#but it really didn’t have to be that deep

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[navybrat817]

Starting Over

Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.

Word Count: Over 3.7k

Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)

A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either. 

This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.

Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy. 

“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.

You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.

Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you. 

Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.

“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.” 

A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right. 

Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-

“You lost?”

You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.

The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.

He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”

Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”

You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do. 

“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand. 

Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs. 

Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?

“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?” 

You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.

“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.

He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.

You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.

“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”

You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them. 

“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”

You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.

But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.

“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”

Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?

It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.

His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”

Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.

“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”

Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right. 

He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”

“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”

You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness. 

“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”

You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”

“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”

You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”

His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”

The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”

He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.

You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?

“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”

He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”

“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.

When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”

“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled. 

Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye. 

What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you? 

“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”

You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.

“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”

You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”

“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”

You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”

“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”

“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.

“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”

Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?

You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.

“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”

You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”

Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.

“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”

Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”

You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too. 

Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”

“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said. 

“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”

Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.

“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring. 

“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.

“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed. 

You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.

“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”

“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”

“If you change your mind-”

“I’ll let you know.”

He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”

“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors. 

He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”

“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult. 

But it didn’t come.

Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”

You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked. 

“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his. 

“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him. 

“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air. 

“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened. 

You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.

Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[catchastarorten]

—“Come back alive”

Pairing: Hwang Jun-ho x eventuallover!fem!reader

Summary: he never told you how he really felt about you, believing you deserved more than a man consumed with finding his brother and that island. But now, with the island gone, he returned home to you, and did what he should’ve done a long time ago—truly be with you.

Content: very brief mentions of s3 events, happy endings for you and Jun-ho, childhood best friends to lovers, Jun-ho having emotional conflict, kisses, a little angsty(?), fast-paced, English isn't my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1.1k

You were his everything long before he ever admitted it to himself.

Jun-ho always knew that. Knew that since you were kids, voices hoarse from screaming each other’s names across the playground.

You two had grown up together, attached at the hip. Kids who met on a rainy schoolyard and never let go. He scraped his knees, and you were the one who washed the blood away. You got your heart broken in middle school, and he showed up with a small boquet he made with flowers he picked and told you that anyone who didn’t love you was a damn idiot.

As time passed by, the world changed—got colder—but you didn’t. Or maybe you did, in the same way he did. But you still looked at him like he mattered when he didn’t even feel real to himself anymore.

When In-ho disappeared, it was like the whole city turned to grey static. People offered "sorry"s, a few helped at first, but you—you stayed. You looked through police reports with him, stayed up late when he looked through footage frame by frame, and asked anyone you thought had a chance of knowing In-ho.

You never once asked him to stop. Never once told him to move on like everyone else did. You just looked at him with that patient grief in your eyes that mirrored his, and it made something hurt deep in his ribs, something too full to name.

There were nights when he wanted to say it. You’d be sitting on his couch with cups of cheap convenience store coffee, exhaustion hanging between you, and he’d look at your face—tired, steady—and want to say, I love you.

But how could he? How could he look you in the eye and ask for your heart when his was still buried under the weight of his missing brother? When he still woke up cold in the middle of the night from that dream? The cliff, the gunshot, the ocean.

He thought if he really said it, if he really let himself have you—you'd feel like a placeholder. Like comfort he ran to because his brother was gone.

And you deserved so much more than being second to his grief.

He was terrified. That loving you meant dragging you into his shadows. That you’d smile that soft smile of yours and nod, but never really feel like you meant enough to him. Because how could you be, if he hadn’t made peace with himself yet?

But he never stopped thinking about it. About you. About the things he didn't say.

And maybe you knew. Maybe that’s why you never said anything either. You never pushed. Never asked. But you were there. You were always there. You waited.

—

The night before Jun-ho left for the island again, he stood outside your apartment for five full minutes, just staring at the door. He thought about turning around. About leaving without seeing you. Maybe it would hurt less that way.

But when you opened the door—like you already knew he was coming—he forgot all of that.

You didn’t ask why he was there. You just let him in.

He stood there in your tiny living room, his eyes didn’t meet yours right away. “...I'm leaving tomorrow.”

You swallowed, your hand tightening slightly on the edge of your sleeve. But you were calm. “So you came to say goodbye.”

He hated the sound of that word in your mouth. Goodbye. It wasn’t supposed to sound so final.

“I came because I didn’t want to leave without seeing you.”

That’s when you reached for him.

A hand to his chest first, gentle and warm. Then your other hand cradled the side of his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone like you were checking to see if he was real. Your eyes flicked to his lips for just a second.

That was all it took.

You kissed him.

Slow.

Soft.

He froze.

Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did, he wanted you ever since he was fifteen and you tackled him during a stupid pillow fight. But because he was afraid. Afraid that this would be the only kiss he would ever share with you. Afraid that he might never get the chance to have you in his arms again if he left today.

But you didn't kiss like that. You kissed him like you knew there would be more. Like you were certain he'd come back.

Then he melted.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you back as his chest pressed against yours, and it felt like home.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his.

“Come back alive,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer for a second. He just held you. Closed his eyes and imagined your life together—quiet kisses in soft-lit rooms, laughter over dinners, long nights where the only war was deciding what movie to watch.

“I will,” he finally said, and he hated how much his voice wavered.

—

The next day, he was gone with Woo-seok and the team

He could still feel the touch of your kiss. He leaned against the boat, eyes scanning the horizon, but all he saw was your face.

He thought about you the whole time they drifted on the ocean, trying to find the island. He thought about your laugh. He thought about how you never told him not to go. You just asked him to survive.

And he tried. When everyone on the boat nearly died from a betrayal. When he got the confrontation he wanted with In-ho, moments before the island exploded.

And he came back for you.

—

The second he saw you again, standing in that same doorway, he dropped everything and wrapped his arms around you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers curled into his back like you were afraid to let go. His lips found your shoulder, your temple, your cheek, then finally your lips.

And this time, it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t hesitant. It was years of ache and longing and quiet waiting that finally let loose.

He pulled back only once, to whisper the words he’d carried for so long.

“I love you.”

You smiled, voice breaking, but eyes steady. “I know.”

He was home.

[deliwrites]

𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤 // Saja Boys & Huntr/x

// DATE // 30th of June 2025 → 1st of July 2025 // PAIRING // Huntr/x x Fem!Reader x Saja Boys // WARNING // !!!Mention of a su*c*de attempt through song lyrics!!!, Morally gray actions, involuntary chocking, harassment, more award show shit that I struggle to write xD // WORDS // 3.3k+ // SUMMARY // At a music awards show, Y/n unexpectedly wins a coveted prize, thrusting her into the spotlight with a powerful, raw performance that captivates everyone — but behind the scenes, tensions simmer as old wounds and unseen dangers threaten to unravel her hard-won success.

// Part One // Part Two // Part Three //

“There are only a few awards left to be given to some truly incredible artists!” Minjun says almost like he’s sad it’s nearly over.

“Oh absolutely,” Seyeon nods enthusiastically. “You know what I look most forward to?”

“What’s that, Seyeon?”

“The performance the next winner will be giving us!”

“Oh my, you’re right!” Minjun gasps in playful realization. “And it’s for none other than the ‘Heartfelt Voice Award’! I hope you guys are ready to cry. Because I sure am!”

“Wait…” panic settles into my chest. “Can- can you guys-“ I can't finish as breathing becomes to difficult. Even if it wasn’t certain yet, I couldn’t stop the panic at having to perform so unexpectedly.

“What’s wrong?” Romance asks, noticing the fast rising and falling of my chest.

“-Undo it.”

“Undo what?” Miras voice is laced with worry.

“I- I,” I stammer, my eyes not leaving the hosts as an envelope is brought to them. Watching the envelope like I can see through it and read the name on it.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Rumi pulls me into her chest, grounding me. “Take a deep breath,” she takes one waiting for me to take one with her. Then gently lets it out, I do the same but mine is shaky. “Try again.”

“I can’t perform,” I whisper, voice trembling, shaking my head finally turning to look at her. “I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can!” Jinu says with a confident grin on his face. I just shake my head.

“Y/N!!” The shout of my name startles me. I freeze, eyes returning to the stage. My picture presented on the big screen. The hosts look somewhat puzzled. As do I.

There is polite clapping as Rumi gently nudges me to get up. I leave my small clutch with them, looking back at them as I hesitantly start walking. “You’ve got this!” Zoey says giving me two thumbs up, beaming.

“She wasn’t supposed to win,” it’s a grumble that she doesn’t hear while she slowly makes her way to the stage. But the others do. Eight pairs of eyes turn toward the voice. Jaewon. Staring daggers at the back of his head. None of them say anything… but the message is clear. Standing up, clapping louder than anyone else in the room. A push. A warning. And she needs it. Every last bit of it.

My legs feel like they might give out with every step I take, my heart still bounding in my chest. Once I reach the stage and am given the award I awkwardly stand in front of the mic. “Thank you, I-“ my words falter, my eyes meeting a glaring Jaewon. But then excited movement from above him brings a smile to my face. A wave, encouraging smiles and a nod that says ‘you can do this’ from Jinu. “I didn’t expect to win tonight,” I say honestly. “But it is truly an honor, thank you so much to those who listen to my songs, support me and especially voted tonight,” looking at the award as the words settle within me. “Really… thank you,” Stepping back from the mic I’m met with more applause a bit more sincere this time.

“Let me take that real quick,” Seyeon says gently, taking the award from my hands. “Good luck!” With that she and Minjun disappear at the side of the stage. The lights dim just enough to shift the mood, and then my song starts playing. Closing my eyes, I take one last breath and sing.

Finally hit the ground I'm at the bottom now Never thought I could be this low Felt like falling down an endless hole No, I don't see the light And I don't hear God Crawling in the dark Now my limbs are cold Screaming out "Help" but it just echoes

A silence falls over the room. Everyone listening with bated breath. All consumed by the unexpected depth of my voice. By the ache woven into every note, the weight of words no one dares to speak out loud.

Only one way out of here I don't think I can reach it Everything I hold dear Erased by all of my demons My sorry is sincere I've just lost all of my reasons Reasons left to stay

When I open my eyes, I’m stunned to find I’ve become the center of attention. No one is talking, everyone is quite literally staring. Wide eyed, stunned faces, confused but pleasantly surprised. As if they expected a whisper but got a storm.

So, if this is goodbye Please, don't count my cry as a sin No, I don't wanna die But it keeps getting harder to live And I put up a fight But now I've got nothing to give So, if this is goodbye, goodbye, goodbye I hope someday to see you again

The song is emotional and raw. It captures everyone in the room even the ones who didn’t know her before this very moment. She had already captured their attention when she walked in. Clumsy, quiet, walking with uncertainty. But hearing her sing this song live, it hit different.

It’s like a string got pulled tight between them and her. A need to protect. To have. To understand. And something more dangerous; an obsession.

There's nothing you could've said Nothing you could've done different It was always between me and my head Never meant to hurt you in the process But I just can't keep holding on Wish I could believe that things will get better Wish I could just flip a switch in my mind Then I could fix how I feel altogether Then I could mean it when I say I'm fine It's never that easy and neither is life Don't think I wanted to leave you behind I tried, I tried, I tried

This song, it wasn’t for Jaewon. That much was obvious. But who was it to?

The answer.

Herself.

So, if this is goodbye Please, don't count my cry as a sin No, I don't wanna die But it keeps getting harder to live And I put up a fight But now I've got nothing to give Nothing, nothing So, if this is goodbye, goodbye, goodbye I hope someday to see you again If this is goodbye I'll see you If this is goodbye Open up my eyes I don't know where I am And everything is blurry My mom's holding my hand Turns out I was in a hurry But God had other plans He said my goodbye was early Now I've got a second chance

I stood in pure silence for a moment. Everyone shocked at the emotional impact this song had on them. In the end a couple of tears were shed.

“That… was…” Seyeon enters the stage once more. Tissue in hand. Letting out a sigh as she shakes her head struggling to find the right word. “… beautiful,” is what she settles for. That seems to put the room back in motion as applause suddenly, loudly rings around the room.

Startled, tears gather in my eyes. “Thank you,” I smile through tears.

“This award,” Minjun starts as he too returns. Holding up my award. “Is extremely well deserved,” I thank them once more before exiting the stage. Climbing my way back up the stairs. I’m stared at, even get a bow here and there as I pass them. I bow back like I don’t deserve their respect.

When I get back to my seat Zoey and Rumi are crying while Mira is obviously holding back her tears.

“That was so… ethereal,” Zoey sniffles. Standing up to pull me in a hug. “You deserved this award! Even if you didn’t think so.”

Taking her phone from her clutch while she talked to the girls was almost too easy. Even when she sat back down she hadn’t noticed how Baby easily manipulated the device to unlock with his demon powers. First he found her phone number, saving it in his own phone.

The causality of how he handled it and the guys keeping her distracted made it go unnoticed for much longer. The guys had quickly noticed what their maknae was up to. Making sure he would get it done. Easily installing spying software, hiding it from her, but making sure it worked from his own device. It wasn’t about invading her privacy. It was about keeping her safe.

