow,” he says. “Well, that’s why I’m celebrating, anyway. She’s probably celebrating because she just made a decent commission.”

It’s almost unfair how that new information doesn’t make you feel any less of a fool. Had he told you that under any other circumstances, you’d be leaping into his arms, kissing him like you’ve been deprived of him for years, repeating ‘yes’ over and over between those kisses, but you can’t. You can’t because his explanation doesn’t fix everything. 

“That still doesn’t change that it’s Thursday, not Wednesday,” you say.

“I know, baby. That’s my fault. I was so excited, and I was thinking how perfect the timing was that I would be able to pick you up tomorrow and drive you by the house now that it’s officially mine, but I fucked it up.”

Jake’s thumbs press into your hips, and you’re instantly reminded of each moment in your relationship when you’ve felt that same light pressure on your skin. A gentle claiming. The same pressure you felt when you agreed to be his girlfriend. The same pressure you feel whenever you’re in bed together. 

You sense eyes on you other than your boyfriend’s, and when you turn your head, you find his ex staring right at you, an expression on her face that you wish you could say wasn’t one of distress, but it is. And worse, it’s obviously not distress for herself, but for Jake, as if she’s hoping she wasn’t just a contributor to a bomb dropping on his life. 

Jake’s busy staring at you despite your averted gaze, and in a monotone voice, you say, “She feels bad.”

He doesn’t follow your eyes. “Because she knows I’ve been doing this all for you.”

You blink. Your hand runs down your face before sifting through the strands of your hair. “You really want me to live with you?”

“Of course I do,” he tells you. He’s shaking his head, but you know it’s because he thinks any idea that he wouldn’t want you to be blasphemous. His hand cups your chin. “I love you.”

With a sigh, you push aside the rollercoaster of emotions, the misunderstandings that lead to frustration and hurt, and look him directly in the eye. And where moments ago you thought you saw lies, you see honestly. Where you thought you saw betrayal, you see love. 

“Can I see it?”

—

It’s small—a two-bedroom with a little driveway, the shingle siding painted a blue-gray shade that is more blue than gray; bundles of flowers bloom in the boxes under the windows; a bay window protrudes from the side of the structure facing the beach. And it’s perfect.

You can imagine building a life here. You can picture a dog that you’ll have to build a fence for and children years later that will have you reinforcing the fence because they’ll probably be like their father, and Jake didn’t choose to be a pilot because of his lack of adventurous nature. You look at this house and you can see the core of a family. A house that, no matter how far you go for Jake’s job, will always be home base.

Jake is leaning around you so you can both watch the house from the passenger seat window. “I’d offer to show you around, but I don’t get the keys until morning.”

“It’s ok,” you tell him. “I don’t need to see inside.”

When you say that, he falls back into his seat. The back of his head presses against the headrest. His fingers squeeze the steering wheel with his sigh of defeat. “You don’t like it.”

Shifting your body to face him, you say, “Jake, I love it.”

Just like that, his eyes brighten like a pouting child who was just offered a lollipop, and you can’t help but chuckle. You can’t help but forget everything that happened earlier in the night, all of it seeming so insignificant now, even though you know it’s not, and you both know that if he ever makes the same mistake again, he’ll have hell to pay. But something tells you that won’t be a problem. 

“Enough to live with me?” he asks.

You nod. “Enough to live with you.”

---

A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments make my entire world, so if you liked it, let me know? Thanks :)

[cazshmere]

Asteroid Groom (51299) and Asteroid Briede (19029) in the houses and how/where you could meet your spouse <3

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER: This is speculative and for entertainment purposes only; it may not hold true for everyone, as there is a lot of nuance to astrology, enjoy reading and do lmk if any of these resonated with y’all :)

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 1ST HOUSE: Love at first sight kinda vibes, at a competition, somewhere where a lot of physical activity is happening. They could end up sitting very close to you or subtly brush their hands against you, could bump into you; physical contact might occur ���

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 2ND HOUSE: In a perfume shop, a luxury shopping place, restaurants, a calm and relaxed environment, at the bank, a karaoke lounge, in a coffee shop, salon, parlour etc 🛍️💅🏼

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 3RD HOUSE: At a library, somewhere where there is a lot of paper or documents, your neighbourhood (maybe your neighbour too, lmao), a classmate maybe, your sibling’s friend, could also be a bit younger than you, maybe at a stand up comedy show 📜📰

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 4TH HOUSE: Parents could play a crucial role in your meeting (especially your mom), a private place, a place where you feel very comfortable and safe, maybe someone who your mom personally knows, your high school sweetheart, puppy love/first love vibes 🏠🛋️

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 5TH HOUSE: When you're out on vacation with your friends having a good time, going out to watch a movie (maybe in a theater), at a carnival or an exhibition, at a play. You could meet them at a park where there are a lot of children playing around or somewhere where there are a lot of kids 🎡🎢

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 6TH HOUSE: The gym could be a high possibility, at the grocery store, when you're shopping for fruits, vegetables, toiletries, etc. (basically when shopping for stuff you use on a daily basis), a coworker of yours maybe, someone you run into every day, at work🏋🏽‍♀️🥙

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 7TH HOUSE: This is honestly such a sweet placement. You will lock eyes instantly and only see this other person even if you are in a crowded room. It might feel like a movie scene too, lol. They might initiate contact, at a social gathering, at a party. Even if it's a crowded place, it could be more of a one-on-one conversation/meeting💟💒💟

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 8TH HOUSE: Somewhere dark and unknown, maybe you can meet them when you are lost (they could help you find your way back to wherever it is you wanted to go), or in a dark alleyway (sounds shady asf but who knows lol). They might lend money to you if you run out (for instance, you wanted to buy a coffee but you suddenly seem to be out of money so they might offer to buy it for you), at a rave, after you've gone through a heartbreak, after you've faced some sort of loss 🖤🌑🍷

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 9TH HOUSE: Lmao this is a bit obvious but maybe through traveling, when you are in a foreign country, at the airport, when you're on vacation in an unknown country. High possibility of them being a foreigner, maybe in university, somewhere where there is a lot of curiosity—maybe an interesting lecture/course you decided to take up—they might also be there ✈️⛰️🗺️

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 10TH HOUSE: Lol they could be your boss (boss x coworker romance maybe, haha), a formal setting. You can meet them through some meeting held in your workplace, somewhere where a lot of famous people are, a famous event, business partner, could be older than you, could work in the same industry, can even meet them through Linkedin lmao 💼📅🗃️

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 11TH HOUSE: Two words—ONLINE DATING. Very high possibility of you meeting on a dating app or maybe just social media (Insta, Facebook, Twitter, etc.). Could also meet them when you're playing some online game, haha (Among Us, Roblox, Valorant). Your friends could introduce you to them, could be your best friend. They stand out to you in an endearing way, at a social event 👯📱👯‍♀️

🩵 GROOM/BRIEDE IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Hmm, could meet when you're at a hospital, a graveyard, an asylum maybe. They could be a patient of yours (if in case you work in that industry), you could be their therapist/psychologist/psychiatrist/counselor as they could suffer from some mental disorders (just a speculation), a peaceful meeting, maybe at a meditation class. You might see them and lose sight of them too. They can be shy/stay hidden, but eventually divine intervention will occur and you two will definitely meet. There is a possibility that you could also meet at an aquarium 🐠🏥🧿

© cazshmere 2024 [All Rights Reserved]

banner credits : @cafekitsune 🩵

[flowersforbucky]

all's well that ends well to end up with you

bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together.

word count: 3.8k

warnings/tags: SMUT, 18+ only mdni, oral (m&f receiving), fingering, nipple play, reader is afab, established relationship, no use of y/n, reader is described as being shorter than bucky, fluffy as hell, sweet domesticity

wrote this for my bb @embbarnes 💕 happy (very early) valentine's day, everyone!

Of all the ways you had been hoping to spend the last few hours of Valentine’s Day, over 30,000 feet in the air next to a snoring man who has never heard of deodorant was at the bottom of your list.

You should have seen it coming from the moment that your two day mission was extended to a three day mission, but you naively held out hope that you’d be able to make it back home in time to salvage the second half of the day.

Getting back early enough to keep the seven o’clock dinner reservations that you’d made for a new, upscale steakhouse in Brooklyn would have been possible if a last minute thunderstorm hadn’t delayed your flight back to New York.

Now it’s already half past seven, and you’ll be lucky if you make it back home before midnight.

Truthfully, you don’t care about the dinner reservations. Sure, you’d heard great things about the food and you had been excited to go, but you could easily reschedule the reservations for another time. The only thing that you were truly bummed about was not getting to spend the day with Bucky.

Today is your first Valentine’s Day as a couple, and instead of spending it with him, you’re spending it on a commercial flight with dozens of strangers. You can’t help but wonder how many of them are missing their significant other, too.

If you’d had it your way, you would have woken up to his face this morning. The two of you would have slept in as late as you desired, and had a slow, lazy morning before cooking him brunch. Waffles, sausage and bacon, scrambled eggs with extra cheese and hot sauce – all of his favorites. You would have taken a stroll through the park before stopping at the bakery that you frequent for doughnuts and coffee, and maybe visited the botanical gardens before your dinner reservations this evening.

Bucky had assured you that it wasn’t a big deal and that the two of you would make up for it when you were back home. He patiently reminded you that life doesn’t take holidays and special occasions into consideration when dishing out things such as extended work trips and inclement weather conditions.

Valentine’s Day aside, you simply miss him. You’ve been missing him since the moment you left for Nebraska, and you’re more than ready to be back in his arms. This is not the first time you’ve been apart due to work related trips, but this is by far the longest – a whopping seven days.

You miss the way he wants to keep at least one hand on you throughout the night, the way he talks to Alpine as if she will actually respond, and the way that he hums without even noticing that he’s doing it. All of the seemingly little things that you don’t think much of on a day to day basis, but when you’re apart, make you miss him all the more.

By the time your flight lands in New York and you catch an Uber back to your apartment, it’s nearly eleven o’clock. Bucky, of course, had offered to pick you up from the airport, but you had insisted that you were okay with getting an Uber, not wanting him to get out so late at night in the heavy rain.

Plus, if he had picked you up, it would have ruined your plan to surprise him by stopping by his favorite pizza parlor down the block from your apartment on your way home. Sal’s Pizzeria is always open until midnight, and every year they run specials the entire week of Valentine’s Day on heart-shaped pizzas.

Knowing Bucky, he’s likely been living off of instant Ramen since you left for your trip, so you figure he’ll be ecstatic over a late night pizza. Not to mention, you’re famished yourself – all you’ve eaten since lunch being the pack of Biscoff cookies you’d been given on the plane.

Lugging your suitcase, a backpack, and the large pizza box, you fumble with your keys before unlocking the door and stepping inside.

At first, you assume that Bucky is already asleep. But as you walk down the short hallway, you realize there’s soft music playing from somewhere in the apartment. You don't think much of it, since you know that Bucky prefers playing music as opposed to the television for background noise.

It’s almost completely dark, minus low orange lighting that trickles into the hallway from the kitchen.

“I’m home, baby,” you call softly as you approach the kitchen’s entryway. “I know it’s late, but I brought you some pizza, if you're hun—”

You stop dead in your tracks when you step into the kitchen. Dozens of tea light candles illuminate the room, placed strategically on the island in the middle of the room. And on the countertops, and the shelves – basically any flat surface twinkles with the delicate flames.

You stand frozen as a statue with your mouth agape as you take in the scene before you. In addition to the candles, there’s a spread of food across the island. Plates of delicious smelling pasta, small bowls of soup and glasses of red wine. Tied to the backs of the barstools are red and pink heart-shaped balloons.

It looks straight out of a romance movie.

“Pizza pairs well with pasta, I think,” Bucky's voice breaks you out of your trance. “Can never have too many carbs.”

Your gaze snaps over to where he emerges from the den. He wears a bashful smile, and even in the low glow of the candlelight, you can see the faint hint of blush blooming across the apples of his cheeks. He has his hands behind his back, as if trying to conceal something from you.

“You did all of this?” You ask lamely. Your voice is barely a whisper and contains a noticeable quiver. “For me?”

You can’t wrap your brain around it. No one has ever done anything quite like this for you. All of your ex boyfriends always shrugged off Valentine’s Day, leaving you feeling lucky if you got so much as a card. You’d long ago learned not to expect much of anything. Definitely not anything as intimate and thoughtful as this.

“Of course for you,” he murmurs with a low chuckle. He saunters over to where you’re still standing with the pizza box clutched in your hands, and pulls what appears to be a bouquet of flowers in a large mason jar out from behind his back.

“Who else would it be for? Alpine?” He teases, extending the jar to you. You plop the box onto the counter so that your hands are free to accept the flowers.

Upon closer inspection, you realize the bouquet of flowers are not real flowers.

Well, yes and no – they’re wildflowers, made of out Legos. You can’t help but giggle, remembering how you had mentioned how cute you think the Lego set is when you saw it while buying some groceries at Target a few weeks ago. You giggle even harder when you picture Bucky assembling all of the tiny pieces of the bouquet with his large, vibranium fingers.

Your eyes begin to well with tears that threaten to spill over. You quickly blink them back, not wanting to show just how emotional the ornate, colorful arrangement of plastic flowers is making you.

Not just the bouquet – all of it. The food and the wine, the balloons, the candles, the forties music playing lowly from the record player in the living room – the sheer amount of time and attention that he put into creating such a romantic display, and all from the comfort of your home.

“They’re perfect,” you murmur, wiping away a stray tear with sleeve of your sweater. You place the mason jar of the plastic flowers in the midst of the spread of food in front of you, making the scene complete.

“It’s all perfect.” He opens his arms to you, and you happily melt into his embrace. He smells of his familiar earthy cologne, and you can’t help but inhale deeply, relishing in the comfort of his scent and warmth.

Even if you’d come home to him passed out in bed, you would’ve been ecstatic to just crawl under the covers beside him. All of this is more than you ever would have hoped for.

“All I got you is a lousy heart-shaped meat lovers pizza,” you sniffle against his t-shirt and you feel his chest vibrate with laughter. You know that you have the reasonable excuse of being on an assignment in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere Nebraska for the last week, but you still feel bad.

“Hey,” he murmurs, using his index finger to tilt your face to look up at him. He grins down at you for a moment before tenderly pressing his lips against yours. You melt into him right away, having missed the feeling of his lips on yours in the week that you’ve been apart.

His hands travel to your lower back, pulling you flush against him. Your own hands cradle his face, your thumbs caressing the light dusting of stubble that adorns his cheeks. You can already feel the outline of an erection forming through the thin material of his pajama pants when he pulls away, much to your disappointment.

“I love meat lovers pizza,” he assures you with a smirk. “And I love you. The best present you could give me is coming home to me.”

“Still. I’m going to make it up to you,” you promise with a feather light kiss to his lips. “I promise. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to—”

You’re cut off by a low rumbling noise that sounds from between your bodies – a reminder that you haven’t eaten a substantial meal in twelve hours now. You glance over to the plates of food on the island beside you, inhaling the delicious aroma of the dishes.

“I made an educated guess that you’d be hungry,” Bucky chuckles. He reluctantly drops his hold on your waist and moves to pull the barstool out for you. You hop up, taking your seat in front of a heaping plate of pasta and a bowl of French onion soup. Your stomach growls again at the sight.

“Did you make all of this?” You ask, unable to hide the surprise in your voice. It’s not that Bucky is a bad cook – he has a few go-to meals that are always excellent, but he normally doesn’t stray too far out of his comfort zone.

“I did not,” he admits with a sigh. He takes a seat directly across from you. “I ordered takeout from the bistro down the street before they closed earlier. Heated it all back up when you texted me that you were almost home.”

“Well, it’s fucking delicious,” you mumble through a mouthful of the creamy pasta.

You eat together in the glow of the candlelight, with soft music playing in the background and heavy rain beating down against the windows of your apartment. You talk about everything from the details of your mission to what he did while you were away. The food is delicious, the wine he picked out pairs perfectly, it’s cozy and peaceful and romantic – and you realize that you’re enjoying this so much more than you ever would have enjoyed an upscale steakhouse in downtown Brooklyn.

You both end up being too full of pasta and soup to eat any of the pizza that you’d brought home, but you’re happy that you’ve got a whole pizza to look forward to having for lunch tomorrow.

“Thank you, baby,” you tell him after swallowing the last sip of your wine. “For all of this. It was more than I could’ve hoped for today.”

He reaches across the counter, grabbing your hand in his own and bringing it to his lips. “Of course,” he murmurs against your skin, eliciting goosebumps down your arm. “As much as I wish we could’ve spent the day together, I still wanted to make the last hour of it as special as possible.”

He stands, releasing your hand as he begins to collect the empty plates and glasses. “You go on and get ready for bed, yeah? I’ll clean up in here.”

“Nonsense. It's almost midnight. These dishes can wait until the morning. Just stick them in the sink and come shower with me.”

