#and now I’m back to thinking about Nope!

[shokocide]

"i had a really good time tonight," you say as you come to a stop at your doorstep. gojo doesn't even look like he heard you — too busy staring at you like you hung the moon.

eventually, he snaps out of it. "o-oh yeah, me too. we should totally do it again sometime. if you'd like." he looks down at his feet, cheeks already flushing a pretty pink.

"i'd like that very much." you smile up at him and he thinks he's going to pass out. slowly, you lean in until your lips were only a hair's breadth away from his.

"are you sure about this?" gojo asks you as if the answer wasn't already obvious enough. "what does it look like?" you deadpan and he huffs out a laugh before closing that nonexistent distance between you.

your arms loop around his neck and he grabs your waist to pull you closer. "been wantin' to do this for a while now," he murmurs against your lips. your mouth parts for him and he delves deeper, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips. his hands flex at your waist like he’s not quite ready to let go.

beep. beep.

you both freeze.

gojo pulls back just enough to glance down, and you follow his gaze to his smartwatch, glowing innocently in the dark.

“abnormal heart rate detected.”

you blink. then bite your lip.

gojo glares at it like it betrayed him personally. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

you burst out laughing. “are you okay?” you sputter between giggles. “no, actually,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “this thing’s a snitch.”

“you’re really that worked up over a kiss?”

“i’m really that worked up over you,” he mutters, clearly not meaning to say it out loud. he covers the screen with his palm like it’s embarrassing. “no, i’m just—” he clears his throat. “—very fit. obviously. peak condition.”

your eyes flick back up to his—his ears are a little red. “right,” you say, smiling. “so this had nothing to do with the kiss.”

gojo stares at the watch for a second. “…it’s broken. has to be.”

you raise a brow. “you sure? you looked a little...flushed.”

he scoffs. “flushed? me?” he waves a hand. “please. my heart rate didn’t even budge. if anything, i’m probably clinically dead. that’s how calm i am.”

without another word, you reach up again, hands curling around the collar of his jacket as you pull him back in. this kiss is slower. a little deeper. you don’t rush it—and you feel the exact moment he melts into it, hands settling on your hips like he’s forgotten all about trying to act composed.

beep. beep.

you pull back just slightly and glance down. the screen glows again. gojo lets out the quietest “oh my god.”

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “still very chill?”

he drops his forehead to your shoulder. “i’m never gonna hear the end of this, am i?”

“nope,” you say brightly, arms winding around his neck. “but i do appreciate the honesty. from you and your watch.”

“i'm breaking that thing first chance i get."

author's note. inspired by this

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

[bballesbolol]

Seven Minutes

Summary: Azzi and Caroline are staying at Azzi’s family’s lake house in Minnesota over spring break. Caroline manages to drag Azzi out to a house party, where they end up playing seven minutes in heaven and meeting a certain blonde in the process (this summary sucks, I swear the fic is actually okay)

This is kind of for the anon who asked for some forced proximity, and is also vaguely inspired by a rose x pearl animation I saw on tik tok

Warnings: Alcohol, Language (no smut but like, maybe a little smut if making out counts to you??) uh…poorly written? if that’s one 😭

Word Count: 3.6k ish

A/N: sorry for being inactive, I lowkey got hate crimed at work so I’m dealing with that 😭consider this my appology, and also a little snack for y’all waiting for new chapters of literally anything I’m working on. Wrote it in about 3 hours so it’s short and probably kinda shitty

anyway I’m going out tonight so send me anons to keep me entertained (Update, went out, edidted this in the uber home, and posting it now so pretty please don’t look to close 🤗)

oh, also for realism Azzi and Caroline are NARP’s in this, Caroline is a WBB fan, and Azzi is kinda clueless about that stuff

——————————————————————

It was spring break, and according to Caroline—that meant getting hammered at some random house in a town they’d touched down in the day before.

She hadn’t bothered asking where they were going, she wasn’t even sure if Caroline knew either—but next thing she knew, she was in the back of an uber leaving her family’s Airbnb on the way to meet an ‘old friend’ of Caroline’s.

“So like, this is people our age or…”

Caroline shrugged, “more or less, I think some college kids could be there”

“college?’ She exclaimed, eyebrows raised like Caroline had just told her Adam Sandler would be there too.

Caroline rolled her eyes and brushed her off, ”Azzi, you're about to be in college. You’re acting like we’re not 18–”

”okay but college is a big range, like, there could be 25 year olds or something” She mumbled back, slumping against the leather seats of the car.

“this is definitely all people who can’t drink legally” Caroline assured.

“Does that make it better??”

Caroline sighed, “Nope, but that means we won't be the only ones doing something wrong”

She paused for a moment, “Are there gonna be like…real drugs there?”

Caroline shrugged, ”probably”

She shot back up, whipping around to face her now, “like illegal ones?”

Caroline rolled her eyes again, ”Az everything’s illegal, we’re underage—“

She cut her off, ”Fuck I know—you know what I mean—like coke, or whatever else actual adults do”

“I can’t guarantee or deny that there will or wont be coke—“

Azzi groaned, ”we shouldn’t even be going to this”

Caroline chuckled, ”god just let loose a little, okay? We’re on vacation to have fun, and this is fun”

***

The house was packed full when they pulled up. They walked up a stone pathway, past someone doubled over throwing up in a bush, and could already hear the muffled thud of some far-too-bassey rap song from just behind the door.

Caroline swung open the door, and she was immediately hit with a unique blend of weed, cheap beer, and sweat all mixing in the air, which somehow mixed together to smell like a night she was sure to regret.

She took a deep breath and looked around the room. It was a little hazy with smoke and swimming with guys in sweaty polo’s and faded t-shirts, and girls in way-too-tiny tops who looked like they’d all had more than a few too many. By the time she turned back to Caroline she was interrogating an innocent bystander about where he had gotten his drink from. The guy pointed towards a door and Caroline whipped back around to face Azzi.

“Okay, he said there’s an open bar in the kitchen” Caroline grabbed her wrist and began to drag her through the crowd and towards what was apparently the kitchen, paying no mind to the people she was pushing through to get there.

The ‘open bar’ in question turned out to be a half empty handle of Tito’s, a bottle of fruit punch, and cooler full of shitty beers floating in more water than ice.

Caroline grabbed the handle and grinned at her, “open your mouth”

She smirked sarcastically back at Caroline, half expecting her to be joking. She shook her head when she realized she was actually serious.

“No”

“just one shot—“

”no—”

“yes, we’re behind, don’t worry I’ll waterfall” Caroline slowly inched closer to her, vodka still in hand, waving it at her like you would a spoon towards a toddler. There was no way she’d win this one.

She begrudgingly opened her mouth and Caroline poured way more than ‘one shot’ into her mouth, and she nearly gagged swallowing it. The alcohol burned as it sunk down her throat.

“Fuck—“ she choked out, “chaser”

Caroline slid the punch towards her and she took a frantic gulp. She slammed the jug back down on the counter, a little out of breath.

“You’re evil”

”I’m fun” Caroline chirped back, pouring a shot for herself into a red solo cup. She shot it back, grimaced, and began pouring another one.

“That better not be for me”

“It’s just one more, it won’t hurt”

“god help me” she mumbled under her breath. She reached out for the cup and threw it back, wincing as she swallowed.

***

Two shots and half a mixed drink later, they made her way back into the crowd. Caroline trailed behind her, probably more drunk than she should've been. She couldn’t feel all of the alcohol yet, but it had started to creep up on her. Her head felt lighter, her step was less steady than usual, and she couldn't stop smiling. At what? She didn’t know. Everything just felt funnier.

They found a spot on the wall off to the side of the living room and sat to observe.

She took a slow sip of her drink, “So, like, what are we supposed to do now?”

Caroline shrugged, “I don’t know, meet new people, get more drunk, hook up with a hot guy—“

She mock gagged and leaned back against the wall, ”ew, gross”

“you know I’ve been in a drought—I’m on the prowl tonight.”

“You’re disgusting” groaned Azzi, looking around for any escape from this conversation.

“I’m horny” Caroline groaned, swaying back until she too was leaning up against the wall.

“you’re drunk” she chirped back.

”yeah, and horny. It’s like primal—”

She cut her off, waving her hands at her, “Oh my god I’m leaving”

“Leaving? Are you actually gonna go meet new people?”

“I’m done talking”

She started to drift away from Caroline, not before she could yell “bring back someone hot”, and headed towards the sea of people in the living room.

She made her way towards the middle of the crowd, weaving through the far-too-drunk teens, trying to find a pocket to sneak into. Suddenly, she felt a body slam into the side of her. Then she heard the crunch of a cup, and felt something splash down on her. Whoever this was had managed to spill their entire drink onto her.

“The fuck—“ she snapped, taking a step back and shaking the liquid off of her arms.

She turned to look at the person. Their face was turned away from her, still talking to someone across the room, but she could still make out some details. Tall, blonde hair, pale skin, strong enough to nearly knock her over.

Then she turned around.

Blue eyes, cheekbones for days—

“Shit, my bad” the stranger grumbled, sounding unbothered and definitely unapologetic.

“Uh, yeah. You should watch where you’re going” She grumbled back, trying her hardest to wipe the drink from her top.

“Nah you ran into me.”

“I did not” She spat back, sounding offended.

”On god you did. You owe me a drink”

“you owe me a shirt”

the girl looked her up and down. Something in her face shifted, and a smirk pulled at the corners of her lips.

“You could just take that one off”

Wow. Just, wow. Wasn’t she just a ray of sunshine?

She scoffed. Well, no, more full on laughed in her face, “really? You thought that would work?”

The girl shrugged, still unbothered as ever, “What? You could just take it off. Or I can, if that’s easier—“

”oh my god, get the fuck out” she grumbled, starting to push past her.

“Fuck it was a joke okay?”

She rolled her eyes, ”you’re being an ass”

The girl grabbed her shoulder, holding her in place.

”it was funny” she paused for a moment, like she was expecting Azzi to say something smart back, which she didn’t, so she continued, asking, “so like, can you get me a new drink?”

She scoffed again, more dismissive this time. How could this girl expect her to get her a new drink when she was the one wearing it right now? If anything she should owe her one.

“Go get yourself a fucking drink, I gotta go clean the last one off of me” She spat, shaking lose of her grasp and stepping past her.

She turned and stalked back over to the edge of the party, hunting for Caroline. For all she knew, she’d found someone easy and an empty room to disappear in for the next hour. It’d been long enough—maybe a half hour, maybe more, time wasn’t exactly feeling linear right now.

She found an empty couch and plopped down into it, trying her hardest to look unapproachable. She took a sip of her drink and looked around. No sign of Caroline.

She groaned and rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long night.

***

Caroline finally reappeared what felt like an hour later. She was grinning ear to ear, and had picked up some short brunet she was dragging along with her.

“Azzi” She slurred, wobbling her way over to the couch she had been hiding on.

She sounded more drunk than she was when she left. Not a good sign, especially for her own sanity.

Azzi rolled her eyes, “Hey Caroline, where’d you find this one?” she mumbled, nodding towards the mystery boy.

She chuckled, “he found me—and now we found you. We were all gonna go to the basement and play some, uh, like some game, right?” She turned to her new friend for confirmation.

The guy nodded.

Azzi cocked her head, “Game?”

“Yeah, game, like fun. We came here to have fun”

She raised an eyebrow, “you sure you don’t want to leave?”

The question was stupid on her part, but she might as well try.

“Uh, fuck no” asserted Caroline, looking taken aback.

Yeah, she had a feeling. But, maybe this was a chance to get out of the crowd, and away from the thumping bass that was starting to feel like it was cracking her skull.

She sighed, “you said basement?”

“Mhm” hummed Caroline, a stupid, smug smile on her face.

She groaned, and dragged a hand down her face, then mumbled, “If I go with you can we leave after?”

Caroline thought for a moment, eyebrows scrunched together, “fine. But you might now want to leave after.”

“Mhm” she hummed, unconvinced. She let Caroline grab her wrists and practically pull her arm off dragging her away from the crowd.

***

The basement was brighter, lit by fluorescent ceiling bulbs that nobody could figure out how to turn off.

The crowd was thinner down there. Maybe 20 people, and that was pushing it. Caroline pulled her into the crowd by her wrists, dragging her through people who were starting to settle into a circle at the center of the room. They found their own spot at the edge and sat down, surveying the crowd.

Then she spotted her. Probably the last familiar face she wanted to see. The drink girl—more specifically, the one who had told her to take off her shirt an hour ago. She was sitting across the circle, new drink in hand, chatting to another girl who was cozying up to her like she was on a mission.

She turned back to Caroline, who looked like she was staring at the girl too. Her head was cocked, and her brows were scrunched together, clearly deep in thought. Then she gasped.

”No fucking way”

”what?” Azzi asked.

Caroline turned back to her and grabbed her arm, fingers practically cutting off her circulation from squeezing so hard, ”that’s Paige Bueckers.”

“Who?”

Caroline stared back at her like she’d just asked her who Beyoncé or Zendeya was.

”uh, Paige Bueckers, like UConn Paige Bueckers. She just won AP player of the year”

That girl? Really? She assumed an award like that would come with some sort of class, or grace, but apparently it didn’t. Maybe she was the kind of girl who thought being an athlete excused her from being a dickhead.

She looked back to the girl, then to Caroline, ”so is she like…famous?”

Caroline shook her by her arm, ”bitch, she’s the face of women’s basketball. She like, owns the NCAA”

Huh. She was important. That made her run in with her somehow feel more offensive.

She snorted, “No way, she bumped into me earlier”

Caroline’s jaw dropped, “you’re lying”

“I’m not—she’s the reason I smell like frat basement. She spilled her drink on me then told me I should go get her a new one”

“deadass?”

”yeah, and so I was like ‘oh, you should get me a new shirt’ and she was like ‘you should just take that one off’”

”BITCH WHAT? WHERE WAS I??”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, ”you were with mystery man—I was completely stranded, It was tragic, really”

”That doesn’t sound tragic, it sounds horny—I’m jealous, honestly”

“You shouldn’t be, she was an ass”

“yeah, like, a hot ass”

She pulled her arm away from Caroline and groaned, “bitch you don’t even like girls—“

Caroline leaned in, grinning like an idiot, ”yeah, but you do—and I have eyes”

”oh my god, shut up.” She mumbled, turning away from her to look back to the girl—Paige, apparently.

Caroline didn’t say anything back. She didn’t need to. She just stood there, smirking, taking in the way she’d said it way too fast. Or the way her cheeks flushed, just a little—a change that she was blaming on the alcohol.

She rolled her eyes and changed the subject, ”you still haven’t told me what game this is”

Caroline chuckled to herself softly, “You’re gonna think its stupid”

“Is it stupid?” She asked, eyebrows raised.

”It’s seven minutes in heaven” Caroline mumbled.

holy shit, what was this, middle school?

“oh my god, ew” she groaned back, already trying to stand and walk away.

”Azzi” whined Caroline, grabbing at her arms again to keep her seated.

She laughed weakly, ”I’m not hooking up with someone in a fucking closet—”

Caroline met her eyes, looking desperate to make her stay, ”you probably won’t even have to—just be my emotional support, please Az? you can cop out if it lands on you, I swear.”

“I swear to god, if I get roped into this I’ll kill you”

“Just, stay.” Caroline pleaded, letting go of her hands.

She obliged. This wasn’t something worth fighting over, plus, if she left, where else would she go? She just let it happen, trying her hardest not to look interested.

They went through a few rounds quickly. Someone placed an empty fifth in the middle of the circle, which people spun to pick out their victims. The ‘heaven’ in question was a small closet near the edge of the circle, hardly big enough for two people to move around in.

5 rounds (or whatever they were called) had gone by, and she was starting to get bored. One could only be entertained by the idea of a sweaty makeout in a broom closet for so long before getting sick of it.

The bottle had made its way around the other edge of the circle, and now, it was in Paige’s hand. That fact made her perk up for no particular reason.

She watched as she spun it, how the glass twirled on the hardwood until it began to slow down.

The neck was nearly facing her as the bottle neared the end of its rotation. And of course, it landed on her.

“Oh, she’s not playing” Caroline chirped, “you should just spin again”

Paige raised her eyebrows, eyes shifting between her and Caroline, “really?” She asked.

“Yeah” asserted Caroline.

Paige smirked, eyes locking on Azzi, “Not playing, or just chickening out?”

“Oh fuck no” she mumbled to Caroline under her breath, already shifting to stand up.

Caroline turned to her, a concerned expression on her face, “you said you weren’t playing” she whispered, sounding confused.

“Yeah, I said that” she mumbled back, then continued, louder, “I’ll do it, lets go”

Paige smirked back at her from across the room. Caroline took one last look at her and asked, “Are you really fine with this?”

She pried her gaze away from Paige and shrugged, “It’s only seven minutes”

***

The door shut behind them. They were close, forced together by the cramped room. They had maybe a foot of space between them.

Paige grinned at her, “you smell like booze”

Azzi rolled her eyes, “God, I wonder why” she mumbled.

Paige chuckled, “Could’ve just taken the shirt off, half the girls here are in bras anyway. You’d fit right in—”

She took a deep breath, ”shut up”

“what” Paige asked, looking a little taken aback.

She took a step towards her and met her gaze, “I said, shut up. We only have seven minutes—“

Paige cut her off, eyebrows raised, ”wait, you actually wanna do that shit?”

Azzi grabed Paiges collar with both of her hands, pulling her closer so their faces were inches apart, “Yeah, I’m not gonna chicken out now—I don’t fuck around”

Paige grinned, “Shit, that’s hot—“

She cut her off with a kiss. The sloppy kind, one where their noses bumped and teeth clacked. One that wasn’t planned, but happened anyway—and that she hated to admit she’d been waiting for.

Paige tasted like shitty vodka and cranberry—but, not bad—and her lips were…softer than she expected.

She pulled back for a moment, unsure.

Paige made it clear that she wasn’t. Her hands found the sides of her head, lacing through her curls and pulling her face closer. Suddenly the room felt hotter.

Their lips met again, but it felt more intense this time. Like this wasn’t just a stupid party game. Like this could go further than a sloppy drunken kiss.

And with the way her head was spinning—she might let it.

They slow at first. Paige was letting her lead. Seeing how far she wanted to take it. But gradually, she started to fight for control.

Paige slowly pushed her back until she was pressed up against the other wall of the closet. Her hands slipped down from the sides of her head to her jaw, cupping her face. She groaned against Paige’s lips at the touch.

Her lips parted ever so slightly, and Paige jumped at the opportunity to deepen the kiss. She leaned into it, letting Paige take control. One of her hands slipped from the side of her neck down her side until it settled at her hip, squeezing hard.

She lifted one of Azzi’s legs, grip still firm, to straddle her own hips. She pressed their bodies closer, rushed, almost frantic.

Then, Paige’s leg shifted. She threaded her knee between Azzi’s legs, pressing just hard enough for her to notice.

She didn’t realize she'd made the sound until it slipped out of her mouth. It was a small and strangled whine—something utterly embarrassing that in any other circumstance would have made her want to curl into a ball and die. But right now, in this closet, alcohol on her breath and sweat sticky on her skin—she couldn't care less.

Paige chased the sound, hand slipping lower to her ass, gripping hungrily.

This was so wrong. She didn’t even know this girl and her tongue was halfway down her throat—and she was letting it happen.

Shit, she might even be enjoying it.

She groaned again as Paige pulled her hips closer, knee offering just enough friction to drive her crazy.

Fuck. She was definitely enjoying it.

She whined as Paige pulled back for a moment, eyes raking over her face.

All she could do was sit there, panting beneath her. She could see a slight sheen of sweat glistening on Paige's face. Then she was back on her, lips starting to wander. Towards the side of her mouth, down her chin, across her jaw—

She sighed, head tipping back, giving Paige full access.

She took it, dipping her head to Azzi’s neck.

Paige's other hand trailed from her jaw down to her chest, palming her through her shirt. She could feel the strap of her tank top slowly slipping down her shoulder and handing loose around her arm, but she didn’t care to catch it.

She whimpered as Paige nipped and sucked along the skin where Azzi’s jaw met her neck, then lower, sucking harder now.

Shit, probably too hard. Hard enough to leave a mark if they weren’t careful.

She tried, albeit not too hard, to push her off, but they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

Paige pulled back from her neck, a little breathless, and looked down at her, lips parted and kiss bitten. She pushed her away, not hard, but it was firm enough to move her.

Her hand shot to her neck, fingers grazing over the spot that was still damp from Paige’s kiss.

“did you just give me a fucking hickey?” She hissed, quiet enough for the sound not to carry past the closet door.

Paige surveyed her face, then her neck, and smirked.

“to remember me by” She mused

To remember her by? Like the drink spillage and knee between her thigh wouldn’t be enough?

The door creaked open behind them, and she quickly pulled herself together. She pulled the strap of her tank top back up over her shoulder, blinked, and took a deep breath, trying her hardest not to look as wrecked as she was.

“God damn it—you're an ass, you know that right?” She mumbled, pushing past Paige and back towards the room, pulling her curls down to cover her neck the best she could.

She made her way back to Caroline, stepping over the row of people in front of the door of the closet and trying her best to ignore the ooh’s and ahh’s as she went.

She still felt hot, but not exactly temperature-wise. This heat was different, low in her stomach, something that shedding a layer couldn't fix. She plopped down next to Caroline, thighs shifting uncomfortably as she tired to settle down.

”holy shit, how was that??” Caroline asked, bractically bouncing up and down.

She couldn’t respond. She was still too stuck on—whatever the fuck that was—to articulate words. She just met Paige’s gaze from across the room, cold, blue, cocky as ever. She smirked back at her, knowing. She had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time they’d see each other tonight.

She broke the eye contact out of necessity—took a deep breath, and turned back to Caroline.

All she could get out was a breathless, “Paige Bueckers, huh?”

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Bestieee 😭 I’m still thinking about your last fic because it was so good?? Could you do one where rookie!reader gets caught in the rain at the paddock and ends up dripping wet, so the older drivers start fighting over who gets to give her their jacket

War of Jackets

The paddock was chaos. Umbrellas flipped, tarps flapped, and mechanics waded through ankle-deep puddles like lost sailors. Journalists had surrendered to plastic ponchos. Fans shrieked from the stands, chanting and cheering even as the storm drenched everything in sight.

Yn hadn’t meant to get caught in the downpour. She’d just wanted to walk from Red Bull hospitality to the media pen. Easy, right? But halfway through, the drizzle turned into a wall of water. Now she stood outside her garage, hoodie soaked through, jeans plastered to her legs, sneakers squelching every time she shifted her weight.

But here was the thing: even soaked to the bone, mascara intact, eyeliner sharp, lip gloss untouched, she still looked annoyingly gorgeous. Her wet hair stuck around her face in waves, and the storm only made her look more cinematic, like she’d walked straight out of a fashion editorial.

The universe decided to prove this point when a Mercedes intern, sprinting past with a clipboard, looked up, saw Yn, and promptly ran headfirst into the side of the garage wall with a loud THUNK.

Everyone froze.

“OHHH!” a few crew members shouted at once, wincing.

The intern scrambled upright, red-faced, mumbling apologies, and disappeared before anyone could say anything.

Yn blinked after him, then looked around at the stunned mechanics. “Did he just…?”

“Yes,” one of them confirmed, still laughing. “He did.”

Yn shrugged. “Slay, I guess.”

That was the exact moment Lando appeared, jogging in with his hood up, already laughing at the state of her. He skidded to a stop, looked her up and down, and doubled over. “Oh my god. You look like—like—” he wheezed, “like a wet dog.”

“Thanks,” Yn said flatly, wringing out her sleeve. “Always wanted to be compared to your retriever energy.”

“You’ve got mascara down your cheek,” he added between giggles.

Yn glared. “No I don’t. My makeup’s bulletproof. Check again, rat.”

Lando actually leaned in, squinted, then pulled back with a sheepish grin. “Oh. Yeah, actually… you do look weirdly perfect. What the hell. Not fair.”

“Exactly,” Yn said smugly. “Drowned, but make it Vogue.”

Before he could answer, Lewis arrived. Of course, he was dry. Of course, his umbrella was intact. Of course, he still looked like he belonged in a photoshoot. He stopped dead when he saw her, eyebrows rising in alarm.

“Why didn’t you wait?” he asked, already pulling his jacket off. “You could’ve come under with me.”

“Because you walk like two miles an hour, Lewis!” Yn shot back. “I’d have frozen solid.”

“Better solid than sick,” he said calmly, moving to wrap the jacket around her shoulders.

But Max barrelled into the scene, jacket unzipped, water dripping down his curls. “Nope. Nope. I’ve got her,” he said, shoving his Red Bull waterproof at Yn.

Lewis gave him a look that could kill. “Excuse me. She’s with me.”

“She’s literally my teammate,” Max said, tugging at the hoodie clinging to her. “I win.”

“Teammate doesn’t beat family,” Lewis replied coolly.

“Dad doesn’t beat someone who actually shares a car with her,” Max snapped.

Yn raised her hands. “Not to interrupt this custody battle over me, but… I’m still freezing.”

Neither listened. They were too busy tugging jackets at her like toddlers fighting over toys.

Then Charles jogged up, Ferrari coat draped over his head like a makeshift umbrella. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he demanded, stopping dead at the sight of Max and Lewis fighting over a half-drowned Yn.

“She needs a jacket!” Max barked.

“I have one,” Charles interrupted smoothly, offering his. “Warm. Proper. Not that—” he glanced disdainfully at Max’s coat “—cheap thing.”

“It’s waterproof,” Max muttered.

“It looks cheap,” Charles replied simply.

Yn pressed her wet hands into her face. “Why is this my life.”

Carlos appeared next, already laughing. “You’re all too slow! Yn, just take mine.” He shoved his Williams jacket into her hands.