By the time she reached for her clutch again, it was back in it place, exactly where she thought she’d left it. Missing the pointed look Mira gave the maknae as if to tell him he better share what he finds.

“Wow,” I sigh, grabbing my clutch, using it as a fan. “Thank you,” glancing both ways trying to meet their eyes. As I thank them for their - undeserved - support. “I would not have been able to do that if it wasn’t for you,” a blush tinting my cheeks but I blame it on the heat in here. In reality there is air conditioning in the room making sure everyone was comfortable.

“Of course,” Abby smirks, but I know he’s genuine.

“It’s nothing, you needed a push,” Mira shrugs casually. “You deserved it.”

“Thank you, anyway,” I make sure they know I’m being sincere. “But I really need the bathroom now,” I chuckle awkwardly receiving understanding chuckles back. Getting up I follow the signs to the bathroom.

Inside the bathroom, I take a moment to freshen up a bit, I look at myself in the mirror. A genuine smile still playing on my lips. “I did it,” I mutter, barely believing my own words. “I actually won.”

Taking my phone from my clutch, my notification wall is full. There are new followers on every social media platform I have. Mentions of my performance. Clips, screenshots, reactions. And of course all the posts the Saja Boys and Huntr/x created to support me and my song.

Mentions of my other songs too. People finding them, loving them. It makes me feel warm. Loved. Seen.

I exit the bathroom relax, distracted even. A bit too distracted apparently when I get the air literally knocked out of me. Pushed into the wall right at the archway to the venue hall.

“Wha-”

“Shut up!” I recognize the voice immediately. Anxiety lighting a fire in my being. Eyes wide, they find his. His face is contorted in anger. “You weren’t supposed to win,” his hand balls into a fist, rising, but he knows he’s still in public. Lowering the fist he grips my upper arm instead. Tight enough to create bruising, making me squirm and whine.

“Let go of me,” my voice is small. The fear in my eyes only making him chuckle.

“No, this is how you should have looked,” he continues, voices nearly growling the words at me. “I orchestrated this. Made sure you were nominated for a song no one even knew. Made it so you had to sit with those you looked up to,” tears form in my eyes. I knew it... I knew I shouldn’t have been here. His other hand lands on my shoulder, thumb laying at the base of my neck. Pressing hard, making it uncomfortable to talk or swallow.

It seems my arms decide that they now have the strength to try and push him away. But it doesn’t work. He’s stronger than me.

“You should have ran out of here, crying! Like the weakling you are,” his voice stays the same, unfazed by my trembling attempts to push him away from me. “How did you win?” there is real anger laced with genuine curiosity. Thumb pressing harder onto my throat.

“Because she deserves it,” the voice stuns both me and Jaewon. It’s Mystery. Before I can react, Jaewon quickly pulls me to his chest. I cough with the pressure now gone from my throat. He acts like he didn’t just have a bruising grip on me. Like all he wanted to do was hug me as a way to congratulate me on the win. Even if it was all a lie to protect his image.

The way Mystery was positioned had given Jaewon the false idea that no one had caught his cruel actions towards her. But Mystery knew. They all knew, even Huntr/x who were currently performing unable to protect what was theirs. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

“Oh, I wasn’t accusing,” Jaewon continues, feigning sincerity, but the sharp tone in his voice betrays him. “Congratulations on your win, Y/n,” the way he says my name. It's sharp and I know it’s a warning. Mystery takes my hand, pulling me closer to him so I’m not in Jaewon’s reach.

“Thanks,” it’s forced and breathless as it leaves my lips. I let Mystery lead me back to our seats. Trying to fake my confidence like nothing happened.

They all know something happened, but don’t point it out. From the way she walks and sits down stiffly. Trying to portray that genuine happiness she showed earlier. Only it doesn’t reach her eyes. They know now is not the time to talk about what they all witnessed. Instead, they watch quietly, guarding her in their own way.

The rest of the award show luckily goes by swimmingly. I hate to have to say goodbye to the eight who already meant a lot to me. Now more than I ever thought possible.

But I knew this was probably the first and only time I would get to talk to them. At least for a good while. The girls gave me a hug, squeezing me tightly. Letting me know once more that I deserved the win. I’m not sure how to say goodbye to the guys. Jinu just tsk’s, and pulls me in for a hug as well.

Even if he makes it seem nonchalant he can’t stop himself from breathing in her hair as she hugs him back.

Mystery makes sure to squeeze tightly, like a reminder that he’s there for her.

Baby playfully rolls his eyes at her, poking her sides to make her jump before giving his own hug. Gently petting the top of her head.

Abby smirks, teasing her. Saying that she only wants a hug so she can feel his abs. She chuckles genuinely, making all their hearts melt.

Last is Romance who will gladly take a hug, lingering for longer than needed. Placing a peck on her soft cheek, causing a soft flush to her face.

Missing the way the girls glare at the boys with envy.

My manager had been surprisingly quiet the next day. Normally he would start calling me the moment the sun woke.

Now it’s Monday, two days after the K-pop Rising Stars Awards. Still, it’s radio silence from my manager. I had messaged him myself to ask if he saw my win. He hadn’t even read it. Nothing.

With Luminara Entertainment right around the corner from the dorms, I headed there early. I needed answers. Arriving around 8 am, I waved at Juna at the reception desk. She smiled gently but there was something almost rehearsed in it. Shrugging off the feeling I head for the elevator making my way to Kyungsoo’s office.

Outside the office door I heard voices. So I at least knew he was in. Knocking softly on the wooden door, I wait. The conversation grew silent immediately. When Kyungsoo finally cracked the door open, his eyes barely met mine.

“Hey, I messaged, but I didn’t hear from you,” I tell him, confusion clear on my face. Partially because he’s just peeking out of a small slit in the door but mostly because I hadn’t heard from him.

“Y/n, I’m so sorry,” I can tell immediately that it’s not sincere. Voice flat, lacking his usually somewhat warmth. “I’ve just been really busy. Just continue working on your songs in the studio. I’ll check in with you soon,” before I could respond the door closed again.

Busy or not, it was clear I wasn’t a priority. He didn’t even congratulate me. Tension rose in my shoulders like something was up but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

His phone dings with a new familiar chime. Y/n opened her phone. Picking up his own from where it rested on the coffee table.

They had been given an off day after holding a concert on Sunday the day after the Award show. The five of them relaxing a bit. Though that wasn’t the only thing going on.

Mystery had done a full deep dive on Jaewon, turns out the only reason NIOR7 was doing as well as they were. Was because of daddy’s money.

Jinu, who sat next to Baby, recognized the sound too. All of them knew what it meant, having observed her activity since she left the venue. Including making sure she actually got home safe. Not leaving the outside of Luminara dorms until they saw her face in one of the windows.

A new message came in.

Jaewon Enjoying your win

She didn’t start typing, but didn’t move away from it either. Why had she not blocked him yet? As if she heard their thoughts, she excited the chat. Going to her blocked numbers. A list of at least seventeen blocked contacts showed up. All named Jaewon.

It didn’t matter whether she blocked him. He would just get a new number and keep tormenting her.

Jaewon Not for long, I'm sure

What does that even mean? What is he up to?

Abby who stood behind the couch looking at the screen with them. “I’ll call the girls.”

When they had gotten back to Honmoon Tower after making sure Y/n had gotten back safely. The girls insisted on making a pact. Not believing they would actually share everything with them if they didn’t make a pact. They vowed to keep each other updated on everything happening with Y/n. No secrets.

The pact sealed with a tattoo of a tiny flame appearing on their ribs as a reminder, and as punishment. If they were to forget to share something, important or not. The tattoo would slowly start burning, growing stronger the longer it takes. Only stopping when the information is shared.

All they heard was Abby saying ‘It’s about Y/n’ and they appeared in their living room. Worry clear on their faces. Dressed in gym clothes, a sheen of sweat covering their skin. Still a little breathless.

“What is it?” Zoey ask, finding a seat next to Baby as Abby hangs up the phone. Rolling his eyes at their appearance playfully.

“Jaewon, he just wont stop tormenting her,” Jinu explains. “I think it’s a threat but I can’t be sure,” taking Baby’s phone from him to show Jaewon’s last message to her.

“It has to be,” Mira confirms, obvious anger at the man harassing their girl. “What else can you do with this?” she asks, talking about the mirror image of Y/n’s phone.

“A lot,” Baby smirks. “When she’s asleep I can activate her phone and look through it.”

“And if she is using it? Can you listen to what she’s saying?”

“I could yeah,” Baby nods, going to the settings and activating the mic on her phone and the speaker on his own. Her voice immediately filling the space.

“What are you talking about?” I chuckle at the absurdity of my current situation. “You’re dropping me?”

“Yes, I am,” Kyungsoo says. There is uncertainty in his voice, his posture stiff. “Effective immediately.”

“What? But my contract-”

“It’s doesn’t matter,” he cuts me off. “Because of a morality clause. The label believes it’s best to part ways with the recent… controversies surrounding you.”

“Controversies? What controversies?” he avoids my gaze as I dig for more answers.

“That’s not for me to say,” he shrugs awkwardly casual. “You have 24 hours to get out of the dorms.”

“Twenty-fo- What? That’s not enough time! Where am I meant to go!?”

“You’ll figure it out,” with that he walks out, slamming the door to the studio.

“What?” my voice a quiet whisper as I sink back down onto the couch. “What am I gonna do?” I ask myself, my voice shaky.

Bzzz…. Bzzzz

Glancing at my phone which still sat on the coffee table where I left it when Kyungsoo came in.

Unknown Hey, how is your day? It’s Romance by the way.

// Part One // Part Two // Part Three //

Taglist:

@strayharmony943 @ghostlyworld @zariahthewitch @ateezswonderland @bunnytea10 @levifiance @katzline @ch1cky-093 @justanindiangirl12 @mxvoid26 @m-1mi @raineandcl0uds @mel3484 @apelepikozume @kangsae-byeokfan @zero-jpg @planetpearlsworld @sylus-h3ll @sy1ock

I hope everyone got tagged correctly!

[itzariafiles]

who fell first v.s. who fell harder

— preference | fluff | gn!reader

— ft. k.bakugo, i.midoriya, s.todoroki, t.iida, h.shinsou, e.kirishima

— author’s note : first post, please be kind world!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

⭑ Katsuki Bakugo

You fell first.

Second week at U.A. and you were already head over heels for him. No one really understood why—it was Bakugo Katsuki, after all. Always yelling, always scowling, always furious at the world. He barely looked your way. Mina and Denki joked that you must have a death wish whenever you brought him up.

But then… things changed. Quietly.

For some reason, he never yelled at you. Not even once. Not even when you threw yourself in front of Tsuyu during a practice mission and ended up needing to be carried out of the building.

He just muttered, “Dumbass” twice, while lifting you up and walking you to Recovery Girl.

After that came the water bottles. Every time training ended, he’d toss you one and mumble, “Stay hydrated. I’m not carrying you again.”

Liar.

Kirishima was the only one who noticed he always kept an extra bottle, just in case.

The real turning point, though?

That poor boy from Class B who dared to ask you on a date.

Bakugo nearly exploded. Kirishima had to physically hold him back to stop him from lunging at the guy.

And before you could even respond, Bakugo grabbed your wrist and started walking.

You were stunned.

“Bakugo—what are you doing?”

“Me and you,” he said gruffly, eyes locked straight ahead.

“Date. Now.”

That night changed everything.

No one dared to tease him after that. Not when he made it so clear you were his. And he didn’t care what anyone thought.

He loved you loudly, fiercely, intentionally—until the whole damn school stopped questioning why you had fallen so hard for him.

And by then, he had already fallen harder.

⭑ Izuku Midoriya

He fell first.

He knew he liked you—really liked you—the moment you used your quirk to throw the ball so far that everyone realized: if someone was getting expelled that day, it definitely wasn’t you.

Admiration wasn’t the reason he noticed his feelings.

Most of your classmates were impressed by your control, your power, the precision with which you handled something so seemingly simple.

But Izuku? He didn’t reach for his notebook. He didn’t ramble about your technique or potential. He just… watched. No notes. No muttering. Just silence.

He saw the way your shoulders relaxed when it was over. The way you laughed at something Mina said, and how you smiled when Bakugo threw in one of his backhanded compliments. He noticed everything.

He never admitted it, but when he broke his finger to launch that ball across the field, it wasn’t just to prove himself.

Yes, he wanted to stay at U.A. Yes, he wanted to make All Might proud.

But truthfully?

He just wanted to stay long enough to see you again.

Even if that meant going through Aizawa’s “one of you will be expelled” threat every week.

(He was so relieved when no one actually was.)

But you—sweet, clueless you—you fell harder.

Everyone knew how smitten Deku was with you. And deep down, so did you. But when you called your mom late one night, asking for the recipe of a pastry you knew he loved, something shifted.