You don’t even care if the whole apartment still smells of garlic and French onion soup in the morning – you’ve been showering and sleeping without him for the last week, and it’s still technically Valentine’s Day, so you’ll allow the dirty dishes to sit for the next eight hours.

To your pleasant surprise, he needs no further convincing. He piles the dirty dishes into the kitchen sink and puts the uneaten pizza in the fridge while you get the shower water up to temperature. By the time his pajamas fall to the bathroom floor, you’re already standing under the hot stream of water.

He opens the shower door, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as soon as his eyes trail up and down your body. The way he looks at you never fails to make you feel like he’s seeing you naked for the very first time, every time.

His hands immediately come to rest on your hips, easing you back against the cool tiling of the shower wall. “God, I missed you,” he sighs as he massages his fingers into the meat of your hips. The contrast of his warm flesh hand and cold vibranium hand on your waist has you arching into his touch.

“I can tell,” you giggle, pulling his face down to yours by the back of his neck. His mouth slates over yours, his tongue sweeping along your bottom lip. You part your lips for him right away, more than ready to feel and taste him after all of your time away.

He nudges your legs apart with his knee, inserting one of his large thighs in-between your own. You sink your bare pussy onto the expanse of his muscular thigh, dragging your center across him for friction. He kisses you until you’re breathless, and only pulls away to instead latch his mouth over one of your nipples. He rolls it between his lips and tongue, using his hold on your waist to help move you up and down his thigh. He alternates between each nipple, kissing and sucking on each until they’re pert and pebbled.

His erection gains your attention as it juts against your belly. You reach between your bodies, taking his length in your hand and stroking him with ease, the water from the shower making his skin slick.

You whimper above him, desperate for some release. He laughs, peppering kisses across your breasts and up your neck. You feel him smiling into the column of your throat.

“I think you missed me, too,” he murmurs against your pulse point.

“Maybe,” you admit, your voice etched with impatience. “Why don’t we hurry and get out this shower so I can show you just how much I missed you?”

He presses a final kiss to the side of your neck before pulling away and smirking down at you. He reaches over to one of the shelves in the shower, grabbing a loofah and your bottle of body wash.

“I’ll have you know that I showered before you got home,” he says as he squirts a dollop of the gel onto the sponge. “I’m just here for your entertainment – and your convenience, of course. Now turn around.”

You do as he says, turning around to face the shower wall. You brace yourself against the tiles with your forearms, relaxing as he begins to massage the soap across the tops of your shoulders and down your back.

He takes his time, lazily rubbing the skin of the backs of your thighs before reaching around and doing the same to your stomach and chest. As good as it feels, all you can focus on is the head of his cock nudging against the curve of your ass.

“Bucky.”

The word comes out somewhere between a moan and a warning – a warning that if he doesn’t finish lathering your body in the next two seconds so you can rinse the fuck off, you’re going to take matters into your own hands.

“What is it, baby?” he asks innocently, stepping forward ever so slightly so that his cock inches between the space where your thighs meet your ass.

You turn back to face him, grabbing the loofah out of his hand and tossing it to the opposite end of the shower. The stream of water that beats down against your bodies washes the suds down the drain.

“You’re really going to tease me like that? On Valentine’s Day, of all days?”

“Pretty sure it’s after midnight now,” he quips with a smirk.

You turn so that you’re out of the direct line of the water, and lower yourself to the shower floor. His cock bobs inches in front of your face. You grasp him in your hand, languidly stroking his length as you stare up at him.

“Then I guess you’re lucky that I missed you so much.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut with a sharp intake of breath when you wrap your lips around his tip. You swirl your tongue around him, lapping up the beads of pearlescent white that had gathered around his slit. You begin to bob your head, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat.

Above you, he throws his head back and hisses at the sensation. His metal hand cradles the back of your head, guiding your movements. You gag at the overwhelming fullness, pulling away from him for air. You ease him back into your mouth, setting a steady pace. He rocks his hips forward, meeting your movements with his own.

In one hand, you cup his balls, gently massaging the sack. With your free hand, you attempt to relieve the growing ache between your own thighs by rubbing quick circles over your clit. The thrusts of his hips start to grow erratic, and you feel him twitch against your tongue when he suddenly pulls away from you.

“Not gonna cum in your mouth,” he answers when he looks down to see your questioning stare. “Not tonight. Missed you too much.”

He pulls you up by the tops of your arms and eases you back against the shower wall once more. He then takes your place on the floor, kneeling in front of you. He trails kisses along the wet skin of your thighs as he hooks one over his shoulder. He wastes no more time, diving into your pussy. His tongue swirls over your clit as he brings one long, metal finger to tease your hole. He nudges it inside as his lips suction around the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your folds.

Your body goes relaxed, your back sliding down the wet tiling of the shower wall. Bucky helps support you from down below as he sinks his vibranium digit deeper inside you.

The coil in your lower belly tightens quickly, pent up from a whole week without his touch. He can always tell when you’re close by the little noises that you make and the way that you tug on the short brown locks of his hair with your fingers.

He groans as he licks a thick strip up your slit, sending you over the edge. Your orgasm washes over you, your cunt clenching around his thick vibranium finger as he sucks your clit until you go still above him.

It's then that it hits you that the water from the shower has started to run cold.

“Come on,” Bucky says, rising as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns the faucet off and grabs the two towels that hang over the glass wall of the shower, handing you one before wrapping his around his waist. “Let's get out of here. I’ve got one more gift to give you before we continue this.”

“Another gift? You’ve already done so much. I didn’t even get—”

He gently shushes you with a sly grin, exiting the shower before you can protest any further. You pat your skin dry before securing the towel around your chest and then follow him into your shared bedroom.

Alpine is snoring softly at the foot of your king sized bed, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re even home. Everything is exactly as you left it, from the stack of half finished books on your nightstand to the orange Himalayan salt rock lamp that hasn’t been turned off a single time since the two of you moved into the apartment together. The comfort and familiarity of everything makes you feel all the more grateful to be back home.

You grab a bottle of lotion off of your bedside table and begin lathering it onto the skin of your legs as you watch Bucky rummage through the drawer of his own nightstand. After a moment, he pulls out a small, dark red colored box.

“Catch!” He warns before gently tossing it across the bed to you. You catch it, a smile blooming across your face as you sooth your thumb over the velvet material encasing the small box. He walks over to your side of the bed to stand beside you.

You raise the lid to box, revealing a dainty gold chain with a capital letter B dangling in the center.

You think it’s perfect. It’s isn’t overly ostentatious – it’s the perfect size, and so very you.

“Do you like it?” Bucky asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“I love it,” you assure him, overwhelmed by how sweet and thoughtful he is. “Help me put it on?”

You don’t care that it’s the middle of the night, you want it on you right now.

Bucky takes the box from you, carefully removing the necklace. You turn away from him, letting him drape the delicate chain around your neck. The charm lands just below your clavicle.

“There,” he murmurs as he clasps the chain together. You turn back to face him, letting him see his initial displayed across your chest. “Perfect.”

“Thank you, baby,” you whisper as you raise up on your feet to press your lips to his. The light flavor of your slick lingers on his lips, sending a fresh wave of arousal through your gut. “So much.”

“Of course,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Now lay down. Wanna see how it looks on ya without the towel.”

••••••

thanks so much for reading!! comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[whirlybirbs]

 (  gif by @buchanans​ from this lovely gifset !   )

✪ — JUST TALK ; vacant mirrors holiday special

summary: you spend the holidays at the wilsons. you and bucky really need to talk. pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader ; established in vacant mirrors tags: set post-tfatws, situationship angst, holidays shenanigans, drunk bucky in uniform, they just don't make cigarettes the way they used to, sam wilson is oblivious, sarah wilson is god to me word count: 12k a/n: happy holidays you filthy animals, this is just an excuse of me to finally make these two talk about their feelings (   AO3    |    MASTERLIST   )

It's December 23rd.

The door before you, adorned with a festive wreath and flickering electronic candle, is not that of your family home in Morristown, New Jersey.

The crunch of gravel signals that your rideshare from the airport is pulling away. Headlights dash up the side of the house to illuminate candlelit windows and you offer a courteous wave to the older gentleman. You crane your neck to watch for a moment, then trace the parade of cars parked up the long driveway; all belonging to friends and family you don't know.

You exhale and check your phone one more time. 18 Dancy Avenue. It's the right address. So, shuddering down any lasting, remaining tatters of the fear you're at the wrong holiday party, you take a deep breath and knock three times.

Your luggage knocks at your ankles as you shift in your boots.

Inside you can hear the chatter of voices — the knock seems to startle a wave of jeers as someone calls out:

"Someone's here!"

Moments later, the door is sharply yanked open.

Sam Wilson's toothy smile has maybe — maybe — never been bigger.

"There she is!" he cheers, his expression bright and excited as he swings you into the sort of hug that makes every bit of lasting worry about being a burden melt away; the urge to run is fought off with seasons greetings, "Took your ass long enough—"

"I know, I know, but the traffic was a nightmare coming from the airport," you sigh. Sam Wilson, the nation's new Captain America, waves you off. He bends and snatches up your luggage without a word like the man he is.

"All that matters is that you're here," Sam leans in a little closer only after casting his eyes over his shoulder; the look in his eyes is mischievous — almost boyish — like he knows something no one else knows, "Bucky was starting to pace."

Immediately, a burst of nervousness flares in your heart.

Bucky.

Right.

You... You promised yourself that you'd finally talk to him about all this. About... About the kissing and the consistency and the fact he has a toothbrush at your apartment and you have a toothbrush at his and how this isn't just sidekick business anymore. You promised yourself you wouldn't ring in another year without telling him how you really, truly felt.

For now, though, all you can manage is a brave face. You roll your eyes and a nudge to Sam with your shoulder. Enough, it says. Leave it be.

(He's been leavin' it be since months ago, alright? Sam has seen enough to know there's clear-as-fuckin'-day something between you two — after all, it was only a year or so ago that you were dragged alongside them to Madripoor and Latvia, dragged through all the GRC shit. Sam has seen those thought-to-be private looks shared, he's seen the way you're the only person in this dimension with enough patience to wrangle a certain pain-in-the-ass hundred-something-year-old man. And he lets you. Sam's not stupid, and he'll be fuckin' damned if Bucky doesn't get it together and lock it down by the New Year.)

Sam ushers you in with a smirk, nudging the door shut behind you with his hip as you shed your jacket and boots. The house smells good. Like a warm, fresh meal and pie and cinnamon and—

"She lives!" Sarah laughs from the living room, standing up and weaving past the family members gathered on the sofa; her Santa socks pad softly against the rug, and the drink in her hand sways as she smiles, "It's good to see you."

You hug her tightly, arms around her shoulders, and beam. "Thank you so much for having me, Sarah."

"Oh, psh," she tsks and waves her free hand, "Least I can do — seriously. You keep those two in line. I dunno how the hell you stand the bickering."

She waggles her fingers at her brother (who sucks his teeth in quiet disagreement and rolls his eyes) before quirking a brow. Sarah's eyes wander behind you into the packed dining room where the younger cousins are gathered over a Lego set.

"Speaking of, where is tall, dark, and brooding?" she asks her brother.

"Yo! Buck!" Sam leans around the banister and calls down the hall, "Where you at?"

There's a sudden crescendo of laughter — and the heavy footsteps of a gaggle of teenage girls come pummelling down the stairs. Their faces are split into smiles. Shyness creeps in at the sudden new face at the family holiday party, and you offer your best smile in return. They slip past you into the living room, invested in the snacks on the coffee table.

This house is alive.

"Kitchen!" comes the call in return and your heart leaps into the same genre of kick-up that comes with the mere mention of his name.

Sam juts his jaw towards the direction of Bucky's voice — through the dining room and down the hall — before hauling your suitcase up into his arms. "I'll put your stuff upstairs."

"Thanks, Sam."

"You better not be messin' with my pies, Bucky Barnes!" comes Sarah's follow-up; she lowers her voice and serves you a look, "Your man has a sweet tooth something fierce."

"He's—" you swallow down a sheepish laugh; is there some mind-reading shit going on today? "He's not my—"

Sarah raises her hands in resignation, but her eyes say otherwise. "Right, right, right. Sure. Either way, you are the only one he listens to. So if he's touchin' my pies—"

"I'll make sure he isn't touching the pies," you promise, patting Sarah's arm before starting down the hall.

"And get yourself a drink, okay?"

"I will, I promise."

15 Dancy Avenue in Delacroix, Louisiana has been home to the Wilsons for generations. There's photo evidence lining the hallway walls — family photos and school portraits serve as milestone reminders in time. Sarah's wedding photos, Sam's Air Force graduation.

A pair of people (you recognize the woman as one of Sam's cousins he's mentioned — she's a lawyer) squeeze past you in the hall. On the back porch, the smell of a cigar is wafting through the screen door.

Everything is so alive, so comfortable, so warm.

And there, in the kitchen, is Bucky Barnes.

He needed to keep himself busy.

It's not like he was worried — no, no. He's fine. Absolutely fine. Totally not worried that this is a... a big deal or anything. Y'know, the whole c ome to Sam's for the holidays thing. Which essentially translates to come home with me for the holidays .

It's fine. You're like family to Sam, and Sam is family to him, and you are... important to him.

The most important, actually.

...You two still haven't ironed out the details just yet.

Not that he doesn't want to. He does. But he also doesn't want to ruin anything. Not after everything the two of you have been through. I mean, all of last year had you running around the world as his off-the-books sidekick dealing with Flag Smashers and super soldier serum and political intrigue... and... Zemo, that fucker. And now? It's quiet. For once.

Peace on earth and all that shit.

He's been worried this would be a lot all week. It was a lot for him the first time — I mean, Sam's got a big fuckin' family. Huge. Lotsa Aunts and Uncles which means lotsa cousins and even more second cousins. It felt like a real homecoming the first time he was folded into the mix over the holidays.

And, well, Bucky never really got one of those.

So, it was special.

"I'm here to vouch for the pies?" comes your amused voice from the doorway.

Speak of the damn devil.

Bucky's head snaps around — and immediately, a smile splits across his face. He can't control it. Not anymore, not when he hasn't seen you in the flesh in nearly five days.

That smile is a sight you're not entirely sure you'll ever be used to.

"Hi," you breathe, your cheeks already aching from how hard you're beaming — and you've only been here four minutes and counting. That nervousness, the good kind , only increases when he smiles back.

Immediately, his task of decorating cookies is forgotten and it only takes the apron-clad super soldier two long-legged strides to cross the kitchen and sweep you into a crushing hug. It's the sort of hug that warms your bones. The sort that makes you giggle — and it only worsens, when Bucky hauls you up off the floor just enough to make you peel out a bark of laughter.

"Put me down!"

"You said," he scolds you with a touch of humor as he plops you down; he waggles a vibranium finger in your face, wrestling with a smirk to try and seem serious, "You would text me when you landed."

You shrug as your eyes sparkle. "I thought it would be a nice surprise. I gotta keep you on your toes somehow."

"You're a pain in my ass," Bucky mutters, shaking his head. He's looking you over — he's taken up this habit lately. It's almost like he's running some silly checklist in his mind to ensure you're good. Comfortable. And you do seem to be. You look relaxed if not a bit tired.

Bucky likes this sweater on you.

You look... pretty . Really pretty. So pretty, in fact, that he has to remind himself to breathe. In and out.

When he clears his throat and sneaks a look over his shoulder you know he’s up to something. The kitchen is clear. From this spot, no prying eyes can see you two from the dining room.

The moment before he moves is laden with mischief — and you're about to open your mouth and ask him what the deal is with that look when he bends down and cages you against the doorframe.

Fuck.

Shit.

God damn it, James Buchanan Barnes.

The stolen kiss he pulls you into is slow and warm, tender and sweet. His palm slots against your cheek in a practiced motion of endearment. It's slow at first. Tentative and soft. But, then you place your hands on his chest and he takes that as permission to really kiss you. His stubble tickles. Bucky tastes like peppermint thanks to whatever drink Sarah has made for the grown-ups. He pulls away to catch his breath.

"I missed you," he croaks against your mouth, a vibranium thumb pressed to your bottom lip.

For a second, all you can do is blink and try to remember to exist . Bucky seems exceedingly unaware of the fact that he's managed to wind you — as always. He has no idea , you think, the things you'd let him do to you.

...Okay, maybe he has, like, one or two ideas.

"I missed you, too," you whisper back, dazed and trying to find your footing before you blurt out that you need to talk to him, you need to tell him that you really, really like him and it's the serious sort of like and you're not sure how much of this unspoken situationship you can do if you two don't make it spoken —

Then, the oven beeps.

"Shit."

The moment isn't nearly long enough. The kiss is even shorter.

Bucky leans around you, hollering down the hall; his hands are gentle on your shoulders, "Sarah, the pies—"

"—Don't you dare touch my pies, Barnes!"