Before she could answer, George stormed in, Mercedes branding visible even through the storm. “No. Ours is longer. It’ll cover her properly. Stop giving her crop tops, for god’s sake.”

Oscar strolled in behind him, hands shoved into his pockets, unimpressed. “You’re all idiots. She’s literally dripping while you argue. Just give her something.”

“Yeah, like mine,” Alex said proudly, producing a scarf like it was the crown jewels.

Yn stared at it, rain dripping from her nose. “…Alex. Babe. My entire body is soaked. What’s a scarf going to do?”

“Warm your neck?” Alex said hopefully.

She sighed, took it, and looped it dramatically around her neck anyway. “There. Happy?”

Alex beamed. “Very.”

“You’re insane,” Max muttered.

“She looks chic,” Alex defended.

By now, the rookies had arrived en masse: Ollie, Isack, Gabriel, Liam, and Kimi.

“This is insane,” Kimi said, laughing. “She’s standing there like a wet statue and you’re all playing tug-of-war.”

“Let them,” Gabriel said. “It’s like wildlife. Don’t interfere.”

“Or film it,” Liam grinned, pulling his phone out. “Internet’s gonna eat this alive.”

“Delete that,” George barked.

“Not a chance,” Liam said, cackling. “This is Love Island: Paddock Edition.”

The drivers didn’t even notice—they were too busy escalating. Jackets flew back and forth like weapons. Carlos draped his over Yn, only for Max to snatch it off. Charles tugged Max’s away and tried to force his Ferrari one on. Lando tried to sneak his McLaren jacket on her like a magician performing a trick.

Lewis kept swatting hands away like a protective dad. “You’re going to choke her! Let her breathe!”

“I’m fine,” Yn wheezed from under a pile of damp jackets. “Just suffocating. Don’t mind me.”

The rain poured harder. Mechanics leaned out of garages, watching the chaos like it was a street performance. Journalists huddled under umbrellas, microphones half-raised, unsure if this was newsworthy or just hilarious.

And then—like divine intervention—Susie appeared. Calm. Dry. Elegant. She walked straight through the chaos, carrying a giant blanket and a towel.

She didn’t say anything at first. She just stepped past the arguing drivers, draped the blanket around Yn’s shoulders, and handed her the towel.

“Sorted,” she said simply.

The world went quiet.

Yn sagged into the blanket with a dramatic sigh. “Finally. Actual adult in the room. Thank you, Susie.”

Susie smiled, gently towel-drying her hair. “Honestly, it’s like babysitting toddlers. Don’t encourage them.”

“I feel like an icon right now,” Yn mumbled, muffled in the blanket.

“You are,” Susie agreed.

Behind them, the drivers immediately started again.

“My jacket was better,” Max muttered.

“She looks stylish in Ferrari red,” Charles argued.

“She looked warmest in mine,” Carlos shot back.

“She looked like a walking bin bag in yours,” Lando added, grinning.

“Mate,” George sighed, exasperated. “You were all useless. Blanket beats all of you.”

“Shut up, George,” Max groaned.

Yn peeked out from under the blanket, scarf still proudly tied around her neck. “For the record? I love Alex’s scarf the most.”

Everyone groaned in unison.

Alex fist-pumped. “Knew it.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Authors Note: Well, hello there. I hope you had fun reading this story. Don't be shy and send me a request 😉

[lostrologyy]

since you asked for asks!!!

James potter who’s ur best friend but you both have secret feelings for each other and one day you complain about never full on making out with each other and he suggest YALL do it together plantonicly AS PRACTICE (Iykyk) this could also be !dark James too if you want

-🍓

practice kissing with bsf!james*. ⋆

cw: none! fem!reader. kissing (duh). idiots in love.

a/n: here you go, my love<3 i still have that dark!james blurb (part 3) on my drafts so i decided to go with normal james for this one. i hope you like it!

james is twirling a pen between his fingers, spinning lazily in his chair. the sunlight filters through his curtains, catching on the messy curls falling into his glasses. you’re lying on your stomach across his bed, your cheek pressed into your palms as you try to read the textbook in front of you.

"it’s so pathetic," you mutter, mostly to yourself. "i’ve never even had one of those movie-style, kiss-you-until-you-forget-your-name makeouts."

james swivels his chair toward you, one brow raised. "you’re joking."

"wish i was." you prop your chin in your hand. "i mean, i’ve kissed people, obviously. but never like that."

he stares at you for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. "what d’you mean? you’ve never had the kind where you just—" he gestures vaguely in the air. "—devour each other for like ten minutes straight?"

you snort, flipping onto your side so you can meet his gaze. "nope. guess i'm tragically underexperienced."

his mouth curls into that grin that always means trouble. "well… i could help with that."

you blink. "what?"

"we could have one. a proper snog. right here, right now."

the words make your pulse stutter, but you laugh to cover it. "me... and you?"

"who else? i'm sitting right here, i’ve got a mouth, and i happen to be bloody brilliant at using it."

he says that with such ridiculous confidence that it’s hard to tell if he’s teasing. "think of it as practice. no strings. educational purposes only."

you scoff, though there’s an undeniable flutter in your chest. "educational purposes? you’re so full of yourself."

"yeah, but i’m also right." he shrugs.

"c'mon, we could be practice partners," he says casually, like it’s the most normal suggestion in the world. "you know, so you’re ready for the real deal when you meet some bloke who’s worthy of you."

you laugh, rolling your eyes. "right. because there’s nothing weird about making out with your best friend."

he leans back on his palms, still grinning. "like i said. just for fun. no feelings involved."

your stomach does a little flip at the no feelings mention, which is ridiculous because you’ve been telling yourself for years that the little crush you have on james doesn’t count.

you know you should shut him down, tell him it’s a bad idea, but instead you hear yourself say: "fine. but if it’s awful, i’m blaming you."

"deal."

he stands, crossing the small space between you. you should roll your eyes, tell him again this is stupid, but he’s already climbing onto the bed, kneeling beside you so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. his gaze flickers between your eyes and your mouth like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff.

you don’t.

the first kiss is tentative—just a brief press of lips, testing. his mouth is warm, softer than you expected. then he tilts his head slightly, catching your bottom lip between his, and the second kiss lingers. you feel his hand come up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the curve of your cheek in a slow, deliberate stroke.

the shift is subtle at first. the third kiss is deeper, his lips parting against yours, and you taste faint mint from the gum he’d been chewing earlier. your hand finds the front of his hoodie without thinking, curling into the fabric to anchor yourself.

james makes a low, pleased sound in the back of his throat, more a hum than a groan, but it sends a shiver straight down your spine.

he kisses you like he’s in no hurry, like each brush and slide of his lips is something to savor. his tongue teases yours, not pushing for dominance but coaxing, inviting.

your heartbeat drums in your ears. you’re hyper-aware of the way his palm cups your face, the way his other hand settles lightly on your waist, fingers splayed against the hem of your shirt. He leans in closer until your knees bump and your chests brush with every breath.

by now, you’ve lost all sense of how long you’ve been kissing. the world narrows to the wet sound of it, the warmth of his breath, the faint scrape of his stubble when he tilts his head just right. he tastes like mint and something wholly him, and the way he kisses makes you feel like you could melt into the mattress.

when he finally breaks away, you’re both breathing harder. his thumb is still stroking absently along your cheekbone, his forehead nearly touching yours.

"think you’ve got the hang of it now, love?" he murmurs, voice low and a little rough.

you swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. "maybe i need… more practice."

the smile that curls across his lips tells you that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

lostrologyy © 2025.

[amoroso05]

Mera Mera Mess ✧˚ ⋆｡˚

𖤓☽ CHAPTER THREE ☽𖤓

Almost drowned, serenaded the pirate with magic hair, caught fish like it’s a survival show, and had special cameos DISCLAIMER: Drowning peril, injury with bleeding, emotional manipulation, and brief mentions of death and loss.

⟡ previous

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

The dark wraps around you like wet velvet. Your fingers are still curled tight around Ace’s wrist, but you can barely see your own hand in front of your face.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He blinks.

“I promised you wouldn’t be killed, and now…” You glance at the blocked entrance, at the water inching higher. “I don’t even know if there’s a way out.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Then he shrugs. “Hey, you did keep your promise.”

You look up, confused.

“Technically, we weren’t murdered.” A crooked smile tugs at his lips. “We’re just maybe going to drown. Totally different.”

Your laugh comes out choked.

You both fall quiet again.

The darkness swallows everything. You can barely see more than a faint outline of his face: the freckled bridge of his nose, the shadow of his collarbone, and the tension pulling at his jaw.

Then something flickers near his hand. A small spark of flame, curling faintly around his fingertips.

It fizzles out.

You stare.

He tries again, lifting his hand, but this time the flame barely sparks before it sputters and dies. His shoulders sag.

“Ace?”

He leans back against the cold wall and exhales shakily.

“Sorry,” he mutters, then lets his head fall back. “I don’t do well around water.”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“I ate a Devil Fruit,” he says. “Fire powers, sure. But the sea hates me for it.” He lets out a faint laugh through his nose. “Thought you ate one too, but you seem to be doing better than me.”

You take a step closer, the water up to your knees now. “You can’t swim, even a little?”

“Nope.”

“Then… your powers are gone?”

“Temporarily.” His voice is thinner now. “This much water makes it hard to even move.”

You shift closer, instinctively reaching for his hand. He doesn’t stop you.

“I didn’t know,” you murmur. “You didn’t tell me it made you so weak.”

“Well, you didn’t ask.”

You roll your eyes, even as you squeeze his fingers lightly.

His breath hitches. “Hey…”

He pauses.

“What?” you ask.

“I just realized… You know my name. But I never got yours.” His head tilts a little toward you. “Kind of unfair, isn’t it?”

You blink. “Oh.”

“So?”

You hesitate. 

“y/n.”

Your name echoes softly in the stone chamber, half-lost under the dripping water.

Ace goes quiet.

You wait.

“Ace?”

“I’m still here,” he says. His voice is softer than it’s ever been. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Your name,” he says. “It sounds nice.”

Your chest tightens.

He shifts closer; you are now standing knee-deep in freezing water, shoulder to shoulder.

Then quietly, so quiet you barely catch it, he adds, “If I pass out, don’t let me fall face-first into the water, alright?”

You let out a wet laugh.

“I mean it,” he mumbles. “Save the hair. Let the pirate drown with dignity.”

But your heart’s still racing.

Because the water keeps rising. And the air is getting colder. And you can’t see anything. And he’s growing weaker by the second.

You grip his arm tighter.

And then… something clicks. A flicker of memory.

The mural. The hum behind your throat when the stars glowed overhead. The song.

You close your eyes.

But first, you take a breath and lean closer to him.

“I… I think I know a way out.”

Ace doesn’t move.

Then he mutters, “As long as it doesn’t involve swimming.”

You grip your hair.

And begin to sing.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The cold presses into your bones.

Water has reached your waist now, pulling at your clothes with every movement. Pascal clings to your shoulder, tail wrapped tight around your neck like a scarf, his tiny claws pricking through the fabric.

You draw in a breath.

And then you start to sing.

Your voice trembles at first, soft and unsure, but the sound blooms into the cavern walls, echoing like a melody from a dream. Warmth tingles down your spine, spreading into the heavy strands draped over your shoulder.

Your hair begins to glow.

It’s faint at first. 

A golden shimmer rippling through your hair like sunlight caught underwater. Then brighter, until the dark dissolves in soft gold light. 

The glow spills across the wet stone, across Ace’s face, catching in the curve of his cheekbone and the tips of his damp hair.

He stares.

“...How is this not a Devil Fruit?” he mutters, almost to himself.

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s just… me.”

He huffs a disbelieving laugh but doesn’t question further. His eyes flick to the blocked entrance, to the smaller rocks wedged between the larger boulders. “Think we can move those?”

You shift Pascal to the crook of your neck and wade forward with Ace, each step dragging against the water’s pull. The light from your hair paints the wall ahead, revealing the mess of stone and the gaps between them.

“They’re not all big,” you murmur. “If we can get the smaller ones loose, maybe the rest will shift.”

Ace nods. “Worth a shot.”

It’s slow work. Your fingers scrape against the slick stone, nails catching, wrists aching. Ace braces his shoulder into a boulder and pushes, gritting his teeth. Water sloshes around your chests now. Pascal huddles close, eyes darting nervously.

Then movement. 

One rock shifts, then another. The current pulls instantly through the opening, tugging at your legs. Ace grunts and shoves with his arm, pain flickering across his face as the rocks cut his hand, splitting it wide open.

Water submerges the both of you. 

But then the boulder gives way.

Water surges through the gap, dragging you both forward. You cling to Ace’s arm, and the two of you are swept toward the opening. Pascal scrambles to the top of your head, hanging on for dear life.

The last rock breaks free, and you’re out.

You tumble into open air, water rushing around you before spitting you out into the shallow bend of a river. You hit the pebbled bank hard, coughing, gasping, hair heavy and dripping behind you.

Ace drops to his knees beside you, chest heaving. He lifts his cut hand, frowning at the blood before glancing at you again.

And then, with a strange little laugh, he says, “Your hair glows.”

You look up at him, blinking. “...You just noticed?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I noticed. I just still don’t get how it’s not a Devil Fruit.”

Pascal sneezes beside your cheek, earning a faint chortle from Ace.

Ace stumbles slightly as he begins to stand, his step faltering. You lunge forward, catching his arm.

“Hey, careful!”

He grins, but it’s thinner now. “Guess I’m not back at full strength yet.”

You glance at the faint lines of exhaustion on his face. “You should rest. I’ll take care of it.”

His smile fades into something softer. “...You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

He looks at you a second longer, and murmurs, almost too quietly: 

“Thank you”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

You sit on the damp pebbles, hair spread in a heavy glowing curtain around you, catching the last streaks of sunlight spilling low through the trees. The current beside you splashing over the stones, calmer now, as if nothing had just tried to drown you.

Ace flexes his injured hand once, then winces. Blood still seeps faintly from the cut where the rock caught him.

“Let me see it,” you say.

“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, but he doesn’t pull away when you reach for his hand.

You’re already gathering a section of your wet hair into your hands. “Seriously, it’s fine—”

“It’s not fine.” You give him a look that shuts him up instantly.

He sighs, shoulders slumping, and extends his hand toward you. The skin around the cut is jagged, rimmed in dried river silt.

You hum softly, and the golden light stirs again, brighter now under the fading sun. It slips over your hair like liquid fire, wrapping around his hand until the torn skin knits itself together and the angry red fades.

Ace watches in silence, eyes fixed on your hair. “This is getting a little repetitive, but how is this not a Devil Fruit?” he whines.

You smile faintly but say nothing, letting the glow fade until only the warm evening light remains.

He flexes his hand again, this time without a wince, then glances toward the water. “I’m gonna catch us something to eat.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He smirks faintly. “But I want to.”

Pascal chirps and hops from your shoulder to the pebbles, following Ace as he wades into the shallows. The river glimmers bronze under the setting sun, and you watch them go, the air smelling faintly of wet stone and pine.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Shadows stretch long across the dirt path, and the air grows cooler with each step. You can still hear the river behind you, rushing faintly.

When Ace finally stops, it is at the edge of a clearing where the ground dips slightly toward a bend in the river. The water moves slower here, glassy on the surface except for the occasional ripple.

“This’ll work,” he says, already throwing his satchel towards you.

You watch him for a moment, still half-expecting him to collapse from how pale he looked earlier. Instead, he rolls his shoulders, steps to the riverbank, and crouches low. His movements are quick and efficient—the kind of quiet skill you imagine comes from years of doing things out of necessity.

“What are you doing?” You ask, stepping closer, “Aren’t you going to create a net, perhaps? To actually catch dinner.”

“No need for that, sunshine,” he says, not even glancing up. His hand slips into the water so fast you barely register the motion before he pulls it back out, gripping a silver-scaled fish. It thrashes once before going still. He tosses it onto the pebbles and reaches for another.

Pascal blinks at the fish, then at Ace, as if he’s reconsidering every opinion he has ever formed about pirates.

You crouch near Pascal and mutter, “Show-off.”

Ace grins faintly. “You’ll thank me in ten minutes.”

…

It turns out he was wrong. 

It takes fifteen minutes before the fire is built and the fish is roasting on sharpened sticks over the flames.

The smell curls into the cool air, rich and warm. You sit cross-legged on a log, Ace situated for you on the other side of the fire, hair pooling around you, your pan within arm’s reach just in case.

Ace sits down heavily, takes a bite, and lets out a muffled sound of approval. “Not bad,” he says around the food.

You open your mouth to answer, but his chewing slows. Then his eyelids droop.

“…Are you—”

Before you can finish, his head tips forward and he collapses sideways, face-planting directly into the grass. The wet, muddy patch by the fire.

You just stare for a moment. 

“Ace?”

“ACE,” you yell as you frantically run to his side.

“Oh no, oh no, I shouldn’t have let him go back into the water,” you exclaim as you begin shaking him. “Please, Ace, I’m sorry, please wake up.”

Pascal’s eyes go wide, and he scurries over to puncture his tongue into Ace’s ear.

He jolts on the ground, and you freeze as you begin to hear a grumble of words from his face in the ground.

When he stirs again, it’s with a faint groan. He lifts his head, eyes still half-closed, bits of grass sticking to his cheek.

“Oh damn, must’ve fallen asleep,” he voices as you stare at him with irritation.

Without even thinking, he reaches toward you, catches the hem of your skirt, and wipes his face clean.

You jerk back. “Ew! That’s disgusting!”

His grin is instant, lazy with amusement. “Relax, had to get the dirt off somehow.”

“It’s not a napkin!”

“Worked fine for me.”

He laughs, not loud, but genuine, the sound curling through the quiet like the warmth of the fire. Something about it makes your chest feel tight for reasons you can’t name.

You roll your eyes and turn back to the fire, pretending to focus on the fish instead of the warmth curling in your chest. Pascal hops down to sit near the flames, his tiny body glowing in the light.

Ace takes another bite and this time manages to stay awake. After a while, he leans back on his hands, gaze tilted toward the sky where the first hints of stars colour the clouds.

“So,” he says. “What was your childhood like in that tower?”

You blink. “Quiet. Repetitive. I painted, read, cooked, cleaned, and had other hobbies too, like candle making, but all in all, it was the same routine every day.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He makes a face. “That sounds… bland.”

Your stomach twists. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It sounds bad,” he says, not unkindly, just blunt. Then he adds, “Hey, I don’t wanna impose, but are you sure you want to go back there after all this?”

Your shoulders stiffen. “I have to. Mother says it’s for my own safety.”

He studies you for a long moment, then sits forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen, I don’t want to say I understand how you feel, because I don’t. But I’ll try to.”

You glance at him, surprised.

He shifts, then moves to kneel in front of you. The firelight catches the sharp lines of his face, the warm glow turning his eyes almost homely. “You’re not weak for wanting more than four walls and a locked door.”

Your breath catches as he takes your hands gently in his. His palms are warm and rough.

“You’ve got this whole world out here,” he says quietly. “It’d be a shame if you never saw it.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The flames pop and hiss, shadows dancing across both your faces. You notice the way the light makes his hair look more gold than black, the way his lashes cast faint shadows over his cheeks.

“What about you?” you ask softly.

He hesitates, then says, “I grew up with my little brothers. Luffy… he’s a handful. And Sabo…” His voice dips. “Sabo didn’t make it.”

You squeeze his hands gently. “I’m sorry.”

He nods once, then forces a small smile. “Our grandpa raised us for a while. Rough man, but he meant well. I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen and set to sea. Never stopped moving.”

You tilt your head. “What about your parents?”

His jaw tightens. “My father’s dead. And I’m fine with that.”

There’s a raw edge to the words that makes you pause.

He lets out a quiet breath, shakes his head like he’s pushing the thought away, and looks at you again.

“Point is, I know what it’s like to live in a place that doesn’t feel like yours. If you want to go back to that tower, I’ll take you. But I think you deserve more than that.”

The fire crackles between you. You hold his gaze, your hands still resting in his, and for a moment the rest of the world feels very far away.

Little sparks travel into the air, and the breeze slightly picks up. Ace doesn’t let go of your hands.

“Luffy always wanted to be a pirate as well,” he says suddenly, like the thought had been sitting on his tongue for a while. “Since we were kids. He used to talk about it every day. Said he was gonna be King of the Pirates, no matter what anyone thought.”

You smile faintly. “Sounds stubborn.”

“He’s the most stubborn person I know,” Ace says, and there’s pride in his voice. “He never quits. Even when he should.” He pauses, glancing at the flames. “I worry about him sometimes. But then I remember… he’s stronger than I ever was at his age.”

You tilt your head. “Stronger than you? That’s hard to believe.”

Ace laughs softly, the sound warm and unguarded. 

“It’s true. Luffy’s got this way of making people believe in him. He doesn’t overthink. Just jumps headfirst and trusts it’ll work out. Drives me crazy, but…” 

His voice fades for a moment, and when he looks back at you, there’s a softness in his expression that makes your stomach twist. 

“It’s part of why I’m still here. People like that… you don’t walk away from them.”

Something in your chest tightens, though you can’t name exactly what it is.

The dancing flames flicker, throwing shadows across the sharp planes of his face. He studies you for a moment longer before turning his head toward the ground with a boyish grin.

“Guessing I’m the first pirate you’ve ever met,” he says.

You huff a quiet laugh. “First person I’ve met outside the tower, period.”

His grin fades into something softer. “Then I’m honoured.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You look down at your hands, half-hoping he can’t see the warmth creeping up your neck.

His fingers are still curled around yours, palms warm against your skin. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You think about the ridiculousness of the past two days: meeting him, running from guards, almost drowning, and yet, somehow, sitting here with him feels… safe.

Ace shifts a little closer, the warm light catching the curve of his smile. “Y’know… I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you either.”

Your breath catches. “Is that a compliment?”

He grins. “You can take it that way if you want.”

Pascal flicks his tail from his spot on the log beside you, like he’s unimpressed with this sudden quiet. But you can’t stop staring at Ace, and he’s doing the same.

The crackle of wood burning fills the silence. He doesn’t break your gaze until a faint breeze rustles through the trees, and then he finally sits beside you, still watching you out of the corner of his eye, and one hand still holding your own.

You think you should say something, but the words stick. The only thing you know is that you don’t want this moment to end.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Ace pushes himself up from where he’s sitting, gently squeezing your hand before letting go to brush his palms on his shorts.

“Stay here. I’m gonna grab something.”

You arch a brow. “Something?”

He smirks, just a little too pleased with himself. “You’ll see.”

He turns and disappears down the narrow path, whistling under his breath like he has not a single care in the world. You watch him go, warmth pooling low in your chest despite yourself. Pascal shifts on your shoulder, tilting his head in that way that feels far too knowing.

“Shut up,” you murmur, nudging him gently.

You’re still smiling to yourself when a voice purrs from behind you.

“Well. I thought he’d never leave.”

The sound freezes your breath. Slowly, you turn.

“Mother?”

She steps forward from the treeline, her black cloak drawn close, the edges swallowed in shadow. Her eyes catch the firelight, glittering with something sharp.

“Hello, dear.”

Your throat tightens. “How… how did you find me?”

“Oh, it was easy,” she says lightly, her smile not reaching her eyes. “I just followed the sound of utter betrayal.”

“Mother—”

“We’re going home.” Her voice is calm but leaves no room for argument.

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been on the most incredible journey. I’ve seen so much, learned so much—”

“And met someone,” she finishes smoothly. “Yes. The infamous pirate with a price on his head. I’m thrilled.”

You shake your head quickly. “It’s not… You don’t know him—”

“I know enough,” she says, her voice tightening. “And I know exactly what men like him do. He’s a pirate. That’s not a fairy tale, it’s a warning.”

Your jaw sets. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

Her lips curl faintly, almost pitying. “You think that now, child. But the outside world isn’t kind, and I wasn’t lying when I told you it’s dangerous. When he gets bored of you, or when he wants something else, he’ll leave. Or worse, he’ll remember that pirates don’t get by on kindness. Greed will win, like it always does. And then you’ll find yourself sold to the highest bidder before you even realize what’s happened.”

Your stomach knots hard. “No. He wouldn’t do that.”

Her gaze sharpens. “You’re sure? Tell me, what do you really know about him? You’ve known him for what, two days? He’s lived his whole life on lies and lawlessness. That’s who he is.”

You swallow, trying to push away the doubt curling in the edges of your mind. “He’s different.”

She studies you for a long moment, the firelight catching the faintest twitch of her mouth. “Well. I can see your mind’s made up.”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear the crunch of boots against dirt. Ace is coming back.

Gothel takes a step backward, letting the shadows wrap around her like a second skin. “Don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart. All I ever wanted was to protect you.”

Her eyes linger on you one last time, sharp and unreadable, before she disappears into the trees. The rustle of leaves swallows her completely, leaving only the fire’s crackle and the faint breeze through the grass.

Pascal creeps closer on your shoulder, his tiny claws brushing your collar as if to anchor you.

The footsteps draw nearer. You barely have time to steady your breathing before Ace emerges from the path, something in his hand, that small cocky smile tugging at his mouth like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

You try to focus on the fire instead of the unease creeping in. Mother’s words had dripped with poison, warning you that pirates were greedy, that they only stayed until boredom set in or there was something to gain. That Ace would run off without you one day or, worse, sell you off if it meant more coin in his pocket.

You shake your head. No. He wouldn’t.

Still, your stomach feels unsettled, the silence around you too loud. Her voice clings to the edges of your thoughts like burrs in cloth, and no matter how much you try to shake them off, the barbs stay hooked. You tell yourself she’s wrong. You tell yourself you know him. But the doubt feels heavier than the river water ever did.