You spent hours in the kitchen baking batch after batch, trying to get it just right. You barely slept, but the next morning you showed up, cheeks red, handing him the best one you had.

You both blushed your way through breakfast that day, and when he smiled—really smiled—you knew you were done for.

Eventually, you started dating.

Yes, he is your biggest supporter. He loves you loudly and earnestly.

But you?

You’re his biggest fan—collecting every merch, magazine, and article with his name on it.

And he tries to act like it doesn’t get to him.

But it does.

And it makes him happier than he’ll ever admit.

⭑ Shoto Todoroki

You fell first.

You had already fallen for him years before he even looked at you that way.

It all started when your parents arranged for both of you to train when you were 8, to make out of you enemies who would eventually compete to be the #1 pro hero.

Both of you would fight each other, week after week. You, technically, weren’t allowed to exchange pleasantries—after all, you were there to compete. But you would always find a way to talk to him, about anything really. Once you started to talk about how much you missed eating candies, he didn’t answer, but a timid smile formed on his face.

As the years passed, you started to develop feelings for him. He would catch you staring for too long, you made it seem as if you were analyzing him or just zoned out, but deep down, both of you knew.

As both of you made it into U.A., your friendship finally had a chance to grow. To have actual, not rushed conversations. But you never pressured him, never talked about your obvious feelings, you knew he needed time to heal, as much as you did.

But, eventually, he fell harder.

Much harder.

Maybe it was during that night patrol in second year, when he almost got hit by debris and you shielded him without hesitation—burning the edge of your hero costume in the process. He didn’t say much that night. Just looked at you with those stormy eyes and asked, quietly, “Are you okay?”

Or maybe it was the moment he realized you had memorized his favorite tea, the exact way he liked it. That day, you passed him a cup without saying a word, and he froze, fingers lingering on the ceramic longer than they should have. You always noticed the small things—especially when he didn’t say them out loud.

It was never loud, the way he loved you.

But it was there—in how he always sat next to you during strategy meetings, how he started calling you after rough patrols, how he waited for you after every exam. You never asked him to. He just always did.

Eventually, one evening after training, when the sun was sinking low behind the U.A. dorms, he looked at you and said,

“You were the first person who treated me like I wasn’t broken.”

You looked at him, startled by the confession.

And then, softly: “You never were.”

He didn’t say anything back.

But that was the moment he knew he was yours—fully, irreversibly.

And that he had fallen far too deep to ever come back up.

⭑ Tenya Iida

You fell first.

Maybe it was the way he apologized with his whole soul after accidentally bumping into you in the hallway.

Or the way he always remembered to pull a chair for you before meetings.

Or how he waited outside your dorm when he knew you’d had a hard day—without saying a word, just… being there.

Maybe it was how fiercely protective he was of the people he loved. The way he fought for his brother’s name, for what he believed in, even when it left him bruised.

Or maybe it was after that mission, when you were gravely injured, and he carried you all the way to the nurse’s office, gripping you tightly, whispering your name, running faster than even he thought possible.

You didn’t remember it well—you were slipping in and out of consciousness—but he did. Every second.

And the next day, he came back.

With pastries.

And the neatest notes he had ever taken—if that was even possible, just so you could study.

And hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

He was kind. Loving. Unintentionally funny. A gentleman through and through.

Of course you fell first.

But poor Iida…

he fell harder.

He tried. Honestly, he did. You were both studying, you were both young—he told himself that again and again. But he never got past those two excuses. Not really.

He stayed up until 3 a.m. with Sato trying to recreate that chocolate cake you always praised, just to cheer you up after your injury.

He spent the entire night debating whether to visit you before classes.

He didn’t.

But he left the tray outside your door anyway, carefully arranged. And still came back later, awkward but devoted, with more pastries and a hundred unspoken words.

Somewhere between all the long hours, the careful notes, the conversations under low dorm lighting—

He fell. Harder than he’d ever thought possible.

For him, it wasn’t just affection.

You were a promise. A reminder that he could build something good in this world—with you in it.

And when he saw you cry once, quietly, under the staircase after another grueling day, something broke in him.

He sat beside you. Took off his gloves. Held your hand.

It was the first time he’d touched you, skin to skin.

And his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

From then on, he never tried to hide it again.

He memorized your schedule.

He read your favorite books.

He learned to brew your favorite tea, even though he didn’t like tea.

You noticed. Of course you did.

But you didn’t say anything.

Not until he showed up at your door one night, fists clenched, eyes wide, tie slightly crooked, and said:

“I know this may be reckless and horribly timed, but I am—truly, entirely—in love with you.”

You smiled.

Because by then, he didn’t need to say it.

You’d fallen first, but he made it impossible not to fall harder, too.

⭑ Hitoshi Shinsou

He fell first.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious.

And at first, he told himself it was just curiosity.

When he joined the Hero Course and became part of Class 1-A, you were the first to look at him—not like the guy with the “villain-ish” quirk, not like a threat to be watched, or a weapon to be handled carefully.

You didn’t treat him with stiff politeness or cautious distance.

You treated him like a classmate. Like a potential friend.

You laughed at his jokes, tossed back your own sharp comments.

You noticed when he pulled away from the group.

You called him out when he got too closed-off—but you always gave him space when he needed it. Just… quietly shared it with him.

The moment he realized something had shifted was probably stupid.

You complimented his eyes.

You had the audacity to step a little too close, stare straight at him like you were trying to see through all the walls he’d spent years building.

He had no idea what to say.

You just laughed—soft and satisfied—

and walked away.

He thought about it for days.

He didn’t understand what he was feeling.

But then he started bringing you extra snacks after training.

He slowed his pace just enough to walk beside you.

He stood just a little too close during sparring.

It wasn’t intentional. Not at first.

But for him, you were stronger than gravity.

He fell.

And he fell quietly.

But you?

You fell harder.

You knew it the night he texted you out of nowhere:

Toshi:

Hey. Don’t come to training tomorrow. You looked tired today. Take a break.

You stared at the message for ten minutes, rereading it.

He’d noticed. He noticed you.

And he was looking out for you, in his strange, quiet, Shinsou way.

You didn’t listen, of course.

You showed up to training anyway—just to see him roll his eyes when you winked at him.

After that, it was over.

You memorized the rhythm of his voice.

You learned the little signs—when he was overwhelmed, when he needed silence, when he needed you.

You started recognizing how he fidgeted with the capture weapon Aizawa was teaching him to use—especially when he was nervous about a mission.

You could always tell.

And somehow, that made you fall even harder.

He fell first.

But you fell deeper.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do with the way your hand lingers on his sleeve.

Or how his pulse stutters when you whisper his name.

He hasn’t said it out loud yet.

But you think…

He’s almost ready.

⭑ Eijirou Kirishima

You fell first.

When you heard him say he didn’t think he was “manly enough” to be a hero, you just wanted to hug him—wrap him up in every reassurance you had, tell him that of course he was manly enough to do anything he dreamed of.

You suspected your feelings then, but shoved them under the couch, hoping no one would notice.

Mina noticed. She always did.

When he laughed too hard at one of Denki’s terrible jokes and immediately looked embarrassed, you blushed.

Sero noticed.

You blamed the heat.

But when he stepped in front of a child during a villain ambush and said,

“Don’t worry. I’m unbreakable.”

that was it. You were done for.

But Kirishima?

He fell harder.

It didn’t show all at once.

It crept in slowly.

In the way he trained just enough to always be paired with you during sparring.

In how he memorized your favorite techniques so he could practice them with you.

In how his quirk—his actual, physical walls—cracked a little when you hugged him after a hard day, and how he turned bright red trying to play it cool.

The breaking point?

Someone else confessed to you.

And he just… walked out. Silent. Stiff.

He came back hours later.

Hands shaking.

Eyes soft.

“I know I’m not smooth like Todoroki, or cool like Bakugo… but I think I’m strong enough to protect your heart.”

Boom.

Done.

Unbreakable?

Not anymore.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

steal this and katsuki bakugo will personally find you.

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Player of the match 1/3

Summary : She’s the most dominant player in women’s volleyball and media favorite known for her killer serves and perfectly styled hair. She’s also a massive Formula 1 fan. More specifically, an Oscar Piastri fan.

Oscar has no idea… until Lando shows him an interview of her revealing her crush.

Pairing : Oscar Piastri x volleyball player!reader

Genre : SMAU, fluff, request

Face claim : Duru Türknas (turkish volleyball player, go check her match)

Series : Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Main Masterlist

The fluorescent lights of the training center buzzed quietly overhead, muffled beneath the thuds of volleyballs smacking the hardwood floor and the high-pitched squeaks of sneakers. The Italian national women's volleyball team was deep into morning practice, but one player stood out not just for her precision, her spikes, or the way her serves danced just over the net with surgical accuracy but because every break, every pause, every moment not filled with drills became a chance for her to talk about Formula 1.

More specifically, to talk about Oscar Piastri.

"You should've seen his overtake in Jeddah. Absolute perfection. Like, it wasn't just the move, it was the confidence, the way he set it up three corners before," she gushed, stretching her arms as she bounced slightly on the balls of her feet.

Her teammates were already grinning. Giulia, the team's youngest member, snorted from the sidelines. "God, here we go again. You know we don’t watch the races just for Oscar like you do, right?"

Marianna, their captain, chimed in, holding back laughter. "You’ve got a folder of his interviews saved on your phone. And that TikTok you posted last night? You were literally lip-syncing to one of his press conferences."

She didn’t even try to deny it. Instead, she flashed a shameless grin, brushing a sweat-dampened strand of hair out of her eyes. "Okay, first of all, I wasn’t lip-syncing. I was appreciating his calm under pressure. There's a difference."

Marianna laughed, tossing her a towel. "You're obsessed."

"He's just, so good! And underrated! Everyone talks about Lando but Oscar's been quietly killing it this season. First in the championship, barely any mistakes..."

Giulia rolled her eyes playfully as she mimed stabbing herself in the heart. "Oscar Piastri, Oscar Piastri, Oscar Piastri. Girl, you’re in love."

She paused only for a second. Her cheeks were flushed, but that could have been from the sprint drills. Probably. "Shut up. I’m just a fan. A very informed, very passionate fan."

The teasing didn’t stop there.

During lunch, when the team piled into the dining hall at their training facility, She was once again scrolling through her F1-filled TikTok feed. Edits of Oscar: him pulling off his helmet, eyes sharp behind the visor; him laughing in press conferences; him walking through the paddock in his McLaren gear like he didn’t just ruin a field of world-class drivers an hour earlier.

She was mid-scroll when Giulia leaned over her shoulder. "You know, your For You page is, like, 90% Piastri content. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was your boyfriend."

She smirked. "I wish."

Later that week, after their victory against Brazil, she found herself at the press table alongside Marianna and Francesca, answering questions from a crowd of international journalists.

"You’ve had a phenomenal season so far," a reporter from the BBC said. "Aside from volleyball, are there any other sports you follow?"

She leaned into the mic with a quick smile. "Definitely Formula 1. I’ve been a fan since I was a kid. I try to watch every race, even if it means setting an alarm at three in the morning."

Francesca snorted quietly beside her.

"Who’s your favorite driver?" another reporter asked, voice tinged with amusement.

She smiled, trying to play it cool. "I think McLaren has an incredible lineup. Both drivers are insanely talented, and this season especially, they’ve been really exciting to watch."

"Especially Oscar," Marianna chimed in under her breath, but just loud enough for the microphones to pick up.

Her eyes widened. She shot Marianna a glare while the press room erupted in light laughter.

"He’s... he’s very composed," she said, clearing her throat. "I admire that."

"She means she has a massive crush on him," Francesca added, not missing a beat.

"That’s not, okay, I’m ending this conversation," she muttered, but the grin on her face gave it away.

Back in the locker room later, the teasing only got worse.

Francesca was the first to pounce. "'He’s very composed,'" she mimicked in a mock-serious tone, holding an imaginary mic. "Girl, you were composed of nothing but blush and nerves."

"I was composed of dignity," she replied dryly, peeling off her jersey. "Something none of you have."

"And you were radiating 'crush caught on camera' energy," Marianna said, wagging a finger. "You do realize the F1 Twitter accounts are going feral over this, right?"

She groaned louder. "You’re all the worst."

Francesca grinned. "And you’re welcome."

@_volley_yn

📍Rome, Italy

Match day mood, 25 points scored 💅

@_user_1

ISN’T THIS THE GIRL WHO'S IN LOVE WITH OSCAR PIASTRI??

@_user_2

yes queen win the match and win his heart while you’re at it 🏎️

@_user_3

She’s literally carrying the entire national team AND fangirling over F1 mid-press conference. My Roman Empire.

@_user_4

Still thinking about her teammates exposing her crush mid-interview 😭

@_user_5

nah bc imagine Oscar seeing this 😳 he better DM you

@_user_6

she got 25 points and still managed to keep her makeup flawless?? she’s unstoppable

@_user_7

@_oscarpiastri if u don’t marry her I will.