Domestic bliss — or utter chaos — looks good on Bucky. His hands are raised in silent surrender when Sarah barrels into the kitchen, and Sam is hot on her heels. You try your best to wrestle the dazed expression off your face and play with your bottom lip, mind rooted entirely on the ghost feeling of his thumb.

"Christ, Buck, you haven't even got her a drink yet? She's a guest," Sarah sighs disapprovingly and shakes her head before leaning in close to whisper a scathing accusation, "You too busy fuckin' with my pies?"

"I'm sensing some animosity over the pies?" you cheep weakly over Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky throws his hands. "It was one time."

"And it was two pies," Sarah takes care to remind him as she flips the oven open; she's muttering to herself, "Who even eats two pies in one sitting?"

"I'm a growing boy."

"Oh my god," you scoff as Sam nudges the fridge shut and hands you a beer. Thank Christ . Wordlessly, you hand it to Bucky — he knows his job. He cracks the top off with his metal palm and then rolls his eyes. Whether it's in reaction to the pie commentary or his role as the group's personal, walking-and-talking bottle opener, you'll never know.

"They were for the VFW," Sarah continues as she — to her credit — pulls two perfectly baked pies from the oven. Pecan, and... sweet potato, maybe? "Speaking of—"

"You two have plans tomorrow night," Sam says as he fires a lazy finger waggle between you and Bucky. He leans back against the counter and swigs his beer.

Bucky is immediately on high alert. The super-soldier crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. "That didn't sound like a question."

"'Cuz it wasn't," the man tosses back, "Tomorrow night, the local VFW is holdin' their annual Christmas Party—"

While your face lights up, Bucky's face falls.

"Oh, that's nice—"

"—No," Bucky responds curtly as he unties his apron, "Not interested."

"Oh. Oh, no ," Sarah laughs and shakes her head as she skirts by Bucky to hang up her oven mitts, "I had that musty, dusty dress uniform of yours dry-cleaned for this. You are not backing out."

Bucky snaps his eyes to Sam. In another life, that look would kill.

Sam shrugs it off with practiced ease.

"Maybe you don't remember. You promised last year," Sam smirks into his drink, "That you'd go."

Bucky's jaw falls open. This? This is a complete and utter betrayal. "...I was drunk —"

"A promise is a promise," Sam goads, wetting his lips as Bucky's face twitches.

Meanwhile, your jaw is slack and you look like you've just been struck with the biggest news of your life.

"Hold on, pause, you were drunk?!" you incredulously fire back, holding onto your beer for dear life, like suddenly James Buchanan Barnes and his love for a shitty pilsner is a threat; you're in a whirlwind as you blink ferociously at Bucky, "Since when is that a thing?"

Bucky groans. He inhales, nice and slow, before sighing. His eyes roll to the resident Captain America. "Our dear friend Sam Wilson was kind enough to gift me some Asgardian mead for the holidays last year, which I am now realizing was just a damn long-con to rope me into this shit."

"Take a breath, will you?" Sarah rolls her eyes, over the dramatics of a certain super-soldier occupying her kitchen, "It's a buncha' old veterans and their families playing cards, alright? You'll fit in just fine, Grandpa."

"You stole my dress uniform?" Bucky narrows in on Sam and decidedly ignores Sarah entirely because, well, he's never been good at handling people telling him to calm down. Bucky leans momentarily over Sam's shoulder to make sure the younger bunch of cousins in the other room isn't listening before a string of swears flies from his mouth, "You fuckin' bastard. That's why you came over the other week, isn't it? Where the fuck did you even find it? "

"It's one of six outfits you got hung in your closet, man," Sam waves him off as he mimics his discovery of the uniform and mimes sifting through the closet, " Black t-shirt, black sweater, black long sleeve, ooh! A garment bag with U.S. ARMY and PROPERTY OF JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES OF THE 107TH branded across the front, I wonder what this is? What, you think I'm stupid?"

"—Stupid lookin'—"

"I'll knock you stupid—"

"Guys," you exhale, "Can we not—"

"He started it!" they both shout at once, turning on their heel to gesture to the other. For a second, you're in Madripoor. Sam is in that damn suit and heeled booties, Bucky is looking less like Bucky and more like the Winter Soldier. And somewhere, in the far distance, is Zemo's stupid voice. That guy seriously never shut the hell up.

Your laugh is a bark. You offer Bucky a swig of your drink. He takes it with an utter look of exasperation. The metal of his vibranium fingers tinkers along the brown bottle's neck.

"It'll be fun," you cock your head and slip a smile at Bucky in an attempt to soothe the now agitated look on his face, "Just an hour or two—"

"You know I hate my dress uniform," he murmurs as shoulders sag; and Sam almost snorts at how rapidly the angry guard dog persona melts away with you, "It's—"

"Itchy, I know," you lament as you take his apron and hang it on the back of the pantry door with the others, "But, they don't starch uniforms the same way they used to in 1943, Bucky."

"Really?" Sam's brows knot in confusion.

"I didn't know that," Sarah mumbles as she moves to pour peppermint schnapps into the drinker shaker.

Bucky looks utterly hopeful.

You wet your lips and hesitate, only to pull your bottom lip between your teeth and shrug. Your eyes dart between everyone in the kitchen. "I... I have no idea, actually — I was just hoping that me saying that would make him feel better—"

"Oh, come on!" Bucky throws his hands.

"It'll be fun!" you moan, throwing your head back.

"I hate fun," Bucky leans in, mocking you, before finishing the rest of your beer and tossing it into the recycling. You roll your eyes, cross your arms, and swivel on your feet. Your reindeer socks slide easily across the hardwood.

"You're being mean."

Bucky's back is turned as he eyes his handiwork with the decorated cookies. Sam's brows rise as he eyes the two of you. Here we go.

"I'm not being mean."

"Fine. You're being anti-social ."

"That's who I am," he chirps back as he tries to adjust the sprinkles on Rudolph the Red Nose Cookie, "You know this."

"—I'd even venture to say you're being a real Grinch about it—"

Sam smacks his teeth in awe that you even dared to go there, and Sarah scoffs to herself as she works the martini shaker. Bucky freezes, and his eyes immediately narrow. He knows what you're doing — you're goading him. He turns around slowly, his face set in determination.

"I'll have you know I love the holidays."

(It's true. Raised by a devout Catholic father and Romanian Orthodox mother, Christmas was one of the biggest holidays on the books. Even after his father's passing, James Buchanan Barnes, his mother, and his sisters always attended mass, usually alongside Steve's family. Then, they'd leave that immense, ornate church on Fourth Street and head home for food, games, and — when they got older — dancing, beer, and holiday parties with cute girls from their high school.

He appreciates giving gifts. It's always his favorite part. He vividly remembers being fifteen — tall and awkward — and saving all year to get Mama a box of fancy European soaps.

Four years later, he was mailing home the same Parisian soaps from the frontlines.)

You shrug, toeing the floor, feigning disapproval. "I dunno, that's a lot comin' from the guy at the holiday party in all black."

Bucky drops his hands to his narrow waist, his eyes narrowing further. He quickly and dryly volleys back: "One would argue the true meaning of Christmas isn't gaudy sweaters."

"You're right, Buck," you concede with feigned, deep sincerity and clap him on the shoulder roughly. He bobs and winces, "It's about spending time with those you care about—"

"Oh, fuck off—"

"Yo, Uncle Bucky, that's five dollars in the swear jar," comes the voice of AJ as he rounds the corner of the kitchen; Cass is in tow, the both of them scoping out the current state of sweets in the kitchen, "Hi Rabbit."

"Hey guys," you grin, tugging them both into quick side hugs as Bucky angrily digs out his wallet from his back pocket. He's jamming a crisp bill into the jar on the window sill when Cass speaks up.

"You and Uncle Bucky are coming to that thing tomorrow, right?"

It's like a well-aimed (and even better-timed) arrow to Bucky's knee.

He's got a weak spot bigger than the state of Texas for those two boys. You can see the defeat in his eyes. It makes you muscle a smirk off your face as Sarah catches your gaze and smiles to herself. She's pouring the drinks into four glasses when Cass continues.

"You said you'd come last year," he reminds the adults as he steals a cookie, "And take a picture with Santa."

"Santa?" you grin, stealing a look between the boys and Bucky — whose shame is just increasing with every reminder of his blitzed promises, "Oh, well, we just have to go."

"Yea, man, you love holidays," Sam reminds him with an edge of humor.

"Alright, alright," Bucky concedes with pain in his eyes, "Yes."

AJ pumps his fist. Cass gives a toothy grin that reminds you of Sam. All you can do is thank Sarah as she hands you a Peppermintini in a cocktail glass and smiles.

"Cheers."

Dinner is nice.

Sarah and Sam (and Bucky, apparently) had spent the entire day previous cooking — so you make sure to load up your plate with every fixing possible. Sam insists you go first, chattering to his cousins about you havin' just flown all the way here from New York, to your abject horror. However, beating the rush does score you a nice spot at the dining room table beside Bucky.

He's carrying two full plates. You snort a little at his mountainous portions but say nothing and continue on sipping your second peppermintini of the night. These things are dangerous. You can feel the buzz in your knees.

"Don't gimme that look," Bucky mutters as he scootches his chair in and drops his napkin to his lap, "If I get up for seconds, this seat is forfeit."

"Oh?" you question through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Bucky smirks a little then nudges your knee with his under the table, "Can't lose the spot next to my best girl."

Your smitten (and utterly panicked) smile is hidden in another bite of dinner. He's doing it — that thing. The... the flirting. But it's different from just flirting. It has feelings behind it.

He takes a huge bite of food, chews, then swallows. "I'm glad you came."

You shrug, elbow brushing his. "I'm glad I came too. This is really nice. The holidays are usually sad at home."

Bucky hums. "Your mom is visiting Fei's family with her?"

Your sister-in-law was delighted when you told her you'd been invited down to Louisiana for Christmas — and it was a good break in the usual grief-stricken schedule of the holidays at home in Morristown. You were all still mourning your brother. The holidays always made it worse, and... well, misery loves company. It feels strange to break out of that pattern of gloom. It was like Fei sensed the guilt radiating off you, and quickly she urged you to go, to accept the invitation. So, your mom joined your sister-in-law and niece on a little holiday trip up North to see Fei's parents.

You just nod.

"Next year," Bucky roughly says after a minute of mashing his sweet potatoes around; he swallows tightly, "We should, uh... We should spend it with them, maybe. Your mom, Fei, and Naomi."

The suggestion makes your heart tighten.

Next year.

We.

Your smile blooms slowly as Bucky's eyes scour your face for any sight of resistance. He doesn't find any, only that little glimmer of something he can never figure out when talk of the future comes up.

...He needs to talk to you.

"That would be nice," you agree, your mini wreath earrings swaying as you nod. Buck's smile is warm.

He reaches under the table, his vibranium hand squeezing your knee. Your hand follows, giving his knuckles a squeeze back. Bucky keeps his hand there, holding yours, through the entirety of dinner.

"Alright, pack it up! Outta my damn house!"

Sarah's call for the party's end comes at 10:30 — and you're glad. In the span of the last hour, you've been absolutely grilled by Sam's gaggle of younger high-school-aged second cousins on your entire life story and if you're an Avenger or not. You're on your fourth (count 'em, four) peppermintini and Bucky has mysteriously disappeared with Sam for an after-dinner walk.

You tried to join them but were ushered back into the warm house and told it was important ' guy time'.

Fine. Whatever.

By the time the house is finally empty, Sarah is ushering AJ and Cass up to bed and you've successfully melted into the couch by the Christmas tree while Die Hard's credits roll across the television screen. This is really nice. You take a moment to let it sink in.

Then, the front door opens, and Sam and Bucky spill inside — and you can immediately see they're up to something.

"Where have you two been?" you lazily ask, sitting up and taking the last sip of your Sarah Wilson specialty cocktail. You lean over the back of the couch and narrow your eyes at the two of them in silent judgment.

"Garage."

"I thought you went on a walk?" confusion passes across your face as you mumble.

"A walk," Bucky says coolly, "To the garage."

Your eyes snap to him. His cheeks are pink. You see him swallow down a grin; his posture a bit more relaxed than usual. Bucky leans to muscle his boots off and sways.

"Is everyone gone?" Sam asks with a touch of seriousness.

"Yea, Sarah's putting the boys to bed," you say slowly, "...Why?"

Your jaw drops open when you spy the bottle Sam procures. It was tucked under his jacket, and now that the coast is clear, he holds his prize high in the sky.

"Can't have anyone — especially Carlos — tryin' to get a sip of this."

Asgardian mead.

Your smile cracks wide open.

...Bucky is drunk.

It's painfully apparent now — worse when the resident super-soldier stumbles into the living room and collapses onto the couch beside you without regard for leg and limb. He pops his socked feet up on the coffee table and exhales. Your jaw is still open, the crest of a grin threatening to sweep away your awe in favor of total joy.

"You want another drink, Buck?" Sam calls over his shoulder from the hall.

" That’d be awfully kind a’ you, Sam ."

You laugh. You laugh, and Bucky melts further into the couch as you tuck your legs beneath you and lean into his orbit. His arms are splayed along the back, his eyes shut, and he looks utterly blissful in this state of... tipsy? You're not even sure — in the nearly two years you've known Bucky, you've always understood he couldn't get drunk. Something about super-serum impacting metabolisms and protein synthesis.

This is new.

Your hands press against his thigh, and Bucky tries to ignore the warmth of your hands through his jeans.

"You're drunk," you accuse with glee, "Are you drunk?"

"Getting there," he grunts, a bit like an old man — and you think that's awfully cute.

"This is, like, seeing a shooting star," you coo, watching him crack an eye open and smirk at your evident excitement; it's cute. It's clear that your joy comes from seeing Bucky relax enough to even get drunk — albeit on whatever potent drink-of-the-gods Sam is serving up as they speak, "This is insane."

"It's not insane , " he counters easily, shrugging a little deeper into the cushions; he moves to pat your knee. But, his hand stays there , "You doin' okay?"

"Mhm," you nod, resting your cheek in your hand and you settle in a little closer to him. Still, a distance that would seem friendly to Sam and Sarah's eyes — but close enough that you can pick a stray sprinkle off his shirt with wandering eyes, "Those drinks Sarah makes are dangerous."

"You were slammin' those things back," Buck mutters with an edge of humor, "I was worried I'd have to carry you to bed."

You smack his chest and ignore the burning implication. He chuckles.

"You gettin' tired?" he asks after a moment of comfortable silence held by the fire in the embrace of the holiday warmth.

"A little," you relent with a shy shrug. Bucky's touch turns tender for a second; he's looking at you like you've hung every star in the sky, and it makes you choke and stumble on your words. You'll never get used to it — ever. Seeing him so... content. Soft. Warm and relaxed. It's a gift in and of itself.

“You’ve had a long day,” he ruminates quietly. He's staring.

He's silent for a second, and then when he speaks it's nothing more than the quietest whisper among the crackle of the fireplace. His eyes trace the lines of your face, trying to commit it to memory.

"You're really beautiful, y'know."

He wishes he could frame this moment — the fireplace, the Wilson's hung stockings, the tree. You. It's home. It's everything he loves.

He looks twenty-something and in love when he says it. Untouched by war, by HYDRA, by horror. He looks young in the warm light of the tree, the fire, and the string lights. It makes you shy. You tuck yourself closer to the cushions and obscure your lovesick smile into your palm. Bucky eats it up .

Another whisper. He shakes his head as he speaks.

"God, I wanna kiss you again."

It's enough of a cue to bring you closer. Wordlessly, you drag yourself towards his chest and press a palm to his cheek. Bucky's hand tenses around the curve of your thigh. You're about to kiss him senseless when Sam's voice cuts through the palpable tension just as he rounds the corner.

"I tried to make it into some sort of... uh..." a blink. You're now on opposite ends of the couch from one another, and Sam swears Bucky is blushing, "You two good?"

Bucky takes the tall glass of questionable decisions from Sam as he clears his throat. "Never better. Thanks."

"Drink up," Sarah says as she wanders halfway down the stairs, bidding everyone goodnight; she points at Bucky, "You and bird brain over there are sharin' this couch tonight. You know where the sheets are. Rabbit, you're up in the guest room."

There's a pause.

Then:

"No funny business."

It's directed at Bucky.

The super soldier offers a sheepish thumbs up, and you purposefully ignore the little look he slides you.

...Did you miss a memo?

Sam waves her off. "See you in the mornin'."

"'Night, Sarah," Bucky calls.

"Night!" you call out to her.

Bucky takes a long sip of whatever the hell Sam has cooked up with the Asgardian mead. It isn't half bad, but this stuff is strong. Like a kick to the back of the knees strong.

"Need help cleanin' up, Sam?" you ask after him as he disappears towards the kitchen, only to find he's returned rather quickly with a parcel in hand. It's old, latched shut — you realize it's a fire-proof box.