Footsteps crunch over dirt. You look up and see him returning, a grin tugging at his mouth. He’s holding something cupped in one hand, careful, like it’s fragile.

He drops into a crouch in front of you.

“Did something happen? Are you alright?”

You shake your head, “Yes, sorry, lost in thought.”

“I see,” he says as he looks at his hands giddily.

He opens his palm. Inside sits a small wildflower, white petals tipped with gold.

“It reminded me of your hair,” he says.

The words land like a stone in your chest. You reach out, take it gently, and find his eyes already on yours. “Thank you,” you say softly.

“Don’t mention it,” Ace says, leaning back on his heels and crossing his arms over his knees. “I figured you could use something that isn’t mud and tree bark.” His grin is easy, but his gaze lingers, sweeping over your face in a way that makes you look away.

Pascal hops down to investigate the flower, sniffing at it like he’s the judge of all things worth keeping. Ace chuckles. “What do you think, Pascal? Pretty good find, huh?”

Pascal flicks his tail in approval.

“Oh, and the flower too,” he smirks as he tilts his head to see your face.

You tuck the flower behind your ear, feeling a little foolish for how warm your cheeks are.

Ace leans forward again, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of smoke on him.

“Y’know, Goldi, you’re easy to read.”

You blink. “I am not.”

He straightens up, his smirk deepening. “Sure you are, y/n.” The way he says your name is softer than the nickname, and it does something strange to your pulse.

He sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours, and stares into the fire. “So, what’s got you all quiet? You’re usually ready to argue with me about something.”

You hesitate, Mother’s voice replaying in your head. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

That earns him a faint laugh, and you glance at him again. His eyes catch the campfire, glowing warm amber, his smile softer now.

He doesn’t press for more. Instead, he pulls a stick from the fire where another fish is roasting and holds it out to you. “Eat. Before you start wasting away.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. It’s a small touch, but neither of you moves away right away.

For a moment, the warnings in your head fade, replaced by the sound of the river nearby, the soft crackle of the wood, and the steady presence beside you.

Ace shifts slightly, turning toward you. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Any chance I’m gonna get super strength in my hand after that whole healing thing? Because I’m not gonna lie, that would be stupendous.” His grin turns teasing. “Superhuman good looks—I was born with those. But superhuman strength? Imagine the possibilities.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the way your lips curve. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But you’re smiling.”

You bite back the urge to tell him why. He doesn’t need to know that his ridiculousness makes it harder and harder to remember why you should be cautious.

The trees sing a soft tune between you, and you wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is beating.

You finish the last bite of fish, setting the stick aside, and notice Ace watching you with that same lazy grin.

“What?” you ask.

“Just remembering,” he says, leaning back on his elbows. “Back when we met, I asked if you snored.”

You narrow your eyes. “I told you I don’t.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

Pascal gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes from his spot near the bonfire.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You won’t. Because I don’t.”

“Mm-hm.” He stretches, then tilts his head toward you. “If I do hear it, I’m telling everyone.”

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it. “Who exactly is ‘everyone’?”

He smirks, eyes glinting in the firelight. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

The words leave your chest feeling strangely full. You glance away, pretending to fuss with the flower still tucked behind your ear, but the heat in your face gives you away.

Ace gets up to put out the fire with one push of his hand, grabbing his satchel and walks back.

He falls backwards to lie on the grass, folding one arm under his head. “Night, Pascal.”

Earning him a chirp.

You hesitate before stretching out beside him, and Ace sets his satchel under your head. Pascal curls up at your shoulder. The fire’s previous warmth and the soft rush of the river lull you, the uneasy voice in your head quieting as your eyes grow heavy.

He doesn’t sleep right away. Instead, he turns his head to face yours, watching your face.

“Hey,” he says.

You meet his eyes.

“If things were different… if I wasn’t… this.” He gestures vaguely, to his body. “Would you still want to be here?”

The question steals your breath.

You don’t answer. You just reach up and brush a curl of damp hair from his brow. Your fingers linger.

He exhales, barely smiling. Turning to stare up at the stars, eyes slowly shutting.

Somewhere between waking and sleep, you hear his voice again, softer this time, like it’s meant only for you.

“Night, y/n.”

You keep your eyes closed, a small smile tugging at your lips. For once, you let yourself drift without overthinking, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you pulling you under.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Sleep claimed you before you even realized it.

Far from the quiet riverbank, in the dark edge of the forest, Mother Gothel moves without a sound, her cloak melting into the shadows. 

The faint smell of smoke drifts through the trees before she sees the glow, orange and steady like a beacon. She follows it to a lantern’s light, where two figures wait. One towers over her, broad-shouldered, the smoke curling from the cigar clenched between his teeth. The other, shorter, adjusts her sword and shifts her weight, eyes sharp behind her glasses..

Smoker exhales a slow stream of smoke. “You’d better have a good reason for calling us out here.”

Tashigi frowns. “If this is some kind of false lead—”

Gothel lifts a hand, her tone smooth. “It’s no false lead. Portgas D. Ace is close. Very close.”

Smoker’s eyes narrow, the cigar burning brighter for a moment. “Then why not just tell us where and end this?”

Gothel’s lips curl, not quite a smile. “Because if you rush in now, you’ll lose him.”

Tashigi’s brow furrows. “Lose him? He’s not exactly hard to spot. A man like that—”

“You underestimate him,” Gothel cuts in. “Logia users don’t fight on your terms. He’ll burn his way out, disappear into the trees, and you’ll be left chasing smoke while he takes the girl with him.”

Smoker takes a slow drag, his voice low. “Girl?”

Gothel lets just enough tremor touch her tone. “He has someone with him. Young. Sheltered. She doesn’t understand what he is, and she won’t until it’s too late. If you attack now, she’ll get caught in the crossfire.”

Tashigi’s expression tightens. “If she’s in danger, we can protect her—”

Gothel shakes her head. “You’ll only scare her into protecting him. No, you have to be patient. Tomorrow, they’ll be at the Sun Festival to watch the lanterns. He’ll let his guard down to blend in. And when he does…”

Her eyes glitter. “That’s when you’ll have him. No escape routes. No forest to vanish into. I’ll be there, watching. I’ll give you the signal.”

Smoker studies her for a long moment, smoke curling upward in the still air. “And why help us?”

Gothel meets his gaze without flinching. “Because I want her safe. And the only way she will be is if you take him.”

Tashigi exchanges a look with Smoker. “It’s a risk,” she says quietly.

“It’s a sure thing,” Gothel corrects smoothly. “If you want him, tomorrow is the only day you’ll get him without a fight that burns half this forest, and its residents, to ash.”

Smoker exhales, the ember at the tip of his cigar flaring again. “Fine. We wait. But if you’re lying…”

“I’m not,” Gothel says simply, her voice like silk over steel. “You’ll have him tomorrow.”

She turns back toward the darkness, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth as she disappears into the trees, leaving the two Marines in the lantern glow, the plan already set.

𓆉𓆉︎𓆉

CHAPTER THREE DONE 🎉✨

Finallyyy got this one out!! I wanted to finish sooner but had to give myself a little mental schedule extension because… exams 😭📚

Heads up: chapter release days might be all over the place for now, anywhere from 3 days to a week between posts, depending on my schedule.

I really hope you guys enjoyed this one!! Huge shoutout to my lovely friend @hello-yellow-333 for editing again💛 and thank you sooo much to everyone who’s been sending me messages 🥹💌.

Special mention: @heavenlyimagine tagged me in a post by @earlgreymatchaaa, who made a list of Disney princes that would fit really well with One Piece characters 👀💭.

Sooo… should I make a Disney prince x One Piece series? Lmk what you guys think!!

tag list: @dumbassqueen, @demi-romantic, @that-b-word-lol, @st2arz, @ocean-mochi, @populartokyo, @kyat-kyat, @teffyx, @themovielover

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Hallo! I'm Layci. Can you write one where you're struggling mentally and physically and the team takes it hard. Half mad, half confused. Bucky is the only one who has the nerve to talk to you because you've been there. You could use my name or y/n, it doesn't matter I just need something to get through my struggles. <3

Hi Layci!

Thanks for the ask <3 I hope this helps :) I'm usually one to retreat when I'm struggling mentally, so this is a bit of that. I hope it hits the way you want it to!

She's Not Coming Out - Bucky Barnes x Reader

The room was too quiet for six people.

John sat on the edge of the armrest like he was about to say something and then didn’t. Again.

Yelena drummed her fingers on the countertop, rapid-fire. “She hasn’t come out in—what, three days?”

“Four,” Ava muttered, not looking up from the spot she was cleaning on her gloves. A spot that wasn’t really there.

“She’s fine,” Bob said, his voice an awkward mix of forced brightness and worry he couldn’t hide. “Probably just… catching up on sleep.”

“Sleep?” Yelena snapped, standing suddenly. “You think she’s catching up on sleep? You don’t know her if you think she just—what, hibernates when she’s sad?”

Alexei looked up from the pot of something over-salted he’d tried to make edible. “Maybe she is meditating. You people always think the worst. I once went two weeks without talking. Cleared my chakras.”

“You don’t have chakras,” Ava said flatly.

“I have excellent chakras,” he insisted.

“She’s not okay,” Yelena cut back in. Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, but she powered through it. “And none of us are doing anything about it.”

John exhaled slowly through his nose, arms crossed. “I don’t think crowding her room and asking her to smile is gonna fix this.”

“So we do nothing?” Her glare moved from John to Bob to Ava. “She’s the one who—she’s the glue, she’s the one who makes everyone feel human in this dump. And now she’s in a hole and we all just stand around like idiots?”

Bob tried again, a little too upbeat. “I could bring her chocolate. She likes those cheap truffles, right?”

“She’s not a sad goldfish, Bob.”

A silence settled again.

It wasn’t the normal kind, where everyone’s tired or thinking. It was the kind that buzzed in your teeth. The kind that sat in the back of the throat and made people flinch when footsteps echoed in the hall—just in case it was her.

But it never was.

Not anymore.

“I’m going in.”

Bob clapped his hands and stood, like he was announcing the launch of a rescue mission. “She likes me. Everyone likes me.”

“Nope.” Yelena raised a finger without looking up. “Don’t.”

“She does!” Bob said, half laughing. “She called me ‘sunshine in combat boots’ last week.”

“She also called you a ‘walking liability with stupidly perfect teeth,’” Ava pointed out, deadpan.

“Which I took as a compliment,” Bob replied.

He grabbed a bag of the gas station truffles (squashed but technically edible) from the shelf, did a little flourish, and strode off down the corridor like he was marching into a rave instead of a graveyard.

Yelena sighed loudly. “Go if you want to get hurt.”

Alexei chuckled behind her. “He is like dog chasing tank. Enthusiastic. Dead.”

The silence returned. Tense. Waiting.

The corridor stayed quiet for a long time—too long. Even Bob made noise. That was the thing about him. There was always humming, whistling, a clatter of something he accidentally knocked over.

But not now.

After a few minutes, his footsteps came back. Slower this time. When he reappeared, he had the truffle bag in one hand, unopened, and a new crease in his brow that hadn’t been there before.

“She didn’t… say anything,” he muttered.

Yelena looked up sharply. “At all?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t even look. She was on the floor. Like—not passed out, just…” He scratched his temple. “Sitting. Against the wall. Like someone unplugged her.”

The weight in the room grew heavier.

Bob put the truffles on the counter, as if they might matter later.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, quieter now. “She always knows what to do when it’s me.”

Nobody answered.

Except for one chair.

It creaked as Bucky stood.

No announcement. No sigh. No looking for permission. Just movement.

The rest of the team watched him go—not with hope, exactly. More like reverence. Like watching someone walk into a storm they knew better than to follow.

Yelena didn’t stop him.

She just said, under her breath, “She’ll listen to him.”

The hallway to her room was colder than it should’ve been. One bulb flickered near the ceiling—barely enough light to see. Bucky didn’t need it.

He stopped outside your door. Didn’t knock right away. Just listened.

No crying.

No pacing.

No movement at all.

He knocked once. Two soft raps of metal on metal. No answer.

You don’t move when the door clicks shut.

There’s no panic in you, no spark of embarrassment—just a bone-deep exhaustion. You keep your eyes on the wall ahead, the one you’ve been staring at for what could’ve been five minutes or five hours. Doesn’t matter.

You hear him sit.

No creak. No sigh. Just presence.

Solid. Familiar. Heavy in a way that grounds you.

Bucky doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

You wait for the usual questions—Are you okay? What’s wrong? Why won’t you come out?

They don’t come.

There’s just breathing. Yours. His. The silence between it.

And then, quietly, he begins.

“First time I disappeared like this…”

You blink, but your eyes stay on the wall.

“…they kept knocking. Leaving notes. Talking through the door. Trying to be loud enough to drag me back.”

He pauses. You hear the shift of his body, the soft click of metal fingers tapping against his leg.

“Didn’t work. Just made me want to disappear harder.”

You don’t mean to exhale, but you do.

Not loud. Just enough that your chest moves for the first time in too long.

He doesn’t call attention to it.

“One person,” he says, “she never knocked. Never asked me to talk. Just left a cup of tea outside my door. Every night. Same time. Never said a word.”

You don’t look at him, but something in your throat tightens.

“She died a few years later,” he finishes, voice softer. “I never thanked her.”

That silence feels different.

Not heavy. Not suffocating.

Real.

Your voice surprises you. It’s rasped, broken at the edges.

“I’m not strong enough right now.”

It’s not a confession.

It’s not a warning.

It’s just the truth.

He shifts closer, and you feel the weight of his eyes finally settle on you.

“So don’t be,” he says.

You let your head fall to the side, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in the dark.

His face is unreadable, but his voice isn’t.

It’s the kind of voice that’s lived this.

You want to say something more. But all that comes out is—

“I feel like I’m losing pieces. Like they’re just… falling off, and I don’t even notice until they’re gone.”

He doesn’t rush to respond.

Doesn’t tell you it’s going to be okay.

He just shifts again, closer now. His knee touches your leg.

“I know that feeling,” he says.

You look down—your fingers twitch once before lifting off the cold floor. Not far. Not steady. But just enough.

He notices.

He extends his hand. Open. Palm up. Waiting.

You hesitate.

And then—slowly—you place your hand in his.

His grip is warm. Firm. Careful.

Not tight, but protective.

Like he knows how badly it could hurt to be held too hard.

You let him pull you in.

Not with force—just the invitation of gravity. The kind that makes it easier to fall forward than stay upright.

You end up folded into him, head tucked beneath his chin, knees under you, your whole body sagging like it can finally let go.

He holds you like you’re not broken.

Just… tired.

Like you’re not a burden.

Just you.

His arm curves around your back, the other still gripping your hand.

His lips lower near your ear.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Not for them. Not for me.”

And you believe him.

You press your forehead tighter to his chest.

You let him hold all the broken pieces without asking him to fix them.

His breath dips lower now, mouth near your ear.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

It shatters something inside you.

Not in a painful way. Not even a relief.

Just… honesty.

You don’t have to hold yourself up anymore. Not right now. Not with him.

Your forehead presses harder to his chest, and he rocks you slightly. Barely a motion, but enough to feel it. Like he’s reminding your body it’s still here. Still real. Still held.

You whisper, too soft for the others to hear, even if they were listening through the wall: “Why aren’t you scared of me like this?”

You feel him go still. Not in a startled way—more like something heavy settling in him.

His answer is quiet. Firm. True.

“Because I’ve been this version of you.”

You close your eyes. You don’t cry. You just exist in the shape of him.

And when his metal hand slides up your back, smoothing gently beneath your hoodie, you don’t stop him. You let him pull you closer, until there’s no space left between you.

Your name, when he says it next, is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

Then, like a smile in his throat: “You always were a little punk.”

Your breath hitches—and not because you’re about to cry.

Because for the first time in days, something breaks through the fog.

Not light. Not hope. Just him.

Just this.

Just here.

Still here.

You wake slowly.

Your head is resting against his chest, tucked into the corner where his shoulder meets his neck. His jacket smells like smoke and something quieter underneath—something warm. Something safe.

The lighting hasn’t changed. Still low. Still quiet.

You must’ve fallen asleep.

Bucky hasn’t moved.

His arm is still around you, solid and steady. Your legs are tangled now, one of yours draped over his. You should move. Say something. Pull back.

You don’t.

Your hand’s still in his. The metal one. Cool to the touch, but never harsh.

You flex your fingers slightly.

He squeezes back—like he was waiting for it.

Your voice comes out rough. Barely audible.

“You stayed.”

A beat passes.

“‘Course I did.”

His voice is low. Steady. Like he never considered any other option.

He shifts slightly to look down at you. You can feel his eyes on your face, reading you carefully like he’s memorizing something important.

You want to say something stupid. Light. A joke to push the moment away before it softens too much.

Instead—

“Don’t go.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

Your throat tightens. You expect him to pull back. To say something kind but distant.

He doesn’t.

He touches your jaw—just his thumb, light beneath your cheekbone. You don’t flinch. You lean into it.

His voice comes quieter now, but not unsure.

“I wasn’t planning to, sweetheart.”

It’s the way he says it—slow and warm and simple.

Like staying is easy. Like staying is his.

And just like that, the tension in your chest softens—not all the way, but enough.

You lift your head a little to see him—just inches from his face now. He’s watching you, gaze steady. And soft.

Not pity. Not fear.

Just you.

You’re not ready to say everything.

But you don’t have to.

He doesn’t move for a moment.

Then he exhales. And with one arm, he pulls you gently back into his chest—tighter this time.

You let him.

His hand finds yours again. His chin rests in your hair.

No more questions.

No more fear.

Just this.

Just here.

Just him.

You don’t mean to look at his mouth.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your eyes land there—soft and still, not smiling, not pressed into anything clever. Just waiting.

Like he’s letting you take your time.

Like he already knows what you’re thinking.

You look away quickly. Press your cheek to his chest again.

But the moment doesn’t leave.

Neither does he.

Your fingers tighten slightly where they’re resting against his ribs. Just enough that he feels it.

He shifts only a little—so that your head tips up. So that he can look down and meet your eyes again.

You don’t know what’s reflected there. You don’t want to know.

And still—he looks.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. It’s a lie. He knows.

He doesn’t call it out.

The silence stretches. Thick. Heavy. But not unbearable.

He brushes your hair back behind your ear. Slow. Careful.

That touch alone almost breaks you.

You swallow. Hard.

“Bucky?”

His hand stills in your hair.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You blink up at him.

“I’m gonna do something stupid.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. Not fear. Not surprise.

Just quiet understanding.

And then—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t flinch.

He just says, soft as breath, “Okay.”

And you lean in.

God, it’s slow.

Slower than anything should be. Like your body isn’t sure it knows how to do this anymore. Like your bones forgot how to want something without breaking.

Your forehead presses to his first. You stay there. Breathing each other in. Waiting. Waiting.

You shift closer. One hand on his chest. The other at his jaw, tentative.

He tilts his head just barely into your touch. Just enough to say: Yes.

The kiss—when it finally lands—isn’t sudden. It’s achingly slow. Soft. Careful. So gentle it feels like you might shatter under it.

You press your lips to his like you’re still deciding if it’s allowed.

He kisses you back like it is.

No heat. No rush.

Just the shared breath between two people who know what it means to lose themselves—and choose to be found like this.

His metal hand slides to your back.

The other cradles your face.

You don’t pull away for a long time.

When you finally do, your nose brushes his. Your eyes are still closed.

Your voice is barely audible.

“Don’t move yet.”

His thumb traces your cheek.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Your fingers stay at his jaw, trembling a little now—not from fear, but from the crash that always follows courage.

He holds you still. Lets you stay quiet.

You speak first. Your voice sounds rough in the low light.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

His lips part like he might say something, but for a second, he just looks at you.

Then, voice low and steady: “Yeah.” A pause. “Me too.”

You blink, and the weight in your chest shifts.

It’s not fear now. Not even uncertainty.

It’s something warm. Something earned.

A beat passes before you whisper, “I should probably come out.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“But I want to.”

You feel him smile—barely there, the kind that only exists in the edges of his lips.

He pulls back enough to look at you properly. Brushes his thumb once under your eye.

“Okay. But we’ll take it slow.”

You nod.

He helps you sit up. Not rushed. Just steady. His hands are careful, checking without asking if your limbs will cooperate.

You stretch your legs. Your back aches. Your heart still feels like it’s limping.

But when he stands, and reaches for your hand—

You take it.

He doesn’t let go when he leads you to the door.

He opens it quietly. Doesn't speak. Just watches your face, making sure you're still with him.

The hallway is empty, but voices drift from the common room.

You stop just past the threshold. Breath catches.

He senses it immediately.

His hand squeezes yours.

“I’ve got you,” he says low, for you alone. “No one’s gonna push. Not while I’m next to you.”

You glance up at him.

That look in his eyes—it’s not just protection.

It’s reverence.

Like being trusted with your silence is something sacred.

He lets you take the first step on your own.

Then falls into step beside you.

And when you round the corner and the team looks up, blinking, pausing mid-conversation—

No one speaks.

Not yet.

Bucky doesn’t drop your hand.

And you don’t let go.

Yelena’s sitting cross-legged on the couch with a bowl of cereal she’s definitely not eating. Ava’s leaning against the counter with her arms crossed like she’s expecting an explosion. Bob’s got one hand mid-air, frozen between gesturing and giving up. Alexei looks like he’s going to cry. Again.

John is the first one to break.

He stands a little straighter, eyebrows raised, voice pitched way too upbeat.

“Well, look who finally decided to—”

Bucky doesn’t even look at him.

He keeps walking. One step. Then two.

You’re still holding his hand.

Your grip tightens the moment you see everyone. They’re trying not to look at you like you’re breakable.

But they are.

You feel your shoulders inching back up toward your ears—ready to shrink.

Until Bucky gently bumps your hip with his.

You glance up at him.

And he’s already looking at you.

His thumb runs along the back of your hand, and suddenly it doesn’t matter who’s watching.

You smile. Not big. Not bright. But real.

And that’s when he does it.

He lifts his hand to your face. Fingers brushing your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like you’re something to be handled with reverence.

His eyes soften—so much it hurts.

“God, the look on your face right now,” he murmurs. “Haven’t seen that in days.”

You open your mouth to say something back—

And that’s when Walker ruins it.

“So… are we all just pretending you guys didn’t hook up or—?”

Silence.

Bucky doesn't even blink.

He just launches a spoon.

It’s the closest thing on the table, and it’s gone before anyone can react—spinning like a silver bullet across the room and nailing Walker square in the forehead.

John stumbles back, swears under his breath.

“What the hell was that for?!”

Bucky’s already glaring, the Winter Soldier stillness settling across his shoulders like a storm front.

Yelena snorts into her cereal. Ava turns away to hide a smirk.

And you?

You huff out a laugh.

A real one.

Sharp, unexpected, a little raspy—but genuine.

Everyone freezes again.

Then Bob beams. Like someone just turned the lights back on.

And Bucky’s hand slips back into yours.

You don’t let go.

Not this time.

It starts with Yelena throwing a grape at Alexei’s head.

He yelps like he’s been shot.

“What is wrong with you?!”

She’s already peeling another one, calm as ever. “You looked bored.”

“I was contemplating life.”

“Exactly.”

Bob, sprawled upside down on the couch, chimes in. “I think my back is broken, but I’m too polite to complain.”

“You’ve complained eight times,” Ava mutters without looking up from her tea.

“That’s called narrating my inner life, Ava. It’s vulnerability. Maybe try it sometime.”

John appears in the doorway with a bag of pretzels and an open wound to his pride. “Pretty sure Bucky gave me a mild concussion with that spoon.”

No one apologizes.

Not even a little.

You sit on the arm of the couch, legs curled up beside you, hands resting in your lap.

There’s noise again. Not the bad kind.

The kind that sounds like belonging.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself smile.

Not just with your mouth—but with your whole body. You lean into the sound. You let it hold you.

Bob notices first. Of course he does.

His face lights up like Christmas.

“Oh my god, she’s smiling. She’s actually—wait, are you laughing? Was that a laugh? Bucky. BUCKY, SHE’S LAUGHING.”

Bucky, sitting beside you on the armrest—close enough that your knees brush—just raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, barely above a murmur. “She is.”

And he looks at you.

Not like you’re fragile. Not like you’re fixed.

Like you’re you.

Like something that’s been orbiting just out of reach has finally settled back into his gravity. Like you’re the only thing that makes sense in the room full of chaos.

Your smile lingers.

His hand brushes yours—casual. Innocent. Dangerous.

You don’t pull away.

Bob is still talking, something about starting a band made entirely of people who’ve died at least once, when Ava cuts him off.

“You’re not allowed to form a band.”

“Says who?”

“Says literally everyone.”

John mutters, “I’d play drums.”

“You’d play triangle,” Yelena says flatly. “And you’d still mess it up.”

Laughter rises around you again, overlapping and loud, and this time you let your head fall back as it bubbles out of you—something light and unburdened. Your shoulder leans into Bucky’s instinctively.

His arm goes around you.

No words. No claiming. No performance.

Just presence.

And the quiet pressure of a man who isn’t trying to hold you up—

Just hold you close.

[temporarywelcome]

50/50 - Leon Kennedy

Summary: Older!Leon doesn't care for 50/50 relationships.

CW: pretty light language, DI Leon, age gap, Leon has some masculine pride? Not proofread

Words: .9k (short 'n sweet)

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Dating was not something he was good at. 

It wasn’t entirely his fault. 

No, it wasn’t his fault that every time he went on a date with a pretty woman, something went wrong. “Something” usually being a call from the DSO telling him OH GOD LEON ANOTHER INCIDENT HAPPENED AND YOU NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW NOW NOW NOW or LEON SOMEONE ELSE WAS KIDNAPPED ONCE AGAIN AND YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN RETRIEVE THEM GO LEON GO!

He lived a stressful life. 