@_user_8

Not me watching volleyball now just to follow her updates and see if she pulls Piastri 💀

@_oscarpiastri

That one felt good 🧡 Thanks to the team

@_volley_yn

good one, Piastri.

@_user_1

OH MY GOD SHE COMMENTED

@_user_2

girl you're obsessed with him👀

@_user_3

not her being smooth in front of all of us 😭

@_user_4

this is her soft launch I fear

@_user_5

why did he not reply. OSCAR. EXPLAIN YOURSELF.

@_user_6

girl just won MVP last week and now she’s flirting like a queen. I love her.

@_user_7

Oscar if you don’t reply I’m reporting your account

Oscar Piastri stood outside the VIP entrance of the arena, sunglasses on despite the fading evening light, hands awkwardly shoved in the pockets of his slightly-too-nice shirt. A button-down. Crisp white.

Lando clocked it immediately.

"Okay, are you wearing cologne?" he asked, squinting as Max appeared beside him.

Oscar gave him a tight glare. "No."

"You are. That’s definitely aftershave." Lando sniffed exaggeratedly. "You fancy little simp."

"Shut up. It’s just a shirt. I thought I should look presentable."

"For a volleyball game?" Max raised an eyebrow. "Damn, didn’t know you were trying to get drafted."

"We’re guests. I’m being respectful," Oscar muttered.

"Right. Respectfull..." Lando said with a smirk. "You're shaking. Are you nervous?"

"I’m not shaking."

Lando nudged him. "You like her."

"I’ve never even met her."

"And yet here we are.."

Oscar cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the collar on his neck. "Let’s just sit down."

They made their way to their seats just as the teams entered the court. The crowd roared. Music blared. Italy’s women’s team jogged in, all fire and confidence, ponytails bouncing and arms locked in unity.

Max leaned forward. "Which one is she again?"

"Number twelve," Lando said before Oscar could open his mouth.

Oscar’s eyes found her instantly. Focused. Serious. Hair tied back perfectly. Determination in every line of her face. She didn’t scan the crowd. Didn’t need to. She was here to win.

Francesca burst into the locker room mid-warmup, clutching her phone like it was a piece of sacred scripture.

"Y/N! Y/N, don’t freak out. But. Uh. He’s here."

She blinked. "Who?"

"Who do you think, the love of your life? THE Oscar Piastri."

She froze mid-stretch, her muscles suddenly forgetting how to function.

Marianna peeked around the corner, already grinning. "And he’s dressed nice. Like nice nice."

"You’re lying."

"Max Verstappen’s with him too," Giulia chimed in from the hallway. "And Lando Norris."

She sat back against the wall, heart thundering. "Okay. It’s fine. I’m fine. He’s just, he’s just another spectator. Doesn’t change anything."

Francesca smirked. "Right. Just a world-class driver you’ve had a crush on for two years watching your every move tonight. No big deal."

She shoved her lightly. "Shut up."

"Just make sure you score a point and wink at him after."

She rolled her eyes, but her throat felt dry.

The roar of the crowd outside grew louder. The anthem blared. Lights dimmed.

She took a deep breath.

And walked onto the court.

The first set was electric.

Everything clicked. Her serves found the corners. Her spikes landed clean and brutal. Blocks went up like walls and came down like thunder.

But she didn’t look at the stands.

Not once.

She felt him there. The heat at the back of her neck, the ghost of every interview, every TikTok, every teasing comment. It all boiled into something sharp and focused.

She dominated.

Set one: Italy. Set two: Italy again. Cleaner. Stronger. They are going for the win.

The match ended with a crushing victory from the Italian team. Her teammates lifted her as soon as the match ended, screams and sweat and celebration.

Somewhere in the chaos, she finally glanced up.

And there he was : Oscar Piastri.

Standing. Clapping. Smiling.

And looking only at her.

The crowd was still roaring, still high off Italy’s victory, when Lando elbowed Oscar hard in the ribs.

“There. There she is. Go.”

Oscar blinked, still stuck somewhere between adrenaline and disbelief. “What?”

Lando was already walking toward the tunnel, dragging Oscar by the sleeve. “Come on, before she disappears. She’s literally walking off court. This is your chance.”

“She’s literally sweaty. That’s not...she probably wants to shower, not meet random drivers.”

“You’re not a random driver, Oscar,” Lando hissed. “You’re the one she’s obsessed with. Trust me. You are the moment. Move.”

Oscar tried to plant his feet. “Security’s not just gonna...”

“Watch me.”

He didn’t know how, but within fifteen seconds, Lando had somehow talked and shoulder-tapped his way through a very tired, very done-looking security guard, who gave Oscar a bored wave toward the athlete hallway.

Oscar’s heart nearly stopped.

She was there. Still in her jersey, towel around her neck, hair stuck to her forehead. She was laughing at something one of her teammate had said, cheeks flushed from the game. She hadn’t spotted them yet.

Oscar froze.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“You can, and you will,” Lando growled, giving him one final shove between the shoulder blades. “Go. Don’t mess it up.”

Oscar stumbled forward, too fast, nearly tripping on the polished floor of the tunnel. And that was the moment she turned.

Her eyes met his.

The second she realized it was him, her whole body shifted, upright, alert, wide-eyed. The laugh dropped from her face and was replaced by pure shock, then something soft. Hesitant.

“Hi,” she said, voice a little breathless.

Oscar had rehearsed exactly zero lines. His mind was a blank, blinking cursor.

But when she looked at him like that, stunned and flushed and radiant even in post-match sweat, he smiled.

“Hi,” he said. “You were… really impressive.”

She let out a quick laugh, hand going to the back of her neck. “Thanks. Uh...sorry I’m, like...” she gestured to her state, “a mess.”

“You’re not,” he said, without thinking.

She looked away, embarrassed, but smiling.

Behind her, Francesca’s mouth had fallen open. Marianna was definitely filming. One of the team physios had stopped walking entirely.

Oscar felt the heat rise in his neck, but he pushed forward. “I know this is… maybe the weirdest possible time to ask. And you’ve probably got a million things going on right now. But…” He fumbled for his phone, suddenly hyper-aware of every breath he took. “Would it be okay if I got your number?”

She blinked.

Then smiled, slow and shy, eyes flicking to the phone, then back up at him. Her cheeks were warm again, not from exertion this time, but from sheer disbelief.

“You want my number?” she said, laughing under her breath like she couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud. In front of half her team.

“I mean, if you want to,” Oscar said quickly. “If it’s weird, it’s okay...”

“No,” she cut in, biting her lip. “It’s not weird. Just... surreal.”

She took his phone, tapped it quickly, and handed it back. “There. Now you’re officially not a stranger.”

Oscar stared at the name saved in his contacts like it was glowing. Like it wasn’t just digits but coordinates to an entirely different dimension.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low.

“Thanks to you,” she replied.

Lando, thirty feet behind them, pumped his fist into the air like a proud dad.

@_f1gossip

📍Rome, Italy

SPOTTED: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, and Max Verstappen courtside at the Women’s Volleyball World Qualifiers in Rome last night.

Rumor has it they were there to support a certain Player of the Match 👀👀

@_user_1

wait wait WAIT is that THE volleyball girl who’s obsessed with Oscar???? 😭😭😭

@_user_2

oscar dressed nice?? he’s SO into her i’m screaming

@_user_4

i refuse to believe this isn’t staged. how is this real ?

@_user_5

he’s literally watching her like she hung the moon. my god.

@_user_6

the way she played like a DEMON last night and now we know why 💀

@_user_7

HE PUT ON A COLLARED SHIRT FOR HER. THIS IS LOVE.

@_user_8

player of the match and player of oscar’s heart. i said what i said.

@_user_9

lando definitely dragged him there but look at him, man’s invested

@_user_10

just dm her already.

@_user_11

the eye contact they had after the match… I NEED THEM TO DATE

Let me know if you want to be add to the taglist !

taglist : @bunnisplayground, @vampgege, @chocolatemooncoffee, @sashisuslover, @gold66loveblog, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @h-rtsnana, @anonomano, @guacala, @charlotteking27, @ninass-world, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @dustie-faerie, @madicecream123, @angstynasty, @jolixtreesunn

[sweetshuga]

𝑩𝒊𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑴𝒆𝒂𝒏

𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

ⓘ 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕! ⋆ pure filth ⋆ friends with benefits ⋆ pet names ⋆ pnv (raw and deep) ⋆ cocky!matt ⋆ lots of taunting ⋆ big dick!matt ⋆ size kink ⋆ tummy bulge ⋆ gut rearrangement (not literally) ⋆ dacryphilia + more.

❝𝑷𝒇𝒇𝒕- 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌? 𝑺𝒖𝒓𝒆.❞

You were stupid. Too stupid.

You and Matt argued over trivial matters all the time and it’s not like you had big fights—it was playful bantering most of the time.

But today, however, you accidentally crossed a line. Well, it didn’t look like Matt was angry—and that’s exactly what unsettled you the most.

During your argument, you ran out of comebacks so you uttered the words no man wanted to hear.

"You act all tough and smug but you don’t even have a big dick so I’d shut my mouth if I were you."

The moment those words left your lips, you regretted them immediately. What you said was a complete lie. Matt wasn’t small. He wasn’t average either. That man had the length and girth of someone that could rearrange your insides if he was rough enough.

You expected him to be angry, but to your absolute surprise, he chuckled softly, amused.

"Pfft- I’ve a small dick? Sure."

You knew you were fucked—literally—when you heard that.

"Hm? You’re being awfully vocal for someone who said I had a small dick." Matt chuckled huskily, his words full of mockery as he watched your face contorted in pleasure.

The way his cock—thick, long and merciless—was dragging across your slippery walls before plunging deep again, made your mind fog and nails sink into his biceps and back and anything you could hold onto.

You couldn’t even moan anymore. The sounds coming out of your mouth were lewd and dirty—choked whimpers mixed with hiccups and gasps for air.

Each time his tip knocked against your cervix firmly, your pussy squeezed him like it wanted to strangle him and keep him inside herself forever.

Matt had never actually gone all the way inside you in fear of hurting you but today? He went all in. Grinding his pubic bone against your clit with each deep thrust. Watching with twisted satisfaction as your mind struggled to comprehend the amount of pleasure.

He wasn’t even going fast and yet you were already a wreck.

"M-matt--" You managed to choke out, a broken moan escaping you when he slammed deep. He was deep enough that you could feel him in your stomach. And there even formed a bulge on your tummy, immediately catching the eye of the cocky man above you.

"Mmhmm?" Matt hummed lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to keep ruining you. His hand reached down to press down on the flesh convexing, feeling the firmness of his cock nestled deep inside you. "You feel this, sweetheart? Someone with a small dick can’t really reach this far can they?"

You wanted to respond, wanted to tell him you were wrong, but no words left your mouth; the only sound you could let out were broken cries.

All you could do was shake your head no, tears pooling in your eyes, threatening to fall. The sight of them made Matt’s heart jump. God. You looked so vulnerable. And utterly fucking cute. He wasn’t sure if he could resist the urge to devour you.

His slow pace gradually quickened and it wasn’t long before he was pounding you into the mattress, his cock hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. Your pussy fluttered and clenched around him in response to his punishing thrusts.

He changed the position after a while, pushing your knees up and against your shoulders, making your hips rise without your control. You were almost folded in half just so he could go deeper, give you every inch he could offer—which was too much for you.

He was too big and you were too tight. Your pussy stretched wide to accommodate his girth and the fullness only added to your pleasure.

"Shit... Can feel you all around me." Matt’s brows knitted together, lips parting in pleasure, hips unrelenting. His hands gripped the underside of your knees so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Wet squelching noises from his cock driving in and out of your sopping cunt filled the room, along with the ominous creaking of the bed due to him fucking you into it. You had previously broken his bed while fucking so naturally you started to get worried

Matt noticed your distraction and made you look into his eyes by grabbing your tear-streaked face by the jaw. "Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. Watch me ruin this sweet pussy with my "small" dick." The sarcasm dripping from his tone only made you more desperate.

He fucked you harder and deeper, as if to emphasize his words and make you stop thinking all-together. And it worked. You couldn’t think. The only thing you could focus on was his thick cock plunging in and out of your pussy.

Slowly, familiar tension began pooling in your stomach, the feeling causing you to shudder in anticipation. The pressure grew with each deep and calculated thrust. Even though Matt fucked you fast, his thrusts weren’t uncoordinated—he was making sure to hit all the right spots.

It would be a lie if you said he wasn’t amazing in bed, and paired with how big he was, it wasn’t surprising he was as cocky as he was. He knows he can please a woman.

"Matt-- I’m gonna, gonna cum!" You mewled, nails digging into his biceps and forearms, leaving half crescent shapes.

"Mhm, let it happen, baby. C’mon... I wanna feel you come undone around me." He murmured, voice hoarse and low.

That was exactly what you needed to fall over the edge and your orgasm washed over you in sudden waves, strong and earth-shattering, threatening to make you go dumb.