"Nah, we'll do that tomorrow," he shrugs, "Bucky and I got you a little somethin', though. We wanted you to take a look."

You quirk a brow. "Was this also in the garage?"

Bucky takes a sip of his drink and smirks. "Sure was."

Sam sets the slate grey, metal box on the coffee table gently. It looks familiar. He stands back, offers his best Captain America smile, and waves you on. Immediately, you're suspicious but do as is expected. The latch securing the fire-proof box shut is a little rusted. It jingles softly against the metal when you flip it open and ease open the lid.

...Inside are papers.

Letters.

... Photos.

Immediately, you snap the lid shut and whip your head up to Sam and Bucky. Goosebumps. You have goosebumps. Sam is grinning and Bucky looks like the cat who got the canary.

Because in this box?

It's history.

Steve Roger's personal collection of history.

You've seen this box before, that's why it's familiar — in his room up at Elmwood. He would consult it often with Bucky by his side and pull tattered and faded memories out to reminisce on.

You're shaking your head when Bucky speaks.

"He wanted you to have this," says Bucky after a moment passes, "He said so."

"I can't possibly—"

"Yes, you can," Sam says as he plops down beside you on the sectional, "What, am I supposed to give it to the Smithsonian? We saw how that worked out last time."

Right.

The shield.

The alcohol in your system is making you emotional. You're clutching the box to your chest tightly, looking absolutely two beats from crying.

"Are you sure?"

"C'mon. Open it up. I haven't looked through everything," Sam says softly, rubbing your back, "And I thought it would be nice. Y'know, the three of us, talkin' about Steve. Like good ol' times."

Your face softens.

Bucky's heart clenches.

And Sam? Well, Sam's never been good when people start crying, so he just yanks you into a rough hug that feels brotherly and warm. "No, no, no tears — quit it, open the damn box, you sap."

"I told you she'd cry—"

"I'm not crying," you say as you definitely wipe a stray tear away as you toss a Santa-themed throw pillow at Bucky, "This is just... really nice. Like, really, really nice... I... It means a lot to me."

Sam lets out a soft breath. You've always held Steve in high reverence — Sam knows the whole bit about that signed poster in your apartment. He's seen it. Never let Buck live it down, either. With Steve's mantle now formally his, Sam can't help but feel glad he has someone on his side of this who cares so deeply.

"I promise I'll take good care of it," you whisper.

Sam doesn't say it, but that's why he's giving this to you.

Bucky's up and moving; he knows how you get about the sentimental stuff. You're like him about memories. They have a profound way of moving you. So, Bucky plops beside you and throws an arm around your shoulder as you sniffle. His voice is low, and Sam pretends he doesn't see his best friend soften. "Let's see this thing."

You take careful pride in opening the box again, your fingers gracing the tattered edges of photos and letters and newspaper clippings and folded posters. It's immediately clear this box had become Steve Rogers' catch-all for things that meant something to him. The thought alone makes your chest ache.

You slowly reach in, pull the entire pile from the box, and carefully set the bundle of history in your lap.

You feel, suddenly, like you're in college again — clamoring over Captain America memorabilia, obsessed over his career, proud of your favorite Avenger.

The first thing on top of the pile is a photo of Steve, Bucky, and Sam. It's a few years old now — if you had to guess, you'd assume before the Snap, after the Sokovia Accords. Bucky's hair is long, Sam looks the same, and Steve is young. They're crowded together, Steve in the middle. Gingerly, you turn it over.

Best Friends, 2017.

The next thing in the pile is a bundle of letters — they still smell faintly of roses. You spy an address and the neat penmanship of Peggy Carter. Bucky, beside you, hums softly.

"He wrote her all the time," he utters as he takes the bundle into his hands; he flips through them, eyeing only the dates — as if the privacy of their romance wasn't for him to read, "We'd be in some bombed out house in the South of France, no light orders, and he'd beg me to borrow my lighter. Just to write somethin' quick."

Sam shakes his head as he lets out a laugh. Bucky hands the letters back and you smile, thumbing the old rubber band keeping the bundle together.

The next thing in the box is a handful of photographs — old, curled up, black-and-white photos that were never really in focus. At some point, it's clear they'd been kept in a photo album of sorts. There's a discolored smear of dried glue on the back of most of them where dates are scrawled.

Photos of a cozy home, photos of a dog, photos of a laughing woman you realize suddenly is Peggy Carter. The wood paneling in the living room dates a handful of photos in the seventies.

And then there's the older stuff.

Stuffy portraits of a skinny Steve and his mother, rare childhood photos taken at holidays. Bucky laughs at these, shaking his head as he takes a long drink.

And then — photos of Bucky.

Sam whistles immediately, snagging the first photo off the top of the pile and shaking his head. "Woa-ho, man — okay , lady-killer—"

Bucky's face falls and he rolls his eyes. "I don’t know why he kept this shit—"

Steve took these. Bucky remembers.

"Lemme see," you chatter, leaning over to take a look — and Sam is right. It's a bit blurry, and a little off-kilter, but it's a weathered photo of James Buchanan Barnes on the stoop of an apartment building. He looks young. Maybe seventeen or so. His hair is slicked back neat, and he's got a dress shirt on. There's a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. He's mugging for the camera — and he's so young .

Your smile is sweet as you pin Bucky with an adoring look.

Bucky rolls his jaw.

That itch for a cigarette is back — the same one that creeps up on him every now and again.

Sam, again, pretends not to notice the adoring tension between the two of you.

"I was a kid," he snaps at your puppy dog eyes, "Let it rest."

"Oh, there's more," Sam crows as you place the picture of Bucky gingerly aside — and the super-soldier notes that it's separate from the letters and photos of Steve. Like you're saving it for you. And something about that makes him feel dizzy.

Sure enough, the next photo is, again, of Bucky — but this time, he's older. Sharper. He's in a kitchen, and there's two girls at the table behind him. The flash melts them into the background, and all you can focus on is how handsome Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th looks in his United States Army dress uniform.

All you can muster is:

"Wow."

It's a whispered prayer.

Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his spot. He moves to take the photo from you. "Yea, wow , who is that loser?"

"Stop it," you scold him gently with a whine, pulling it tightly to your chest before he can steal it away, "Don't say that. You look very handsome."

He's smiling in the photo. A real smile. You can almost hear the laugh that accompanies it. There's something in his hands — and you realize suddenly he's helping his mother cook in the photo. Those girls in the back must be his sisters.

The sight of the memory, frozen in time, makes your heartstrings tighten.

"Well," Bucky kicks his feet up and tries to ignore how tenderly you hold the photo of him, "You'll see just how stupid it looks tomorrow."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You are so dramatic."

You can't get over how handsome he is. You're staring — trying hard to memorize the photo — when Sam moves to pluck another piece of history from the pile.

It's Steve and Bucky, together arm-in-arm, in their Howling Commando uniforms. They're laughing, there's a banner hung behind them in the photo. Beside you Bucky sits up, his face brightening.

"I remember that," he says slowly like he's piecing it together; his words are looser with the alcohol, "Christmas. It was Christmas, and we were in England. Couldn't make it home, so... Peggy tossed the Commandos a little Christmas party."

Then:

"I was piss drunk."

You snort, handing the photo from Sam to him, and watch Bucky's eyes light up. The admission is soft and honest. "I was so drunk, I remember throwing up in Steve's cot — and the next morning, the Colonel had us running a debrief. Had to step out four times to puke beside some sorry bastard's tent."

He goes quiet for a moment. His face shifts into something somber.

"I, uh... I fell off that train car a month later."

Your eyes slip down his face, to his hand. His vibranium thumb is carefully tracing the scalloped and faded edges of the photo. The feeling of your palm across his back brings him to the present, and Bucky clears his throat before tossing the photo back into the pile.

There's more in the bundle in your hands — but you and Sam know how to read the room. Carefully, you return everything to its spot in the pile, save for one photo, and latch the box shut. You give it one more good hug before placing it beneath the tree beside the other presents.

"Thank you."

Sam's got the sheets in his hands, and he's tossing a bunch of pillows at Bucky. "You're up in the guest room, Rabbit — I put your stuff in the closet. If you need anything..."

"I'll holler," you smile, hugging Sam tightly.

Bucky feels... strange. Usually, he'd follow you to bed — curl up beside you. These days, you two flip-flop between his apartment and yours on account of the cats: Alpine and Mr. Poke Bowl. But, here? In front of Sam? It's... It's different.

"'Sleep tight, Rabbit," he offers instead.

You nod, and he realizes you still have that photo of him held tightly in your hands as you slip up the stairs into the dark.

"...When are you gonna tell her, man?"

Bucky is flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Across the room, Sam is in the same position.

His whisper is urgent, and in the dark, Bucky can almost see Sam's exhausted expression.

Bucky sighs.

"No, no, don't you — don't you sigh at me," Sam bites back; Bucky hears him shift to sit up, "It's like soft-core porn without the porn between you two—"

"What the hell does that even mean?" Bucky mutters — translation: shut the fuck up.

"You said you were finally gonna tell her how you feel," Sam urges. He waves his hand through the air, looking increasingly more stressed out, "What's stopping you?"

"I'm me, Sam," Bucky all but snaps in a harsh whisper, "Alright? I'm — I'm a fuckin' mess. Who would want that?"

Sam grows quiet. Then, he huffs out a defeated sigh. He knows when to pick his battles, and he knows this one is Bucky's to fight. The new Captain America rolls over with a grunt, but not before firing off:

"I've seen the way she looks at you."

Bucky tenses his jaw.

"She doesn't look at anyone else like that."

With that, Sam shuts up and Bucky is left alone with his thoughts in the dark of the living room.

He can be quiet when he wants to.

It's like muscle memory. The Wilsons' home has old bones and likes to settle at odd times in the night. Bucky uses that to his advantage as he climbs the stairs to the second floor.

Downstairs, Sam has already started snoring on the opposite end of the couch.

Sarah, in the master bedroom, is fast asleep. AJ and Cass are too, and Bucky checks on the boys out of habit.

The light in your room is still on. Warm light bleeds under the crack of the door, and Bucky debates for a long minute if he should be doing this. The other option is lying awake downstairs on the leather sectional and spiraling over his feelings.

Flesh and blood knuckles rap gently on the door.

"Come in."

You're in bed, thumbing through a book he recognizes as the one you've been working on since last week. It's been a bedside read. Something about star-crossed lovers through the dimensions. There's a god, he thinks. And a... scientist? He can't remember the details. You had rambled about it to him one night while he fell asleep after a long patrol.

You look adorable — skin clean, glasses on. You've been regimented about your bedtime routine lately.

There, beside your phone and a bottle of Lexapro, is that photo of him in his dress uniform.

Bucky's silent as a mouse as he closes the door to the bedroom.

"Sarah is gonna kill you if she knows you snuck in here," you whisper as he creeps closer; he's clad in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, "Her house, her rules—"

No funny business.

Bucky's knee hits the edge of the bed, and he slowly tugs the book free from your fingers. He's slow to place it on the nightstand. The twin bed creaks, and he freezes to listen for any reaction from the sleeping house, before leaning farther down to catch you in the kiss he's wanted since you arrived.

Warm. Slow. He tastes like toothpaste. His hands are cradling your face as he kisses you senseless — his nose nudges yours as he breaks away for a breath.

His dog tags jingle as he hovers over you.

"What're you doing with this, huh?" he smiles; he reaches and plucks the photo from your nightstand and turns it over in his fingers while he watches your reaction. The corners of his eyes crinkle in that way that makes your body feel hot.

You grow sheepish. "It's special."

"I look like an idiot, Rabbit," he chirps as he gently takes the photo and settles to sit on the edge of the bed, "It's ridiculous."

His mother took this photo the day before his deployment. He remembers pieces of this memory — but not the whole thing. He can't for the life of him remember what he's helping her cook. Becca and Mary are playing cards in the back. They'd just been arguing over curfew, trying to get him to walk them to some dance that night.

Bucky barely recognizes himself.

Strangely, this version of him has no idea what sort of life would play out. This version of him wasn't hardened and cold, wasn't broken and pieced back together. This part of him wasn't a weapon yet.

"I think you look handsome," you murmur dejectedly, taking the photo slowly from his hands and cradling it close, "And if I had a locket, I'd put this picture in it."

Bucky's grin is wry as he eyes you over his shoulder, his hands resting in his lap. "...You'd put me in your locket?"

If you squint, it’s the opening to the conversation you’ve been avoiding. "Who else would I put in one?" you shake your head in disbelief.

"Not Cap?" he quips, whistling quietly, "You've changed."

"Oh, no, it's you on one side and Star Spangled Steve Rogers on the other," you play along, enjoying the way Bucky looks back at you against the pillows, "Don't even think for a second—"

His laugh is a low rumble. His shoulders shake, and you can't help but sit up in bed and reach for his arm. He bends, his chin resting atop your head as you hug his bicep. He plants a sturdy kiss on the crown of your hair before you raise your chin and look him over.

"Are you okay?" you whisper, "I know the memories can be a lot."

His lips quirk; another kiss, this one slower — and suddenly Bucky understands softcore porn without the porn . "I'm better now."

"Promise?"

"Promise," he murmurs against your mouth, his original goal of talking swept away in favor of touching. You're soft and gentle and make him feel whole. It's worse when you touch his dog tags beneath his shirt. It's worse when you let him deepen the kiss.

Focus.

You're on a mission, Barnes.

"Rabbit, I — I gotta talk to you about something—" he forsakes himself, stealing another open-mouthed and searing kiss because god damn it, you are so beautiful.

You barely hear him, you're too busy melting into another kiss. "Okay."

"It's important," he stutters, the feeling of your hands slipping up his chest providing an unsteady distraction. Another kiss. Another groan — because you're doing that thing where you play with the hair at the back of his neck, "It's about us —"

Your heart catches.

You pull back slowly, and Bucky feels panic strike his heart with how vulnerable you look. "Us?"

"—I said no funny business."

Sarah Wilson cuts an imposing figure in the shadow of the doorway. Her gaze lacks judgment, but god damn it — her timing is impeccable. Bucky's hair is a mess, his lips kissed red and you're no better, staring slack-jawed at him and terrified at whatever Pandora's box Bucky was about to open. You blinky rapidly between him and Sarah.

It's important. It's about us.

"C'mon, loverboy. Up," Sarah shakes her head at him, "That ain't your bed."

Bucky grits his jaw. "I was just saying goodnight—"

"You coulda done that downstairs," she scolds, "Or with the door open—"

It's important. It's about us.

"Fine," Bucky relents, standing to full height before raising both hands. Sarah tugs her robe a little closer, " Fine."

"Goodnight, Bucky," Sarah retorts as the super soldier slinks away, disappearing down the hall only after he tosses a lingering look your way.

"Yep, 'night."

It's important. It's about us.

You don't sleep a wink that night.

Christmas Eve morning, traditionally, is a slow morning.

It's late by the time you pull your eyes open and look at the clock on the bedside table. The sky over the river is blue and dotted with fluffy clouds. Though there's a distinct lack of snow in Delacroix, Lousiana, it's still a rather picturesque view.

The house is awake.

You shrug on a sweatshirt and a pair of joggers before slipping downstairs hellbent on a cup of coffee and something to eat — lest you start to dwell on whatever Bucky wanted to talk about last night again.

It's important. It's about us.

Padding down the stairs, you're immediately greeted by AJ and Cass. They're dueling it out on Mario Kart. They don't even look at you when they greet you in sync. You fire off a good morning in turn.

Sarah's in the kitchen.

There's a plate of bacon and eggs set aside for you.

"Good morning," she greets with an edge of a smirk, "Sleep well?"

All you can do is let out a long sigh and pull out a chair at the counter. Sarah, as she works on platting a box of catering for the VFW, slides you a look out of the corner of her eye. It's mischievous. You ignore it, trying to be normal.

"Where are dumb and bummer? " you ask, noting the dual plates in the sink.

"Out for a run," she rolls her eyes, "Fine by me. I needed a break."

You hum, take a sip of your coffee, and cross your legs.

"C'mon now," she chides after you silently take a big sip of your coffee, "Spill."

You almost choke. "I—"

"Y'know, it's cute," she begins, closing the lid of a box. Sarah's attention is now focused solely on you as she leans against the counter, "The two of you."

You're not sure why that hits you square in the heart.

You pause. Your lashes flutter for a second before you drop your gaze.

It's important. It's about us.

"Thanks, Sarah."

"He's nervous, I think," she mutters as she offers some hot sauce from the fridge for your eggs; you graciously accept it, "About you seeing him in uniform."

You almost laugh. "What?"

"Yea," she chimes in, "He said somethin' this morning that made me wonder — when's the last time he even wore that thing?"

Before everything, probably.

Before the Winter Solder , before the train car. Back when he hoped for a homecoming to his mother and sisters, back when he was young, back when he was told they'd be home by Christmas.