Leon Kennedy was a good-looking guy, plenty of people have told him that. He knew he was handsome and could easily pull chicks, and he does, but keeping them? That was a whole other story. 

It wasn’t his fault he was such a busy man. 

He was ranting to Chris about it once. He pretended to be a really dark and mysterious guy, but even a bad bitch like himself craved love. And he told Chris that. All about how he wanted that special girl in his life. 

And then a few days later, Chris called him. 

“I have this friend, right,” he had begun, “Rick. Nice guy. That’s besides the point. Anyway, he works at this office and there’s this girl there. Single. Very pretty. Lot of cute posts on her social media. He said she’s looking to date, and he’d set you two up if you wanted.”

“Wait, really?” Leon paused, thinking over his friend’s words. Another lousy date that is going to end in a few minutes because he was going to have to run out. Or they’ll finish the date, and never speak to each other again. “That would be nice,” he decided to say. What the hell? It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? He’s been out of the game for a few months anyway, he was feeling quite lonely.

And that’s how he found himself at a diner with pretty Y/N. She was much younger than him, which made him think she was going to excuse herself to the bathroom and never come back upon seeing him. 

But she stayed, giggling at his terrible jokes and telling him about her friends and interests and her favorite things. She was adorable, with the prettiest smile he ever saw. She just radiated… happiness? Joy? Things he barely ever got to experience. 

“Does my age bother you?” he asked after a long while. Their food was already finished, waiting for the waiter to come with the bill. 

She took a sip of her drink, a Coke, before replying, “Nope. It doesn’t bother me. Not at all!”

He gave her a nervous, tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Perfect. I’m glad.”

“I think you’re really sweet, Leon,” she said with that bright, bubbly smile that was driving him crazy, “And you make me laugh. How’re you not married yet?”

That made him bark out a laugh, a little too aggressive, he realized, because he awkwardly cleared his throat after, “Work. It’s always work. I work a lot, sweetheart, so be warned,”

“That’s okay, so do I,”

“And spontaneously,” 

“That’s okay,” 

He wondered how long she would keep that opinion. “If you say so,”

The waiter finally returned, plastering his customer service smile before speaking, “How would we like to get the check? One or would you like to split it?” Those words made Leon roll his eyes. Since when did people split checks on dates?

“One, of course,” Leon said like it was obvious, right as Y/N said, “Split it,” His eyes snapped from the waiter to her, brow raised impressively high. “One check,” he repeated, eyes never leaving her as the waiter scurried off to get the paper. 

“Oh, you really didn’t have to do that-”

“Why the hell would you pay for your food?” Leon interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest, “We’re on a date,”

“Well, yeah, we’re on a date. But it’s unfair of me to let you pay for the both of us!” 

He stared at her.

“What?” she giggled, playing with the straw of her drink as she looked down. Why was he looking at her like she had three heads? 

“How is that unfair?” He began, leaning forward and everything. He meant business now. 

“Well, because why should you pay for me?”

“Because I’m the man? And the man should always pay for his woman? What a silly question!” 

“But I’m not your woman,” 

“But you will be, of course,” 

Now she was getting shy, hiding her face in her hands, “Leon…” 

“If you paid for your food, then this wouldn’t be a date,” he continued, taking the bill as the waiter returned with it, “This would just be two friends having dinner.” Placing his card in the little leather folder, he looked back up at her, “Do men your age really expect you to pay for your own food?”

“Well, not all of them, but a lot of them do, yeah,”

“Ridiculous,” Leon chuckled with a smirk, shaking his head. He reached out, taking her hand from her face and intertwining their fingers, “No wonder you jumped on the opportunity of a date with one older,”

Her jaw dropped at his words, “I did not jump on the opportunity.” 

“Mhm mhm,” he hummed, bringing her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles, “Don’t worry, princess, I actually know how to take care of my woman.”

[l0stglitch]

Hello! Hope your day is going good. Recently found your work and I’m obsessed! Any HC or maybe a short imagine about what would happen if Y/N got hurt or taken by someone!

Fight or Flight

Platonic Yandere lost boys x reader

Notes- Sorry this request is literally from Christmas. IVE BEEN BUSY OK 😭. Anyways a friend of mine has offered to become my beta reader so go give her a follow because she’s awesome 🫶

Warnings- Murder, Attempted rape against underage reader, Yandere behaviour

Beta reader- @justmoone

Word count- 4512

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The boardwalk is busy tonight. Not particularly surprising, after all, it is summer. Still, the large crowds make you nervous, especially when you have to navigate them alone. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best idea to leave a fourteen year old with a wad of cash and instructions to ‘buy whatever the hell you want’, but your fathers weren’t thinking about that at the time. They were hungry, and in all honesty, you are too.

The queue you’ve been standing in doesn’t seem to have gone down at all since you joined it. Part of you is tempted to leave and go find another food truck, but the smell of kebabs is making your mouth water, and you’ll be damned if you let a mere queue stop you from getting what you want.

It’s probably because of all the tourists, you think irritably, glaring at anyone who happens to step into your line of sight. I bet my fathers love this. There’s enough people here to feed an entire country of vampires.

You glance back over to the front of the line, which has finally gotten closer. There’s only one couple in front now, two men, who by the sounds of it are ordering way more food than necessary. Then again, who are you to judge? You live with four guys who live purely on blood and booze. A totally normal family.

The guys in front step to the side to wait for their order and you shuffle up closer to the van, trying to ignore the fact that those men are one hundred percent staring directly at you. Perhaps you should just leave and find somewhere else to get food. They probably won't follow you, not whilst they’re waiting for their meals.

No. I came here for a kebab- I’m not leaving without one.

You tell the person in the van what you want before reluctantly joining the other group of customers waiting for their meals. The strangers are still staring. You can feel it in the back of your neck: a hot pricking sensation that warns you to leave before things get ugly.

Nope. Still not gonna leave. Those guys can fuck off.

You fix your gaze on the people making the food in an attempt to distract yourself from the alarm bells going off inside your head. There’s enough people here for you to feel somewhat safer, but you keep your guard up anyway. Better to be overly cautious than left for dead in an alleyway... Would something like that actually happen though? You aren’t entirely sure. Dwayne tends to exaggerate things like that to scare you into behaving. You used to believe every word he said, but now you’re older. It's becoming clearer that a lot of the stuff he tells you is just to ensure that you don’t grow too bold. Too independent.

A voice from the van pulls you from your thoughts. “One large doner kebab and a grape soda?” About time. You were beginning to worry they’d forgotten your order.

You step forward and hand over some cash in return for the food. The woman in the van offers you a small smile, which you half-heartedly return before quickly walking away in search of a place to sit down.

After spending a few minutes roaming the streets and trying not to bump into anyone, you eventually find a quiet spot on the beach to sit down and eat. Your feet are sore from all the walking, though you suppose that you should be used to it by now.

Maybe they wouldn’t hurt so much if David didn’t insist on me wearing these big ass combat boots, you think, punctuating your internal complaint with an audible huff.

You quickly crack open the soda, closing your eyes and moaning dramatically as the overly sweet liquid provides your dry mouth with much needed relief. After draining half the can, you set it down and grab the kebab stuffed flatbread out of its bag.

You’re only a few bites into your kebab when you hear them again. Those two loud voices that ring through the air as if they personally own it.

No way those assholes have actually followed me here.

Despite your irritation, you can feel yourself growing nervous. This section of the beach is more secluded than the boardwalk, so if they try anything, it’ll be harder for you to find help.

“Hey babe. You here by yourself?”

You flinch. Only Paul calls you babe. Refusing to look at them, you firmly shake your head.

“My dad’s nearby- he’ll be back soon.”

The second guy laughs, and from the corner of your eye you can see him moving to stand in front of you, blocking your view of the sea. “Really? He can’t be that close, I don’t see many people round here.”

His voice is light, as if making a joke, though even if he was, you know it wouldn’t be intended for you. His friend chuckles along. You aren’t sure if he’s laughing at what the other guy said, or if it’s your obvious discomfort that he finds funny. Either way, this entire interaction has made you realise that maybe your fathers weren’t exaggerating when they told you about how shitty men can be.

“I’m sorry, but I gotta go. He’s probably looking for me.” You place your half-eaten kebab on the sand beside you, making a mental note to ask David to buy you something later as you pull yourself to your feet. You turn around in the direction of the boardwalk, only to find creep #1 blocking your way.

Seeing as he’s standing directly in your line of sight, you finally force yourself to look at him properly. His eyes are brown. Not warm and soft like Dwayne’s, no, these are dark and calculating. They search for any signs of fear or weakness, waiting for an opportunity to strike. A predator. His unkempt mullet dances threateningly in the wind, some strands flicking against the side of his face and catching in the stubble running along his jaw. It’s too long to be neat, yet not quite the length of an actual beard. A pathetic excuse for facial hair, really.

He smiles threateningly as your forced smile drops. By now your heartbeat has become noticeable, pounding against your ribs in preparation to run. Maybe this is your sign to just book it while you can- choose a random direction and sprint. Hopefully you’ll find an old lady who’ll pretend to be your grandmother until they take the hint and leave.

“What’s the rush? You don’t wanna hang out with us while you wait for him to come back?”

Nope. That’s the last thing you want to do. “He doesn’t like me talking to strangers.”

The man’s grin only seems to grow wider, “Well then, why don’t we get to know each other a bit better?”

The guy behind starts laughing again, “I can think of a few ways of doing that.”

You resist the urge to turn around and punch him in the gut. From what you remember, he had been quite a burly figure, definitely larger than his friend. Not someone you’d want to piss off; he could probably snap you in half.

Well then, it seems like there’s only one thing left for me to try.

Before either of them can say anything else, you dart to the left and begin sprinting down the beach. One of them shouts after you, but you can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of your own breathing. No, not breathing- you can’t breathe anymore. What’s that sound then? Gasping? Whatever it is, it hurts.

It’s difficult to run in the sand, especially in such heavy boots. It seems that the only advantage you have is your core desire to survive. Your mind is silent as you run, no thoughts, only raw emotions.

Fear.

Desperation.

Anger.

Anger at what? You don’t know at this moment. Maybe later you’ll have time to attach names to your feelings, but not now that your mind has regressed to that of an animal. A deer running from wolves. A lamb trying to avoid gruesome slaughter at the hands of men. Whether or not you die is yet to be decided, but either way, your fate will certainly be gruesome.

The ground beneath you suddenly changes. You feel it in the way your stomach drops, and then a split second later, your gait is interrupted. It’s only a small stumble, a brief moment of weakness where you are forced to steady yourself, but it’s enough. A hand fastens around your shoulder, and suddenly you’re theirs.

You hear a breathy chuckle. He’s laughing again. This is just a joke to them. A game to pass time. Rage simmers quietly beneath your skin, momentarily muffling your fear. There’s a second of silence, a brief treaty that allows you all to catch your breaths, and then you spin on your heel and swing your fist into his face.

He recoils with a sharp grunt, hand quickly abandoning your shoulder to cup his nose. You try to run again, but his friend grabs you from behind, snaking his arms around your waist to ensure you stay put.

“Get the fuck off me!” Your voice comes out more desperate than you had intended. More of a fearful scream than the threatening snarl you had been going for. The man behind you moves an arm up to your chest to stop your squirming, leaning close to your ear as he threatens you to be quiet. You can feel his breath hot against your skin as he speaks, his voice raspy and slightly higher than earlier. He’s giddy with excitement, this sudden power he holds over you must be intoxicating.

The guy with the mullet finally recovers, slowly moving his palm away from his face to reveal a small trickle of blood that has crept down from his nostril to his lip. Despite your predicament, you still manage to feel a tiny flicker of pride at the damage you caused, though it quickly disappears when you see the rage painted across his face.

“That bitch just fucking hit me.” His voice is unsettlingly quiet. You can feel your hands becoming moist with sweat as a hopeless anxiety settles into your bones. Your fingers are trembling now, moving without thought as you try to scratch at your attacker’s skin. Anything to free yourself from them.

He slowly wipes the blood from his nose, still maintaining eye contact with you. This is all a performance for him- a display of power to see how much of a reaction you’ll give him. You know this, yet somehow that doesn't make the whole ordeal any less intimidating. “Y’know, I was gonna play nice. Gonna make this easier for you cause you’re young.” He pulls out a pocket knife, inspecting it with considerable interest before glancing back at you. “But since you attacked me, I guess we’ll have to use some force.”

Your stomach drops as a wave of terror washes over you. The muscles in your throat have closed up, so you can’t even beg him to stop as he traces the edge of his knife down your jawline. There’s enough pressure to remind you that the object in his hand could easily end your life, though he doesn’t press down hard enough to break the skin.

Maybe he doesn’t want to ruin it.

The thought makes you nauseous, yet part of you secretly hopes your theory is correct. You’d rather he cut you somewhere that can be easily hidden under clothes instead of marring your face.

“You’ve got a pretty cute outfit on. It’s a shame I’m gonna have to cut it off ya.”

So that’s what the knife is for. Ok, not as bad as what I thought.

You tense as he grips the collar of your black cami, the backs of his fingers grazing against your bra as he pulls the fabric taut and slices down the middle with the knife. The man who had been holding you in place then helps to wrestle the rest of the top off your body.

Despite it being summer, you can’t help but shiver against the breeze. The combination of their piercing stares and the sharpness of the evening air leaves your skin riddled with goosebumps.

“Damn. I take back what I said, you look way better without the clothes.” Another laugh. You know what they’re about to do to you, yet you can’t move. Perhaps your body has decided that the safest thing to do in this situation is to just let them rape you. That isn’t what your mind thinks. Your mind thinks you should run. It screams and begs at you to do something, anything to get away. Scream, fight, sprint, but you can’t. Your joints are locked in place, and your muscles are frozen.

A pair of hands suddenly cups your waist, replacing the previous pair, which now rest on your shoulders. The sensation makes you feel sick, but your body still remains motionless. You don’t know where to look. There’s no way you’re going to glance up at his face and risk being caught by those leering eyes, but you also can’t bring yourself to look down. To see what he’s doing to you. It’s easier to mentally distance yourself from the physical assault on your body if you can’t see it happening.

So instead, you decide to stare at his t-shirt. It’s grey. The type of grey that seems like one solid colour from a distance, though when you get closer, it looks more like unmixed paint. Lots of little shades of the same colour, trying to blend together yet not quite able to. You try to numb the bright yellow fear of your thoughts with the dull grey of the fabric, but it doesn’t quite work. You can still feel his hands trailing down to the waistband of your leather shorts. In a moment they’ll be gone too, and then you will be completely unprotected.

The grey isn’t working anymore, so you switch to black, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that it makes your head hurt. The darkness provided by your eyelids is comforting. It reminds you of David’s trench-coat, keeping you hidden from the eyes of anyone who might try to hurt you..

Your lungs seem to stop working as you feel his fingers hook onto your shorts. Only a few seconds left, and then you’ll be stripped of what’s left of your dignity. You hold your breath and wait for the inevitable, but it never comes. Instead, you feel a rush of air hit your face, and then a surprised shout from one of your assailants interrupts the brief silence. His shout quickly dissolves into an agonised scream that barely masks the sounds of muscles ripping and bones snapping.

The boys are here.

The hands that were on your shoulders are torn away, and suddenly you’re free.

You're safe.

Safe.

Safe…

The word replays in your mind like a mantra, though it doesn’t seem to have any effect on the way you feel. The danger is gone, yes. It’s dead. They’re dead. But are you safe? Do you feel safe? No, not whilst there are men here. Not now that you know exactly what they’re capable of, none of them feel safe.

You keep your eyes shut and bring your hands up to cover your ears; try and will reality out of existence. The weight of what happened seems to be physically dragging you down to the floor- tugging at your limbs and encouraging you to sit. So you do.

There’s someone crouched in front of you, a shadow behind your eyelids. He doesn’t touch you, not after what you’ve endured, but he also doesn’t leave when you refuse to acknowledge his existence. He just waits. Waits for your mind to take back ownership of your body.

After somewhat steadying your breathing, you slowly lower your arms and open your eyes, making sure to keep them averted. It’s easier to look at the sand than to look at any of your dads. You don’t want to see the emotions that must be contorting their faces right now as they stare down at you.

“Hey, look at me.” Dwayne’s voice is sickeningly gentle. You know he’s only trying to help, but the softness of his tone makes your stomach churn.

“It’s ok, they’re gone now. I need you to look at me sweetheart.” You want to scream at him, tell him to fuck off and let you process this without the four of them staring you down, but you can’t. It’s impossible to speak, let alone scream, so you reluctantly shift your teary-eyed gaze up to his face.

The blood smeared across his skin momentarily catches you off guard. It’s not that you aren’t used to seeing them like this, but usually they have the decency to try and clean themselves up after feeding. Dwayne must have noticed you grimace, because he quickly swipes at his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket. It doesn’t really do much, but you appreciate the effort.

“I uh- I’m gonna give you my shirt, ok? I don’t know where yours is.” His eyes dart down to your shoulders for a second before promptly jumping back up to your face.

“None of us are looking, I promise.”

You can feel your cheeks grow warm at the statement. Their apparent awareness of your discomfort brings on a certain level of shame. This is your family- you shouldn’t feel embarrassed about them seeing you in such a vulnerable state.

Dwayne carefully hands you his t-shirt, making sure to keep his eyes averted as you pull it over your head and loop your trembling arms through the sleeves. Once you're done, he cautiously looks you up and down to check for injuries. You aren’t sure why, considering there’s barely any skin on display, but you make no move to stop him. It only takes Dwayne a few seconds to decide that you seem physically unharmed, save for a couple of bruises and shallow cuts.

David takes a step closer and crouches down beside Dwayne. There’s a few long seconds of staring- you at him and him at you. Studying, perhaps. He’s studying your fear, and you’re studying his… guilt?

“I’m sorry.”

He’s what?

Why is he sorry? David never apologises. You open your mouth to speak, only to find that you can’t. Your throat is so tight that all you can manage to do is breathe, and even that is a struggle.

“I should’ve been there to protect you, this is my fault.”

He looks like he’s in pain, eyes glossy and jaw tense as he tries to keep his composure. You shake your head in disagreement, unsure of how to comfort him. Fuck, you’re both crying. This is pathetic. David never cries, or at least, not in front of you. It feels weirdly intimate seeing his cold facade finally shatter, especially in such a public space.

The muscles in your throat feel slightly less painful now, so you hesitantly try to speak.

“Can- can I hug you?”

He stiffens and then blinks, looking mildly confused. “You don’t need to ask for a hug.”

Before you can even think of a reply he’s pulling you closer. You let yourself go limp in his hold, finding comfort in the way his arms tighten around your frame. It reminds you of simpler times, back when a mere hug could solve all of life’s problems. You feel like a child again, small and naive. Naive to think that your fathers are any different from the monsters they protect you from. It’s nice to imagine though, just for a moment, that this is normal.

You shift slightly, moving so that your chin now rests on David’s shoulder. Dwayne is there crouched behind him, staring at you with those sad, brown eyes. He doesn’t seem completely present, perhaps unable to process what has just happened. It’s a little unnerving seeing him so detached.

“Dad?”

Dwayne doesn’t react, but David does. He starts tracing circles on your back, and then suddenly stops, “Are you ok with me touching you?”

You nod, “Is Dwayne ok?”

“Dwayne’s fine. It’s you we’re worried about.” He gently squeezes your shoulder before changing the subject, “You wanna head back home?”

You nod again, choosing not to speak this time. Your limbs feel heavy, reminding you of the meal you hadn’t been able to finish. It’s an effort to stand up, even with David supporting your weight with an arm firm around your waist.

Should I ask for more food?

One look at your fathers’ disheveled appearances makes it clear that buying another meal is not an option. Marko in particular looks like something out of a horror movie. His clothes are wet with blood, and there’s small chunks of flesh tangled in his hair. It’s not the gore that bothers you though, but rather the look on his face. His muscles bulge under the skin to form a demonic scowl, and his eyes burn with a murderous rage. This is not your father- not anymore.

You lean further into David’s side, prompting him to tighten his grip on you. The air is tense with unspoken words. You crane your neck sideways to try and look at the bodies, only for Paul to step in and block your view. He, like Marko, is drenched in blood, though his eyes shine blue, not gold.

“You don’t need to see that. How ‘bout we just go back home and rest? I bet you must be tired.”

Before you can protest, David hums in agreement and begins steering you towards where you assume the bikes are parked. Paul is quick to flank your other side, walking close enough for his arm to brush against yours every few seconds. You glance up at him, taking note of how stiff his posture is, rigid shoulders and a tight jaw. He’s on edge, scanning the environment for any potential threats… Or witnesses, you suppose, as it’s not likely you’ll run into anyone who’d actually stand a chance against one vampire, let alone four.

“I won’t let anyone touch you again. I swear to fucking god I’ll kill them all.” David keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead as he speaks, voice low and possessive. You don’t doubt for a second that he means it. Your father isn’t one to make empty promises.

The five of you stop by the bikes, all of which are lying on their sides. Paul and Dwayne go to flip them back over, whilst David stays at your side, arm still firm around your waist. You aren’t sure how to feel about the proximity. It’s been a long time since he’s held you so close, especially in public. This isn't some habitual display of affection, no, it’s a desperate attempt to regain control over what has happened. A reminder that you belong to them, and anyone who tries to steal what’s theirs will be swiftly dealt with. Swiftly, but not painlessly.

It suddenly occurs to you that Marko has seemingly disappeared. You try to turn around to see if he’s behind you, but David’s grip tightens, refusing to let you move.

“Where did Marko go?”

“He’s with me.”

From David’s other side, Marko’s head peers round to look at you. His face is softer than earlier, back to its usual boyishness. He looks deceptively innocent, almost angelic as he offers up a small smile.

Well, at least he no longer resembles a raccoon on coke.

Having finished helping Paul with the bikes, Dwayne turns back around to face you. His brows are knitted into a frown that’s been present since the moment they saw you with those men. It’s obvious that he won’t be able to relax until you’re safely brought back to the cave. Even then, he’ll probably insist on staying in your room while you sleep.

“You’re gonna ride back with Dwayne, ok?” David murmurs, his hand drifting from your waist to the small of your back as he speaks. You nod, despite knowing that he isn’t actually asking for permission. You will be ok with riding with Dwayne, because that's what they expect of you.

Satisfied with your compliance, David guides you over to the bike. When you cross the space over to Dwayne, his gloved hand lingers against your back a little longer than necessary, before retreating back to his side. You know that it makes sense for them to be extra protective after what just happened, but you can’t help but feel smothered by all the physical contact. It isn’t so bad dealing with Paul or Marko being overly affectionate from time to time, but all four of them? Together? It’s suffocating. You feel like an animal, overwhelmed and ready to bite.

Dwayne, who is either oblivious to your discomfort, or straight up ignoring it, grabs you by your waist and hauls you up onto the bike. The action makes you tense up, to which he shoots you a questioning look.

“Did I hurt you?”

You squirm under the intensity of his gaze, “No. I just- I’m fine.”

Dwayne narrows his eyes sceptically, but doesn’t ask any more questions. He climbs onto the seat in front and turns on the engine. You wrap your arms around his torso and lean closely into his back as the bike lurches forwards. The sudden movement catches you off guard, and you find that you’re forced to tighten your embrace to avoid flying off the back of the bike.

David quickly catches up on his own ride, his expression somewhat irritated as he glances over. He’s saying something to Dwayne, but you can’t hear over the rushing wind. Probably demanding that Dwayne lets him take the lead. Funny how they can still get caught in such trivial matters only minutes after killing two men. Then again, this isn’t anything new for them- it would be weird if they hadn’t killed anyone today.

The bike has slowed down a bit now, so you assume David has overtaken Dwayne. Marko and Paul are somewhere behind, quieter than usual, you realise. There’s no laughing or cheering tonight, which you’re somewhat glad for, though the silence is a little unnerving. You close your eyes and rest your head against Dwayne’s shoulder, suddenly feeling very tired. The leather is cool against your cheek and smells faintly of cigarettes. It reminds you of home.

Home.

You’ll be safe there, won’t you?

Yes, of course you will. Your fathers will keep you safe from anyone who’d want to hurt you. They’d die for you. Kill for you.

Yet somehow, even knowing that fact doesn’t calm the pounding in your chest. Your heart continues its rhythmic drumming, and your skin keeps crawling with invisible fingers.

Those men may be dead, but you aren’t sure you’ll ever truly be safe again.

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Tag list- @purple-lemon-8 @xjesterxjacksx @lunoorbonoor @simplyreading96 @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic @humbuginmybones @thelostboysforeva

[yuta-nakamots]

Dance All Night Until We Call It The End - S.Johnny

Pairing - Non-Idol!Johnny x AFAB Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, Smut

Warning(s) - weddings, alcohol consumption, smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, reader is on birth control, p in v, breakup sex 

Summary - You only meant to dance with Johnny for just one night, one rooftop, one spark that felt like forever. But love bloomed fast and burned brighter than either of you were ready for. Now, you return to where it started, trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through your fingers.

Word Count - 6.9k 

Author’s Note - I think I broke my own heart writing this fic. It’s the end of this collection, so I think I was feeling a little bittersweet about finishing it off, but I think the ending of this fic reflects my feelings towards this collection :’)

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls (join my taglist!)

Written for the Every Summer After Event hosted by @k-vanity. Also part of my NCT J-Line: Roses Are Rosie Collection.

Now playing: Call It The End - Rosé, Dance All Night - Rosé

The vineyard stretches out beneath you, all honey-colored hills and neat rows of vines. At the edge of the terrace, fairy lights are strung from tree to tree like constellations pulled to earth. A small jazz band plays under a white canopy, not loud enough to demand attention, but just enough to keep the silence away. 

You’re perched at the edge of the bar with a sweating glass of wine and a view of people who feel far too in love. 