Your back arched and pussy spasmed around his shaft, alternating from squeezing and relaxing, causing Matt to moan loudly in pleasure. Your pussy was fucking exquisite.

Matt kept thrusting, fucking you through your orgasm and pushing you steadily towards another one. He was close, so close, yet he held back his own release just so he could feel you coming all over his length.

He wanted to ruin you before he filled you up.

The pleasure you felt was too intense. Too much. And yet you didn’t stop him. You didn’t want him to stop. You were pretty sure your guts would be rearranged and your poor pussy would be gaping and leaking by the time he was done with you.

Still. You needed more. And he gave it to you—raw, deep and absolutely fucking filthy.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆.ᐟ | 𝒘𝒄 – 𝟏 𝒌 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

Isa’s rambling ۶ৎ So I was just listening to music and scrolling through Pinterest when I saw a meme of a stop sign with the following quote "big dick alert, be aware" and I immediately got this idea (I need that pic for personal use but I accidentally refreshed my fyp and couldn’t find it again 💔)

Also, mb for the wait like I wanted to post it but I just didn't have the time to proofread it.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒂

[wcnderlnds]

back for you ★ hwang jun-ho

・❥・ summary: now that junho is free from the memories that had plagued him for so long, he's ready to start his life over with you. unfortunately, his brother inho has a habit of trying to ruining that for him. ・❥・word count: 2.1k ・❥・warnings: 18+, mdni. fingering in an elevator, swearing. established relationship. SQUID GAME S3 SPOILERS, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. ・❥・authors note: i swear to you this wasn't meant to be smut but i have a lot of junho feelings. im also bad at writing kids so... i'm so sorry in advance for how bad this might be.

Those first few weeks after Junho had finally found the island only to not get the closure from his brother that he had been craving had been eye opening for him. For so long, he had been focused on finding his brother, getting the answers to the questions that had plagued him for years. It had consumed his life, took over every single thing he did but now? Now, he knew he was never going to know and maybe that was okay. He had done his part, he had tried his best. There was nothing more he could do but move on with his life. So, that’s what he did.

It hadn’t been easy at first, it had taken a lot of time for him to find his new purpose but he had you to help him along the way. Being in a relationship with Junho over the last few years hadn’t been easy but through every single thing, you had stuck by him. That had meant more to him than he could even put into words. A future with you – that was his purpose now. You had been together for about five years. Junho had never wanted to commit fully knowing that he couldn’t give himself to you one hundred percent but now he could. That was why two months after everything had happened with the island, he got down on one knee and proposed to you.

Being your fiance was the greatest honour of his life. It was so freeing knowing that he could finally give himself to you so completely, finally.

“I really liked the red velvet one but the strawberry one was so nice, too,” you said excitedly. The two of you walked hand in hand down the street back to your apartment. Wedding planning was in full swing and today you’d been out cake tasting. It had been yours and Junho’s favourite part of the whole planning process so far. Who wouldn’t love sitting down and trying different cakes for an hour?

“I liked the strawberry one, too. Maybe we should book another tasting just to be sure,” he grinned, wrapping his arm around your shoulder instead to pull you into his side. You immediately wrapped your arm around his waist, looking up at him with a smile.

“I like the way you think, Hwang.”

“I’m not just a pretty face.”

You laughed which only made the smile on Junho’s face brighter. There was nothing more precious to you than seeing that smile on his face. For so long, all you had seen was him struggling, a smile a rare oddity as he searched for his brother. Life had taken so much from him but now he seemed so carefree. He seemed like the Junho you had met all those years ago back in high school. The one who laughed at everything, who enjoyed the small things in life. You knew deep down that he still thought about Inho and what could have been. You couldn’t blame him. Inho had been such an important part of his life – he had basically raised Junho but he wasn’t the man that Junho had once known. He was a completely different person now. That was why he had finally decided to move on. The brother he once had was long gone, replaced by a stranger he didn’t know. There would always be a part of Junho that was missing but as long as he had you, he knew he’d be okay.

“Is the elevator actually working today? I don’t want to walk up all the stairs again,” you scanned the lobby of your apartment building, eyes lighting up when you saw that the elevator was actually working. 

“Guess they fixed it while we were out,” Junho pressed the button, the elevator doors opening. He guided you inside, pressing the button to the sixth floor where your shared apartment was. As you rested your back against the cool metal wall of the elevator, Junho grabbed you by the waist, his hot breath fanning over your face as he gazed down at you with adoring eyes. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today?”

“Maybe once or twice but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again,” you rested your hands on the plane of his chest, feeling his muscles tense through his shirt. Junho leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss.

It didn’t take long for things to heat up. Junho’s tongue traced along the seam of your lips, asking for entrance. The second you parted your lips, his tongue met yours in a heated dance. Each time you kissed, it felt like the first time. The sparks ever present like you couldn’t get enough of each other. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him as close to you as humanly possible.

Junho’s hand danced along the waistband of your jeans, popping the button open and dipping inside. His fingers slowly, teasingly ran along your panties, already feeling the damp spot forming there. It made him groan into the kiss. It never ceased to amaze him how your body reacted to him, just one simple touch made you a complete mess. Intimacy had been far and few over the years but now he was making up for lost time. Any opportunity he could take to show you how much he loved you, he was going to grasp. His fingers rubbed slow circles against your core, a breathy whine falling from your lips. A smirk adorned his face; he had you right where he wanted you.

“Junho, please,” you said breathlessly. You bucked your hips into his hand trying to seek more friction. There were only a few more floors before you’d reach yours and you so badly needed him to finish what he was starting.

As if sensing your desperation, he slipped his fingers inside your panties, his long digits sliding through your folds with ease. Your slick coated his fingers, making him groan, aching for more. He circled your entrance with one of his fingers, easing a finger inside you which caused you to gasp, throwing your head back in ecstasy. He began moving it slowly, his thumb finding your clit. His eyes glanced over seeing you were at the third floor. He had to speed this up so he moved faster, pumping his finger into you with increasing speed. The hand that was on your hip, held you in place, stilling your movements. When he slipped another finger inside you, the moan you let out was louder than you expected. You had never been more thankful that nobody else was in the elevator with you. Junho added more pressure with his thumb, circling your clit as his fingers drove into you. He knew your body better than anyone, he could tell that you were getting close. You just needed that push. So, he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that spot that made you see stars.

“Oh my god, right there, baby, I’m so close,” you panted. The moans falling from your lips paired with how wet you were against his fingers was making his cock throb in his jeans. He couldn’t wait to get you back to your apartment so he could really show you just how much he loved you.

“Come on, baby. Come for me,” he leaned forward to whisper in your ear, the deep rumble of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “We’re almost at our floor. We don’t want anyone catching us, do we?”

It took one more hard thrust of his fingers before your orgasm came crashing over you. A moan of his name echoed through the elevator. He kept his fingers moving, working you through your orgasm. He could feel your release on his fingers, the sensation making him harder than before. When he was sure you were completely spent, he pulled his fingers from you. Just in time because the elevator dinged letting you know you were at your destination.

You took a moment to take a steady breath in. You needed a moment to collect yourself before you could even think about walking. Junho brought his hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing delicately against your skin. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” you said with a dazed smile. “Can’t wait to return the favour.”

Junho just laughed, guiding you out of the elevator and down the hall to your apartment. Before he unlocked the door, you leaned up on your tiptoes, kissing him. He tangled his fingers in your hair, savouring the feeling of your lips against his. It was a miracle that he managed to somehow open the door from behind while you were entangled with each other. He stepped back into the apartment, tearing his lips from yours momentarily. Just as he was about to speak, something caught his eye.

“What…?” He made his way over to the small bundle of blankets. His face paled as he laid eyes upon the last thing he thought he’d ever see in his apartment.

A baby.

“Junho, what’s wr-”

You were stopped in your tracks when you heard the cry of the baby. In his hands, Junho held a small card, the words ‘Player 222, winner’ written on it. Then, he pulled out a debit card, his eyes widening. “....Inho…”

It was almost on instinct that you picked the baby up, holding it against you to soothe it’s crying. You were no expert with kids but you couldn’t leave the poor thing laying there crying. It had been left here for a reason. The sound of his brother's name caught your attention, your confused eyes looking at your fiance with question. “...Inho did this?”

“I… yeah, I think so.” He paused. Never had he felt his heart hammering against his chest so hard before. A sense of panic washing over him. He may not be a detective anymore but it didn’t take one to figure out what this meant.  “I need to… uh, I need to go to an ATM.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“You’re kidding me?!” You exclaimed loudly, the baby safely in your arms as you looked over Junho’s shoulder to see the balance on the ATM.

45.6 billion won.

Junho looked like he’d seen a ghost, all the memories of everything he’d witnessed on the island rushing back to him. He knew what this money was, what it meant. It was dirty money but… it was money that could help. Somehow, some way, he knew that Inho knew he needed this. He had a wedding to pay for and now… a baby to care and look after. Children had been a topic of discussion between the both of you but you had decided that you didn’t want to start trying for a few years yet, opting to enjoy just being together first before you brought a child into the world. Now, thanks to Inho, you had no choice.

Junho leaned against the wall beside the ATM. You placed a gentle hand on his cheek, letting him know you were there. He wasn’t alone – he never would be again. You spoke softly, trying to reassure him. “Hey, it’ll be okay. I… we can do this. I know we’re not ready but you and me, we can do anything, yeah? We’ve been through worse.”

Junho nodded. “Y-yeah.”

“This baby has nobody, Junho. We have to give it the life it deserves. We don’t want everything that happened to be in vain.”

“I just wish he’d have.. come to me in person. Why won’t he just talk to me?” He sounded so defeated. Of course Inho had a way of ruining everything, setting Junho back just as life had gotten good for him.

“Fuck him,” you said. “What matters now is you, me and this baby. Nothing else. We’re in this together, okay? Inho is a thing of a past. It’s his loss that he’s cut you out, not yours. That is not your burden to bear. You tried, baby. You tried so hard and don’t ever forget that.”

“Okay,” Junho nodded. His eyes landed on the baby. “I saw her. All those months ago on the island. She won the games. I don’t know how, I don’t want to know how or why she was even involved in them but… we can’t ever tell her, okay? I don’t want her to ever know where she came from. Not from that place. She doesn’t deserve to live with that.”

“She won’t. She’ll have a good life with us. Now, come on. We have 45.6 billion and a baby to cater for now. We better go shopping.”

Junho had never been more thankful to have you. The way you could lighten a situation and make him feel like he was going to be okay. It was more than he could ever ask for. Raising this baby wasn’t going to be easy but together, you could do it. You could do anything.

taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @loveesiren @justsisse @sherrayyyyy @aizshallnotbefound @fleabagspurplewife @gemzyy @bettelaboure @gdinthehouseee @breakmeoff @babyrvis @flymetothexmoon @forevervibezzzz1 @ttturnitup @szonyix6277 @riddlerloveb0t @youlikeex @str8t2video @septywitch @melanatedhorrorqueen @l5byrinth @tabibabib

[ripmyselfxd]

Faster Than Thunder | Lando Norris

Summary - During a loud thunderstorm, your frightened 4-year-old son runs into your bedroom while you and Lando are cuddling. Seeking comfort, he snuggles between you both. Lando calms him by explaining that thunder is just the sky having a race, helping him feel safe enough to fall asleep in your arms.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The rain started softly that evening, just a gentle patter against the windows as you and Lando put your son to bed. He’d picked out the same storybook he always did when the sky looked unsettled—The Brave Little Racer—and you both took turns reading it, voices low and comforting while the wind began to pick up outside.

You had kissed his forehead and tucked the blanket under his chin. Lando gave him a goodnight squeeze, whispering a promise: “We’re just down the hall, okay, champ? Nothing’s going to get you.” Your little boy had nodded, but you’d seen it in his eyes—he wasn’t convinced.

By the time you made it back to your bedroom, the storm was in full swing. Thunder cracked like the sky was being torn apart, lightning illuminating the room in sudden, surreal flashes. You crawled beneath the covers, curling into Lando as he pulled you close, his hands instinctively smoothing over your back in small, sleepy circles.

“Poor guy hates storms,” you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by the layers of warmth and cotton.

“He gets that from you,” Lando teased gently, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I love storms.”

You snorted, already half-asleep. “You love driving in storms. There’s a difference.”

Lando chuckled, the sound low and sleepy. “Still counts.”

You stayed like that for a while, limbs tangled, hearts quiet. The thunder rolled in again, louder now, deep and shaking the walls slightly. Somewhere out there, the storm was at its peak.

Then came the soft sound—barely audible over the rain—but unmistakable.

Footsteps. Fast. Hesitant. Small.

The bedroom door creaked open just a little. You turned your head on the pillow just in time to see him: your son, standing there in his dinosaur pajamas, clinging to his stuffed tiger like it was a lifeline. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide with fear.

“Sweetheart,” you breathed, sitting up just a little. “Come here.”