You chew thoughtfully. The truth tugs at your heartstrings.

"I think," you exhale, "The last time he wore it was a very long time ago."

The VFW in downtown Delacroix is small — but it's clear from the packed parking lot that this little holiday party draws a big crowd. You hop down from Sarah's tuck, shrug your wool coat a little closer, and follow her around to the tailgate. AJ and Cass are corraled close and handed boxes of meals by their mother.

You take a bundle with a smile.

By the time you'd showered and dressed, Sam and Bucky had disappeared off another side quest — this time grabbing Sam's Air Force dress blues from the local dry cleaner. They remarked in passing that they'd meet the four of you there, and when you brushed past Bucky's shoulder in the mudroom, the look he offered verged on apologetic. Kicked-puppy, almost.

There had been no time to talk. So, things were still hanging in the air. Things were... weird.

You try to remember that this is supposed to be fun — the temptation to fall down the cyclical thought pattern is there, but you try to breathe and remember to be present. It'll be fine. Everything is fine.

Hoisting the cardboard box a little higher, your eyes drift to the dotted lights hung across the entrance of the old building housing the local unit of the VFW. It's nothing special — but as you ascend the ramp alongside families and older veterans, the sound of Christmas music drifts to meet you.

The heat is blasting in the lobby, and you offer a cordial smile to the young woman holding the door open for you, Sarah, AJ, and Cass.

It's bustling — and through the halls of the lobby, there's a larger ballroom, no doubt used to functions like reunions and parties. The floors creak underfoot, and you follow Sarah like a lost puppy through the flow of families.

Long tables stretch across the far wall, punctuated by paper plates and plastic utensils. There's a punch bowl that looks suspiciously glittery and you offer a bitten smile to the older woman who moves to give the concoction a perfunctory taste test. The large, rectangular tins of Sarah's cooking are laid out on their own stands, and it quickly becomes your job to light the small, round containers of fire-starter.

The task is welcomed — and it gives you the chance to meet a handful of faces who are clearly familiar with the Wilsons. Vets, wives, mothers, daughters, granddaughters.

You're shaking your hand out from a close call with Sarah's lighter and trying to get another tin started when you hear a familiar voice over your shoulder.

"She put you to work, huh?"

He feels stupid.

This damn uniform is a lot. And sure, there are a handful of other guys in their dress uniforms, but Bucky's is old. His wool coat is chocolate brown, complete with a Howling Commandos patch on his shoulder and adorned with a handful of medals awarded to him posthumously. It was strange to pin them to his lapel. The jacket is belted tightly at his waist. Putting this whole thing on was like muscle memory he didn't know he still had.

And you were right. The starching is different.

He sweeps his cap off his head the moment you turn around, feeling less like Bucky and more like James.

It could have been a movie moment — picture it: you turn around in slow-motion, eyes alight, and there he is, your dashing Sergeant. It could have been perfect, with Sinatra's crooned carols floating by as the sea of people evaporates and all there is is Bucky. It could have been fluttered lashes and bitten cheeks, and Bucky would let out that stupid, huffed laugh he does while ducking his head and rocking on his shined dress shoes.

But, instead, you're so floored you proceed to freeze dumbly. The gel of the heating tin sparks, finally, and you proceed to realize ow, you're burning yourself, ow, ow ow ow—

"Ohmygod—"

"Jesus, bunny," Bucky exasperates as he throws his cap on, hopping quickly to your side to snag the tin from your hands with his vibranium hand; he quickly toss it beneath a tray, all while cradling your fingers in his other hand.

You're still staring at him. Burnt fingers be damned.

He shaved. He smells like crisp sandalwood aftershave and — cigarette smoke. It's faint, but it's clung to his jacket. You can't help but rake your eyes across him, realizing you much prefer this version of him to the one in that photo still on your bedside table at the Wilson's. He's here. Alive. Him. Not a twenty-something Bucky, but a hundred-something with all his quirks and agitations.

"You alright?" he asks, brows tightened in worry. He doesn't see the awe, just like usual.

Your voice sounds far away when you speak.

"Yea," you croak, blinking furiously to try and get your bearings because at this moment? It's all Bucky. Only Bucky. Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes who you realize you've never seen in dress shoes before, but you've also never seen him in slacks starched and creased to regulation.

Bucky swallows.

You're still staring.

"Is it that bad?" he asks dryly after a long stretch of silence on both your ends; his face is set in a deadpan, "I told you—"

"No!" you nearly snap, quickly lowering your voice as you blink over your shoulder. Sarah seems to have handled the rest of the setup, you notice, as she slips a curious look over to you and Bucky, "No, no. You... You..."

Your heart feels like it's on fire.

And this is just proof, again, that you can't keep doing this without some sort of promise that he's not just going to leave or call it quits or... Or give up on you. This feeling is more than anything you've ever felt, and Bucky seems to notice.

Blue Christmas drones on in the background.

"You look really, really handsome, Buck."

It's all you can muster.

Bucky's eyes flicker with something like worry — and immediately, his fingers are curling in his pockets.

"You, uh... You got a sec?" he asks after a moment; his eyes haven't left yours, "To talk?"

You're nodding before you can even speak — but it doesn't matter, because Sam Wilson is here, throwing his arms around Bucky's shoulders. His own dress uniform is crisp and clean, his navy blues contrasting against Bucky's warm chocolate.

"Doesn't this shmuck clean up nice?" Sam jokes, completely unaware of the conversation he's interrupted, "I told him he oughta wear it more often, he'd look less like the long lost member of My Chemical Romance—"

"Ha, ha," Bucky deadpans, "Can you fuck off?"

"C'mon," he smacks Bucky's chest and leans to tug you into a half-hug. Your cheek smushes against Bucky's shoulder, "The three of us need drinks."

Bucky's begrudging irritation flares — he needs to talk to you, but... God damn it. There are more people here now, and... And Sam is tugging the two of you towards the open bar in the back of the banquet hall.

You relent, deciding that yea, you need a drink. A rum and coke is fine, and the grizzled-looking bartender behind the counter makes two drinks with heavy pours —

"Just a coke for me," Bucky rumbles as he leans on the counter, "Leave a lil' room at the top."

You quirk a brow.

Bucky rolls his jaw — then tugs his jacket apart to reveal the flask tucked into his inner breast pocket.

Sam claps him roughly on the shoulder again, his eyes alight. "Sly dog."

"I was not going into this dry," Bucky chirps back, shrugging Sam off as he takes his drink and turns away from the bar.

"Doll, hold this," the nickname slips out, and Bucky winces. You shoot him a look — he knows you hate it when he calls you 'doll' but... Muscle memory. Old uniform, old habits. You take his drink either way, letting him tug that flask of Asgardian mead out and unscrew the cap.

"Yeah, doll, " Sam parrots piqued interest.

"Don't," Bucky raises a finger, beating you to the punch, "call her that."

"Thank you," you sigh as he tips a generous amount of the Asgardian liquor into the bubbling cup of coke, "I hate—"

"—Only I get to call her that."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't," he responds flippantly, shrugging his flask back into his jacket as he takes the cup from you; he tips his cap back a bit, gesturing to the two of you with his drink, "Cheers."

"Cheers!" Sam laughs, and you smirk into your drink as you knock your rim against theirs.

"Cheers, you two."

The first sip is dangerous because shit — this is stronger than Sarah's peppermintinis. No wonder Sam insisted on coming to this party. An open bar with pours like that? This place should be shut down.

Sam's got the same screwed-up look on his face and you're just glad you're not the only one slightly mortified by the punch of rum. Bucky, though, wets his lips in contemplation. He seems impressed with his own little drink and tucks his vibranium hand in his pocket.

"Good turnout," he says plainly as he looks over the busy banquet hall.

You're still trying not to gag from your drink. "When are you sitting on Santa's lap again?"

The super soldier slides you a glare. "Don't start—"

"107th, huh?" comes a warbled voice from behind Bucky, and then a wrinkled and papery hand drifts to swat the brunette's shoulder; Bucky's lips jump into a smirk, and immediately he's locked in a strong handshake with an older man who must be in his late 90s.

...It's good to see Bucky like this. He's in his element, whether or not he wants to admit it. He gets along with these guys — better than most folks. He can relate. Maybe not to have a wife, or kids, or grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, but war is the tie that binds.

The man is whisking — as best as you can whisk with a cane and a hand on Bucky's arm — him away to a table full of Army vets, all well in their older years. You smile, sip your drink, and lean against Sam's shoulder.

The new Captain America tugs you into a half-hug.

Then, his voice is low.

"...He talked to you yet?"

You huff out a laugh — disbelief painting your words. "He was gonna, then you bombed in insisting on drinks. Which, by the way? This is the strongest thing I've ever had."

"Shit," Sam mutters under his breath, "I'm sorry, Rabbit—"

"It's alright," you pat his back and sip your drink, "He... Did he talk to you?"

"Why do you think we were out half the morning?" Sam huffs as the two of you watch him move around the table shaking hands, "Needed to run him like a dog — he wouldn't shut up about he's gonna fuck this up."

You raise both brows and serve Sam a look. "What could he possibly fuck up?"

"The whole... thing, I guess. You know how he is. He's got that broken-man-complex-thing — I told him it doesn't matter," Sam sips his drink and you sigh in agreeance.

"If that mattered, wouldn't I have stopped seeing him months ago?"

Sam blinks.

"Wait," he blinks, " Stopped seeing him?"

You lean back and confusedly eye Sam.

"...Yes?"

"Meaning," the man's face is set in utter disbelief, "You are seeing him?"

"...Oh my god, did you — did you seriously not—"

"No, I didn't know!" Sam cries, stepping back and bending at the knees as he throws his head back, "Are you serious? Since when?"

"Since before Madripoor," you fire off, blinking rapidly, "You always joked, I thought you knew—"

"I thought — oh my god — I thought the sexual tension was just there! "

"It was! Because we were sexually tense!" you whisper-yell, smacking his hands down from his dramatic show of exasperation, "I cannot believe you didn't know—"

"I can't believe this bastard has been gettin' the milk without buyin' the cow — It's been two years? "

"Alright," you bite, giving Sam a look that says ' please never say that again' , "In all fairness, I've also been getting the milk—"

"Alright!" Sam mimics your tone of finality, the look in his eyes begging you never to say that again, "So? What now?"

You cast a look over your shoulder at Bucky as he laughs at something one of the old Veterans says.

"I guess Buck and I talk."

Sam lets out a long sigh.

"Cheers to that."

This is a nightmare.

Is this bartending crew out to kill everyone here?

Thank god the kids are busy with ornament decorating, toy swaps, and Santa photo-ops.

The back of the banquet hall has dissolved into the sort of chaos only a bunch of old soldiers plied with liquor could create. Sam's on his third drink, tossed . Bucky is no better — he's squinting at a hand of cards, muttering something to himself as a guy from the 101st Airborne heckles him.

He folds with a buzzed scoff as you near with a plate of food. You're chewing, intent on seeing what all the noise is about as the table croons at the new loser: James Buchanan Barnes.

"Aw, did someone lose his wager?" you chirp as Bucky begrudgingly wrestles out his wallet and tossing a ten-dollar bill on the table.

"What else is new?" Bucky murmurs before standing. He sways a little, and you can tell from the ghost of heat across his cheeks that his flask is most likely empty by now.

He takes your fork from your hands, shoveling a bite of pie into his mouth. You laugh a little, handing over the entire plate to him.

"You keepin' your girl away from us, Barnes?" comes a call from the table — it's from a man in a Korea war veteran hat, "Not even gonna introduce us?"

Bucky's mouth is full when he points an accusatory hand at the man. "You've taken my cash, you're not takin' my girl—"

More laughter, and you just roll your eyes. " Your girl, huh?"

Bucky swallows and his Adam's apple bobs. His eyes roam across your face as he tries to sort out how you're feeling — and he decides then and there that it's time to talk. He's got enough liquid courage and a half-pack of won cigarettes in his pocket.

"Wanna take a walk?" he murmurs between another bite of pie.

"About time you asked, Sergeant."

The paper plate is promptly dumped into the nearest trash can.

The back entrance of the VFW is quiet. The music from inside drifts through the open doors, and as you shrug on your jacket, you note Bucky's fingers tugging a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his uniform slacks.

He won it in cards.

A smirk quirks your lips.

"You've gotta be kidding," you scoff.

"I've been itching for one," he laments as he drops the unlit cigarette between his lips and leans back against the slate brick of the back wall, "Since yesterday."

"Need a light, soldier?" you joke, trying your best Lauren Bacall-esque, trans-Atlantic accent. In your pocket is the lighter you used earlier — it's Sarah's.

"Be a doll , would you?" he croons back, the rare lightness of humor passing through his words as he ignores your pointed roll of eyes; Bucky slips the lighter from your offered hand, and with three flicks of the flint, strikes up the cigarette.

Now he really looks the part of the dashing Sergeant.

You cross your arms and lean back against the wall beside him as you watch him.

Bucky's eyes meet yours.

For a long moment, it's quiet comfort. He exhales a curl of smoke, the Marlboro perched between his fingers.

Then:

"This is fuckin' horrific."

The cough that follows is dry and brutal, and you can't help but laugh out loud as Bucky flicks the cigarette beneath his dress shoe and stomps it out. He coughs again, into his jacket, and spits onto the pavement — his face is knitted in revulsion.

You're laughing, really laughing, and Bucky swipes at his mouth with the back of his palm.

"What the hell—"

"Not like how you remember?" you chortle.

"This must be real funny for you," he rumbles out, swallowing back a wince of disgust, "Isn't it?"

"Almost like it's payback," you sidle up close, tilting your head, "For dropping the whole 'we need to talk' bombshell and then not talking to me—"

"Third time's the charm," he juts his jaw out, taking a step closer, "We're talking now, aren't we?"

"Not yet," you pry, standing toe-to-toe with him. You can see the anxiety radiating off him — and for once, you realize, it's not you saddled with the nervousness that burns through your rationality.

Bucky reaches out, his hand slipping along your cheek, "I'm not good at talking."

"I know," you mutter, turning your cheek and speaking into the warm flesh of his palm, "But all this tiptoeing is making me anxious—"

"I love you."

...Oh.

It just — it just comes out. It spills out before Bucky can catch it; not like he wants to catch it, though. He's been wanting to say it.

In the mornings, when you press your cold nose between his shoulders and murmur his name? He wants to say it. Over coffee that you make just for him? He wants to say it. When you lay your head on his lap and talk nonsense about books and movies and music? He wants to say it. After every single kiss, he needs to say it.

Your mouth is moving but no sound is coming out.

Then, like a damn bursting:

" Bucky—"

"I love you," he cuts you off again, leaning in to grasp your face and hold it tightly; his expression is deadly serious, "I love you, and you need to know that I—"

"Buck—"

"—I've loved you since Innessa, since Madripoor, since... Since Walker and the Shield and you've been by my side through the worst—"

" James."

Bucky blinks.

You're laughing.

You're laughing, and your hands are cradling his own against your face. Bucky's mouth snaps shut, his breath caught in his throat. You pull his hands down and wind your fingers through his.

"I love you, too."

His voice sounds far away.

"...I'm not easy to love, Rabbit."

"I know," you breathe; his eyes never leave yours, "Hasn't stopped me so far, though."

"Maybe it should," he whispers, glancing down at your fingers, "It'd be easier if you didn't."

"Maybe," you mutter back, breaking from his held hands to reach up and hold his face, "But, I don't really care, Sergeant Barnes."

And you kiss him.

Slowly, softly, and like a promise, you kiss him. There's a hesitancy that dies the moment you slip your eyes shut and Bucky knows you're being honest. You don't care. You want this — you want him, you've wanted him, you've stayed. You always stay. You're his foundation, his rock, his everything. He sweeps his cap off his head and wraps his arms tightly around your waist. There's no intention of ending this moment for anything, not even—

"Barnes! Santa's waiting on you for a photo!"

—Not even that. All Bucky does is offer Sam and Sarah Wilson a vibranium middle finger as he dips you a bit lower, the kiss unbroken.

Because this is important . It's about you two.

[nereidprinc3ss]

mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it. 

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street. 

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out. 

And then, you. 

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this. 

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching. 

I know you, I know you. 

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you. 

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you. 

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in. 

“Hi.” 

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside. 

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name. 

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat. 

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. 

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork. 

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing. 

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates. 

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you. 

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.  

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger. 

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him. 

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks. 

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced. 

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else. 

But maybe he’s projecting. 

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again. 

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else. 

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability. 

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost. 

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing. 

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt. 

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve. 

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done. 

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line. 

Sleeping with you was unforgivable. 

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue. 

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in. 

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see. 

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up. 

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions. 

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview. 

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not. 

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is. 

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true. 

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open. 

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep. 

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious. 

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star. 

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again. 

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze. 

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher. 

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair. 