The bride was your friend in high school. You sat next to each other in class, traded secrets over cafeteria food, and dreamed about futures and forevers. But then she moved across the country for college, and you lost touch for a while. Then, just in time, you reconnected, and she asked if you’d come to her wedding. “Only if you want to,” she wrote. “No pressure.” 

You RSVP’d that you’d be there before you could think better of it. 

Now you’re here at a hotel, surrounded by people you don’t know, watching love bloom in real time. There’s something sweet and painful about it, something like nostalgia with teeth. 

You swirl the wine in your glass and check your phone for the third time in five minutes. No new messages. The reception is charming, beautiful even, but you’re driving—a ghost in tulle, haunting someone else’s happy ending. 

“You don’t look like you’re having fun.” 

You turn at the voice, expecting a waiter, maybe someone lost on their way to the bathroom. Instead, it’s a man with a crooked tie and a glass of something dark in his hand. His hair is pushed back like he got tired of fixing it. There’s a lilac stain on his cuff where someone, possibly himself, spilled wine. Nonetheless, his smile is clean and bright.

“I’m not,” you reply honestly. 

He laughs like that’s the right answer. “Me neither. Want to dance?”

Your eyes narrow. “Do I know you?”

“Nope. But we’re both here, aren’t we? Might as well fake it.” 

You glance toward the dance floor, the twinkling lights overhead, shoes abandoned at the edge, couples swaying to a throwback song you’ve already forgotten the lyrics to. 

“I don’t even know whose wedding this is,” you say, half-teasing. 

“Friend of a friend,” he shrugs. “I was invited. Could say I crashed the reception.” 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You crash weddings often?”

He grins, cocky and earnest all at once. “Only the ones with open bars.”

You laugh, and it catches you off guard, how easy it is with him, how light it comes out. 

“Come on,” he prompts, extending his hand. “One dance. I promise I won’t step on you.” 

You hesitate, wine glass still in hand. Then the music changes to a slow, sultry cover of some pop song, and the couples on the dance floor begin to sway slower, closer. 

“I don’t usually do this,” you tell him. 

His voice drops lower, not flirtatious, just real. “Then don’t think. Feel.” 

You slide your hand into his, and your wine is left forgotten on the bar. The dance begins with a spin and a stumble. He nearly trips on his own shoe. You’re both laughing before you can even find a rhythm. 

“You’re a terrible dancer,” you say. 

“Gotta learn somehow,” he replies. 

As the beat slows, your bodies fall into a gentle rhythm. His hand settles confidently at the small of your back, warm through the fabric of your dress. His other hand holds yours, not too tight, but sure of itself. You feel the space around you narrow, the world beyond the twinkling lights fading like film grain. 

He leans in slightly, his voice more curious than coy. “I’m Johnny, by the way.” 

You look up at him, one eyebrow raised. “You waited this long to tell me your name?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to give you my name in case I ended up breaking a bone.”

You smile as you give him your name, and this time it lingers. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.” 

“Likewise,” he says, repeating your name, and you feel it, that shift. The unspoken click. Something quiet and magnetic. 

His thumb brushes along the edge of your hand, barely there. You don’t pull away. The space between your bodies narrows with each step. Your breath syncs to his while his fingers spread a little more against your back. 

You lean in without meaning to, but you don’t close the distance. Not because you don’t want to, but because, for once in your life, you’d like to let something unfold instead of crash. 

His breath brushes your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…wasn’t ready for something like this.”

“Neither was I.” 

The music fades into something unfamiliar as the moment settles. You step back first, not far, just enough to catch your breath. 

Johnny watches you for a second, then glances up toward the side of the hotel. “Is it just me,” he begins, “or does this place have a rooftop?”

You follow his gaze. There’s a service ladder tucked into the corner, half-hidden behind a curtain of fairy lights. 

“I bet the view is way better up there,” he adds, mischief curling at the corner of his mouth. 

You smirk. “Are you planning to impress me with a skyline?”

“Would it work?”

“Maybe.” You pull off your heels, still warm from dancing, and take Johnny’s hand in yours as he leads the way. The ladder is cool beneath your palms, and you climb behind Johnny with a laugh caught in your throat. When he reaches the top, he turns around and extends his hand towards you, helping you up and making you think that perhaps chivalry is not entirely dead. 

The rooftop is flat and gravel-lined, edged by an old iron railing. Above, the moon glows like something ancient. Below, the faint thrum of music rises, bouncing off the walls up to where you stand. A soft breeze lifts your hair. 

You rest your palms on the railing and let your eyes shut, feeling the cool air against your skin. “I think I needed this.” 

Johnny slides up beside you, tucking his hands into his pockets. “So did I.”

You look at him. “Why are we really up here?”

He smiles, gentler this time. “Because I didn’t want the night to end now that I’ve met you.” 

Something shifts again, low and easy. You reach for him, fingers curling around his. He follows when you pull him into a clumsy, quiet dance with no beat or choreography, just movement and breath and the hush between the two of you. 

“You really don’t know how to dance, huh?” you tease when he steps on your foot yet again. 

“Guess you’ll have to teach me.”

You sway together, slower now. He spins you once under the glow of the stars and you laugh, your head tilted back. When you look at him again, he’s already staring. 

It’s not just admiration, it’s something softer, like wonder. As if he’s seeing something he hadn’t expected to find. The kind of gaze that doesn’t demand but simply takes you in. 

The music from below fades into something distant and cinematic. It feels like time has slipped sideways. 

You barely realize you’ve stopped moving. Your hands rest lightly on Johnny’s chest now, feeling the slow thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. He breathes out, and it sounds almost like a question. Or a wish. 

The wind lifts between you, brushing hair across your cheek. Johnny reaches out immediately, tucking it behind your ear with the gentlest of touches. His fingers linger there, trailing down until his thumb is resting at the edge of your jaw. 

Neither of you moves. Instead, your eyes flick between his—searching, waiting, daring. 

Then you’re both leaning in at the same time, like the space between you never really existed to begin with. The kiss is clumsy at first, all breath and nerves and adrenaline, but it softens quickly. His lips part around yours like they’ve known the shape of you forever. One of his hands settles against your waist while the other cups the back of your neck. 

And just for a moment, it feels like even the stars are holding their breath. 

Yet there’s nothing performative about the kiss. It’s not neat or polished. It’s not meant for anyone else’s eyes. It’s just a little too warm, a little too desperate, a little too honest. 

You break apart only when you have to, foreheads touching, breath mingling. Johnny laughs, low and stunned, and brushes his nose against yours.

“You didn’t plan that, did you?” he murmured, his voice rough around the edge. 

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “No,” you whisper. “But it felt right.” 

Johnny takes a small step back, pulling a pen from his jacket like a magician pulling a coin from their sleeve. He lifts your wrist, steady and warm in his hand, and writes his number in looping, smudged ink across your skin. 

“Promise me you won’t wash it off until you text me.” 

You smile, eyes fixed on the digits. “I’ll keep it safe. Even if it rains.” 

“We should probably, uh, get back to the wedding,” Johnny suggests. “Make sure no one is missing us too much.”

“I don’t think anyone would be, but lead the way,” you encourage. 

You and Johnny descend from the rooftop, the faint hum of the reception drifting up as you rejoin the crowd. You spot the bride surrounded by a cluster of laughing friends, her smile radiant and unburdened. 

“I’m starting to feel a little tired,” you say to Johnny, rubbing your arms lightly. “I’ll probably head back to my room soon. I’m going to wish her well before she’s fully swept away.”

Johnny nods, glancing toward the groom and a few other guests clustered near the bar. “Yeah, I should say goodbye to my friend and the groom, too. My buddy’s over there, probably on his third whiskey.”

You smile as you take a look at the crowd of them, all starting to go pink in the face. “Good luck with that.” 

You and Johnny split apart, weaving through guests to say your goodbyes to the newlyweds. After you achieve your mission of thanking the bride for inviting you and saying goodnight, you linger by the door, watching Johnny clap the groom on the back, laughing at something he had said. 

Johnny’s hand comes up, a small wave in your direction once he’s said his goodbyes. When he reaches you, his voice is casual. “My ride’s definitely not driving anywhere. I think I’ll probably get an Uber—”

You surprise yourself with your words. “You can crash in my room if you want. Couch pulls out. Or you can take the floor and be noble about it.” 

His mouth quirks. “How chivalrous.” 

The elevator ride is quiet. Not tense, just charged, like something is coiling between you both, neither of you quite naming it yet. 

Your hotel room is decent. It’s clean, dimly lit, warm with the faint scent of rose soap and leftover champagne from when you were getting ready earlier in the day. 

Johnny drops his blazer over the arm of the chair by the window, then sinks into it with a sigh, long legs splayed carelessly, hands resting on his thighs. 

You go to your suitcase, loosening the zipper and digging around for your sleep clothes. “I’m gonna shower, get out of all this makeup and clothing.”

“Okay,” he acknowledges. “You’re really beautiful, you know. In that dress and everything.” 

You pause. His gaze isn’t invasive. It’s full of something raw, reverent, and a little astonished. You can tell he’s not expecting anything, not pushing. But it hits you anyway, low in your stomach. 

Your fingers go to the zipper of your dress, sitting in the middle of your shoulder blades. “You could watch,” you offer, testing the space between suggestion and nuance. 

Johnny doesn’t move from his seat, but his eyes flicker darker. “Only if you want me to.”

You turn away from him, pulling the zipper down, one inch at a time. The fabric slowly starts to slip down your body until it’s pooling around your feet. You stand there a beat longer in your underwear, then turn. 

Johnny is still sitting, but now he looks wrecked. His breath is coming in shallow, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair. 

You close the distance between you in quiet steps. “Do you want to keep going?” you ask, the words hushed and breathless. 

He stands, slow and careful. His hand comes up to cup your jaw. “I do. But only if you’re okay with it.”

“I am,” you tell him. “Clean. On birth control.”

“Clean too,” he answers. 

It’s clumsy at first. His hands fumble with your dress and bra, and your fingers pull at his buttons too hard. You kiss like you’re still catching up with your own bodies, mouths too eager, teeth clacking once or twice. You laugh softly against his neck at the clumsiness of it all. He kisses down your shoulder, still enamored, nonetheless. 

Once every article of clothing has been thrown off, you sink onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and low breath and heat, your legs straddling his. When you reach down and wrap your hand around him, his hips twitch in surprise. He’s half-hard already, thick and heavy in your palm, and growing harder fast. 

“Shit,” he mutters, his eyes fluttering shut as you pump his length slowly. “That’s—yeah, just like that.”

You slide down between his legs, lips parting around the head of his cock, tongue dragging slowly across the tip. You take him in carefully, adjusting his girth. As the warmth of your mouth envelops him, his hand finds your hair, not pushing but needing something to ground himself. He moans, the sound coming out strangled when you hollow your cheeks. 

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he breathes, even as his thighs tense in your grasp. 

You find it endearing, the way he breathes harder when your hand follows your mouth and the way he trembles when you moan around him. You can tell he’s getting close, and he’s getting there fast, moaning your name, tugging on your hair until you finally let up and allow him to pull you away with a gasp. “Stop, stop, I’m gonna—”

“I wanna return the favor,” he says determinedly as you crawl back up his body, mouth damp and chest heaving. 

“Tell me what you like,” he insists while flipping you gently beneath him and kissing down your chest and stomach. “Let’s make this up as we go, yeah?”

You nod, your heart pounding. “Find something good, and keep doing it.”

Johnny grins at that. “Deal.”

He settles between your thighs, hands dragging slowly along the outside of them like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and deliberate, and when his mouth finally meets your folds, it’s tentative—like he’s testing the waters, figuring out what makes you squirm. 

The first lick is too soft, the second too quick, but then he finds a rhythm that makes you gasp, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you can stop yourself. 

“You like that?” he asks, his breath hot against you. 

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Right there.”

He hums his approval, tongue pressing more firmly now, circling your clit with a newfound purpose. When he feels your legs tense, your thighs twitching around his shoulders, he locks in. His mouth and tongue are unrelenting, dragging pleasure out of you until your fingers are tangled in his hair and your back is arching off the mattress. 

You cry out his name, breath catching as you tip over the edge. Johnny holds you there, helps you ride it out, his tongue still slow and coaxing even as your body trembles beneath him. 

When you finally come down, chest rising and falling with effort, you reach for him, tugging him up until he’s hovering over you, his eyes dark and full of something tender. 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back and away from your face. 

“More than okay,” you breathe. “I want you.”

Johnny nods, his expression flickering between focused and wrecked as he reaches down to guide himself to your entrance. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time like he doesn’t want to miss a single reaction. 

You both gasp when he bottoms out—deep and thick and perfect—and stays there for a moment, just breathing. Then he pulls back, thrusts forward again, a little more sure this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer. 

There’s no rhythm at first, just the raw, uncoordinated mess of two people who barely know each other’s bodies, but are desperate to learn. Johnny kisses you through it, letting out shaky groans when you clench around him and when your nails dig into his back. 

Then he finds it—the angle, the pace—and your moans rise in tandem with his. Every thrust feels like a pledge, like he’s trying to carve something real into the moment. His hips rock forward, slow but deep, the ridges of his cock dragging along your walls with each thrust. 

You feel every inch of him, how thick he is, how he stretches you just enough to leave your mouth falling open with every deep slide. The weight of his body against you is grounding, arms braced beside your head, shoulders tense, chest brushing yours as he leans down to kiss your neck. 

His breath is warm against your skin, quick and uneven, little huffs that scatter along your jaw and collarbone between kisses. You whimper when his hips grind down just right, his pelvis pressing firm against your clit while the head of his cock nudges something deeper inside of you that makes your toes curl. 

“Fuck,” he groans, voice low and fraying, “you feel so good—so wet, so fucking tight.”

You moan in response, your fingers scrabbling along the planes of his back, down to the curve of his ass as you try to pull him deeper. His balls slap against you with every thrust now, heavy and damp with sweat and slick, the sound obscene and perfect. 

“Right there,” you gasp when he hits the spot that has you seeing stars. “Johnny—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He keeps fucking into you like he’s found something sacred, like your body is giving him answers he didn’t know he was asking for. His pace falters only when your walls start fluttering around him, your body winding tight again with the start of another orgasm. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice rough and raw as he wraps an arm beneath your back, lifting your hips just enough to change the angle. “Let go for me.” 

The stretch hits different now, deeper and devastating. Your vision blurs as he drives into that spot over and over again, and when your climax finally hits, it tears through you. Your nails rake down his back as you cry out, trembling beneath him, your body locking up around his cock with a force that makes his breath stutter. 

“Shit—” Johnny hisses, hips jerking erratically. “You’re so tight—baby, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

He buries his face in your neck, his moans muffled against your skin as his thrusts turn frantic. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and deep, filling you up as he groans through his release. His whole body shakes with it, his arms wrapped around you tight like he doesn’t want to let go. 

You stay like that for a long moment, bodies slick and tangled, your breathing slowly syncing as the aftershocks ebb. His lips brush your shoulder, then your cheek, then your temple.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs. 

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Holy shit.” 

Johnny stays buried inside you for a moment longer, his weight a welcome anchor as you both catch your breath. When he finally pulls out, it’s slow and careful, and you shiver at the drag, the wet heat that follows. He murmurs something soft against your skin, inaudible, but it sounds like it could be a thank you. 

You watch him disappear into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp towel. He presses it gently between your thighs, whispering apologies when you flinch from the sensitivity. There’s a carefulness to him now, a sweetness that wasn’t there before—like he’s trying to make up for every rough breath, every urgent thrust. 

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time, his thumb brushing along the inside of your knee. 

You nod, and his lips curve, slow and relieved. He finishes cleaning you up, tosses the towel somewhere on the floor, then slips beneath the covers with you. His arm comes around your waist, tugging you into the heat of him. His skin is still flushed, sticky with sweat, but his heartbeat is slow and steady where your hand rests on his chest. 

You think maybe you’ll talk, maybe he’ll say something about what just happened, something cheeky or maybe something too sincere, but instead he kisses the top of your head and exhales like he’s finally permitted himself to rest. 

Wrapped in each other, sleep takes you slowly. The music from the ballroom has long since faded, and the world outside your window is silent, save for the faint hum of city traffic far below. His breath evens out before yours. Somewhere between dreams and dawn, you press your hand to his chest and let yourself believe, for just a little while, that this might mean something. 

Light creeps in through the sheer curtains, pale gold and soft. The hum of the city is distant now, like it’s afraid to intrude. You shift under the sheets, reaching out for Johnny, but instead, you find yourself warm and alone. 

For a moment, you think you dreamt him. That the ache between your thighs, the smudge of ink on your wrist—it’s all just leftover longing. But when you sit up, rubbing at your eyes, the memories hit like a film reel. His mouth on you, his voice in your ear, the stretch, the kiss, the way he looked at you like he didn’t want the night to end. 

You glance at your wrist. The phone number is still there, smudged but legible. 

When you unlock your phone, there’s a new voicemail. The number matches the one left on your arm. Without hesitation, you press play. 

“Hey…I had to leave early. Something came up. But…dance with me again someday, yeah?”

Even in a recording, Johnny’s voice is quiet, shy, and hopeful. 

You press the phone to your chest for a second, eyes closed. Then you press play again. And again. 

Two weeks after the wedding, after you and Johnny decided to give things a try, you're already on your third date with him. It’s still early into the night, your heart buzzing more than your limbs. 

You’re sitting at a table outside of a restaurant, paper cups of ice cream melting slowly in your hands. Johnny props his head up, resting his chin in his palm, his hair ruffled from the wind. 

“You’re quiet,” he notes with a slight grin. 

“I just…” You trail off before taking another scoop of ice cream. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Johnny tilts his head. “You’re not going to.” 

You glance over at him and something tugs in your chest like a thread. He smiles, then leans in and kisses your forehead with startling softness. It’s not rushed or expectant, only warm. 

You pause, almost buffering from his actions. “Why does that feel like something people only do after years of knowing each other?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I want to know you for years.”

You laugh, too startled to mask it. “You don’t even know my birthday.”

“Challenge accepted.” He nudges your shoulder with his. “But for the record, I’ve already decided I want to be in your life for years.” 

It was four months after that you had your first real fight with Johnny. It started with a text left on read, then escalated when you show up late to dinner, still in your work clothes, apologizing in a voice that doesn’t sound more tired than sincere. 

After the night was over and Johnny had brought you back to your place, he was pacing in the small kitchen, arms folded, eyes sharp. “You said seven. It was almost nine when you finally came.”

“I got caught in a meeting—”

“You could’ve called or texted. You always say communication matters, but you never—”

You drop your bag with a thud. “Johnny, I would have if I could. I just got held up.”

Silence. You both look at each other, and the room suddenly feels too small. 

“I’m sorry,” you say first. 

Johnny exhales hard, deflating. He walks over and cups your face in his hands. “I just…missed you. And I hate that missing you makes me angry.” 

“I hate that I didn’t try harder to get there for you.”

He leans his forehead against yours. “Let’s get better at this.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

Two weeks after your first fight, you’re both half-awake, tangled in cotton sheets. It’s a Saturday. The world outside is gray and rainy, but the bed is golden—warm from skin, breath, and the kind of love that asks for nothing but presence. 

Johnny shifts closer, an arm wrapping around your waist, his lips brushing the nape of your neck. “I had a dream about you,” he mumbles. 

“Oh yeah?” you question, eyes still closed. “Was I taller than you?”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “No. You were writing something. And I was just…watching.” 

“That’s boring,” you comment. 

“It wasn’t. You looked happy. And I remember thinking I’d never seen anything better.”

You roll over, lying nose to nose with him. “You’re such a sap.” 

He shrugs. “Some may say that. Others would disagree.” 

You kiss him slowly, still bathing in the early morning light as rain keeps falling. 

Almost a year to the day after that first wedding, you and Johnny dress up for another one, this time for one of your college friends, and this time, as a couple. 

Johnny’s tie matches your dress, picked out weeks in advance, even though he acted like he didn’t care at the time. “Whatever you choose, you’ll look good in it,” he had teased. 

It should’ve felt perfect. 

But the car ride there was quiet. The air conditioner hummed louder than either of your voices. His hand rested on the gear shift instead of reaching for yours. You looked out the window instead of at him. 

You had fought the night before. A stupid one, something about a missed call and a comment that didn’t land right. You told him not everything was about him. He said you never listened when he needed you to. And somehow the argument ended not in resolution, but in withdrawal. 

Still, you both packed your bags that morning, knowing this weekend was supposed to be your staycation—a small anniversary celebration folded into the weekend event. One year. One whole year of being together, of choosing each other. 

At the venue, you took photos in the photobooth with your heads pressed together and smiles too polished. You clapped when the bride walked down the aisle, and Johnny rubbed circles on your back during the ceremony. No one watching would guess there was anything wrong. The two of you together looked like love personified. Coordinated, beautiful, and glowing. 

You slow danced with him under string lights, your chin on his shoulder, his breath soft against your temple. From the outside, it looked like it might just be you walking down the aisle next. But inside, you were both still somewhere else. Still at the foot of last night’s fight, still wondering why it hadn’t fully left your bodies. Still loving each other but loving through tight throats and second-guessing everything. 

“I missed you,” Johnny whispered, the music covering his voice. 

“I’m right here,” you replied. And you were. But it wasn’t enough. 

Later that night, your shared hotel room is lit only by the soft glow of the bathroom light peeking around a corner. Outside, the city is sleeping. Inside, you both sit on opposite sides of the bed, half-dressed. He’s in his dress pants and an undershirt, you in your dress with the zipper down. Your heels lie discarded near the door. One of his socks is still on the floor by your bags, where he kicked it off without thinking. 

No music. No TV. Just the silence of two people who love each other but don’t know how to act like it anymore. 

You shift to lie back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “This room reminds me of the first night.” 

Johnny glances over. “Yeah?”

“You couldn’t figure out how to get your tie undone, and I took it off for you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “In my defense, I was nervous.”

“You didn’t seem nervous when you kissed me.” 

His mouth twitches, forming into that soft half-smile that used to melt you. “I wasn’t thinking. I just…felt like I had to. Like if I didn’t, the moment would pass me by.”

You turn your head to look at him, seeing not just Johnny now, but the Johnny from a year ago who was brighter and less cautious. The one who danced with abandon. The one who never used to second-guess you. 

“I liked that night,” you say quietly. 

“Me too.” He shifts closer, but not enough to touch. His voice softens. “I think about it sometimes…how easy it felt.”

You nod. “Before we got too careful with each other.”

The silence stretches again. You know he’s trying. You are, too. You always were. 

“Do you think we changed?” you ask. 

Johnny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “No. I think we just started carrying things we never thought to put down.” He looks back at you, eyes soft and unguarded. “I don’t want to lose this. Us.”

You swallow. “Neither do I.” 

“But I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits. 

You look at him for a long moment, the ache in your chest too familiar now. “I think we’ve been trying to fix it without saying what’s actually broken.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then, instead of responding, he reaches for your hand. You let him take it. 

His fingers brush yours, tentative at first, then firmer. You thread them together, his palm warm against yours. The silence still hums, low and uncertain, but now there’s something else under it. Not quite forgiveness, not quite desire, but something shaped like muscle memory. 

You lean in first, maybe out of habit, maybe because it’s easier than talking. Either way, Johnny’s mouth finds yours with practiced ease. There’s no rush, no fumbling. You’ve kissed like this a hundred times now. You know the way he likes to be kissed—slow at first, then deeper, with your hand in his hair and your knees nudging apart his thighs. He knows how to hold your waist, to tug gently at the straps of your dress as his lips part yours. 

It doesn’t feel new. But it still feels like something. 

You shift to straddle him, your dress hiked up around your hips. His hands glide over your thighs, up your back, under your bra. He unhooks it in one fluid motion, always so proud of how fast he learned. He palms your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples the way he knows makes you shiver. 

You press your mouth to his neck, then his jaw, then back to his lips. When he groans, it’s not from surprise but from memory, from knowing exactly where this is going. 

His fingers slide between your legs, pushing your panties to the side. He finds your clit with practiced precision, rubbing slow circles that build and build and build. You arch into him. He knows your rhythm better than anyone now. 

You whisper his name, more out of habit than heat. He answers with your own, his breath hot against your shoulder. 

When you reach down to free him from his pants, he’s already hard—not because of some wild, frenzied lust, but because that’s what happens when you touch him like this, when you kiss him like this. You get on your knees and take him in your mouth the way you always do, slow at first, then deeper, letting your lips stretch and your eyes water. His hand settles on your head, not guiding, just there, needing to feel you. 

Johnny lasts longer now, knows how to hold himself back. He waits until you’re ready, until you’re looking up at him with that look that always gets him, the one that says ‘now.’

You climb back into his lap, press your mouth to his again, and sink onto him in one smooth motion. He fills you like he always does. Your bodies fall into that tempo, the one you’ve built over months of late nights and early mornings together. You ride him the way he likes, the way he always tells you that you look beautiful doing. He runs his hands along your hips, your waist, up to your chest. He mouths at your nipples, and you tilt your head back as a surrender to him. You let him have you knowing this part, at least, still works. 

His voice breaks a little as he says your name again, his hips meeting yours. He reaches between you and rubs your clit with just enough pressure to make your legs shake. You clench around him, a reflex you can’t control, and he feels it—of course, he does. He always does. 

Johnny’s fingers don’t falter, don’t press too hard or too light. He knows your edge like the back of his hand. The exact way your breath stutters, the way your thighs twitch when you’re almost there. He watches your face the way he always has. Reverent, focused, as if your pleasure is something precious. 

Your orgasm crests with quiet intensity. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s full-bodied, spine-arching, the kind that takes everything with it—your breath, your thoughts, the weight of all the things left unsaid. You gasp and shudder through it, and Johnny holds you through every second, rubbing you through the comedown, kissing your shoulder while you tremble. 