He wasted no time, running across the room and climbing up onto the bed. He nestled himself firmly between you and Lando, pressing his small body tight against your side, shaking slightly. His face buried into your chest, like he was trying to disappear into you.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. “It’s okay. It’s just thunder.”

Lando turned toward you both, still groggy but already reaching to pull the blanket over the three of you. “Hey, buddy,” he said softly, brushing the hair from your son’s forehead. “You okay?”

Your boy didn’t answer, just whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as another clap of thunder roared through the sky.

Lando leaned closer and said, “You know what I used to think when I was your age?”

Your son sniffled. “What?”

“I thought thunderstorms were the sky having a race,” Lando said, his voice gentle and rhythmic. “The clouds were like racecars, zooming around, and every time you heard thunder, it meant one of them just made a big move.”

Your son peeked out from under the blanket. “Like… like DRS?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. Even terrified, your son’s love for racing always found a way to poke through.

“Exactly,” Lando grinned. “And the lightning? That’s the sparks when they go full throttle.”

Your son smiled for the first time since entering the room, a little hesitant but real. He looked up at both of you, eyes brighter now, still damp but less panicked. “Then the sky’s really fast.”

“The fastest,” Lando said, tapping his nose. “But not faster than me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Debatable.”

Another roll of thunder echoed outside, but this time, your son didn’t flinch. Instead, he shifted under the covers and curled into the space between you and Lando, letting out a long, tired breath. You felt his small hand reach out under the blanket, grasping for yours. You took it. His other hand found Lando’s.

And in that quiet moment—he finally felt safe.

The storm carried on outside, fierce and wild, but inside this room, it was just the three of you. Safe. Still. Wrapped in each other.

Lando kissed your forehead, then your son’s. “Our brave little racer,” he whispered.

You lay back, one hand on Lando’s chest, the other cradling your son. The storm was no less loud, no less fierce. But in this room, everything was calm.

And somehow, that was enough.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[decayingearf]

his brothers best friend

✗ warnings: none really (sfw), slight use of the n-word (blk readers only), delusional!stack

synopsis: your bestfriends brother likes you and according to him, you like him back. wc: 557

[a/n: ik i said i was gonna release this later this week but im lowk bored sooo]

you’ve known stack and smoke since they were elias and elijah.

you and elijah were inseparable. from grade school til now, still close like white on rice. unfortunately for you, the moore boys were a package deal. you had called smoke to tell him you were gonna stop by. “a’igh, i aint home right now but, stack gon’ be there” he soon revealed.

you didn’t have a problem with stack, no never that. just didn’t feel like hearing any smug or flirty comments. “w’nt no point in putting them pretty clothes on..’m just gon’ take em off” stack would say with a shrug and a smile.

you would always brush off elias’ advances over the years. in high school, you said it was his hormones. that he didn’t really like you and was just a horny teen. but now? he’s fully developed; mentally and physically, and knows exactly what he wants (you).

you end the call and started your car going straight to the house.

once you arrived, you’re met by music and deep voices. plural. you skip going in the house and make a beeline for the backyard to see who you were hearing.

you were ultimately met with elias and his friends sitting around smoking, “oh my bad, i just wanted to let you know i was here” you speak with a smile, one hand on your hip and the other being used as a visor to block the beaming sun.

“oh a’right, you aint gon’ give me a hug?” he asked with a teasing smile and open arms. you rolled your eyes walking past him and into the house, through the backdoor. although it was a short walk, you felt like a deer in front of a bunch of tigers, everyone eyeing you up and down. their gazes; hungry.

once in the house you laid on the couch for literally five minutes before stack came in the house. “im finna walk them out real quick, you good?” he asked in a irritated tone. “yeah im okay..are you?” you replied nodding towards him as he shrugged it off with a nod.

he soon came back in and walked to the kitchen grabbing a beer. “what’s up?” was all that came out of your mouth, seeing as how you knew he was mad. “them niggas disrespectful”.

“what happened? they say something out the way?” you questioned sitting up to look over at the kitchen only to see he was walking towards you. “yeah they talkin’ ‘bout—‘she bad as hell’” he answered before kissing his teeth.

thats what you’re mad about?

“oh—boy, you funny, they was complimentin’ me” you laughed as he sat next to you. “nah baby, they was pissin’ me off is what they was doin’” before cracking his beer open, “i told them niggas you was my girl and they st-“ “hold on hold on, what? you told them i was your girlfriend? stack, i aint with you” you corrected with a scoff and a look of disbelief.

“you aint with who?” he snorted “you with me..i’ont even know why you would say that” elias finished with a shake of his head and a laugh.

before you could respond, smoke walked in nodding towards yall, “yall look like a couple all cuddled up” he stated unknowing of the previous events.

god were they delusional.

[deliwrites]

𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤 // Saja Boys & Huntr/x

// DATE // 30st of June 2025 → 3rd of July 2025 // PAIRING // Huntr/x x Fem!Reader x Saja Boys // WARNING // panic/anxiety attack, embarrassment? mostly fluff // WORDS // 2.4k+ // SUMMARY // After a devastating message flips her world upside down, she prepares to leave everything behind—until three unexpected visitors show up, uninvited but very welcome. What starts as a painful goodbye slowly transforms into something softer, warmer... and maybe the start of something new she never dared to hope for.

// Part One // Part Two // Part Three //

I save him into my contacts quickly. Like the number might vanish if I take too long. Then I return to the message and just… stare.

로맨스님 (Romance-nim) Hey, how is your day? It’s Romance by the way.

Me Could be better

I decide to say. Not wanting to bother him with what just happened. Ignoring the fact that I have no idea how he got my phone number.

로맨스님 (Romance-nim) Talk to me

I hesitate, thumbs hovering over the keys. But it’s like I can feel the sincerity through the text message. Sighing, I get up and gather my stuff. A pen, notebook, MacBook, stuffing it on my bag as I type back with one hand.

Me My manager just dropped me

Typing it out feels so real. My chest feels tight suddenly, as I take a shallow breath. Exhaling shakily. Exiting the studio I try my best to avoid anyone. Including him.

로맨스님 (Romance-nim) What? But you just won an award Why would he drop you?

Me I don’t know

I mumble along as I type, tears welling in my eyes, vision blurring just a tad.

Me I have to be out of my dorm within 24 hours. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I’ve got no where to go.

Managing to avoid everyone I reach the reception. Juna sends a soft smile that is meant to be reassuring. But all it does is show me that she knew. Ignoring her I head for the exit.

로맨스님 (Romance-nim) Don’t worry It will be okay

My brows furrow with confusion. What is that supposed to mean? Closing the glass door behind me, I grip the railing as I descend the steps to the sidewalk. Pocketing my phone, knowing I’ll have to deal with this on my own.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” I mutter under my breath, shoving my hands deep into the hoodie’s front pocket as I start the walk back to the dorm.

Only I don’t get far. Three figures, dressed in gym clothes, hoods up, wave at me. Confused, I wave back politely. Moving out of the way so they can run past me.

But they don’t. They stop next to me, catching their breaths relatively quickly.

“Hey, where are you going?” It’s Zoey, my eyes widen. What are they doing here? Didn’t they have a personal gym. Miles away from here might I add.

“I- uhm- my dorm…?” My answer sounds more like a question. Still gobsmacked to see them here, so far away from Honmoon Tower. “Wait- Did you seriously jog twenty miles?”

“Oh, no,” Rumi puffs, moving her hand dismissively. “But we could definitely use some water. Mind if we come along?”

“S-sure,” I’m not entirely sure I believe her but nod anyways. Not wanting to disrespect them. “It’s this way,” I point in the direction they just came from. Following me the short walk to the dorms they stretch their arms. “How do you hide your hair in that?” I ask before I can even register what I’m saying. “Sor-“

They burst out laughing at the randomness of the question.

“It’s annoying, for sure,” Mira says, her hair nearly as long as Rumi’s. “But, oh how do I explain this. Uhm, you know when you have a long cable? Of like an extension cord?” Where the hell is this going, I wonder but nod in understanding. “You know when you roll up a long cable, using your hand and elbow, and it looks like a giant looped bow when you grab it in the middle? Yeah, that’s basically what we do with our hair.”

“That has to be the weirdest description I’ve ever heard,” I say matter-of-factly, causing another chuckle between the girls.

“I have to help, it’s really something,” Zoey says leaning her elbow on my shoulder. A smile on her face telling me she doesn’t mind. A smile tugging at my own lips as we reach the lobby of Luminara dorms.

“I’ll have to warn you, it’s a bit cramped,” I tell them as we reach my floor, the third. Taking out my key I walk to the door all the way at the end of the hall at the front of the building.

“That’s okay, we all started small,” Rumi shrugs. I tilt my head in understanding, unlocking the door and letting them in.

“I don’t have any guest slippers,” I grimace in realization. “Nobody visits me really…” Zoey pats my shoulder.

“That’s okay,” they take off the shoes, putting them in the small shoe rack just next to the entrance. Walking in on their socks. I do the same, not wanting to be rude, I leave my slippers by the door.

“Alright, water,” walking the small distance from the entrance to the kitchen area. It’s two counters and a fridge and freezer combo unit. I had a moveable one pit electric stove top. Currently propped against the wall to maximise the useable space. “Watch your head, if you want to sit down. I’m sorry I only have two chairs,” I point out the table around the corner. I don’t dare look at them, embarrassed of the small space even if it won’t be mine for much longer.

Opening the fridge I take out three water bottles, handing them one each without making eye contact.

“Oh, if you need to use the bathroom. It’s that door,” I point to the only other dorm in the small three by four space.

“Thank you Y/n,” Mira says, voice surprisingly gentle. She takes a seat on one of the chairs, Rumi taking the other. Zoey taking Mira’s lap as her personal seat. Mira smirks not seeming to mind at all. I nod once walking past them to open the storage space under the floating bed.

Taking out three bags. I place one open on the counter, leaving the others on the floor for now. I can feel their eyes on me as I walk back and forth to the storage that is also part closet. Taking out clothes and shoving them into the bag.

“Going somewhere?” Rumi asks curiously.

“Uhm… sort of,” I answer, not really paying them much mind beyond that. My brain working over time on trying to figure out what to prioritize.

“What do you mean?” Zoey asks, voice soft filled with concern and it does nothing to help keep my composure. The tenderness of it. The way she’s already bracing for an answer I haven’t even given yet. My fingers tighten against the edge of the counter as my throat constricts. I try to inhale. It’s shallow. I can’t form the words. My eyes don’t focus on anything, shooting in every direction like my racing thoughts all leading to one conclusion.

I have no where to go.

“Hey, hey,” Rumi turns me around, pulling me into her chest. One hand cradles the back of my head, the other rubbing soothing circles on my back. I feel her turn us, and soon there is pressure against my back. The two squeeze me between them. Anchoring my body like a weighted blanket. I can feel their breathing, calm and stead. A rhythm their hold forces me to follow.

“It’s okay,” Mira whisper above me, her voice gentle as if she doesn’t want to startle me. “We’re here,” I nod shakily, a stuttering exhale barely keeping me from crying.

“They-“ I struggle to start. Taking a shaky deep breath. “They dropped me.”

“Luminara?” Zoey asks from where she now sat on Mira’s chair. I nod in response against Rumi’s chest. They don’t let go. Just let me calm down in their embrace.

It’s nice, feels welcoming. I feel protected, for once. A content sigh leaving my lips, my hands clutched between my body and Rumi’s slowly moving to wrap around her thin waist.

Mira carefully lets go, testing the waters before leaving me in Rumi’s arms.

“Okay, look at me nae byeol,” my cheeks heat at the friendly nickname. She loosens her grip just enough to let me look up to her. Cupping my face with the hand that had been cradling my head close to her chest. Wiping away a tear with her thumb that had managed to slip out. “What are you most worried about?” Her eyes stare deep into mine, concern, laced with something I can’t place. Devotion.

“I have twenty-four hours to get out of the dorm,” my voice is groggy, my throat thick with fear. “I have no where to go,” I admit my gaze lowering in embarrassment.

“Okay, consider it fixed,” Zoey say capturing my attention. My eyes finding hers.

“What…?” My voice barely above a whisper in surprise.

“We have a spare bedroom, you can stay there.”

“What? No? I’ll just be a bother,” I protest. “I have no income anymore, I-“ just by the looks on their faces I can tell there is no point in continuing my attempt at giving them reasons to not let me stay.

“We’ll help you pack,” Mira says, getting up, grabbing on of the bags that I had left on the floor. Going to the storage closet and starts packing.

“We got you,” Rumi murmurs into my ear, pecking my cheek before she lets go of me. Grabbing one of the bag as well. Heading for the bathroom.

Shell shocked, I stand there for a good few seconds.

“Alright, a car will come get us later. They are on standby for now,” Zoey says, pulling me from my frozen state. “Is there stuff that you can’t take with you?”

“Ah, yes,” I nod. “All furniture stays here. The duvet covers and pillowcases are mine but the duvet itself and the pillows need to stay here. Uhm, oh all kitchen cutlery stays, plates, glasses, tubs.”