“What do you really do?” 

He expects you to be asleep. 

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open. 

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep. 

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them. 

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye. 

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache. 

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before. 

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does. 

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art. 

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply. 

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once. 

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey. 

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better? 

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it. 

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek. 

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect. 

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory. 

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia. 

So he begins to walk. 

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise. 

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace. 

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air. 

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect. 

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost. 

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately. 

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out. 

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name. 

It’s been a long time. 

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried? 

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like. 

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up. 

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again. 

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing. 

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides. 

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go. 

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water. 

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants. 

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would. 

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles. 

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night. 

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust. 

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since. 

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed. 

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow. 

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back. 

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert. 

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet. 

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark. 

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him. 

lyrics from my life in art <3

[guksfairy]

fogged hearts | JJK

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | PLAYLIST

wc: 1.1k

notes: mentions of nsfw content, just them being cute, this is more of a filler…mwah I love you I hope you enjoy this!!

MDNI ´-જ⁀➴

The car was silent again, save for you and Jungkook’s gentle pants that were fading slowly as you each caught your breath.

“I’ll never get tired of you,” Jungkook’s hands are placed under your sweater, directly on your skin and on your waist with his thumb soothing your skin as it moves in small motions up and down. They’re soft. They’re home.

His cock was still deep in you but you could care less about that right now. You missed him so bad. So what if you wanted him then and there.

When Jungkook agreed to pick you up from the airport after your trip he had a whole thing planned.

He was to pick you up right outside the plane and hand you the flowers he bought on his way there. Then he’d take you to grab some good Korean food he’s sure you’d missed and drive you back home where you two would cuddle in your bed and watch a movie.

He hadn’t planned to fuck you raw in the back of his car before even leaving the airport. You didn’t care though. It’s a private airline and it’s not like any other cars were parked waiting for the jet anytime soon. You checked. So when Jimin offered you a ride back, you declined his offer with the excuse that your parents had already sent over a driver to pick you up. He left and less than a minute later, Jungkook had pulled up and walked out of his car, holding a bouquet of flowers looking as hot as ever.

Maybe it’s because you hadn’t seen him in a week or because his hair was just slightly messy but you wanted him so bad.

So you made that very clear to him when you both walked over to his car and instead of getting in the front seat like you usually do, you got in the back seat. Jungkook was confused for a moment until you threw your black lace panties, you removed from under your skirt, right onto his lap. Without hesitation, he gave you what you wanted.

“I missed you,” you reply with your flushed cheek against his clothed chest.

“Really? I would have never guessed that,” Jungkook’s playful reply earns a chuckle from you. You couldn’t help it. Even while you were on vacation with your friends, you made sure to always text or call Jungkook to update him of your activities.

“I’m serious though. I kept seeing couples everywhere and wishing you were there. I love my friends but you and I should get away too,” you had been thinking about it for a while. Your father had just given you your monthly allowance that you always mention is more than enough.

Maybe you could book a nice getaway with Jungkook. It was long overdue anyways.

“We should. I have a couple places I want to take you to,” at this you carefully sit up and stare at him. Your fingers running through his damp hair as you look at him with a smile growing.

“Yeah?”

“I have a list on my notes app,” he replies and your eyebrows raise.

“You’re kidding,” genuinely in awe because usually you’re the one who plans the places to visit when you two have a day off together.

“No, you can check baby,” he reaches for his phone that’s laid next to your purse on the center console and hands it to you.

You unlock his phone and open his notes app and sure enough, a the very top with the most recent edit, is a list titled, Date Ideas ❤️

“Koo~” you drag out his name as you scroll through his list, all with addresses right next to them.

There’s a couple restaurants listed along with cafes he thinks you’d enjoy the theme of. Some are places where you can make stuff together like ceramic dishes or matching phone cases.

The list goes on for a while and you feel like you’re never going to reach the end of it. Your mouth is slightly agape and Jungkook is starring at your reaction with a smug expression.

What can he say? He’s a good boyfriend.

“Koo why haven’t you mentioned this?” You put his phone down and wait for a response, “Because you almost always have a place in mind when I pick you up,” he replies and you nod. You’re always finding cute places on TikTok and Instagram and want to share them with Jungkook.

You’ve never had to struggle with the whole ‘where do you wanna go?’ or ‘where do you want to eat?’

“Okay well next time we’re checking something off your list,” you say and he jolts gently making you gasp. “Sorry baby I know you’re still sensitive but hand me my phone,” he says and you grab it again and hand it to him.

“What are you doing?” You ask and he tilts his phone so you could see his actions.

He unlocks his phone and scrolls through the list until he finds the one he’s looking for and ticks it off.

▣ fuck my love in a semi-public space

“That’s a date?” You laugh and he smiles back at you, “For me it is,”

For a moment you both stay silent and you take the opportunity to draw a heart in the fogged window. He reaches over and draws both of your initials in the middle. You take his phone again and take a picture of it before sending it to yourself. You’re not sure where your phone is. The second you landed, all you could think about was Jungkook.

“New lockscreen,” you mumble and he kisses the top of your head, “We got to get going baby,” he says and you want to whine but he stops you, “Round two at your place?” and your excitement is once again through the roof.

With gentle movements, you raise yourself off of Jungkook’s cock and land on your sweater he laid for you. He removes his sweater and uses it to clean the both of you, being very careful with you.

Shortly after you make your way to the front seat and so does Jungkook. He plugs his phone in and plays your playlist you made on his Spotify account.

The ride home is nice and quiet with the music playing throughout the vehicle and you couldn’t be happier to be back home to Jungkook.

[azzibuckets]

sweet [part five]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count: 3.1k

masterlist | sweet masterlist

It’s fleeting, the hardened look that passes over Azzi eyes. If Paige wasn’t so familiar with even the subtlest shifts in Azzi’s body language, she would’ve missed it. The squint of her eyes, the tenseness of her jaw; Azzi’s not just upset, she’s furious. And Paige has always felt bad for the people Azzi’s felt this way towards, the silent anger radiating off a face that was normally bright with a dimpled smile. She’s always thanked God that it was never her, that between them it’s always been a back and forth of shy smiles and blushes.

But now Azzi is staring at her as if she doesn’t even recognize her, and Paige is at an utter loss of what to do. “It’s always just sex with you, isn’t it?” Azzi says wryly. She pushes harshly away from Paige, wiping her neck, as if trying to erase the marks already bruising her skin. “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait, Azzi.” But Azzi ignores her, flipping to her side and pulling the sheets tight over her rigid body.

Paige knows there’s no use in arguing. It seems like hours that she stares at the ceilings, scared to even move. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes. Furious at herself, she scrubs them away. And she’s almost asleep, the physical and the mental exhaustion from the day creeping up on her, when she hears sniffles coming from the other side of the bed. And then Azzi is crying, and it takes everything in Paige to not turn around and take the other girl in her arms.

Azzi makes it a point to ignore her the entire time during rehab the next day and on the drive home. As soon as they return to Storrs, she locks herself in her room with Micaela, making it clear that she wants nothing to do with Paige.

But after a week of sleepless nights, Paige has had enough. She can’t stand the thought of living in a world where Azzi can’t even bear to look at her. Knowing Azzi won’t respond to any of her texts or calls, she takes it upon herself to check her apartment, but the younger girl’s room is empty, looking a little bare. Confused, she runs to Werth and checks the gym, the media room, and finally the kitchen, only to find Amari and Caroline the only ones there. “Where’s Azzi?”

Amari and Caroline exchange concerned looks. “She left,” Amari says gently. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Left?” Paige’s head spins. “Where’d she go?”

“Back to Virginia. She said she’s gonna finish out her rehab there.”

“What? Did she tell you guys?”

Amari looks at her, worried. “She told all of us last week, the day y’all came back from New York. We thought you knew?”

The day they came back from New York. “Fuck. How long is she gone for?”

“Probably past the end of season, maybe even the end of the semester,” Amari says, her eyes rounding in worry as she observes Paige’s increasingly frantic state.

“Fuck,” Paige repeats, massaging her temples. “She left and she didn’t even tell me?”

“You kinda deserve it,” Caroline says pointedly, always Azzi’s biggest defender.

Paige tries to muster up a glare at the brunette, but she’s exhausted, and she knows she has no one to blame but herself. “Yeah, I know,” she finally mutters dejectedly.

“So what’re you gonna do?” Amari questions.

Paige slumps into a chair beside them, kicking at the leg of the table. “I don’t fucking know. She doesn’t even wanna talk to me anymore.”

“Then make her.”

“What?”

“Go to Virginia. Apologize and make things right,” Caroline says, her voice hard. “I’m sick and tired of hearing you two pine over each other.”

In a daze, Paige walks the entire way back to her apartment. By the time she unlocks the door, she’s already bought a plane ticket for the same night. She startles when hands touch her shoulder and spin her around. “What’s up? You look pale.”

“Azzi went back home,” Paige responds distractedly, tapping at her screen as she texts Tim asking if he can pick up her from the airport.

“Home?” Ella laughs. “Well, she finally listened.”

That gets Paige’s attention. Looking up from her phone, she squints. “What?”

“I asked her to give you space,” Ella cocks her head. “She said she would, but you guys went to fucking rehab together last week. But now she’s gone, so I guess she really did listen.”

A knot of something painful starts to form at the base of Paige’s head. “You- what? Why the fuck would you ask my best friend to give me space?” she demands.

“Dude, you’re always so fucked up worrying about her. Even now, you look like you just fainted.” Ella regards her coldly. “Excuse me for wanting us to go on one date without you thinking of her.”

When Paige stares at her, her mouth agape, Ella steps even closer, wrapping a hand around her bicep. “Come on,” she purrs. “We can have so much fun now that’s she gone.”

“We’re over.” Ella has the audacity to look surprised.

Paige grabs her purse from the coffee table and pushes it roughly into her chest, causing the girl to stumble back. “Now get the fuck out of my apartment.”

Paige is already in her room by the time the door slams shut. She stuffs things haphazardly into her backpack as her mind reels. Azzi had left. Azzi had thought Paige didn’t care about her. The mere thought of Azzi thinking she could ever be a burden makes Paige feel sick with fury. God, she had said all those things to Azzi, just for her best friend to think she was doing her a favor?

••

“Thank you for picking me up on such short notice.” Paige fiddles nervously with the straps of her backpack. “I’m not sure if coming here was a good idea but-”

“Paige,” Tim interrupts her train of thought, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. “You know you’re always welcome. But, just a warning…Azzi might not be the happiest that you’re here. But give her some time, and she’ll cool down. She always does.” Tim’s unwavering confidence should give Paige a boost of the same energy, but it only shakes her up more. Everyone’s expecting them to make up like they always do after every petty fight, but what if they can’t make it through? What if this is it? Paige has never fucked up like this, never hurt Azzi so much that the younger girl felt the need to put multiple states between the two of them.

When Tim pulls into the driveway, Paige asks for a moment. The older man gives her a comforting hug before heading up to the house first, giving her space. Taking a deep breath to try and calm her racing heartbeat, she fluffs up the flowers, attempting to make them look prettier. She adjusts and readjusts the envelope placed in the middle of the petals. She runs her hands through her hair and scrubs at the stain at her sweater but to no avail. Paige is going to apologize to Azzi, and she’s going to make it right. Rolling her shoulders, she steps out of the car and marches to the front door.

Before she can even reach for the handle, the door swings open. Paige blinks.

“You’re here,” Jon sighs in relief, throwing his body at her. Paige balks for a moment before returning the hug.

“Were you watching me?”

Jon smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, but you were taking so long. Why were you looking in the mirror so much? You look fine.”

Paige blushes and pushes him away. “Stop stalking me.”

Jon beams at her again, before his smile drops suddenly. “Uh, just so you know, her girlfriend’s here too.”

And just like that, all the confidence Paige has spent the last fifteen minutes gathering disappears. Paige clears her throat, not sure if she heard him right. “Micaela’s here?”

“They were calling for a long time yesterday night. And she showed up this morning.” Jon pauses, looking at her meaningfully. “With a suitcase.” Then his smile is back, just as bright as it was before. “I talked to her a bit. She’s cool. But you’re Paige.” He pushes her towards the staircase. “Go.”

Azzi’s door is opened a crack, and Paige peeks through. Micaela and Azzi are on her bed, Azzi snuggled in her arms. They’re watching something on the TV. Micaela kisses the top of Azzi’s head, and Azzi looks up at her and laughs.

Fuck. Paige can’t do this. She backs away from the door. Micaela, she treats her so well. She puts Azzi first. And Micaela hasn’t hurt Azzi like Paige has. This is the biggest Paige has seen Azzi smile in months - her best friend is finally happy.

In that moment Paige decides that she needs to let Azzi go. She sets her bouquet of flowers down outside the room as quietly as possible. She takes the envelope, crumples it up and puts it in her pocket. She was stupid for ever thinking that flowers and a letter would make up for all the shit she’s put Azzi through.

“Where are you going?” Paige is halfway out the front door when a firm voice stops her.

“Home.”

“Come in and close the door.” Paige wants to tell Katie that she isn’t her mother and that she has no right to tell her what to do. But Katie has been there for her when her own mother hasn’t, has welcomed her into her home for months at a time and still checks up on her every week over text. So she closes the door and faces the older woman, unable to look at the eyes so similar to the ones she’s fallen in love with.

Katie beckons for her to sit, and she follows suit. “As her mother, I don’t think I’m supposed to say this,” Katie says slowly. “But don’t give up, Paige.”

“She’s literally sitting in there with her girlfriend.” Paige’s bottom lip trembles. “I’m too fucking late, and I can’t even blame anyone but myself.”

“I know it feels like there’s no solution. But-”

“With all respect, you don’t understand, Katie.” Paige cuts her off. “I don’t think we can ever go back to the way we were.”

“And that’s the problem. You’re so focused on trying to return back to normal but is that what you really want? Maybe it’s good you guys can’t ever be the same again. Maybe it’s good you two take the risk to become something more.”

Paige stands up, resolute this time as she reaches for her duffel. “I can’t,” she says. “I can’t ruin this for her.”

“Stay,” Katie urges. “If not for Azzi, at least for yourself. I just checked the weather. There’s going to be a blizzard. It’s not safe for you to travel.”

Paige is about to open her mouth to protest before a familiar voice rings out. “Mom?” Azzi bounds down the stairs, a smile on her face. Micaela is close behind, reaching for her waist and laughing. But then Azzi’s eyes shift to where Katie’s looking, and she sees Paige. Her face drops immediately, and the action is enough to send Paige’s stomach hurdling. “Paige?”

Paige lifts a hand, forcing a weak smile onto her face. “Hey.”

Katie glances between the two of them. “Azzi, sweetie, Paige is here to stay for a few days,” she says lightly.

Azzi scoffs, disbelief etched onto her face. “Like hell she is.” She walks up to Paige, jabbing a finger in her face. “You can’t just show up at my house and expect everything to be fine, you asshole.”

“She can’t go home right now,” Katie says gently. “The snow’s six feet thick outside. It’s not safe.”

“We’ll find a way to make it work,” Micaela says softly, grabbing Azzi’s wrist in an effort to calm her down. “Let’s go, Az.”

Paige burns. No one calls Azzi that but her. Azzi glares at Paige one last time before following her girlfriend back upstairs. Katie’s eyes follow them, worried, until she heaves a sigh and faces Paige again. “Come on, hon,” she says. “You can stay in the guest room.”

Before now, Paige has never stepped foot in the guest room. It’s always gone without saying that whenever she stayed over, Azzi’s room became hers. Their clothes would mix in heaps on the floor until Paige would return home with a suitcase full of items half hers, half Azzi’s. The scent of lavender in the room would, for a few weeks, be overtaken by the more woodsy scent of Paige’s cologne. Now, the guest room is clean and airy, and it smells like lilacs.

Paige doesn’t like it.

But she sets her stuff down and texts the group chat to let them know she won’t be home for a few days.

Dinner is a silent affair, with Tim trying but failing to crack jokes to lighten the mood. Paige occupies herself with Jon and Jose, asking them about their basketball season and school, while Azzi talks in low tones to Micaela from across the table.

Paige is picking at the food on her plate when Micaela’s voice brings her out of her thoughts. “So, Paige, how long are you here for?”

Paige swallows her broccoli a little bit too quickly and coughs. “However long it takes for the storm to die down and my flight to clear.”

“And what were you here for?”

To finally confess to your girlfriend that I’m in love with her. Paige stabs another broccoli with her fork. “Just had some stuff to do in the area.”

“No use paying for a hotel when we have an extra room here,” Katie pitches in, saving her from having to lie even more. And while it’s clear neither Micaela or Azzi believe her, they don’t prod any further, leaving Paige to finish her food in silence.

••

“Can’t sleep?”

Paige turns around, surprised to see Micaela standing there, her expression clear. She leans back against the counter, tipping back her drink. “Something like that.”