He’s close too. You can feel it in the way his thighs tense beneath you, the way his hands grip harder at your hips. You sit up and reach between you, taking him in your hand as you start stroking him just the way he likes, the way you know always unravels him. You shift your hips again and sit back down into his lap, slower now.

He moans against your chest, teeth grazing the swell of your breast. “You’re gonna make me come,” he breathes, voice raw and wrecked, the way it always gets when he’s right there. 

You nod and press your forehead to his. “I know.”

You clench around him again, on purpose this time, and he groans out a low, broken sound that makes you ache all over again. His thrusts stutter and then stop completely as he spills inside you, his breath catching, his face buried against your neck. You hold him close, fingers in his hair, letting him finish in your arms the way he always does. 

For a moment, you both just breathe. Sweaty. Breathless. Tangled together in a quiet hotel room, just like you were a year ago. 

It was good sex. Great, even. Familiar. Attentive. Loving, in its own tired way. 

But when it’s over, you’re still here. Still carrying everything you were before you started. 

And maybe that’s the part that hurt the most. 

It’s nearly dawn when you and Johnny find your way to the rooftop of the hotel. The place hasn’t changed. The same rusted railings. The same strings of lights, one or two bulbs flickering like they’re stuck in time. The city hums below, but up here, it’s quiet. Perhaps too quiet. 

You’re both sitting side by side on a ledge, knees barely touching. A bottle of cheap wine between you. One glass is passed back and forth like it always used to be. Only now it feels ceremonial, not intimate, as if you’re offering each other memories instead of sips. 

The air smells like warm concrete and distant rain. You used to call it ‘the spot’, this crooked little corner of the skyline where you once danced barefoot with him, careless and a little tipsy. Back then, the rooftop felt infinite, like anything said here would echo forward into forever. 

Now the silence echoes louder. 

You steal a glance at Johnny. He looks tired in the way only love can wear someone down. His smile is soft but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands fidget with the label on the wine bottle like he’s peeling away something that won’t come off clean. 

You’re here to talk. But neither of you is saying anything. 

A thought slips your mind before you can grasp it. “We didn’t fall out of love. We just…kept breaking it.” 

Johnny flinches like he wasn’t expecting that, like he came here hoping for one last dance, not an autopsy of your relationship. 

“I thought this was our beginning,” he says, voice low. “I didn’t know it was our peak.” 

That sits between you, heavy and quiet. The wine does help. Neither does the view. 

It’s strange how sometimes grief doesn’t need yelling or tears. Sometimes it’s just two people sitting too far apart on a rooftop they once called their special place. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally looks at you. “For all the times I made you carry it alone.”

You nod. “Me too. For holding it like it was mine to fix.” 

The words don’t come out clean, but they’re real. And for a second, that’s enough. 

Then comes the question you’ve both been circling like it might bite. 

“So…what are we now?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Weren’t we everything?”

Johnny breathes out something like a laugh or a sigh. “Ghosts, maybe. Or just two people who remember each other too well.” You laugh too, but it sounds hollow, like the rooftop already swallowed it up. 

When you look at him again, you realize the hardest truth. You weren’t trying to build something new. You were just trying to relive the best part, to play the song again, hoping the dance would come back with it. 

“When did we stop dancing together?” you ask. 

“Maybe when we started expecting it to last forever.”

And that’s the thing about love. Sometimes it ends with silence, with a single glass of wine, with your knees barely touching while on the roof where it all began. 

The sun breaks slowly over the skyline, dragging soft gold across the rooftops and catching the edges of old brick, rusted pipes, and the empty wine glass. Everything is dipped in amber, like the morning is trying to preserve this moment in honey—a farewell sweetened by nostalgia. 

You haven’t spoken in a while. The words ran out somewhere between confession and silence, and now all that’s left is the city waking up and the unspoken knowing stretching between your bodies. 

You stand. He follows. There’s nothing left to say. And still, your chest aches with everything you didn’t. 

Johnny doesn’t reach for your hand, doesn’t try to stop you. He just looks at you the way someone might look at the last page of their favorite book, knowing it has to end, even if they’re not ready to close it. 

Then, gently, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms. But he doesn’t go for your lips like he usually would. Not this time. 

His lips find your forehead and leave a kiss that says ‘I loved you deeply.’ A kiss that says ‘I’m letting go.’ 

It feels like a benediction. A blessing for what you were. A goodbye wrapped in tenderness. 

“I’ll never regret you,” he whispers. 

“Me neither,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve spoken all night. 

The drive back is quiet. It’s not tense, it’s just quiet in a way that feels sacred, as if you’re both honoring something that died in the sunrise. 

When Johnny pulls up in front of your building, you don’t wait. You simply get out with your bags, close the door, and walk away. 

Neither of you looks back at the other. But the beat of your first dance together plays in your memory on loop—not as a regret, but as a gift. A flash of something golden and impossible. The night you met flickers behind your eyes like the city lights through his windshield. He hears it too, you know it. He feels it echo in his chest as he drives off. 

You were never a match. Just a spark that burned too bright, too fast. But oh, how beautiful it was to be loved by him.

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Islands - S.Johnny 

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Why You So Obsessed with Me? p10

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Carlos x reader based on the song: Obsessed– Mariah Carey, if you haven't read part 9 here it is:)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

You didn’t realise how far from Madrid you were until the buildings thinned into scattered rooftops, until the asphalt narrowed, and the trees thickened into a tunnel of green.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortably so.

Carlos had taken the wheel himself, no driver, no team. Just the two of you, his sunglasses on, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely on the space between you.

The city fell behind, replaced by winding roads and the hush of pine trees leaning in. You turned to look at him.

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going now?”

He didn’t even glance your way. “Nope.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this how horror movies start?”

That earned a chuckle. “You think I’d take you somewhere dangerous?”

“I think I barely know you, Carlos Sainz.”

That made him smirk.

“You know more than you think,” he said quietly, and your stomach flipped at the tone, like a secret being unwrapped.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled onto a dirt road. It was almost hidden between two fields of tall grass, framed by wild olive trees. The car dipped and jolted over uneven ground, and just when you were about to ask if this was really the right place, the road opened up.

You gasped.

Ahead was a wide, sparkling lake, not a popular one, not touristy. It was still. Quiet. Framed by mountains in the distance. Wildflowers peeked through the grass around the banks, and a little stone bench sat right by the edge of the water.

The sun hit it just right. It was like something out of a postcard.

You opened the door slowly, stepping out like the whole thing might vanish if you moved too fast.

“Carlos,” you breathed. “How did you even find this?”

He came around the car and slid his sunglasses to the top of his head, watching your expression closely. “You told me about it once.”

You blinked. “I did?”

“You said you saw a photo on your Pinterest board when you were like sixteen. And that you’d always wanted to go to this lake. That it looked like where people fell in love in movies.”

You turned to him slowly, stunned. “That was months ago. I barely remember saying that.”

“I remember.” His voice was quiet. Steady. “I looked it up that night.”

You stared at him, heart doing weird flips. “Carlos…”

He stepped forward, just close enough for his voice to drop into something deeper. “You always pretend like I don’t pay attention to you. But I do. I watch everything.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The way he was looking at you made it impossible to hold eye contact for long. It felt like he saw through things, through you. Like you couldn’t hide behind sarcasm or teasing or the flippant way you flirted when you were nervous. Not with him.

You sat slowly on the bench by the water, needing to look away before your knees gave out. Carlos sat next to you but didn’t touch you, not yet.

Instead, he tilted his head back and breathed in. “It’s nice, huh?”

“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “I can’t believe you remembered something like that.”

Carlos looked at you then, really looked. “You surprise me every day. Thought it was only fair I return the favor.”

Your stomach flipped. You glanced at his hand next to yours — the space between your pinky and his was barely an inch. Every molecule of your body was aware of it.

You looked up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You surprised me today.”

He leaned in slightly, cocking his head. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It’s cute.”

Carlos’ jaw twitched — a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. “Cute?”

You laughed. “Don’t get all offended. You can be hot and cute.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not trying to be cute.”

You blinked, breath catching again. “What are you trying to be?”

Carlos studied your face like he was memorizing it. “Yours,” he said quietly. “Eventually.”

Carlos' POV

She looked like she belonged here.

Barely any makeup, hair a little windblown, standing in the soft light of the lake. Carlos had never felt this out of control while still being completely calm.

This place. This quiet. Him.

“Why me?” she asked again, voice gentle.

Carlos studied her for a long beat. Then:

“Cause from the moment I met you, I knew we were meant to be together.”

He doesn’t think—he can’t. The space between you is an unbearable, suffocating void, and the moment his gaze drops to your lips, something primal inside him snaps. He closes the distance in one sharp, unstoppable motion, his hand curling at the back of your neck like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

When his lips crash into yours, it’s not gentle, it’s the kind of kiss that’s been clawing at the walls of his mind for far too long, a kiss that tastes like months of wanting, weeks of restraint, days of imagining and torturing himself with what-ifs. You feel like fire beneath him, and he drinks you in like a man starved, like every second you’re apart is an open wound that only this moment can heal.

He’s not just kissing you, he’s claiming you, burning you into memory, swearing silently that he’ll never let you go now that he’s finally had this.

@sumbellling, @hhhs7, @omgsuperstarg, @as4ka, @iamdedsthingz, @urmomsgirlfriend1

[andy-15-07]

hii!! can i request an interview with reader, danny ramirez, and anthony mackie. danny and reader arent exactly together but there is that cute tension and fans ship them together 🥹🥹 anthony is also tired like “oh my god just get together!” 😭😭 THANK YOU SO MUCHHH

Just Say You Love Each Other Already

PAIRING: Danny Ramirez x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 480✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟 | 🔥Kink Masterlist 🔥

Joaquin Torres Masterlist | Bodyguard AU’s

Sugar Daddy Danny Masterlist 💕 | Our Little Falcon Masterlist

The small studio was buzzing with quiet excitement as the host wrapped up the usual questions and prepared for the final segment , the one fans were really here for.

You sat on one side, casually stylish but trying to keep your nerves in check. Danny Ramirez was across from you, leaning forward with that signature charming grin that made hearts skip. And between you two sat Anthony Mackie, clearly exhausted but also amused, ready to stir the pot.

The interviewer smiled. “Alright, we know the fans have been shipping you two for a while now. The chemistry is real. So… what’s the story there?”

Danny exchanged a glance with you , that look that said a thousand things without saying any.

You laughed nervously, “Well, we’re just really good friends. That’s all.”

Anthony groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Oh, please. Don’t play coy. It’s like watching two kids with a crush trying not to admit it.”

Danny smirked, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Hey, I’m innocent here.”

You shot him a mock glare. “Me too!”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “Innocent? You guys are basically the romantic comedy we didn’t know we needed.”

You blushed, and Danny’s grin grew wider. “So what, you want us to just get together already?”

Anthony nodded emphatically. “Yes! Just admit it, save us all the suspense.”

The host laughed, enjoying the banter. “Alright, spill the tea. Any secret dates or late-night texts?”

Danny looked like he might say something, but then he caught your eye and shook his head. “Nope, nothing to report.”

You smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment. “Yeah, just friends.”

Anthony leaned back, clearly not convinced. “You’re lying, and I love it.”

The interview wrapped with laughter and teasing, but the spark between you and Danny? Oh, that was very real , and definitely not lost on anyone watching.

As the cameras stopped rolling and the crew began packing up, you and Danny found yourselves lingering near the exit of the studio. Anthony had already disappeared backstage, probably on a mission to tease you both later.

Danny looked at you, eyes softer now, the playful smirk replaced by something warmer.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

You smiled, feeling your cheeks warm. “Yeah, I’m good. That was… fun, in a nerve-wracking kind of way.”

He chuckled, stepping a little closer. “Yeah, I don’t think Anthony’s gonna let us live that down anytime soon.”

You laughed softly. “He’s relentless.”

Danny’s gaze held yours a moment longer, then he whispered, “Maybe we should give the fans something to talk about.”

Your heart skipped.

“Maybe,” you said, smiling shyly.

He reached for your hand, fingers curling gently around yours. “No pressure. Just… whenever you’re ready.”

You squeezed his hand back, the tension between you easing into something sweet and real.

“Danny,” you whispered, “I think I’m ready.”

[g00d--m0urning]

Not Another Song About Love (ch.7)

TONY (DATE EVERYTHING) X READER

You're stupid car has broke down (you don't mean that, she's your baby), and now Tony is playing taxi driver!

Isn't he the sweetest?

(Spoiler: he isn't)

-----

Reader hates seafood 😓😓 (for no reason, certainly because I'm projecting my disdain for seafood onto reader).

It’s a slow Tuesday (arguably worse than Monday’s) and you’re trying to close up at work. You still have a few loose ends to tie up: signing a few permission slips for the interns, picking up the mess you’ve made after being in the office for over seventeen hours- oh, god! Seventeen hours? You didn’t think it was that late.

Sure, you saw the sun setting and you probably should’ve started going home when your colleagues began to do so, but you didn’t! You had to finish something! And then there was another thing and now it’s midnight! Big whoop! 

It’s not like there’s anyone back home waiting for you: you haven’t heard from Sam since Saturday, Beverly is busy today, you haven’t even heard from Tony aside from the stupid video of a kid getting tripped yesterday evening. 

It’s not a big deal! You miss Sam, but you’re glad she’s having fun with Jeremy. You understand that Beverly is busy, so are you, and you don’t miss Tony, at all! Not even a little bit! You press your fingers into the corners of your eyes, trying to unblur the computer screen. You really need to get blue light glasses or something, but the blurriness means it is officially time to go home, no more excuses. You’ll be back in seven hours anyway. 

The parking lot is nearly empty, other than a few company cars and yours. It takes a few tries to get the key into the door lock, but you manage, dipping into the car. You turn the key in the ignition once, twice, and then the car makes an incredibly concerning noise.

“No, no, no, nooooo,” you groan under your breath, trying again, only to be met with a sputtering engine. “Fuck. my. Life,” you emphasize each word with a bang of your head against the steering wheel, the horn beeping with each tap. 

You want to scream, but you’d never yell at your baby, it’s not her fault that something is wrong with her. You can’t even call Sam, and there’s no way you’re ordering a ride service this late at night. You could crash on the couch in your office…That can be plan B. Plan A is to bother a certain somebody. 

You almost feel bad about it; not bad enough not to do it, though.

‘You up?’

You lean against the car door, waiting impatiently for a text to come through. You tilt your head back to stare at the night sky, counting the endless little dots. You puff out breath, making fog circles in the cold night air. It takes a few minutes, but he finally responds.

‘Holy shit, is this a booty call, Sugar?’

‘In your dreams, Cupid.’

‘Yes it is ;)’

‘You know what, never mind. I don’t need anything. Go back to bed, or whatever you were doing.’

‘No, heyyyyy, c’mon. What’s up?’

‘Your dick, apparently.’

‘Look at the funny guy over here.’

‘I know, I’m hilarious.’

‘But I do need something.’

‘Hit me.’

‘... I sort of need a ride, my car decided to die.’

‘Where the fuck do you need a ride to this late?’

‘My apartment.’

‘You aren’t home?’

‘Nope. Just finished work.’

‘Jesus, Doc. You sure your car isn’t the only thing that’s dead?’

‘Don’t even start. Can you pick me up or not?’

‘I kind of need the address.’

You hesitate before sending him your work address. You crawl into the backseat, laying across the worn leather. They’re so comfy, and it wouldn’t hurt to take a nap while you wait for Tony. You’re nearly asleep when there’s a knock on the window, jolting upwards at the sudden noise. 

“Good morning Sleeping Beauty,” he teases, stepping out of the way, so you can open the door and get out. “Let’s go.”

“And just leave my car here?” you ask back, frowning at your car. You’d hate for her to get dinged or stolen; you know that Vortex has a high security system, but you can’t help but worry about your baby.

“Well, I’m not playing midnight mechanic, that’s for sure,” he chuckles, jutting his head back towards his car, “Lets go. Your car will be fine here overnight.”

“Then how am I supposed to get to work in the morning?” you question, sinking into his warm car. If there’s one thing you hate about not having a modern car, it’s the lack of heated seats in your beautiful vintage. 

“I know where you work now, I’ll drive you,” he shrugs, setting his arm over the back of your seat, looking backwards to pull out of the parking spot. “So why’re you at the office so late? Was it your night to babysit the xenomorphs?”

“Yep. I got stuck with the midnight feedings, sadly,” you sigh melancholically, melting into the warm set, even as it starts to burn your butt, “...But no, honestly… I just didn’t feel like going home. Which was obviously foreshadowing to the fact that I wouldn’t be able to go home.”

“Obviously,” he parrots, using a dramatic accent, dragging out the syllables, “I’m surprised you don’t have a bed in your lab.”

“I have a couch in my office,” you say, dryly snorting, leaning forward to flick the radio on, turning the volume down low.

“I thought you worked in a lab?” he asks, waiting until you move back to your original position to switch stations from the modern pop it was on to some sort of 2000’s rock.

“I do, but as head scientist, I have a private lab, which has a cojoining office,” you explain, quietly humming along to the Shinedown song that’s playing, 

“Fancy,” he comments, nodding at your explanation, beginning to hum along as well, “Do you enjoy your job?” he asks quietly, glancing over at you with a surprisingly soft expression; it’s as if all the annoyingly faux charm has dropped in the early morning hours. 

“...Yeah, I do, thankfully. I’ve worked there since I was in college, and it’s hard at times, stressful, but I love what I do,” you whisper, resting your head against the cool window, using it to soothe the pounding of your head. 

------------

“I’d hope so, considering the hours you work,” he says, quietly huffing. Tony loves his job, a lot, but he could never imagine pulling the hours you do. That’s part of why he loves his job, he’s the boss, he gets to set his own hours. 

He can see you from the corner of his eye; you look peaceful, almost. You’re tired too, he can’t begin to imagine why. You’re asleep when he makes it to your complex. Part of him doesn’t want to wake you up, the other part remembers you woke him up from a nap by tossing water over his head. He’s going to wake you up, very rudely: payback. 

“Sugar, we’re here,” he whispers, lightly nudging your shoulder, brushing hair out of your face, “I’m not carrying you there.”

You stir, waking with a groan, swatting his hand away. Violent, even barely lucid, why doesn’t that surprise him? He snorts, getting out of his car, coming around to the passenger side. He leans in, unbuckling your seatbelt, which gets you to come back to the land of the living, pushing him away to stumble your way out of the car.

You don’t say anything the entire way up; for once, neither does he. You’re clearly dead on your feet, he’s not going to be a complete asshole and bother you while you’re like this. You walk right into your apartment- you still haven’t locked the door, he sees.

He tosses himself onto the couch, sprawling out on it. You freeze in the hallway, hand hovering over the light switch panel, “What are you doing?”

“Going to sleep,” he answers, like it’s obvious, pulling a blanket over him, “I woke up at midnight to pick you up from work, and I’m driving you to work in the morning, I’m not going anywhere.”

You stand there, staring blankly at something, seemingly debating whether or not it’s worth it to argue with him. In the end, you decide to roll your eyes, but not say anything else, trudging down the hallway to your room.

----

Tony starts waking up when his legs get shoved off the couch, groaning at being awakened. He feels like he’s barely gotten any sleep. He sits up, blinking heavily, trying to wake up a little more.

“What time is it?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep. You come into focus, all dressed and ready for the day, some sort of energy drink hanging loosely in your hand.

“Mmm…” you lean backwards, craning your neck towards the kitchen to read the oven clock, “6:31”

Tony’s brain freezes for a moment, still trying to wake up. No wonder he feels like he hasn’t gotten any sleep, “Jesus Christ, why are you up so early?”

“Because I need to be at work by seven, sooooo… It’s a twenty minute drive, you might want to,” you trail off, pursing your lips, “Wake up a little more.”

“Why do you need to be at work by seven? You were just there!” he exclaims, staring at you like you’ve gone crazy. You probably have! No one can work that long on six hours of sleep, or however long you’ve been up because god knows when you actually woke up. “Can’t you be a few hours late?”

“Nope,” you shake your head, lightly patting his thigh before getting up, “You’re the one who said you’ll drive me to work.”

“I’m regretting that,” he grumbles, rolling his neck, which is surprisingly not sore, your couch is comfortable as hell.

------------

You snicker at Tony’s annoyance, happy to be the nuisance for once, instead of the other way around. Can you be a few hours late instead of getting to the lab at seven? Yeah! Technically, the lab doesn’t even open until eight, but you like getting a head start on the day!

“You have nothing for breakfast,” Tony points out, rummaging through your cabinets, still looking ruffled.

“I don’t eat breakfast,” you shrug, twirling your keys around on your finger, "Let's go.”

“‘Let’s go,’” Tony mocks up under his breath, following you out the door. 

“I’m stopping for breakfast,” he tells you as the two of you get into the car, scratching his stomach. The action reveals a sliver of those stupid abs, and a small freckle beside his belly button. 

You’ve never noticed that in any of the million pictures he’s sent you. You wonder how many freckles and moles he actually has, “You can stop for breakfast after you drop me off,” you huff.

“Too late,” he drawls, pulling into the drive-through of some donut place. He’s woken up now because he immediately starts flirting with the employee at the window, who’s more than receptive. 

“Here,” he passes you a chocolate frosted donut as you guys get back onto the road, munching on his jelly donut. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

“We’re right to each other, you could’ve asked,” you say, taking the offered donut. Just because you don’t eat breakfast at home, doesn’t mean you won’t eat a free donut.

“You would’ve said you didn’t want anything,” he retorts, turning on the radio, bopping his head along to the music.

He’s not wrong, you would’ve. He doesn’t need to know that. You’re not that mad about him stopping for breakfast, it keeps him quiet most of the drive, other than when he was obscenely moaning over how good the donut was. 

“Why is the parking lot empty?” Tony asks, pulling into the parking spot next to your car.

“Because I get to work earlier than everyone else,” you shrug, getting out of the car, slamming the door before he can yell at you.

He gets out of the car, glaring daggers at you, “But you couldn’t spare a few hours to let me get some actual sleep?” he asks, his left eye twitching.

“...Yep,” you nod, meticulously inspecting your car to make sure she doesn’t have any bumps, dents, or blemishes. “I should call a tow truck, get her in with a mechanic.”

“And now you’re insulting me?” he scoffs, pushing you out of the way to pop the hood. He spends several minutes under there, muttering indistinctly to himself. He slowly closes the hood, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck, “You should call a tow truck.”

“Uh-huh, I know. I already did,” you tell him, enjoying the way his face falls. You understand why he fucks with you so much, it’s funny. “You’re free to leave; you don’t need to stick around.”

“Don’t sound so eager to get away from me, Sugar,” he teases, leaning against your car next to you, “I’ll stick around until the tow truck comes.”

“How gentlemanly,” you snort, rubbing underneath your eye, then up to your temples.

“...Aren’t you tired?” he asks after a moment of hesitance, staring at you like he’s trying to see into you.

“Not really,” except you are, you’ve never been an early riser, but is it technically early rising if you never went to bed? You think not. “I pulled too many all-nighters in college to get exhausted at work.”

“Ah, ok,” he nods slowly, clearly not believing what your saying, “You--”

The tow truck interrupts him, screeching into the parking lot, coming to a stop in front of Tony’s car. You converse with the driver, giving him your information to relay to the mechanic, so they can call you when they have a prognosis. 

Tony pushes himself off the car, rolling his shoulders, “Well…Call me if you need another ride,” he says, winking at you.

You flip him off as he gets into his car, watching him drive off. You hope there’s nothing majorly wrong with your baby. You decide to text Sam before you head up to your lab, just a simple request to talk.

----

The mechanic called you a few hours ago, telling you that there’s something wrong with your car. Apparently, some doohickey broke and since your car is vintage, it’ll take at least two weeks for him to get the part, plus another few days for him to actually fix it. In other, unrelated news, you’re sweeping up glass from a mug that you accidentally smacked off of the sink. 

A notification pops up on one of your monitors, which is connected to your phone. Sam has finally texted you back:

‘Hey!’

‘soz for the late response, been stuck at the airport all day’

‘Me and Jeremy just got back!’

‘I’d love to meet up’

‘I’ve missed youuuuuu!!’

‘I missed you too, Sam. We can schedule something!’

‘Perfect! Gtg, Jeremy’s taking me out for dinner!’

‘Have fun.’

You should text Tony, ask him to come pick you up, he said he would, but you don’t want to. He’s done way too much for you; you’d rather choke than be in his debt for the rest of your life. When you get out of the building, Tony is in the nearest parking spot, much more dressed than he was this morning.

“Wow, look at that, I didn’t even have to come and get you,” he claps his hands together, walking over to you, “Before you ask, I’m here to drive you home. I happened to pass by the mechanic, so I stopped in to see how long your car would be- almost three weeks minimum, yikes.”

“Yeah, I’m aware, it sucks,” you scoff, pouting at your empty parking spot. “Are you really going to be my personal chauffeur for three weeks? Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Nope. You’re stuck with me,” he says, opening the car door for you, bowing slightly, “After you.”

“Thank you,” you sneer, stomping on his foot as you get into the car. 

He yelps (akin to that of a little girl), “You’re so mean,” he tells you, pouting like a child. 

“And you’re annoying,” you retort, also like a child, he brings the immaturity out of you! “Uhm…You’re going the wrong way,” you point out when he makes a right out of the parking lot instead of a left.

“No, I’m not. I told you, I’m taking you grocery shopping,” he corrects you, reaching over, blindly, to flick your ear. He ends up hitting your cheek.

“I told you, you’re not my mother, you don’t need to drive me around and take me grocery shopping,” you say, batting at his hand, rubbing the spot he just flicked. “What’s next: are you going to do my laundry?”