“Even this one?” Zoey presents a Huntr/x mug from one of the cupboards. Making me flush red once more.

“N-no, that one’s mine,” she grins, endearment in her eyes as she carefully wraps it with paper towels. Taking the bag I had been putting my clothes in, I climb up the ladder to the floating bed. I begin with taking the duvet out of its cover. Carful not the bump my head against the ceiling.

At random moments they’ll ask if something needs to stay or if its mine. Showing me it from all angles with Rumi being in the bathroom, so the item appears high just beyond the wall. Zoey being in the kitchen holding up the item, and Mira being below me having me bend over the edge to see the item.

Taking the furthest of the corners from the fitted sheet, I start pulling harshly. I have never been the best at placing nor removing fitted sheets.

“What about this?” comes Mira, holding onto the sheet I peek over the edge.

“That’s mi- AH!” nearly falling over the edge myself as the corner finally let go. But Zoey is there in a second caging me against the ladder before I reach the floor.

Startled, I nearly miss the loud bang of something rolling off the bed, onto the laminate flooring. Before even seeing the item, a flush covers my cheek. Grimacing with my eyes closed as silence fills the room.

“What was that?” Zoey blinks, carefully stepping back from me, making sure I safely landed on the floor. Turning she looks at the item now on the floor. “Oh my god,” she gasps with glee.

Zoey crouches down, practically waddling over to the item. “It’s pink,” she notes biting back a grin. “Cute choice, a bullet vibrator. Travel friendly,” my face burning hotter than the sun.

“What the hell was that noise?” Rumi chooses that moment to enter the room. Zoey crouched like she’s studying evidence of a crime scene, me on barely steady feet on the floor, red faced and humiliated, and Mira frozen by the closet with a t-shirt in hand. She blinks, walking closer to Zoey to stare at the object that should have remained hidden. “Oh,” she says, a smirk slowly tugging at her lips. “I see,” Zoey lifts it with two finger like it might bite her. “It looks expensive. Is it waterproof?”

I don’t know whether to nod in confirmation or climb back up the ladder and hide under the covers.

“Well,” Zoey hums thoughtfully. “Can’t forget the essentials, right?” then she calmly walks it over to one of the bag and places it inside like its nothing more than a charger cable.

“You guys are the worst,” I groan with embarrassment.

Zoey flops onto one of the chairs, grinning wide. “You say that now, but you’ll thank us when you’re stress-free at our place-”

“With all the time to use… that,” Mira seems to have recovered again, a full smirk on her lips.

“I hate you.”

“You love us,” Rumi says sweetly, already packing more of my things like nothing happened. But I know I’ll never live this down.

Finally everything is packed, with no more embarrassing moments. I drop my key into the little metal box in the lobby and Zoey calls the driver to come pick us up.

While waiting on the curb, doubt creeps back in. “Are you sure it’s okay I stay with you?” Instantly they eyes turn to me. Wide like they couldn’t believe I still need to ask.

“Yes,” Mira says firmly, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “We are sure.” And we will do anything to keep you there, too.

“Plus, once you sign with Honmoon Entertainment, you won’t even need your own place,” Zoey adds, way too casually. “You can just stay with us forever,” I do a double take when her words fully register.

“Sign with Honmoon?”

“Yes,” Rumi nods definitively. Like it was already decided.

“But-” I can’t finish when a black SUV stops in front of us.

“Gaja, Gaja,” Zoey grins, jumping into action. She pops the back where she stacks my four stuffed to the brim bags. Slamming it shut with a loud bang. Meanwhile Mira gets in the car first, then Rumi who holds her hand out to help me in.

I sit behind Mira, Rumi next to her and Zoey climbs in beside me. It still felt so surreal, I nearly forgot my seatbelt. But before I can reach for it. Zoey’s already pulling it around me swiftly, a serious look on her face as she clicks it into place. An ecstatic grin returning immediately after.

// Part One // Part Two // Part Three //

Taglist:

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I hope everyone got tagged correctly!

[h0wdidig3there]

I’m part of the heterochromia crew, but specifically part of the weird heterochromia crew where it’s not obvious but it looks really weird up close. It’s not the central heterochromia that most people talk about, my eyes just decided to mismatch, like they both decided to wear a green shirt with brown overalls and then one of them decided to wear blue shoes and didn’t tell the other one until they were already at the function. I don’t make the rules. I just look at them and confuse myself. 

On top of that instead of walking in a straight line holding hands, my eyes decided they hated each other and one is trying to run away to the best of its ability

Now based on my eye color and one deviated eye, you’re probably wondering if I need glasses the answer is technically yes but only to drive, and I don’t have a license, I hate cars, and I lost my last pair of glasses years ago when my family decided to move things around in the room that they were put in.

Also, at one point I had eye surgery I don’t remember for what and it was when I was a baby so I just assume it doesn’t matter anymore also before you say oh it’s just Hazel if it’s brown and green mixed together I’m not talking about that I’m talking about Separate sections of my eye being deep, green and other sections being normal brown, and again, this isn’t noticeable from far away because both are dark colors and you’re more likely to notice the fact that one of my eyes is trying to escape my head

I would show a picture of my eyes, but I like my privacy and also I have anxiety which convinces me that if I show my eyes, someone will find and eat me, don’t ask I don’t know the answer.

the recent eye color post on yesornopolls is intriguing me a lot bc. well. statistically more people should be answering yes to the question here than they are. but obvs the point of yesornopolls is yes or no questions so we can’t exactly do a follow up there. so i’m going into more depth here because i can do what i want

obvs this poll isn’t gonna get as much traction as the poll blog’s will, but it’ll still be interesting to look at the results of it and compare them methinks

(bee tee dubs if your eyes change color based on lighting answer with the color they are most often. pick whatever color you’d put on a legal ID. also the heterochromia button is there with complete heterochromia in mind but if you have central/sectoral heterochromia and feel none of the other options fit you then. go for it i suppose)

[sh4nksslvt]

A Place in a Giant’s World

After a grueling journey, you find solace in the curve of Loki's massive horn, discovering a softer side to the enigmatic giant.

yall when i tell u ds man is sooo damnn fineee~

loki x gn!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, size difference, loki being a little shit, wholesome, ooc(?) a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff cringe, and akward © dollywons for divider word count: 2.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the jagged cliffs of Elbaf. The island’s terrain was as unforgiving as its reputation, with rocky paths winding through towering forests and steep inclines that seemed to mock your stamina. At just over five feet tall, you felt like an ant trudging through a world built for giants. Your legs ached, your boots were caked in mud, and every step sent a dull throb through your calves. Hours of walking had left you teetering on the edge of collapse, and the weight of your pack seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute.

Ahead of you loomed Loki, the infamous giant prince of Elbaf, his colossal frame dominating the landscape. At sixty-seven meters tall, he was a walking mountain, his presence both awe-inspiring and intimidating. His long, magenta hair swayed in the breeze, the twin braids framing his face neatly while the rest spilled messily down his back. Bandages wrapped tightly over his eyes, giving him an air of mystery, though you’d learned by now that he didn’t need sight to navigate the world with unnerving precision. His massive steps shook the ground, yet he moved with a grace that belied his size, each stride deliberate, almost performative.

Loki’s personality was as towering as his stature. Arrogance dripped from his every word, his sharp tongue weaving taunts and clever quips with ease. He reveled in trickery, delighting in outsmarting anyone who dared cross his path. There was a cruelty to him, too—a penchant for toying with others, pushing their limits just to see how far they’d bend before breaking. Yet, in the weeks you’d traveled with him, you’d glimpsed something else beneath the surface: a flicker of compassion, rare and fleeting, like a star obscured by storm clouds.

“Keep up, little mouse,” Loki called, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. He didn’t turn to look at you, but you could hear the smirk in his tone. “Or do you plan to collapse and make me carry you like some fragile trinket?”

You gritted your teeth, forcing your legs to keep moving. “I’m fine,” you huffed, though your voice betrayed your exhaustion. “And I’m not that small.”

Loki chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through the air. “Oh, but you are. A speck, really. I could flick you into the next island with a twitch of my finger.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to muster a proper retort. The banter was familiar by now, a strange rhythm you’d fallen into during your journey. You weren’t entirely sure why Loki had agreed to let you tag along—or why you’d chosen to follow a giant with a reputation for chaos. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the way his rare moments of kindness caught you off guard, like finding a warm ember in a pile of ash.

The path steepened, and you stumbled over a loose rock, catching yourself just before you faceplanted. A frustrated groan escaped your lips. Loki’s steps slowed, and for a moment, you thought he might turn back, but he only tilted his head slightly, as if listening to your struggle.

“Pathetic,” he drawled, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Do humans tire so easily? Or is it just you?”

You glared at the back of his massive head. “I’ve been walking for hours, Loki. Not all of us have legs the size of trees.”

He snorted, a sound that sent a flock of birds scattering from a nearby tree. “Excuses, excuses. Perhaps I should leave you here to become bird food. They’d probably find you tastier than you look.”

Despite your exhaustion, you managed a weak laugh. “You’d miss me too much.”

Loki’s steps faltered, just for a fraction of a second, and you wondered if you’d imagined it. He didn’t respond, which was unusual. Normally, he’d fire back with some biting remark, but this time, he just kept walking, his massive hands swinging casually at his sides.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The air grew cooler, and your energy was fading fast. You’d been traveling since dawn, searching for a rumored artifact said to be hidden deep in Elbaf’s mountains. Loki had his own reasons for seeking it—something about proving his cunning to the other giants—but you suspected he was also chasing the thrill of the hunt. For you, it was a chance to see more of the world, to step out of your small life and into something grander.

But right now, grandeur was the last thing on your mind. All you wanted was to stop moving.

“Loki...” you called, your voice weaker than you’d intended. “Can we… rest? Just for a bit?”

He stopped abruptly, and you nearly collided with the back of his massive boot. He turned his head slightly, the bandages over his eyes making it impossible to read his expression. “Rest?” he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. “You’ve barely made it halfway up this pathetic hill.”

You gestured at the steep incline ahead. “That’s not a hill. It’s a mountain, and I’m not built for this.”

Loki’s lips twitched, and you could tell he was fighting a smile. “Weak,” he muttered, but there was no real venom in it. He crouched down, the ground shaking as his knees hit the earth. Even crouched, he towered over you, his face level with the treetops. “Fine. Five minutes. Don’t expect me to coddle you.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. Dropping your pack, you sank to the ground, leaning against a boulder. The cool stone felt like heaven against your aching back. You closed your eyes, letting out a long sigh. The sound of Loki shifting nearby was like the creaking of a ship, his massive form settling onto the ground with a low rumble.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of some unknown creature. You peeked one eye open, watching Loki as he sat cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. His head was tilted slightly, as if he were listening to the world around him. The bandages over his eyes gave him an almost serene appearance, though you knew better than to trust that illusion.

“You’re staring,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

You flushed, quickly looking away. “I’m not.”

“Liar.” He smirked, leaning forward slightly. “What’s so fascinating, hmm? My stunning good looks? My overwhelming charm?”

You snorted, despite yourself. “More like your overwhelming ego.”

He laughed, a genuine sound that made your chest feel oddly warm. “You wound me, little mouse. And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

“Friends?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve threatened to flick me into the sea at least three times today.”

“Details,” he said, waving a massive hand dismissively. “I threaten everyone. It’s part of my charm.”

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. Despite his arrogance, there was something about Loki that made it hard to stay mad at him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to know when you were struggling, even if he hid his concern behind a barrage of insults.

Your eyelids grew heavy, and you stifled a yawn. The boulder was comfortable enough, but the thought of lying down somewhere softer was tempting. Your gaze drifted to Loki’s massive form, specifically to the curved horns protruding from his head. They were enormous, each one thicker than your entire body, curling gracefully like the branches of an ancient tree. An idea sparked in your mind, born of exhaustion and a touch of delirium.

“Loki,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can I… try something?”

He tilted his head, the movement sending his braids swaying. “Try what? Don’t tell me you’re planning to climb me like some ambitious squirrel.”

You laughed weakly. “Not exactly. Just… trust me?”

He raised an eyebrow—or at least, you assumed he did beneath the bandages. “Trust you? That’s a bold request, coming from someone who can barely walk straight.”

“Please?” you pressed, giving him your best pleading look.

He sighed dramatically, the sound like a gust of wind. “Fine. But if you fall and break something, don’t expect me to play nursemaid.”

You stood, wobbling slightly, and approached his massive form. Up close, he was even more intimidating, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your heart race. You reached out, placing a hand on the smooth surface of his horn. It was cool to the touch, polished by years of wind and weather. The curve was gentle, almost inviting, like a natural hammock.

With a deep breath, you began to climb. It wasn’t easy—your arms trembled with fatigue, and the horn’s surface was slicker than you’d expected—but determination kept you going. Loki remained still, though you could feel his curiosity radiating like heat. After a few precarious moments, you reached the curve of his horn and settled into it, your body fitting snugly against the smooth, cool surface. It was surprisingly comfortable, the gentle slope cradling you like a bed.