“Mind if I join?”

Paige’s first instinct is to say no, but she realizes with a start that this is the girl Azzi loves. And if Azzi loves her, and she loves Azzi, there must be some part of her that can get along with Micaela. So she nods. “There’s grenadine and lemonade in the fridge.”

Micaela rummages through the fridge before returning with a concoction of her own. They stand in silence for a while, each of them sipping their own drinks, until Micaela says, “I’m not stupid. I know something happened between the two of you when you went to New York.”

Paige stares down at her glass, tracing its rim with her thumb. “Look,” she finally responds. “I fucked up with Azzi. I hurt her, a lot. I didn’t wanna come to terms with my feelings because I was a pussy. But don’t make that same mistake. I see you with her,” Paige pauses. “And she looks like how she used to. Before her injury. And if you’re the one who can bring her back to that, then I’m gonna help you.”

Micaela nods, taking everything in. “You still love her.”

“I don’t think I’ve admitted that to myself yet.” Paige finishes off her drink. “She was - is my best friend before anything else. I know that she knows I’ll die for her even if we never end up talking again. And I think I can be okay with that. That as long as she knows that I have her back, that there’s someone who’s always on her side, then I’ll be fine.”

Micaela tilts her head, studying her carefully. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Paige turns away, her eyes burning. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Azzi.”

••

Paige stays true to her word. She sends Micaela Azzi’s rehab schedule and at-home therapy treatments. She carefully compiles a list of her comfort movies and shows and texts them to Micaela. When Azzi has a particularly rough day at rehab, Paige spends the entire time she’s gone building a pillow fortress on the couch in the basement. When Azzi’s in a mood, she likes feeling like a child again - it makes her worries a little smaller, a little easier to deal with. So Paige lays out blankets, fluffs up pillows, and buys popcorns and caprisuns from the store.

When Azzi comes home and hugs Micaela, raving about how cute it is and how much she appreciates it, Paige lingers near the stairs of the basement. The sound of Azzi’s giggles, even if not aimed at her, put a smile on her face.

She looks up as Tim passes by. He fixes her with a stern look. “Just so you know, I don’t approve of anything you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” Paige tries to look innocent.

“You’re only going to hurt yourself doing this, Paige,” he warns.

Paige bites down on her lip, the skin there already tender from all her worrying. “As long as she’s happy,” she says stubbornly.

“Stop hiding,” he says lowly. “Show her you love her.”

But Paige can’t.

So she continues to love Azzi from afar. She makes sure there’s always multiple ice packs in the freezer. She prays every night before bed that God will take Azzi’s pain away and speed up her recovery process. She texts Azzi’s old high school friends, letting them know she’s back in town and to drop by to say hello when they can.

It’s 12 am and she’s cutting up strawberries when she hears steps and heavy breathing from behind her. Turning around, she’s surprised to see Azzi glowering at her.

“I found out.”

“Found out what?” Paige’s mouth is dry. This is the first time Azzi’s addressed her directly since the day she arrived, and to say she’s nervous is an understatement.

“Everything.” Azzi clenches her jaw. “The pillow fortress? The ice packs? The fucking strawberries you’re cutting that will magically end up in my lunch bag with Nutella tomorrow?”

Paige drops the knife on the counter, as if that would make her look any less guilty.

“Why do you have to make things complicated?” Azzi says, her voice hoarse as if she’s been crying. “I think I’m finally over you and then you show up to my house and you start making me feel things for you that I shouldn’t feel.”

Paige takes a cautious step forward. “Why can’t you feel them?”

“I have a girlfriend. And aren’t you scared? Right now we can still go back to being us. We can be friends. But this-” Azzi’s voice cracks. “We’ve caused each other so much pain and we’ve never even been together that way. Imagine if we actually dated and we broke up. God, Paige, that would fucking wreck me. At least when we’re friends I can rest with the fact that you’ll always be there somehow.”

“So you don’t even wanna try?” Paige’s tone is incredulous.

“Do you have any idea how much power you have over me?” Azzi chokes out.

Paige closes her eyes briefly. “I would never hurt you.”

“How can you say that?” Tears leak from Azzi’s eyes. “How can you say that when you already have?”

“Azzi.” She reaches for her hand. “Let us try. You know - you know I love you? I know I’ve been an ass, and I’ve fucked up over and over again. But I can’t-”

“Stop.” Azzi shakes her off, walking backwards as if even being near Paige is physically hurting her. “Please don’t make this hurt more then it has to.” She crosses her arms over her chest, withdrawing into herself as she shivers. “I thought I finally found it. Micaela - she’s perfect. Was perfect. Doing all these things that only one person before has ever done for me. Then we get into an argument and I find out that you’re behind all this shit? That my girlfriend has been lying through her teeth this entire time? God. When am I ever gonna find someone that actually cares about me?”

“Azzi, I just need one chance. Please.” Paige watches Azzi back away, and every fiber in her being is screaming at her best friend to stop running away her. “I care about you. And I found out what Ella said. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Fucking hell, you’ve never been a burden to me, Azzi. How could you ever think that?”

“It’s not gonna work out, Paige. It won’t.”

“So that’s it?” Paige spreads her arms, lets then fall helplessly by her side. “You’re just gonna give up before we even try? Like a fucking coward?”

“You have no right calling me a coward,” Azzi laughs bitterly. “Not when you used me for sex and dipped whenever the conversation got too serious.”

“You’re the one who always left first, not me,” Paige grits out through her teeth. “You’re the one who suggested being friends with benefits. You are just as much guilty as I am.”

“Well, I regret it.” Azzi’s words come tumbling out before she can stop them. “I regret everything.”

“You regret everything?” Paige repeats back, shaking her head in disbelief. “I might be an asshole, but you’re even worse than I am. I can’t even believe you right now.”

“Go home.” Azzi turns her back, and her body shudders, as if she’s sobbing. “I don’t want you here. You should’ve never came.”

“Gladly,” Paige spits out. “I fucking hate you for this.” And as she stands there, chest heaving with the arrows she’s thrown, chest hurting with the hurt of everything said and unsaid, she knows that she’s lying. That she could never hate Azzi, as much as she tried. But everything hurts too fucking bad, and Azzi is looking at her as if she’s the worst thing in the world. And when Paige goes home and looks at herself in the mirror, she thinks that maybe Azzi isn’t too far off.

••

Azzi walks into the guest room. She lies on the bed, inhaling the faint scent of Paige still lingering in the air. She turns on her side, burrowing her face into one of the pillows when she hears something crinkle. Confused, she reaches into the bedsheets and finds a worn, crumpled card. Her heart skips a beat when she flattens it out and sees familiar handwriting scrawled messily across the paper.

Dear Azzi,

I talk a lot. But I think you know me well enough that I show my feelings best through actions, not words. I’ve said hurtful things to you. I don’t know how to verbalize myself in a way that makes sense.

But I care about our relationship, so I’m writing this letter to try and finally put into words correctly the way I feel about you, because it’s the least you deserve - something honest, and something real from me. I know if I try to say this all in person, I’ll fuck it up somehow. So here is my letter, to you, that I’ll probably read and rewrite a million times.

I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it. But I do. And I know now that no one has ever made me feel what you do.

I know now that you were frustrated with me because you thought I never saw you beyond a friend with benefits. But I swear that everything I’ve done, everything I’ve hurt you with, was because I was trying to protect myself from the pain of realizing that you have always been more than just a friend. It has never been because I saw it as “just sex.” I saw it as more, I wanted it as more, and I was too immature to deal with it in a way that was kind to you. I’ll regret that forever.

I have never not loved you. I don’t think I will ever stop loving every single thing about you. And I keep repeating myself, but I really am sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to give you everything that you deserve, but still, I want to try. Hence why I’m coming here like a sap with all the flowers and shit tryna win you back.

But if somehow everything goes wrong and we never end up speaking again, just know that I’ll think about you every night before I sleep, just like I do now. Just know that I’ll always give us a second chance. I think we are inevitable. (I hope i spelled that right)

And if hopefully everything goes right and you forgive me and I somehow am able to be a part of your life after everything, then I promise I’ll work every day to show that I am serious about us. No other person, no other distractions, nothing else. Just you.

But no matter what happens, whatever decision you choose, as long as you’re happy, I’ll find a way to be happy.

Love,

Paige

[ynbabe]

would you write an smau with yuki or Oscar with an ex racer male reader who hangs out around the paddock a lot, maybe there could be a scene where yuki/oscar gets asked in an interview about rumors about who he’s dating and reader’s reaction gives it away?

Chose Oscar for this one cause I'm gonna make the reader similar to a certain someone hehhehe

Also let’s all pretend this isn’t like 9 months later okay 😭😭

lando.jpg

lando.jpg he's such an airport dad (he still has my passport...)

username is that oscar?? in the last pic???

lando.jpg yes @/y/n/l/nofficial did a lil therapy session

lando.jpg father

y/n/l/nofficial do NOT call me that lando.jpg Daddy y/n/l/nofficial NO-

username the comments 💀

username lando just replaced Carlos with another older Spanish man- We see u pookie we'd fall Y/n too

oscarpiastri the one time I'm featured and I'm drunk and crying? I'm calling my father @/charlesleclerc

lando.jpg you're lucky thats all thats featured lando.jpg are you sure thats the daddy you wanna call? lando.jpg deleted comment

username HELLO??? WHAT IS GOING ON???

y/n/l/nofficial

y/n/l/nofficial he stole my bike so I stole his look🥰

username I need someone to look at me the way Oscar looks at Y/n

username that hoodie looks a lil too snug bbg do u have something to tell us??

username fr like Y/n is BUILT no way that’s his hoodie

username that’s Oscars for sure

mclarenf1 driver swap?

username YES pls get y/n back just for one race guys pls i beg landonorris I agree Oscars mean to me Y/n’s nice 🥰 oscarpiastri I’m sorry I didn’t laugh at your knock-knock joke 🙄

You laughed as you saw all the comments under your post, knowing you were joining the McLaren garage for the Austrian GP.

--------------------------------

You cheered as Oscar got P2 screaming with everyone else. Jumping and screaming with mechanics that used to be yours.

Everyone had thought you’d hate the boy replacing you, how you’d force everyone to side with you over him, poisoning Lando’s and the teams mind against him. They couldn’t be more wrong.

You grabbed the younger man’s fireproofs collar, pushing him to the wall.

“Y/n?” “P2 baby,”

You smiled looking down at him, giving up on being professional and placing your lips on his, trying to hold back knowing the man was tired but you simply couldn’t, tasting the sweet champagne from his tongue, you pushed one knee in between his separating them.

He gasped, arching his back away from the thin motorhome wall, grabbing a fist full of your hair, making you moan, his other hand reaching to the buckle of your belt.

You separated to breath, both panting, sweaty and blushing, resting our foreheads together.

“You think we’ve got time?” You asked, placing a soft kiss at the corner of his lips, feeling them lift up into a smile.

Just as the boy was about to speak, there was loud knocking on the door, shaking the wall next to it, “No monkey business guys,” a British voice yelled laced with a teasing tone, “Osco needs to be able to walk to the interview room,” he cackled making the other men groan.

“Shut up, Cabron, go annoy Carlos or something,” you yelled, resting your head on Oscars.

“Damn you sound just like him, I must have gotten confused,” he squeaked like a dolphin making Oscar cringe at the insinuation, pushing you away.

He pulled the door open, making the other boy falling in, “Disgusting Lando, never say that again,” he whined making the older papaya clad boy laugh again.

“It’s giving enemies to lovers, 100k words-”

“GET OFF AO3,”

“GET OFF Y/N, YOUR FRICKING LIPS ARE SWOLLEN!” He yelled pointing at his own lips, making Oscar cover his, both looking at you and back at each other, making you realise your unbuckled belt with the reddened lips didn’t look very innocent.

“Ewwwwwww!” Lando groaned, running out the room, “be at the press room in 5 minutes you disgusting rabbits, oh my god,” he cried as he sped down the hallway.

Oscar looked at you, cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment, making you smile back at him, suddenly shifting to a smirk, “well, we do have 5 minutes,” you winked, making him groan and look away.

“Shut up, y/n,” he rolled his eyes and began walking out, with you hot on his heels.

You quickly caught up to him, pulling him into you by his waist while you walked side by side with him, lips to his ears, “oh, it’s y/n now? I remember something like- please, oh god, please don’t stop, ahh,” you moaned quietly, leaning back to normal and walking away, leaving a stunned Oscar behind.

“Come on, Osco, you’re getting late,” you called, smiling to yourself for causing such a reaction from the usually calm and collected man.

You had followed him to where the duo was being interviewed, cameras had been set up by the pr team, and a small section at the side for Zak, Andrea and the race engineers incase there were any questions for the team. You saw an extra chair and made your way to sit next to the boss man himself, quite happy to get to reconnect with your old boss.

The interviewer asked questions after questions with Lando being the leading man as usual, your boyfriend being the more reserved between the duo.

You took a sip of water, keeping the bottle in your hand, lost in the conversation between you and the others but heard Oscar being singled out.

“So our podium sitter here, Mr. Piastri!” The interviewer hyped up, making Oscar smile and nod, “let’s move away from the race and focus on your relationships,” he cooed trying to elicit a response but McLaren media training was a beast so all he got was a small laugh from both boys.

Lando took the lead once again, “I’m just happy it’s not me for once,” he laughed.

“Ooh,” the interviewer gasped, turning the older man at the side, “talking about relationships, rather rumours, I believe we’ve got the F1 heart throb, Y/n L/n here,” the camera panned to you, mid conversation with your former boss who nudged you, bringing your attention to the camera to which you waved at, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. The man called you over, obviously happy that he could get more out of the interview.

You wanted to refuse but couldn’t, walking up to the table and finding no space as both boys had chairs, you placed your arm around Oscar, shaking his shoulder as you slightly pulled him to make space for you. You smiled at the interviewer, keeping your hand on Oscars waist, holding on to the boy so he didn’t fall of.

“Oscar, you good there?” The man asked eliciting a nervous laugh and a seagull screech from Lando.

You laughed along, pushing and pulling him back into you, his hands finding his way to your thighs to stable himself , “Oski’s about to fall,” you wriggled your brows.

“So onto all the rumours,” the man continued, oblivious to what was happening behind the table, “now the two men besides you have had plenty of rumours themselves,” which was a nice way of putting ‘WE SAW HIM KISSING A MAN’ in a pc way, “but we’ve got some sources telling us you’re in a steady relationship, anyone we’d know Oscar?” You brought the water bottle to your lips, waiting for Oscar’s answer, missing the way he’d looked at you.

Unfortunately the interviewer and camera had not, “Why are we looking at y/n?” WHAT- you chocked on the water, spilling it all over your white shirt, pushing Oscar off the chair whom pulled you and Lando down with him.

“We’re okay!” Lando screamed, one hand raised.

“IM NOT” you groaned having broken Oscar's fall.

You'd though (hoped) nothing would come of the interview, but boy were you wrong, because the edits, oh god the edits. You almost had tears in your eyes at how creative some were and actual tears about how dirty the others were.

The sound bite of you and Oscar groaning after falling had been used to hell and back and every single driver had to keep reminding you of it. Especially Lando who kept sending you thrist edits to the point you were concerned about his fyp.

But the worst part was all the speculation. And all any interviewer would ask you or Oscar would be about the rumours. You were fine with it, having dealt with stuff like this all your career but the defeated look on Oscar's face after an amazing race only to be asked a very inappropriate question about the two of you had you wanting to punch people.

After a long, long, talk with Mark and both your respective PR teams, you knew the best option would be to come out with it on your own. So you did exactly that.

y/n.jpg

y/n.jpg well since y’all got your fucking degrees and know every fucking thing 🙄

lando.jpg the duality of man ft y/n l/n and oscar piastri

oscarpiastri woooooooooooooooow suddenly everyone has a jpg

y/n.jpg hey I wanted to do this on my main but someone kept whining about pr 🫵

oscarpiastri that’s it your sleeping on the couch

lando.jpg damn idts old man y/n’s back can take that 😩

y/n.jpg I’M 25!!!

[formula-ghost]

Read Your Diary (FC43 x fem!reader)

Chapter 1: Honey, Are U Coming?

SERIES SUMMARY: You’re Franco Colapinto’s best friend in the entire world, and you’ve agreed to accompany him along for the ride in his races with Williams. He finds it endearing how, per your therapist’s recommendation, you’ve started always bringing your diary everywhere you go, even the paddock. But when he crosses the line and turns the page, he never expected what’s inside… (Based on the song Read Your Diary by Måneskin).

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

WARNINGS: therapy heavily mentioned, reader is emotionally constipated, use of YN, reader is a lil FREAK in later chapters (affectionate because we don’t kink shame here), eventual angst and smut

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Meet me there where it never closes

Meet me there where it’s never hopeless

All is fair in love, oh

Honey, are you coming?