“Ha! I draw the line at laundry,” he snorts, running a hand through his hair. “You know, I’m surprised you’re off at a decent time. It’s only six.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know, I was going to go out for dinner,” you say, watching the evening traffic move slowly by you. 

------------

You had dinner plans, and he’s kidnapping you to go grocery shopping. Oh well! The fucker who’s going on date with you will have to wait! When did you even have time to find a date? Are you going on a date with a coworker? How scandalous, doctor.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” he can’t help asking; you, the love hater, are going on a date. Who managed to bag you?

“John at Olive Garden,” you answer, sighing quietly, “It’s been a while.”

“Oh…An ex?” he grimaces, side-eyeing you. He did not take you for the type that runs back to exes. “And he can’t even bother to take you to a good restaurant? Fake ass Italian food.”

“No? What? John is my waiter at Olive Garden. Before I got promoted I would go every two weeks on Tuesday,” you say, now looking at him in confusion, then you laugh, “Oh, my god. You thought I had a date? Absolutely not.”

Oh…He feels stupid now, and weirdly relieved. There’s no ex-boyfriend named John taking you to some shitty food joint, “...John’s going to have to miss you again tonight.”

“Ya think?” you snicker, looking all too amused at his mistake. “Fine, I’ll miss out on Olive Garden- which, by the way, is fantastic. I don’t care if it’s ‘fake ass Italian food’.”

“You are never meeting my mother,” he mutters, shaking his head. His mother would smack you upside the head for saying that. Maybe he should take you to meet his mother. 

“Okay and..? You’re never meeting my parents,” you scoff, rolling your eyes at him. “My mom would not like you.”

“Good. I’ll never meet her!”

“Good! I’ll never meet your mother!”

“Good,” he repeats, jerking his head to look away from you. 

The rest of the drive is in silence, the two of you stewing in irritation. Tony grabs a cart, donning himself king of this grocery trip. He doesn’t know what you like, but he knows what you need, so he starts there. You don’t bother to argue, following behind him the way his father used to follow his mother during their shopping trips: sulky and annoyed.

You only talk again when he goes to grab shrimp, smacking the bag right out of his hand, “I don’t like seafood,” you say, grabbing the bag off the floor to put it back into its proper spot.

“You allergic?” he asks, moving away from the seafood before you smack him again.

“No, I just don’t like seafood,” you shrug, grabbing a giant bag of shredded cheese when you pass the cheese. 

“Why not?” he questions, shaking his head at the huge bag of shredded cheese; why do you need that? Who needs that much cheese?

“I don’t know, I’ve just never liked seafood,” you say, and now you’re back to being all broody. They should hire you to play Batman, you’ve really got that scowl down, all you need is a little dark eyeliner. 

A full grocery cart, and two hundred dollars later, you’ve finally made it home. Now, for the challenge of bringing everything up to your place. Tony helps you load bags onto your arms, then he does the same; somehow, the two of you manage to get everything in one go. 

“You know, if your show ever gets cancelled, you could have a career as a professional grocery shopper,” you tell him while putting the half gallon of milk you got into the fridge.

“Thanks,” he mutters, putting away the final items of the haul. He rubs his sore arms, pressing into the indents that are still there from carrying the grocery bags in. “There! Beautiful,” he exclaims looking at the organized cabinets and pantry. 

“Yep…Jeez, I cannot remember the last time I had a full fridge,” you sigh, looking over the pantry, snagging a snack cake, “Thanks for taking me shopping against my will.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, stealing the package from you, eating the second cake from the pack before you can take it back, “These are good!”

“I’d smack you, but my hands hurt,” you tell him, glaring at him, “Just know, I’m mentally hitting you.”

“Oh, Doc, you fantasize about me?” he asks teasingly, stepping into your personal space, wiping frosting off the corner of your mouth, “I’m flattered.”

You flick his forehead, pushing him away, walking around him to get into the living room. He swears he saw you blush! The unflappable doctor has blushed! He knew he’d crack you eventually. 

An alarm rings out in the room, and Tony curses. He didn’t realize it was already eight, he’s going to be late, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Please do,” you say, a little too quickly, in his opinion. How rude. “Let the door hit’cha on the way out.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promises, blowing you a kiss on his way out the door. 

------------

Wait, why is he going to be here tomorrow? You can’t even ask him because he’s already gone! There’s no way he’s picking you up. He said he was going to play chauffeur for you, but you didn’t think he was serious. He has a life, a job to go to, people to hang out with. 

You’re still thinking about when you lay down in bed. He’s kidding, he’s not going to show up tomorrow to drive you to work.

The smell of bacon coaxes you out of sleep. Your first thought is ‘yummy, bacon’, the next is ‘someone broke into my apartment to make bacon’. You wrap your blanket tightly around your shoulders, slowly leaving your room. You peek around the corner, and there’s Tony, standing at your stove, flipping bacon in a pan.

You locked your door this time, you're sure! Like, ninety-nine percent sure, maybe ninety…seventy-ish percent sure you locked it!

“Morning, Sugar,” he grins, looking over his shoulder at you, “Go get dressed, we’ve gotta leave in forty minutes,” he says, waving a spatula in your direction. 

You stare at him for a long second then turn back around to go get dressed. You guys eat breakfast, and head to your work. Your apartment is on the way to the Fix It Ton studio, so he is in fact willing to drive you around. You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that he had a shit eating grin while blasting the world’s most obnoxious music.

That becomes the routine for the next two weeks: he breaks in to make breakfast, or bring donuts, he drops you off at work, then he picks you up at nine (if you work any later, he’s stated that you’re shit out of luck, as it’s the latest he’ll pick you up).

It’s surprisingly bearable. It’s kind of nice having a schedule and being forced out of work at a decent hour. Tony is also…not totally horrible. He’s still the world’s biggest jackwagon, but he’s been doing you a solid for the past two and half weeks, the least you can do is find him not completely unbearable to be around. You still hate him, and can’t wait for your car to be fixed!

You’re packing up your stuff, ready to go meet Tony downstairs when he texts you:

‘I’ve got a date tonight…Are you good with me not being able to come pick you up?’

‘Yeah! That’s fine.’

‘I wanted to stay late anyway. Have fun with your date.’

‘You know I will, Sugar ;)’

You set your bag back down, chewing on your bottom lip. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in your chest. Heart burn, stupid, stupid heart burn. It really is fine! You didn’t plan on working late, but you know you can find something to do. 

Your work phone rings in your office, snapping you out of your zone. You click the speaker button, accepting the call, “Hey, what’s up?”

“There’s someone here for you, do you want to come down or shall I send them up?” the front desk lady, Alexandria, asks. 

“You can send them up,” you tell her, hanging up shortly after. 

Sam comes into your office a few minutes later, sporting a large smile. She rushes over, wrapping you in a tight hug, “Hi!” she squeals, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you tell her, patting her back until she releases you from the hug. She sits down on the couch in your office, patting the spot next to her.

“Great, we can finally--”

“I am so excited to tell you about my weekend with Jeremy,” she interrupts you, taking your hands in hers, shaking like she’s about to burst.

“Oh…Yeah, great,” you nod, the tightening in your chest constricting slowly around your heart like a boa constrictor. You figured she came here so you guys can finally talk it out… “Tell me about it!”

She squeals, shaking your hands, “I loved it, it was so fun. His family was there and they were all super nice. We rode so many rides and had a bunch of drinks and it was so nice!” she says, turning to face you, “I know it’s early days with me and Jeremy, but I really like him, and I think if we can survive a family trip together, then we can survive a lot together.”

“Ha, yeah… I remember back when I was a kid, I’m surprised my parents didn’t get divorced at an amusement park,” you say with a quiet laugh. There was nothing more stressful than trying to schedule a family trip to an amusement park with your family. 

“Yeah, I remember your parents bringing me along once. I’ve never heard that many passive aggressive comments thrown out,” she giggles, leaning forward to wrap you into another hug, squeezing you. “Ugh, I missed you! Do you want to see the pictures?”

“I’d love to,” you murmur, stiffly accepting the hug, paying half attention when she starts swiping through pictures, providing brief explanations of the origins for each. 

She receives a text from Jeremy, something along the lines of him asking her to meet him at some restaurant, “I’m sorry, I need to go. See you soon, yeah?” she stands up, kissing both of your cheeks, leaving without bothering to wait for you to respond.

“Yeah, see you soon,” you mutter, long after she’s gone. You sigh, scratching the back of your neck, laying down on the couch. 

“Doctor,” Alexandria speaks, reminding you that you forgot to turn off the phone, “Someone is requesting to come up to your lab again.”

You roll off the couch, moving across the floor on your knees, leaning across the table to press the button, “Send them up.” You assume it’s Sam, maybe she forgot something, you don’t think she did, but who else would it be?

“Sugar, guess who’s here?” a familiar accented voice sing-songs; his head pops into your office, breaking into a grin when he sees you on the floor.

“Why are you here?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. He’s supposed to be on a date.

------------

“My date cancelled on me, soooooo…” Tony enters the office, holding up two containers of pasta- actual, homemade Italian food, no Olive Garden bullshit.

What he doesn’t tell you is that his date didn’t cancel on him. He cancelled on his date. He was halfway through making dinner for them when it hit him that he felt bad. He promised he’d be your ride while your car was broken and he just ghosted you! It had nothing to do with the fact that the guy he was on a date with looked at him with goo-goo eyes instead of a perpetually annoyed glare.

“You brought me your leftovers?” you ask, raising a brow at him. You stand up with a groan, taking one of the containers from him, popping it open, and immediately gagging. There’s shrimp in it.

Tony switches the containers, handing you the one he may or may not have specifically made shrimp free for you, “I brought you fresh food- that one doesn’t have shrimp in it. Which you would’ve known had you waited, Dr. Mcsnatchy.”

You scowl at him, hesitantly opening the one he handed you, the tiniest of smiles on your face when you find shrimpless pasta inside, “Did you bring forks?”

“You’re so impatient,” he tuts, pulling forks from his pockets, passing it to you, “Bon appetit.”

“Mhm,” you hum absentmindedly, stuffing food into your face. You groan, eyes shutting, “This. is. great,” you mutter, sitting down on your couch.

“I’ve been making you breakfast for two weeks and you expected something bad?” he asks, feigning offense, sitting down next to you, digging into his own food. “It’s a recipe my mom taught me.”

“Anyone can cook breakfast, making a good pasta dish takes skill,” you inform him, waggling a finger at him. “Tell your mother I said thank you.”

“I will,” he promises jokingly, knocking his foot against yours. “Your office is fancy,” he comments, standing up to go look at the degrees you have hanging on the wall, then the pictures on your desk.

“Yeah,” you nod, walking over next to him, reaching a hand out to straighten one of the picture frames. “Being head scientist comes with perks.”

“Seems like the office isn’t worth the hours you work,” he whispers, moving a few steps to the side, pulling the blinds open to stare out the window. You have really good views: your penthouse and now your office.

“Technically, it is… I choose the hours I work- or the long hours I work, I don’t need to work as long as I do,” you explain, joining him at the window. An almost comfortable silence falls over you guys as you eat.

Tony finishes his food shortly after you, taking the dirty container from you, and stacking it with his, “Well,” he sighs, “We should go home. Sun’s setting.”

“We should go home?” you repeat, a confused look creating a furrow in your brow.

“We should- I… I should bring you home, to your home, before you get sucked into work,” he corrects himself, stuttering over his words like an idiot. “Shall we?” he holds out his hand in a gentlemanly manner, smirking at you charmingly. 

You sigh exasperatedly at him, but place your hand over his in a joking manner anyway, “We shall.”

Tony smiles, genuinely smiles when your palm settles over his. His hand twitches, and his fingers curl ever-so-slightly, trying to lace with yours. He quickly pulls his hand back before he can try, putting his hands into his pockets. 

“Goodnight, Sugar,” he whispers, pulling into the closest parking spot to the door of your building, so you don’t have to walk far. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’s not going to come up with you, he has to get back to his place and do the dishes before he forgets. He also has a really strong feeling settling in his chest he can’t quite explain, even to himself.

------------

“Goodnight, Cupid,” you whisper back, getting out of his car. 

When you enter your bathroom to brush your teeth before bed, you’re smiling, and there’s a warm feeling in your chest. A good Italian meal will do that to you…It was nice- the meal! Nothing else, just the meal. 

Not the fact that Tony brought you found, without shrimp. Nor the fact that his hand was warm and calloused against yours for the brief moment yours was in yours. Jesus, you hate him so much; you hate the way he gets in your head. 

God, you can’t wait until your car is finally fixed. 

[janovavalen]

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒 𓇼 Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader

summary: after a long day at work, bucky comes home to his beautiful loving wife.

word count:

warning: none, just fluff<3

That day had been a pretty long day, more than Bucky would like to admit. Conferences, speeches, practicing his conversations with his PR team and every now and again sipping the bitter black coffee that was shared within the office building.

Bucky didn’t mind his job, he didn’t entirely hate it, no. But he didn’t enjoy the press, the photos, the flashing light, and the press talking over one another over and over again.

He didn’t enjoy it, but his favorite part of the day was the end of it. His favorite part was when he got to come home to his beautiful wife, Y/n and their newborn baby, Evangeline.

Y/n had a love and passion for Disney movies and always favored the movie, Princess and the frog, she especially loved the song and how much Evengeline shined throughout the night sky. Y/n liked to say that Evengeline was their stars as Bucky was the night sky and she was the moon.

Bucky loved his home life more than anything in his entire life, never did he think that he would be in a life such as this one, never did he think he would even make it past the age of twenty let alone thirty.

Picking the house keys out of his pocket, he unlocked the door. The homey smell of candles that Bucky hated to admit that he loved the exotic smells Y/n always managed to find at Target, he also didn’t care to admit that such small candles shouldn’t cost over ten dollars.

Tough how could he say no to her? Why would he ever say no, she gave him more than he could ever ask for in his lifetime.

Stepping into the house, he heard the TV playing a random cartoon that Y/n said was crucial for Evangeline to watch over an Ipad any day. She said something about–’Ipad kids.’--and how they’re crazy with and without them.

‘Y/n, Honey? I’m home!” He yelled throughout the house, he heard her yell back from the kitchen.

“In here!” The noise of sizzling from the pan was heard, walking into the living room to cut through to the kitchen he was met with their baby, sleeping peacefully in her playtime pin. A small body pillow wrapped around her to keep her in a comfortable position.

He resisted the heavy urge to pick her up from her pin and hold her, but he knew it was her bedtime and it was probably pretty difficult to get her to bed. Placing his pointer finger on her puffy cheek as she squirmed a bit, he smiled deeply.

“Bucky, don’t wake her up, she just had a whole fit a second ago.” Y/n warned him, walking in with a white bowl to give to him as she held her own in her other hand.

“I’m not, I just miss her so much.” He told her, his voice as quiet as it could be. She smiled as he stood up, handing him the bowl.

“What’s this? Something new?” He wondered.

“Yep , its like a taco salad. It’s got beans, corn, the usual stuff you find in a taco but in a bowl.” She told him. Sitting down on their dark brown couch, grabbing the remote to turn down the tv it bit more before turning on Law and Order.

“Hm, sounds good. Did you two girls do anything today?” He wondered.

“Nope, just stayed home. Had some food delivered earlier, Sam came by to meet the baby. But she mostly slept today until a bit ago.” Y/n told him. He hummed to himself while taking a seat next to her on the couch.

She noticed this and hesitatenly laughed–”What?”

“It’s pretty dang good.” He told her, she laughed and shook her head.

When Bucky and Y/n found out they were having a baby, Bucky couldn’t help but look up things about pregnancy, one of them being that babies can hear things through the mother, so Bucky knew it would be best to limirt cursing, Y/n too after heavy convincing.

“Really?”

“Mhm, why didn’t you make this sooner?”

“Uhh, maybe because the smell of meat literally made me vomit everywhere.”

Wincing, Bucky nodded–”Oh, right right..that’s right.”

Smiling, Y/n nodded back before the sudden crying cut through the air after a bit of silence.

Bucky was quick to look down at the playpin and placed the bowl on Y/n’s lap who paid no mind and ontinued to eat while watching TV.

Bucky leaned down and made sure he took off his work shirt so he wouldn’t get anything on her. Picking her up in his arms with such delececy, Y/n looked to the side with a warm smile.

Bucky starting to rock her back and forth with his body as she started to quiet down, her small but very powerful cry that rang through the house. Y/n awhed at the tw as she pulled out her phone making sure to get a video and a picture.

Buclky rolled his eyes and sat down next to her slowly.

“You get some sleep, I’m on baby duty.” Bucky told Y/n who smiled, nodding to him.

“That’s prefrvtly fine with me, as long as you get slepe for work tomorrow too.” Y/n ensured him. Bucky shook his head.

“No, I’m off tomorrow. Told them you need help with meturnity leave and they let me off. I get the next two months.” Y/n smiled widley and leaned next to him.

“Oh god, really? That’s so sweet.” Y/n muttered.

Bucky smiled back at her before giving her a soft kiss on her lips.

“You taste like, tacos.”

“Oh i’d hope so, thats what i”m eating”

“Yeah I taste it all over.”

‘Okay, get off of me.” Placing a hand on his cheek to push him away, Bucky laughed into it and kissed her hand which made her laugh.

[mariclerc]

caribbean beauty — 03 a new point of view | rafe cameron

Warnings: fluff, just fluff.

masterlist

It's a breezy, sunny day on the island. The sky is clear, the air is warm but not too heavy. You’re in Rafe’s truck, the windows are rolled down, your hair whipping softly around your face. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other holding your hand on your lap. Music plays low, something chill, maybe slightly nostalgic. And you don’t know where you’re going yet...

“Okay, are you ever gonna tell me where we’re going?” you laughed softly.

Rafe grins with his eyes on the road. “Ehm... Nope, just sit pretty, princesa.” (princess)

You blushed. “But... I’m not dressed for anything fancy…”

“You’re always dressed perfect. But don’t worry mami, that’s the whole point of today.”

You glance at him, confused. And he turns into a street you rarely go to, quieter, more upscale. He finally pulls up in front of a boutique with big windows and soft pink signage, it looks like the kind of place you’d never go into alone.

“Rafey…?” you asked curiously.

He cut the engine and turned toward you. “You’ve been through too much lately and you always put yourself last. So, today you let me treat you. No arguing. You just try cute things on, and I’ll take care of the rest.” he said seriously at you.

Your eyes are wide, he's definitely spoiling you today. “You’re spoiling me…”

He lean in, kissing your cheek. “Damn right I am. You deserve to be spoiled rotten.”

Inside the boutique it smells like vanilla and fresh linen. A soft playlist hums in the background. You’re overwhelmed at first, racks of delicate fabrics, luxurious textures, colors you love but never feel bold enough to wear. Rafe walks in like he owns the place, immediately chatting with the shop girl and asking for a private dressing room for “his girl.” She grins and obliges.

He come back to you, holding up a silky cream-colored dress. “Try this one first. It looks like something a goddess would wear.” he paused a bit. “A latina goddess I might say” he winks at you.

You blushed shyly, running your fingers over the fabric. “It’s… kinda tight though. What if—” he interrupted you gently.

“If you’re about to say anything mean about yourself, I’m stopping you right now.” he steps closer, hands resting lightly on your waist, his thumbs brushing where your top meets your skin. “I love every inch of you. This? Right here?” he caress your belly softly. “This is part of what makes you real... and beautiful.”

You step into the dressing room, there’s a large mirror with warm lighting. You pull the dress on, your heart fluttering. It hugs you; your chest, your hips, your belly. You feel a little vulnerable, but something about Rafe waiting outside changes the air. So you open the door slowly.

Rafe looked up… and stares. “Holy sh—” he takes a slow step back, his eyes never leaving you. “You’re gonna give me a damn heart attack, mami.”

You laughed nervously. “Rafe… it’s… a bit tight. It shows everything.” you say looking down.

He chuckled. “Exactly, and I love what it shows!”

He walks around you like you’re art, fingers grazing your waist, his lips parting just slightly.

“I swear to God… how did I get this lucky?” he murmured softly. You blush furiously and hide your face in your hands, he pulls your hands away gently. “Don’t hide, baby. I want to see all of you. Especially the parts you think aren’t “perfect.” That’s where all the magic lives.” he kisses your cheek and you just blushed.

***

The day becomes a whirlwind of you trying on outfit after outfit, but you don't complain though. A flowy summer dress that twirls when you spin, he literally claps his hands and tells you you’re a dream. A two-piece set that shows a sliver of your stomach, you hesitate, but he walks right over and kisses your side, murmuring in your ear.

“That belly is mine, 'kay? It’s soft, beautiful and so you. Don’t you ever shrink yourself for anyone, not even yourself.”

You’re now in a shorter dress, one you normally wouldn’t wear. Rafe is sitting on the couch in the dressing area, his legs spread, arms draped on the back, looking so damn good. When you come out, he sits up straight, jaw tightening a little like he can’t believe it.

“Okay, I’m buying you that one. Like, right now. Before someone else sees you in it and I start a fight in this store.” he says smirking.

You just giggled. “Rafe! You can't be serious!”

“I’m serious, muñeca. You look like a freaking angel, with curves sent from heaven to test my patience.” (doll)

You swat his arm, but he laughs and pulls you into his lap when you get close enough, not caring at all that the shopgirl or if anyone at the store sees.

***

A few hours later. You’re sitting in the passenger seat again, a bunch of shopping bags in the back. You would say you didn't need it, but your heart is full. You’re in one of the dresses he picked, eating ice cream together with the windows down. He reaches over, brushing a smear of vanilla from your lower lip.

“You know what the best part of today was?” he asked gently.

“Hmm?”

“Seeing you start to believe me.”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you so softly it makes your stomach flip, not from insecurity this time, but from pure love. “It’s still hard… sometimes. When I look in the mirror.” you murmured shyly.

He whispered softly to you. “Then I’ll be your mirror, baby. Every time you forget, I’ll remind you.”

He grabs your hand and places it on his chest.

“This heart? It beats harder for all of you. Not some edited version, not what the world wants. Just… you.”

You lean over and kiss him gently, tasting sweetness and tears. A happy, healing kind.

“Thank you for loving every part of me. Even the parts I didn’t know how to love.”

He kiss you back. “Uhh, especially those parts, baby.”

You're back at your shared room. The sun is dipping low outside, painting the sky soft orange and lavender. You’re home now, shoes kicked off, shopping bags scattered around the bed. Rafe’s lying back against the headboard in gray sweatpants and no shirt, watching you sort through the new clothes with a little smile.

“So… you gonna give me the private fashion show now, or what?” he says playfully with his arms behind his head.

You blushed at his playful tone. “You already saw everything at the store!”

He chuckled. “Yeah, but that was in public. I had to behave mami, there's no cuss words allowed. And I couldn’t exactly do this...”

He winks and makes a slow biting motion toward the air, and you burst out laughing, throwing a sweater at him.

“¡Rafe!”

He grins. “C’mon, baby. You were glowing today, I wanna see you glow just for me.”

You turn away, face burning a little, but you feel the flutter of something new; comfort. Confidence, even. You pick one of the dresses; the silky cream one, and disappear into the bathroom. You slip it on slowly, brushing your hands down the fabric. It still hugs your body, your belly. But his words echo in your head: “That’s where the magic lives.”

When you step back out, Rafe sits up instantly. “…My god, fuck.”

You smile, twirling slightly. “You like it?”

He smiles. “You know I do. But also? You look even better now.”

You raise an eyebrow, laughing. “Why?”

“Well, 'cause now I can tell you feel it a little. I can see it in your eyes, you're finally seeing what I see.” he paused and looked right into your eyes. “And I, happily, can be the one who makes you see yourself from another point of view... My point of view.”

You look down shyly and blushing, running your fingers over your sides. He opens his arms, and you walk into them, sinking into his lap on the bed. His hands rest on your thighs, then your waist, not going anywhere, just holding. You curl your fingers into his messy hair.

You speak up. “It’s still hard. But today felt… like a beginning.”

He smiles kindly. “Then let’s keep beginning, every day.”

His voice is quiet, low, not teasing now. He leans forward and kisses your stomach through the fabric, slow and reverent, like he’s promising something sacred to you.

You’re trying on another outfit now, a form-fitting set that hugs your curves. You feel a little more exposed in this one, more vulnerable. You stand in front of him, arms crossed, biting your lip.

“This one shows… everything.” you murmured shyly.

He bites his lip. “Good...”

You open your mouth to protest, but he stands and walks over, slowly placing his hands on your hips.

“It shows your softness, your strength. The part of you that rests, that grows, that feels. That belly? That's where your laughter lives, that’s where I get to hold you at night.” he gently drags his fingertips across the sides of your waist and rests his forehead against yours. “It’s not a flaw, baby, it's a part of your story.”

You close your eyes, letting a small, silent tear slip down your cheek. He brushes it away with his thumb, then presses a kiss to each cheek, each eyelid, your lips. It’s so slow it nearly undoes you.

“Rafe... Why do you love me this much?” you whispered softly.

“Because loving you feels like breathing and I don’t have to think about it, it just happens... And the more I see you, the more I want to love you... You know, the shy, the fierce, the quiet, the soft. All of it.”

You melt into his chest, burying your face there, hands gripping his sides. He holds you there, rocking slightly, the silence full of meaning.

A little while later. You’re lying in bed together, the clothes are scattered. You’re in one of the oversized sweaters you picked, your legs tangled with his. His fingers are lazily trailing circles along your thighs, he hasn’t stopped smiling at you all night.

“You make me feel like I could love myself the way you do.” you sighed. “And it's crazy, but in a good way.”

“Then I’m doing something right.” he kisses the back of your hand, pulling the blanket over both of you. “You don’t owe the world a “perfect” version of yourself. You owe yourself peace. And if that means we burn every stupid beauty standard and eat pan dulce in bed every night, then so be it.” you giggle, tears still soft in your lashes.