If you had to blame anyone for this whole ordeal, it would be your therapist. After all, she was the one who had given you the idea to start journaling in the first place.

The session had, frustratingly, gone like all of the others; you’d tell her about something you thought was innocuous and she’d ask you how that made you feel, and you wouldn’t be able to answer. You could feel your feelings all day long, but when asked to explain them, the words never came out.

Maybe it was a fear of being misunderstood or judged for your feelings. Maybe it was the fact that no one had ever taught you what to do with that bundle of emotions that rested in your stomach like a ball of yarn to be unraveled, except to avoid it altogether and stuff it down. Or maybe you just know how you actually felt, deep down, and this was your mind’s way of making it known.

Whatever the case was, your therapist suggested, in addition to your usual sessions, of course, that you start a journal. “It’ll be for your eyes only,” she assured, “you don’t have to tell me a single word of what’s in it. Just write whatever comes to mind, no matter what that is, as long as you get it out.”

So you took her advice. Worst case scenario, you thought, you’d just stop after a week or two if it didn’t make it better. But you couldn’t help feeling a little immature, like a little girl hiding a diary, when you went to the airport shop and bought a small, unassuming leather journal at a heavily marked up price and stuffed it into the bottom of your carry on.

Your therapist had suggested customizing the journal as you write your way through it—making it a safe place for your feelings and words. But for now, this would have to do. Traveling this much recently had been difficult, and you didn’t want to add the journal into the mix of your already chaotic life for the past few weeks.

Of course, you wouldn’t have had it any other way. The recent chaos and jet setting around the world was all due to the hard work and incredible luck of your best friend, Franco. He had finally made it to Formula 1, even if just for the remainder of the season, and when he had excitedly run over to your apartment to tell you the news, you had practically crushed him to death with the enormous hug you gave him. Despite his rookie status, he had somehow managed to get you paddock passes, flights, and accommodations all arranged for each of the races so you could spend your next few months flying around the world and waltzing around the Williams paddock with your best friend in the entire world.

You and Franco had met when you were younger and he had just moved to Italy to pursue his racing career. He had moved in right next to your family, and it felt like you were instantly connected. You introduced him to the country and he introduced you to the world of racing, and your friendship was a match made in Heaven. When he went to Spain, you followed, and now with his entry into Formula 1, you were still tagging along for the ride.

Of course, Franco wanted you there just as much as you wanted to be there. At first you had been hesitant to do it. You didn’t want to impose, and to this day Franco refused to tell you what strings he had to pull to get you access to the paddock, let alone flights and accommodations. “Cmon, come with me,” he had pleaded. “Think of the stories we’ll be able to tell one day! Besides, I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else by my side.”

“Franco, you sound like the protagonist of a cheesy rom com,” you laughed. “Don’t you think this is all… too much?”

“The tickets or my audition for the next Hallmark movie?” he teased, eliciting a small laugh from you. “No, I’m serious, YN. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I want you there with me, for every part of it.” He paused and looked down at his shoes, as if choosing his next words carefully. It was unusual of him, to be so worried about saying the right thing instead of just saying something. The grid had caught on soon that Franco was a talker. He continued, “I understand if you can’t come to all of them. But at least come to a few. It won’t be the same without you.”

There was a heaviness to his words that made you the slightest bit uncomfortable. Like his request was something deeper than just wanting the support of a friend. “Since when have you gotten so sentimental?” you teased, cracking a smile to lighting the tension.

He smiled back, “Since I achieved my dreams.”

Your slight smile stretched ear to ear at the reminder of how monumental a moment this was for him, and you enveloped him in another hug. “Oh Franco, I’m so happy for you!” you exclaimed.

“Happy enough to come with me?” He asked as you all broke the hug.

You lightheartedly exhaled at his instance. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The smile on his face was electric. You just couldn’t say no to him, so that’s how you ended up here, unable to say no to the steep markup on your airport shop journal, waiting for your unfortunately delayed flight from Azerbaijan to Singapore.

Even at only 4 races in, you had gotten used to doing your remote work in airports, but trying to open this journal and pour your heart out onto the pages right next to traveling strangers was… difficult, to say the least. It couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes that you stared at the blank page, but it felt like an eternity. You didn’t know what to write.

So you just began by writing how you felt physically. Tired. Nervous. Excited for Franco. Very excited for Franco.

This was supposed to be your journal, but as you got into the rhythm of filling page after page, the words were all about your best friend, the newest Formula 1 driver. You used to think that words couldn’t even describe how proud you were of him. You’d seen his hard work pay off with just a little bit of luck, and your heart seemed to swell into your chest when you thought of him in his Williams race suit ready to show the world what he could do. He’d gotten points in Baku, and you remembered your frantic heartbeat as you watched from the Williams garage and cheered in excitement at his performance. After the race he ran to you and you all practically crashed into each other going for a bear hug.

You had squeezed him with all your strength. “Franco, I’m so proud of you!”

He released you and smiled. It was a rare moment, seeing you this vulnerable. You were so happy that tears had formed at the edges of your eyes, and for a split second he looked at you and knew the true depth of those words. “So proud that you’re crying tears of joy?” he joked.

He had ruined the moment. You were so caught up in your raw emotion that you didn’t even notice the tears until he pointed them out, and your defenses kicked it as you replied, “I wasn’t crying.” Franco saw your walls go up again and cursed himself internally for talking without thinking, as he almost always did.

As you penned this memory, you felt all the emotions rushing back to you. That feeling of pride in your chest, the chaos of the garage, and Franco’s hands wrapped around you in a celebratory embrace—no, that made it sound weird. You looked down at the page. Why did that sound so… weird?

Once again, the moment had been ruined. Your flight was about to board anyway, so you exhaled and put the journal back in your bag, telling yourself you’d deal with that later. For now, you had a race to get to.

Singapore was humid and buzzing with life. Practices had gone well. On Saturday, you  hoped that the usual chaos of the paddock would distract you from your thoughts, but it was the opposite. The drone of noise—reporters talking, mechanics laughing, the purr of the car—all faded away, just background noise to your painful confusion.

Something was just…off. Before your flight you had written about your best friend and his first few races in F1. That was it. Then why did you feel like your skin was crawling every time you glanced at him on the other side of the garage? He had his headset on, talking to some race engineer about something you couldn’t even begin to understand. His gaze was so focused, his attention fully captured by the screen in front of him. He raised his hand to his mouth, thinking, before turning to the engineer and saying something.

You were enraptured by him. His passion was infectious, his determination admirable. Clad in his white race suit, he looked like he belonged here, like he had always belonged here. His hair gently curled over the top bar of his headset. His race engineer said something and Franco laughed, and again you noticed those little details that had become so usual to you; the way his eyes crinkled when he truly smiled, the scrunch of his nose, the blush that danced across his cheeks—whether from the warmth of the garage or the words of his engineer, you couldn’t tell.

Your observation (or, rather, staring) was interrupted by Franco’s gaze shifting from his engineer to you. He sent you a soft smile, and you gave him a weak one in return. You felt sick to your stomach as he politely excused himself from the conversation and made his way over to you.

“Hey YN, you good? You’ve been staring off into space for, like, five whole minutes.”

You brought your hands to rub your face, trying to bring some life into you. “Have I?”

“Yeah, thought you were checking me out or something.”

“Huh?” You felt a pang of anxiety at his insinuation.

“Well, I can’t help it that I’m so irresistible,” he replied with a smirk.

“Oh, Lord,” you laughed, exhaling in relief at his usual banter. “I just feel weird, but I’ll be okay.” You weren’t exactly lying.

The brow furrowed with concern. “You’re not feeling well? You want to go lay down for a bit?”

As much as you wanted to protest that you really were fine, the opportunity to get away for a few minutes felt like a godsend. You answered, “That’s sounds nice, actually.”

“Here, come with me,” he said as he gestured for you to follow him through the back of the garage and into the Williams motorhome.

You ended up in his driver’s room, a quiet haven away from the overwhelming chaos of the paddock. As you stepped inside it hit you just how awful you truly felt: your head was pounding, your stomach turning in flips, and your heart beating outside your chest. You practically slumped down onto the small couch, hunched over, covering your eyes with your arm to shield away the harsh fluorescent light.

You felt Franco settle beside you, breaking the silence with a soft, “You alright?” You just hummed in response, until you felt his hand meet your upper back, gently rubbing your shoulder blades as if his touch could smooth away your discomfort. But all it did was make it worse; you didn’t think your heart could beat any faster, and the turning of your stomach threatened to bring up your breakfast.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment. “Franco, need you at the media tent in five!”

Franco grumbled a reply that he’d be right there. Then he turned back to you, “You want to go back to the hotel? I can have someone take you.”

“No, I’ll be okay. I don’t want to miss qualifying.”

“YN, you look horrible.”

You laughed. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

“No, I just… you don’t have to be there if you’re not feeling well, it’s okay.” Franco knew how stubborn you were. Never the type to admit any weakness, you could be on your death bed and still make it to the paddock to watch him race.

“No, really, I’m fine. Just give me a few minutes…”

He huffed, knowing it was no use arguing with you. He kneeled down to where you head was laid against the small table next to the couch, looking in your eyes. “Shit, YN, you’re

shivering—I’ve got a hoodie around here somewhere…” he began rummaging through his locker when another knock came at the door.

“Franco, media tent, NOW,” said the clearly agitated voice behind the door.

“Yeah, coming!” he replied.

He looked back nervous scratched the back of his neck, unsure of how far to push.

“I’ve got to go. Grab a hoodie and warm up, and if you feel any worse you come straight back here or I’ll end you,” he said, in an attempt to lighten the concern he felt for his best friend who sat before him, looking like a zombie.

“Understood,” you said, giving him a weak thumbs up.

He left the room and you sat there alone, taking deep breaths in an attempt to bring yourself back down to earth. You had truly believed it when you told Franco that you thought a few minutes in the quiet would fix you up, but your thoughts just kept racing, and your body reacted with it. The gentle comforting touch of his hand on your back left you spinning. It didn’t make sense—you two had been friends so long, the touch was nothing unusual. Just a friendly gesture. Then why did it feel like your skin was on fire?

Franco had been right, you were shivering, and to distract yourself from your thoughts you heeded his advice to find a hoodie to wear. You stepped over to the locker and found the one he brought—one purchased for him by one of his ex girlfriends, some blonde model who was nice enough but clearly wanted nothing to do with you. You didn’t blame her; you were nothing special, and your company paled in comparison to the excitements of dating a race car driver. Or at least, you assumed. It’s not like you’d ever date Franco.

Wait, what were you thinking? Dating Franco. The thought should bring disgust to your mouth. It did. Sort of. You weren’t shivering any more.

You put the hoodie back in the closet and took a deep breath. You decided to take the time between now and qualifying to see if writing in the journal could make you feel a little better. But when you opened the pages again, you just found what you had written last time and your feelings stuck.

You remembered a tactic your therapist taught you: sometimes your feelings can manifest physically. To calm down, ground yourself in your surroundings. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste. You brought your pen to paper.

I can see: The hoodie that Franco’s ex gave him. It’s crumpled in the corner of his locker. He wears it a lot, and it makes me wonder if he misses her. I don’t ask him stuff like that. That would be weird.

I can touch: The smooth plastic of the VIP pass around my neck. Franco refuses to tell me how he got it. I can’t believe he’d go through all this for me.

I can hear: The quiet silence of the room. Feet shuffling outside the door. Does anyone know I’m in here, hidden away like a secret? Did Franco tell anyone about me—about us? What even is us—why would he tell the paddock about a friend?

I can smell: Franco’s cologne, everywhere. It smells familiar, like home and a warm hug.

I can taste: the bitter taste of the maté I had this morning. Franco put me on to it when we were younger.

You went back and read through everything you’d written, seeing how many times his name came up—Franco, Franco, Franco.

And so you wrote it again. Franco, Franco, Franco. God, I feel like a little girl having a crush on the boy who sits next to her in class.

Wait. A crush? No, you were too old for that. That’s ridiculous. But reading the words you had written over and over and over again—what else could it be?

Of course I love Franco. He’s my best friend.

Reading and writing seemed to blur. Yes, you loved Franco. So you wrote it again.

I love Franco Colapinto.

Finally, you stopped. Your headache, stomach pain, and that stubborn heartbeat had all faded to calmness. You read it, no, wrote it, no—did it even matter anymore?

I love Franco Colapinto.

No. You scribbled it out and closed the diary. No, no, no no no no no.

You checked your phone. It was almost time for quali. You threw the journal to the bottom of your bag, took a deep breath, and made your way back out to the Williams garage.

On the way there you ran into a familiar face—Franco’s mother. You had heard she would be here for the weekend, but you hadn’t run into her yet, with everything going on. Upon seeing you her face lit up in a smile. “YN! Franquito just sent me to check on you, said you were feeling well?”

You cringed a bit internally at her knowing your situation, but smiled anyway. “Oh, I was, but I’m doing okay now. Ready for quali.”

So the two of you made your way back to the garage, making idle chat about your lives back at your respective homes outside of Franco. The more you all talked, though, the more it became apparent that both of your lives seemed to revolve around him; but it made sense for his mother, of course, even if he didn’t live in Argentina anymore. But you? You couldn’t shake the feeling that your connection to Franco was deeper and more problematic than ever now. His mother’s voice faded into the background sounds of the garage as your mind returned again to again to the words you had written: I love Franco Colapinto. It felt so childish, like it belonged in a pink diary, written in a glittering gel pen, surrounded by little hearts. It made you sick to your stomach.

“You know, YN,” his mother said, breaking you from your spiraling thoughts, “I’m so glad he has you. I was so worried when he left home, but when you all met it helped me sleep better at night knowing someone was looking out for him. And look where we are now! Oh, I’m so proud of him.”

“I am too,” you smiled, somewhat pained but still genuine.

She laughed, “Now I just keep telling him he needs to find a girl like you! Stay away from all those actresses and models, they’re always trouble.”

You laughed in response, though your heart skipped a beat. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find a good one. But I think he’s more focused on the racing.”

“Well, I hope so,” she replied, a hint of lighthearted criticism in her voice.

The conversation came to a natural end with qualifying about to start any second. Franco, suited up and putting on his helmet, glanced to you and his mother behind the barriers, throwing you a wink before stepping in the car. You rolled your eyes. Everyone who had ever met Franco knew how much of a flirt he was, it was just part of his personality. It had never bothered you before. But to be the girl he was flirting with? To have it mean something? That was something else entirely, something you’d stuffed deep down. You told yourself it meant nothing, because it didn’t. Franco was just…like that. He was just your friend. Nothing more.

Franco had a respectable qualifying—P12—and the rest of the day went by as usual before your dinner plans with him, his mother, and the rest of the Williams team. It was awkward at first. You were sat by Franco and his mother on one side, who were talking to each other in Spanish, far away mentally from the dinner; and on the other was Alex Albon's girlfriend, Lily. Thankfully, Lily seemed very kind and made conversation.

“Oh hi, YN isn’t it? I’ve been meaning to say hello! I’m Lily, it’s nice to meet you, welcome to the wag club,” she joked.

“The wag club?” You were confused, was this some motorsports term you’d never heard of?

“Oh, you know, wives and girlfriends. The fans just call us wags,” she smiled. You were grateful that at least one person's girlfriend was kind to you. But her assumption brought a blush to your cheeks.

“Oh, I’m not—“

Lily wasn’t quite paying attention, or maybe you were too quiet compared to the busy atmosphere of the restaurant. “You know, it’s really great to have you here, you and Franco are so cute! It’s a shame what happened with Logan, but on the bright side so get to make new friends. I can introduce you to the rest of the girls too, it’s hard being in a garage full of guys so we have to stick together, you know.”

You cut her off, unable to handle her mistake any longer. “Oh, uh, I’m not… Franco’s girlfriend. We’re just friends.” 

Lily paused for a moment. “Oh! Um… sorry about that.” She nervously laughed. “I just thought, you know, since you’ve been at all his races so far…”

“Oh yeah, I’m not sure how, but he got me paddock passes for the rest of the season. I mean, once in a lifetime opportunity, right?”

“Yeah, that’s… I mean, wow. Alex can’t even get me that many passes.” Lily left the implication of her comment unsaid. Franco had gone above and beyond—he wanted you here more than anything. “Well, anyway, I’m sure the girls would still love to meet you!” she smiled. 

It was nice to have a friend other than Franco in the paddock. You passed the dinner telling funny stories back and forth about Franco and Alex’s embarrassing karting moments. The Williams team was beginning to feel like family.

Back in your hotel room, the chaos of the day faded away into a calm silence. You opened your journal and wrote about everything that had happened since you had left his drivers room. Again and again you returned to that sentence, now scratched out, but finally, you had to accept what you had so long avoided, what everyone around you could see plainly.

So you took your pen and wrote one last sentence of the night:

I am in love with my best friend, Franco Colapinto.