“You’re such a romantic for a guy who used to punch walls.” you smile.

Rafe laughed. “Yeah, well… turns out softness makes me stronger now. You make me softer, and better.”

You look at him then, your eyes are locked. There’s something weightless between you now. Healing, trust, safety. A kind of love that doesn’t need to be loud to be true.

“You really think I’m beautiful?”

“No.” you blink surprised, he smiles gently. “I know you are.”

He kisses you again. This time, it lingers. Not urgent, just real, just him and you, whole, soft and held.

***

It’s a golden Saturday afternoon on the Outer Banks. The sky is cloudless, the breeze just warm enough to carry laughter down the beach. A gathering’s been planned with the Pogues, just a bonfire, snacks, swimming, and good music. You weren’t sure you were going to go. But now you’re here, sitting in Rafe’s truck, parked just before the dunes.

“Are you sure I look okay?” you asked him softly.

You’re wearing high-waisted shorts and a bikini top, your belly isn’t completely exposed, but it's more than you usually show. The wind makes your hair sway, your fingers nervously fidget in your lap.

He turns to you slowly, leaning on the console. “You’re not just okay... You’re drop-dead, soul-shaking, punch-me-in-the-face kind of beautiful.”

You giggle through your nerves. He grins, brushing a hand along your cheek.

“I’m serious, princesa. But... you don’t have to do this to prove anything, baby. We can turn around and just stay home. Eat fruit, kiss and cuddle.” (princess)

You made silence but spoke quietly. “No… I want to. I just… I’m scared. Like the second I stand in front of people, they’ll look straight at my belly.”

“Then they better look with respect.” he kisses your forehead, then your nose, then whispers against your lips. “But truth is, they’ll be too busy noticing your laugh, the way you make people feel safe, the way the sun literally follows you around. And me? I’ll be right there beside you, keeping eyes in check and calling you mi reina every five minutes.”

You smile, heart thudding gently, and nod. He helps you out of the truck like he’s lifting royalty. You walk hand-in-hand with him down to the beach, your feet sinking into the warm sand. You spot JJ, Kie, Pope, Cleo, John B and Sarah. They’re already gathered near a fire pit, the beginnings of a bonfire set up. As you approach, your nerves threaten to return, but Rafe squeezes your hand.

“Eyes on me, mami. You’re good, you’re so damn good.”

You nod, blinking against the slight sting of fear. But then… the Pogues all look up, and they smile. Genuine, warm, no judgment. Kie wave her hand. Sarah yells your name. JJ gives a two-finger salute with a goofy grin.

“Look who finally decided to bless the sand!” JJ said with a smile while drinking a beer.

You feel Kie's eyes noticing your outfit. “Girrl, you look amazing! That color on you? Ugh, I’m obsessed.”

You blush and smile a little, caught off guard. Rafe wraps his arm around your waist casually and kisses your temple in front of everyone like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You settle in with the group and the laughter flows in the air. JJ’s telling exaggerated stories, Sarah’s tossing grapes in people’s mouths, and you’re slowly… starting to relax. At some point, you slip off your shorts to wade into the water. You hesitate for just a second, but Rafe’s behind you.

“I got you, baby.” he says softly. “Besides, you're going to turn into a cute latina mermaid and I'm gonna be a merman, don't you think, hm?” he says and you let out a loud laugh.

You step forward, the water cool on your legs. You’re waist-deep, hair wet, laughing as a wave hits you. Rafe comes in after, arms around you from behind, letting you lean back into him. You giggle as he lifts you up a little, spinning you before planting a soft kiss on your wet shoulder.

“That little giggle right there… that’s mine.” he laughs softly.

You turn to face him, your cheeks flushed from sun and love. He doesn’t even glance down at your body, just straight into your eyes like they’re the only thing on earth.

Later, near dusk the sun starts to dip lower. Everyone’s gathered around the bonfire, towels draped, clothes thrown on again. You’re sitting in Rafe’s lap on a beach blanket, wrapped in his hoodie. He’s feeding you bits of fruit, brushing your hair back with sand-sticky fingers.

“I was scared today.” you spoke softly.

“I know baby.”

You made a pause, then spoke again. “But… I think it’s the first time I didn’t let that fear win.”

He looks at you with that kind of stillness that means he’s really listening, really feeling it.

“You were radiant today, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Even with my belly showing?”

“Especially with your belly showing. Baby, don’t you get it yet?” he brushes his palm gently across your stomach through the hoodie. “You’re real, soft and beautiful. That belly holds your heart, your strength. And when you laugh, when you live, that’s where it glows from.”

You bite your lip, heart full and aching in the best way.

“I’m starting to believe you.” you whispered looking at him.

He leans in and kisses you slow, firelight glowing behind you, the ocean waves soft and steady. When you part, he presses his lips to your cheek and whispered to you.

“You don’t need to be smaller to be loved. You just need to be you. And I’m so proud of you, mi amor.” he smiled softly. (my love)

You rest against his chest, your fingers laced with his, watching the flames dance. For the first time in a long time… you feel like maybe your body isn’t something to shrink, but something to celebrate, especially in his arms.

***

The day after the beach you wake up thanks to the morning sunlight pouring in through the blinds, casting golden lines across the wooden floor. The bedroom is quiet, save for the soft hum of a playlist in the background coming from the kitchen, something mellow and old, like a faded vinyl memory. You walk into the kitchen slowly, wearing one of Rafe’s old T-shirts that hangs halfway down your thighs. Your bare legs are slightly cold, but the floor under your feet feels familiar now.

You rub your eyes, still sleepy from the night before. The living room’s a mess of cozy throw blankets, you walk into the kitchen and there he is.

He speaks without looking, flipping something in the pan. “Mornin’, hermosa.”

You smile, slow and soft. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants low on his hips, his hair messy and eyes half-lidded as he moves around like he owns the space, because he does. Because now, it’s your space too.

“You’re cooking?” you asked gently.

He chuckled while smiling. “I’m trying ya' know? I don’t think scrambled eggs are supposed to stick like this, but… you know. I deserve an A for effort.”

You giggle, padding over and wrapping your arms around his middle from behind, resting your cheek against his back. He pauses, lets the spatula rest in the pan, and covers your hands with his.

“How you feelin’ mami?” he asked softly.

You press a soft kiss between his shoulder blades before answering. “Lighter. Still shy, but… lighter.”

He turns around to face you, arms looping around your waist, eyes drifting down to the hem of his shirt where it hugs your hips gently.

“God, you look so good like this.” he says as he throws his head back.

You blushed. “Rafe…” you say shyly.

He smirks, lowering his forehead to yours.

“What? I’m not allowed to call my girl a walking dream?”

You blushed and he noticed, he always does. He leans down and kisses your nose, then your cheek, then whispers near your ear.

“You make this place feel like home now.” he whispered softly to you.

Your breath hitches a little and he lifts you gently by the waist and sets you on the kitchen counter. You instinctively cross your legs, but he uncrosses them softly, looking you in the eyes.

“Eh, eh, don’t hide... Not from me.”

You look down at your thighs, the ones you used to hate, now exposed. Rafe kneels in front of you, resting his hands on either side.

“I used to think I’d never have something soft, something safe. And then you walked in with your sunshine, your shyness and your sweet Spanish cuss words.” he smirked. “You taught me gentle.”

You run your fingers through his hair, eyes stinging slightly. “And you taught me… that I don’t have to earn love with pain.”

His eyes lock on yours, he lifts your hand and kisses each knuckle, then sets your palm over his heart.

“This? Always beats for you.” he whispered softly.

Suddenly, the eggs sizzle too hard and Rafe bolts up.

“Oh shit... wait, wait, wait!” he says as he quickly goes to the stove.

You burst into laughter as he scrambles to save the eggs. He plates them, a little too brown, but you don't mind at all, and grabs two mugs for coffee. You watch him with a quiet kind of wonder, how the same boy who used to break things without thinking now uses every second to build something around you.

“You’re really trying to take care of me, huh?” you smiled at him.

He sets your plate in front of you, eyes bright. “Not trying, doing. I want to be the reason you feel full again. Not just your stomach, but your heart and soul.”

You eat quietly for a moment, legs swinging off the counter. The mood shifts as the music plays something familiar, a soft Spanish love song. Rafe puts the fork down, walks over, and holds out his hand.

“Dance with me?” he asked playfully with a smile on his face.

You giggle, mouth half-full. “Now?”

“Now, no excuses.”

You take his hand and he spins you gently, clumsy but sweet. His hands stay low on your waist, fingers playing at the hem of the shirt.

“Look at you… belly, thighs, sleepy eyes. You’re so perfect, baby.” he says softly.

You lean into his chest, letting yourself rest there. It doesn’t feel scary this time, it feels… soft, yours, home. “I never thought I’d feel safe like this.”

“You are. And when you don’t feel it, I’ll remind you again and again.”

He cups your face, brushing your hair back, tilting your chin up. His kiss is slow and deep, full of everything words can’t hold. He breaks away just enough to whisper.

“This love? It’s yours. No matter the mirror, no matter the scale, no matter the voice in your head, okay? It's yours, it's ours, guapa.”

You rest your forehead against his, tears forming again, not from pain this time, but peace. Your arms wrap around his neck, and he sways you in place like the whole world’s finally quiet.

***

It's been a week since the shopping, the beach trip, and the romantic/catastrophic moment in the kitchen. It's late afternoon, almost golden hour and the girls didn't open the little sea shop today so it was a day off for everyone. The windows are cracked open, letting in the warm, salt-tinged breeze from the marshes.

The house is quiet, just you in the living room, barefoot, your hair loose and wild, wearing one of your comfy sets: a fitted crop top and flowy lounge shorts. Reggaeton beats pulse low and sultry through the speakers. You had been cleaning, but now you’re dancing. For no one, just you.

The rhythm hits something inside of you, something playful, something bold. You sway, hips catching the beat, arms raised as you let go. Your body moves with instinct more than thought, the sunlight filters through the blinds and lands on your skin like honey, your shadow flickering against the wall as you spin slowly, hips rolling, chest rising with each breath. You giggle softly at yourself, biting your lip as you close your eyes and let it take over.

You haven’t danced like this in a while. Not since you felt truly free in your body, and it feels… good. Not performative, not ashamed, just real, just you.

And what you don’t know is that Rafe’s standing at the threshold of the hallway, completely frozen. He was coming out of the bedroom with a towel around his neck, fresh from a shower. His damp hair falls over his forehead, and a bottle of water hangs loosely in his hand. But now? He can’t move, his eyes are wide, locked on you, transfixed, his chest rising a little quicker.

“Damn, baby…” he murmured softly, barely audible to himself.

You don’t notice him at first, you're too busy spinning again, one arm over your head, hips working in slow figure eights to the heavy bass, a teasing smirk playing at the corner of your lips. You’re in your own little world. Until...

“Keep goin’, don’t stop.” he says hoarsely.

You gasp a little and spin around, startled, your cheeks burning immediately when you see him leaning against the doorframe with that look in his eyes. He’s not smirking like he normally does when you catch him watching you, no, this is something deeper, slower. His jaw is slack, his tongue swipes the corner of his lip, and his eyes are so full of hunger and wonder you almost forget to breathe.

“Rafe, I — I didn’t know you were there. I... I was just—”

He stepped forward. “Shh. Don’t explain, mami.”

He walks slowly toward you, almost like he’s afraid you’ll stop. You step back a little, shy but still swaying slightly to the music that continues to pulse in the background. Your heart is thudding in your chest.

“I—I haven’t danced like that in a long time.” you confess. “Since the day we met, if I'm honest.”

He smirked. “Oh yeah?” he steps even closer. “Then why does it look like your body’s been waiting to?”

He’s right in front of you now, barely any space between you. You can smell the soap on his skin, feel the warmth radiating off his body. One of his hands gently finds your waist, not grabbing, just resting, like a question.

“You were made for this, for the beat, for the light, for driving me insane in the best way.”

You look up at him, and suddenly you feel both bashful and brave. The music shifts to a slower reggaeton track, sensual and thick with bass. You don’t stop moving, your hips still roll gently, teasingly, eyes never leaving his.

“You like it?” you looked at him, waiting for a response.

He grins, the kind that starts in his eyes before it ever hits his lips. His fingers tighten on your waist slightly. “I love it, I love you. You’re so… free like this, so fucking beautiful.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear, fingers trailing down your neck. He doesn’t need to kiss you yet, he’s savoring the sight. You close your eyes and move again, slower this time, letting the music guide you, but knowing he’s watching makes everything electric.

Then his hands move, both of them now, guiding your hips gently, matching your rhythm. His breath is hot against your ear.

“Let me dance with you, baby.” he whispered against your ear.

You let him and the two of you sway together, bodies close, moving in sync. It’s not rehearsed, it’s not polished, it’s messy, soft, instinctive. He trails kisses down your neck, your collarbone, but still, you move. Your laugh bubbles out when he twirls you suddenly, your back hitting his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle.

“Don’t ever hide this side of you again. This? This is yours and you own every damn room you walk into, even when you don’t know it.” he whispered again against your ear.

You rest your hands over his, feeling the way he holds you like something precious. Your eyes sting again, but not from shame this time, from how good it feels to be seen, loved, desired and cherished.

“I used to hate my hips, you know? My thighs... And the way I jiggle when I move.”

He spoke immediately. “Don’t say that, not ever again.”

He turns you to face him, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping gently.

“That jiggle? It drives me crazy, mami. And your hips? Baby, they’re art. You know how many girls would kill to move like you? To look like you?” you look down, shy again. He lifts your chin gently. “You’re not just sexy, you’re powerful. You’re the kind of woman that makes people feel, including me.”

You smile, and this time it doesn’t feel small or scared. It feels bright, whole.

You grab his hand and place it back on your hip. “Then keep dancing with me.”

And he does, the two of you move as the sunlight fades, shadows dancing across the walls like echoes of who you used to be and who you’re becoming thanks to his constant support.

***

It is now the night, and the living room is dim now, only lit by the soft flicker of a movie playing on the TV, one of those cheesy action flicks Rafe likes but he never actually finishes. The two of you are curled up on the couch, your legs across his lap, your back against the cushions, his arm thrown around your shoulders, everything is just chill and cozy. You’re still in the same comfy clothes, your crop top and shorts, but your hair’s a little messier now, your skin warm from earlier. And he hasn’t said much since dinner, just keeps stealing glances, like he’s trying to understand what just happened in his own home.

You catch him looking again, his gaze lingering far longer than it should, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You squint at him, smirking.

“What? Me estás mirando mucho, eh...” you say softly with a little giggle at the end. (you're looking at me too much, huh...)

He doesn’t answer right away, just shakes his head, blinking slow, his arm sliding down your shoulders to your waist as he shifts his body toward you.

“I just…” he murmured with a low voice. “I can’t stop lookin’ at you.”

Your cheeks go warm immediately, you hug one of the throw pillows against your stomach, trying to hide your smile, eyes darting down.

“Rafe…” you say while blushing.

He speaks softly. “No, I mean it. You know I’ve always thought you were beautiful. You’ve always been my soft place, my gentle, bright, baby girl.” he leans in closer now, his voice barely above a whisper. “But today…” he exhales dramatically. “Damn, baby, you were fire. Like… I didn’t even know you had that in you. You moved like you owned the world, like no one could touch you.”

You bite your lip, trying not to feel too exposed. You tuck your legs up under you a bit more, curling into yourself, even though his words make you want to unfold completely.

“It felt… weirdly good, you know? Like I was still that sexy Latina, I didn't know that fire still existed in me.”

You glance up at him, he’s watching you again. There’s nothing casual about the way he looks at you, it’s deep, like he’s trying to memorize every detail.

“I don’t think you realize what that did to me, seeing you like that. Just… being in your body, owning it. You weren’t even trying to be sexy, and it was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still watching you, eyes glinting with something soft and awestruck.

“And all this time… all this time you’ve been hidin’ her under oversized sweatshirts and those shy little smiles, like you didn’t know what kind of spell you were capable of casting.” he said softly.

You feel your breath catch, not because of the compliment, but because of how genuine it feels. Like he’s not flattering you, he’s describing something that wrecked him emotionally.

“I didn’t think I could be that girl anymore, you know?”

Rafe scoots closer now, shifting his body so he’s facing you completely, one of his hands reaching out to cup your cheek gently. “She’s you, that girl is you. She’s always been there, mi amor. Just… buried under all the things people made you believe.”

He brushes his thumb along your cheekbone. You lean into his hand without meaning to.

He spoke again. “I don’t care how soft you are, how shy. I love every inch of that. But tonight? You looked like you were finally letting yourself breathe again.”

He leans forward and kisses your forehead, slow and warm. Then your nose, and then, finally, your lips, like he’s grounding you in that moment. Like he’s kissing both versions of you; the soft, scared girl and the fire-lit one who danced like the world had stopped.

“I want you to feel like that every day. Like the whole damn room disappears when you walk in.”

You chuckle, still a little bashful. “That’s dramatic, in a telenovela way.”

He grins. “Maybe, but I mean it mami.”

You shift so you're facing him now too, folding your legs up under you and resting your head on his shoulder. His arm curls around you protectively, like instinct.

You don’t speak right away. Instead, you lean forward and kiss him again. Slower this time, deep, warm, full of something that feels like healing. You kiss him like you’re claiming space for the first time. When you pull back, his hands are still on your waist, and you’re smiling for real now.

“I think I want to dance like that more often.”

He smiles widely. “Then I’ll build you a damn dance floor, princesa.”

You laughed and swat his arm. He pulls you closer, nuzzling into your neck with a teasing grin, but the softness doesn’t leave his eyes. It never does when he’s with you.

You settle back onto his chest, his hand tracing lazy circles on your thigh, the movie is completely forgotten. And you feel safe, you feel beautiful. And, for the first time in forever, you feel seen.

[jennay]

Part 3

Master List

Noah Sebastian x Reader

You step outside your home with the kind of ease reserved for pajama mornings—soft cotton shorts, an oversized tee that’s seen better days, and not a single apology about any of it. The sun hits your skin gently, like it's trying not to offend you. How thoughtful.

It’s quiet. A new kind of quiet. And for once, you’re grateful, not just for the silence, but for the years of money stashed away like little exit strategies.

Some part of you had always known this breakup was coming. Maybe not the when or how, but the inevitability clung to you.

Why you stayed so long when the ending was engraved already? That part’s messier. Maybe it was love. Or loyalty. Or a softer version of self-sabotage disguised as devotion. Either way, you’re here now. Free-ish. Healing-ish.

You grip the hose and twist the nozzle, releasing a stream of cold water that splashes onto your bare feet. The shock jolts you slightly more awake than the coffee ever managed to this morning.

You glance at the half-drunk mug perched on the porch rail, wondering if your body’s reached its caffeine limit—burnt out by too many mornings like this and too many changes stacked back to back.

You walk across the yard, grass cool and damp beneath your feet, brushing your skin like a quiet hello. At the edge of the flower garden, your sunflowers stretch upward, just beginning to bloom. Bright yellow faces still shy but bold enough to show up.

You point the hose toward them gently, watering each stem with care. They hadn’t blossomed overnight. Neither had you. But the fact that they were standing tall felt like something. Felt like progress and that was reassuring.

“Nora?”

The voice yanked you from your thoughts just as you turned, still squeezing the nozzle. Water shot out in an arc before your brain caught up—before you registered the figure now standing in the line of fire.

Your mouth opened on instinct.

You dropped the hose like it had personally betrayed you. “Oh my god!” you blurted, eyes wide in horror. “I am so sorry. I swear that was aimed at a sunflower with questionable attitude.”

Your body finally relaxes when Noah cracks a smile, running a hand through his now-drenched hair like it’s part of a shampoo commercial. "Are you calling me a sunflower?” he asks, laughing. “My attitude is well-behaved today, thank you very much.”

You inch toward him, suddenly very aware of your garden crimes. "Do you want a towel or something?" you offer, eyes flicking down to his soaked white shirt—a logo you don’t recognize stretches across the front, now semi-transparent. That’s when you notice the tattoos, ink crawling across his arms like stories you haven’t read yet. Nora, stop staring.

"I think I’m okay," he says, pointing down the street. "I live right there—the third house on the left."

You sigh with dramatic relief. “Thank God. For a second, I thought you were a very charming stalker.”

He chuckles. “Nope. Just taking a neighborhood stroll. But hey, good to know I rank so highly in your suspicions.” He gestures over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go change before this shirt decides to cling any harder. Nice seeing you again, neighbor.”

The blush creeps in before you can stop it. You clear your throat, suddenly brave but still shaky. "Do you want to come back later? I’ve got a cool setup in the backyard. Honestly, I don’t know many people around here, and it’d be nice to have someone to hang out with. No pressure or anything—I mean, if you’re busy or don’t want to, that’s fine, just ignore everything I’m saying, I’ll go water a flower—" You’re rambling and you know it, but socializing was the goal and now here you are, awkward and hopeful.

He tilts his head, still grinning. “What time?”

Your mouth parts. “Oh, you said yes. Um...well, what time works for you?” It’s too much air and not enough words, but you’re committed now.

He’s grinning wide, practically sparkling with amusement. This version of you—unsure and gentle is a far cry from the sass-laced duels you’ve traded before. And apparently, he likes it.

“How about I go change and come back?” he says, already stepping backward toward the street. “I’ve got some things later this evening, but we could soak up some sun and hang out for a bit. Deal?”

You nod. “Deal. But just so you know—I’m fully committed to the pajama lifestyle today. No wardrobe changes on my end.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

And just like that, he’s heading off down the sidewalk, trailing droplets and charm like confetti.

You walk back through your front door, the click of it behind you echoing louder than expected. Your heart’s thudding like it thinks this is the start of something. You lean against the wall and exhale.

What the hell are you doing?

Making friends? Inviting mysterious, tattooed neighbors over for backyard hangs? Watering flowers like some emotionally healing rom-com heroine?

Alright, Universe. Let’s see what happens next.

[lostfirefly]

I've been suffering from insomnia since 2017.. Last night I was wandering around the apartment and the idea for this sketch came to my mind :) English isn't my native language, errors may occur :)

“Get Back Here”

(soft / sleepy comfort)

The ship was quiet. Everyone’s asleep. Everyone except you.

It’s the middle of the night, and the cabin felt too small to hold your thoughts. You’d been pacing for what felt like hours, from the door to the desk, from the desk to the window, back again. The boards creaked under your feet, the lantern light flickered faintly.

You were not even thinking about the noise you’re making… until you heard a low, sleepy voice from the bed.

“Sweetheart… why are you doing laps?”

“Sorry.” You stopped mid-step. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You heard a rustle of blankets, then Buggy’s head poked up from the pillow. His hair was a little messy, makeup was smudged from sleep.

“Middle of the night and you’re out here doing cardio?” He squinted at you. “Get back over here.”

“Nah…” You gave a faint smile. “Can’t sleep.”

“Mm.” Buggy stretched an arm out toward you lazily. “Then come not-sleep next to me.”

You hesitated, looking back at the floorboards. “I’ll just keep you up.”

“Oh for god’s sake! You’re killing me here.”

Before you could protest, his arm detached with a quiet pop and floated across the room toward you.

“Hey!” You giggled, when his hand grabbed your wrist gently but firmly.

“C’mere.” Buggy said with a grin that’s far too smug for 3 a.m.

You rolled your eyes, but he was already reeling you in. Literally. The arm pulled you toward the bed until you were standing right next to it. His other arm snaked out from under the blanket, tugging you down.

In seconds, you were under the covers, pressed against a warm chest that smelled faintly of the sea and his cologne.

“See? Much better,” Buggy murmured, wrapping both arms around you. “This is where you belong.”

You tried to shift. “Buggy…”

“Nope. Trapped. Ship rules.” He rested his chin on the top of your head. “What’s got you pacing, anyway?”

“Don’t know.” You sighed. “Just… can’t shut my brain off.”

He hummed, started rubbing slow circles against your back. “Then I’ll do it for you.”

“That’s not…”

“Shhh.” He kissed your temple. “You’re here. You’re warm. And you’re gonna stay right here until you’re drooling on my shirt. And I will finally listen to you snore like a sea cow.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah! You snore. Loud. Every night. Like a sea cow in mating season.”

“I do not.” You groaned, burying your face against him.

“Do too. I almost had to stuff a sock in your mouth.” He chuckled, stroking your hair in lazy, absent-minded motions. “But I didn’t. Because I’m sweet like that.”

“You?” You tilted your head up, squinting at him. “Sweet?”

“Yeah.” Buggy said, smiling widely. “Sweet enough to keep you from pacing holes in the floor.”

“Sorry.” Your cheeks were a little warm. “I didn’t mean to..”

“Hey.” His tone softened instantly. “Don’t apologize. You needed to walk it out. I just… figured you’d sleep better with me than with the ghosts in your head.”

You looked at him for a long moment, and that familiar little twist in your chest made you realize you would sleep better. Much better.

“Thanks.” You murmured.

Buggy kissed your forehead, quick, almost casual, but his arm tightened around you. “Anytime, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me, remember?”

“Ship rules?” You smiled against his skin.

“Ship rules.” He grinned. “Now get comfy again. Captain says we don’t get up until at least noon.”

“Cool!” You said quietly, hugging him tightly.

Your body was already relaxing under the steady pressure of his embrace. Buggy's heartbeat was slow, solid, grounding.

Within minutes, your eyes were heavy. You felt his lips brushing your hair again, and you heard his murmuring just before you drift.

“Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” Buggy said quietly.

You laughed, but you let him pull you closer, tucking you under his chin. Outside, the crew can wait. The ship can wait.

Right now, you’d got the warmest spot on the Grand Line, and you were not moving for anything.