“Well,” Loki said, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You grinned, letting your head rest against the horn. “It’s perfect. Like a giant hammock.”

He huffed, but there was no malice in it. “A hammock. You’ve reduced the mighty Loki, prince of Elbaf, to furniture.”

“Comfy furniture,” you corrected, closing your eyes. The exhaustion was catching up to you, and the gentle sway of Loki’s horn as he adjusted his position was oddly soothing.

For a moment, he was silent. Then, you felt a subtle change in his breathing. It slowed, becoming deep and measured, the rise and fall of his chest like the tide. You realized he was doing it on purpose, keeping his movements steady to avoid jostling you. The thought made your heart skip a beat.

“Loki?” you murmured, your voice heavy with sleep.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks”

He didn’t respond right away, and you thought he might ignore you. But then, softly, he said, “...Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled, letting the warmth of his words wrap around you like a blanket. The world faded, and you drifted into a peaceful sleep, cradled in the curve of a giant’s horn.

When you woke, the sky was dark, speckled with stars. The air was crisp, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and earth. You blinked, disoriented, until you remembered where you were. Loki’s horn was still beneath you, steady and unmoving. You shifted slightly, peering over the edge to see his face.

He was awake, his head tilted slightly as if listening to the night. The bandages over his eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, giving him an ethereal quality. His expression was unreadable, but there was a softness to it, a quiet contemplation you hadn’t seen before.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep through the entire journey.”

You yawned, stretching carefully to avoid slipping. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You drool, by the way.”

“I do not!” you protested, though you wiped your mouth just to be sure.

He chuckled, the sound reverberating through his horn and sending a pleasant vibration through you. “Whatever you say, little mouse.”

You sat up, hugging your knees as you looked out at the starlit landscape. The mountains of Elbaf stretched endlessly before you, their peaks shrouded in mist. It was beautiful, in a wild, untamed way, and for a moment, you felt small but not insignificant. Loki’s presence grounded you, his massive form a reminder that even the smallest things could find a place in a world of giants.

“...Why do you let me stick around?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out before you could stop it. “I’m just… me. I’m not a warrior or a genius. I slow you down.”

Loki was quiet for a long time, long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, he spoke, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “You’re… persistent. Annoyingly so. And you see things others don’t.”

You frowned, unsure what he meant. “Like what?”

He tilted his head, as if choosing his words carefully. “You see me...Not the prince, not the trickster. Just… me.”

The admission caught you off guard, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. For all his arrogance and cruelty, Loki was letting you glimpse something real, something vulnerable. It was a gift, one you didn’t take lightly.

“I think you’re more than just a trickster,” you said quietly. “You’re… complicated. And maybe a little kind, when you want to be.”

He snorted, but there was no edge to it. “Careful, little mouse. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. For a moment, the world felt perfect—just you, Loki, and the stars. You leaned back against his horn, content to stay there a little longer, and he didn’t protest. His breathing slowed again, steady and calm, lulling you into a sense of peace.

The artifact could wait until morning. For now, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

[ilovebabyonboard]

Have You Ever Tried This One?

PAIRING: Bob Floyd x Pilot!Reader

CATEGORY: Drabble, Fluff. Suggestive

SUMMARY: You just needed a stretch and some peace. What you got instead was Bob Floyd, flushed and flustered in the gym doorway — trying very hard not to stare while you’re bent in ways that definitely aren’t regulation. He’s polite. You’re not. Let’s see how long he lasts.

WORD COUNT: 1.8K

WARNINGS: midly suggestive, implied desire but no explicit action, not proofread

The San Diego base was quieter than usual for a Thursday morning. A rare hush settled over the hangars and halls, broken only by the distant echo of boots or the low hum of morning briefings. Most of the squad was buried in mission prep or sleeping off last night’s long debriefs, but you needed something else—something slower, quieter.

The last mission hadn’t just drained your fuel tank—it had wrung your entire body out. High-G turns, endless adrenaline, and the constant demand for perfection had sunk deep into your muscles, coiling tension through your spine and shoulders like wire. Tight muscles, restless nights. The relentless pressure isn’t just in your mind — it’s etched into your bones and tendons. You can’t ignore it anymore. You promised yourself to carve out time for something gentle, something that would help untangle the knots beneath your skin.

So here you were, early in the base gym.

The gym was cool and still, the scent of rubber matting, old sweat, and faint lemon cleaner clinging to the air. You wore a fitted tank and black compression shorts that moved with you, clinging to every shift of muscle as you flowed from one stretch to the next. Your music buzzed softly in your ears— Juno by Sabrina Carpenter.

You settled into the mat, palms pressing flat into the textured surface, hips lifting into a deliberate downward dog. Your calves stretched tight, hamstrings tingling in protest. You exhaled through your nose, long and slow. Letting the tension go.

The mission still lingers in your mind like static, but here in this quiet space, you find a moment of peace.

And that’s when you felt it—that flicker. Like eyes on your skin.

You didn’t look at first. You just smirked, staying in the pose a beat too long, letting the subtle arch of your body speak for you. Then you rose, fluid and deliberate, rolling up from your hips and catching him in your periphery.

Bob Floyd.

He stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a puzzled look on his face. His lips parted, like he’d meant to say something but forgot what. The overhead lights cast a soft glow across his face, and even from here, you could see the way his jaw worked, the tick of restraint in his posture.

His eyes trailed your movements, but not crudely. More like reverence. Like watching you move made something inside him ache.

He hadn’t meant to find you here—he’d been wandering the base looking for a spare charger, radio dead and unreadable. But now that he’d found you like this, stretching and flushed and glowing with exertion, something inside him locked into place. He couldn’t look away.

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. A slow, mischievous smirk curls your lips. You held the next pose, extended puppy, a fraction longer than necessary, the muscles in your arms flexing as you do. Then, smoothly, you straighten your legs and rise, stretching out.

Bob’s heart hammered hard against his ribs as he stood there. He’d watched you stretch before—on the flight line, at briefings—but never like this. Never with such vulnerability.

To be honest, Bob had thought you were cute for weeks. More than cute, really. There was something about the way you carried yourself that held his attention, quickened his pulse, and sent his thoughts wandering down roads he’d never dared travel. But he’d kept it professional, kept his distance.

This is a mission. We're teammates.

That mantra kept him grounded. Yet here, watching you, all that resolve wavered. The tension inside him wasn’t just from the mission or the charger hunt — it was something deeper, tangled up in the way you made his heart ache with every glance, every small smile.

Bob had been trying—really trying—to keep things professional. You were his teammate. Skilled, sharp-tongued, dangerously charming. But for weeks now, he’d been hyper-aware of you in every room. How you laughed with the others. How you’d brush past him with a nod and a smile that lingered too long in his chest.

He told himself it was just admiration. Respect. Camaraderie.

But watching you now, flexed and breathing through the last remnants of the mission, the thoughts in his head weren’t particularly professional.

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes where that teasing smirk curled just enough to promise trouble. He wanted to reach out, to tell you how long he’d been holding this in—how every quiet moment without you felt like a dull ache. But the words stuck, caught in the tight knot of nerves and something else—something electric.

“Didn’t know you were into yoga, Floyd,” you teased, voice low and smooth like warm honey, headphones still resting lightly in your ears.

Bob swallowed hard, the heat rising in his cheeks. He raised a hand to fix his already perfectly say glasses. Trying to look casual but failing. “Sorry,” he mumbled, voice rougher than intended. “I didn’t mean to… I was just—uh—looking for a charger and, well..”

He trailed off, eyes darting everywhere but on you.

You turned, pulling out one headphone and raising a brow. “You didn’t mean to stare?”

His neck flushed pink. “That too,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

You raised an eyebrow, smirk softening into something almost gentle. “It’s fine. Honestly, you caught me at a good time.”

He blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Really?”

You gave a lazy shrug, stretching your arms overhead again, and Bob’s eyes—well, he tried not to, but they dragged down the exposed line of your waist and back again. “Yeah,” you said. “The mission’s been rough. My shoulders are wrecked. I was gonna ask Phoenix to help me stretch, but she’s buried in logs.”

Bob nodded, already halfway to understanding where this was going.

“So…” you said, letting the word hang between you.

His eyes darkened just a little, a flicker of something bolder lurking beneath the shy veneer. “Me?” he repeated, like a question and a challenge wrapped into one.

You shrugged with a innocent smile, “You’re more gentleman-like than the others...I figured maybe you could show me some stretches or, I don’t know, help me loosen up.”

Bob felt a heat rise to his cheeks, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I could do that,” he said quietly. “Whenever you want.” Bob sent you a shy nod.

The awkwardness between you softened, replaced by something hopeful — a fragile connection built on trust, tension, and the promise of something more.

You slide back onto the mat, your voice low, casual. “Alright, Floyd. Show me what you’ve got.”

Bob kneels beside you, careful at first — always careful — but his hands don’t tremble like they used to around you.

He sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the shift in the air around him. He smelled like jet fuel and clean laundry, with a faint trace of aftershave that made your stomach flutter.

He places one palm gently against your thigh, just above the knee, guiding your leg into a stretch. The contact is firm, respectful, but his fingers linger just a moment too long.

His other hand hovers near your ankle, unsure if it’s okay to touch. You glance at him, one brow raised, the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “You can touch. I won’t break.”

His breath catches audibly, but he nods. Swallows. Then adjusts your leg with slow precision, eyes never leaving the way your body bends under his touch. He’s doing his best to stay focused, to pretend this is clinical, just functional.

It’s not.

You shift slightly, arching into the stretch, and his hand brushes higher on your thigh. You feel the heat between you like a live wire — the proximity, the quiet tension wrapped up in every shallow breath he takes.

“You good?” he asks, voice a little too soft, a little too close to your ear.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. You're doing fine, Lieutenant.”

The way you say it — low and just a little sultry — sends a flush up his neck. He clears his throat but doesn’t move away.

His hand is still on your thigh. Yours brushes his wrist, intentionally or not, and the contact makes both of you pause.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

Your eyes meet — his are wide, unsure, but dark now, holding something restrained. Yours are steadier. Curious. Testing.

The moment stretches just a little too long. You could say something. So could he. But neither of you do.

Bob shifted his grip higher, slowly — the heel of his palm now cupping the inside of your thigh. Not indecent. Not overt. But close. Closer than it should’ve been.

You caught his eyes again. They were darker now. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked back down, refocusing on the stretch, like that would keep his thoughts in check. It didn’t.

“You’re more flexible than I expected,” he said softly.

You laughed, a low, husky sound that wrapped around him like smoke. “You’ve been paying attention?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

Your hand brushed his wrist again as you shifted slightly — a small movement, intentional only in the way it broke his rhythm. You felt the way he froze for half a second. The way his fingers flexed against your leg.

The air between you thickened. Not from words. From the silence. From the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and didn’t move for just a moment too long.

You sat up slowly, the motion dragging your body across his field of view. You didn’t rush. You knew what you were doing. Your shoulder brushed his chest as you rose, close enough to catch the scent of him — clean soap, fabric softener, and something faintly metallic from the flight deck.

“Thanks,” you said, casually wiping sweat from your collarbone with a towel. “That helped more than I expected.”

Bob’s voice caught in his throat. His eyes followed the line of your neck before he blinked hard and looked away. “Yeah… sure. Anytime.”

You stood over him now, and he was still on his knees, looking up — flushed, a little stunned, like you’d taken the wind out of him without laying a finger on his chest.

You leaned in just enough to let your voice land right at the shell of his ear. “I might hold you to that.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t move. Just swallowed hard, eyes darting everywhere but yours as you headed toward the exit. Bob stares at you like he’s still trying to recover from what just happened — or almost did. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You grab your towel, sling it over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you later, Floyd.”

And just like that, you’re gone — leaving him kneeling there, flustered, heart racing, wondering if he imagined how long you’d looked at him, or how soft your touch had been.

He sat there for a beat too long, eyes fixed on the space you’d just occupied, heart pounding like he’d just pulled 9 Gs.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slow.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, like a prayer and a curse at the same time. And the scent of you still lingered on his fingers.

[pagesfromthevoid]

I Think He Knows | j.t.

Joaquin Torres x Avenger!reader

There’s always a lingering question between them in these moments. Will they cross that line finally? Who’s going to be the one who does it? But neither of them ever do. Sometimes it’s an interruption, sometimes it’s one of them backing down. 

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: kidnapping, angst, pwp, Joaquin has a pacemaker (his heart literally had to be restarted in BNW, you cannot tell me he doesn’t??), SMUUUUUUT (p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, cockwarming if you squint).

Author's Note: This came to me in a dream. I don't have much else to say. Also, I'm so sorry if the Spanish in this is...bad. I tried my best. Let me know how to improve it!! Reader's codename is Glimpse.

Talk to Me! | Coffee?

2024

“So…,”

She looks up from adjusting her gear, the roar of the plane’s engines almost drowning him out. 

“What’s it like, y’know, being an OG Avenger?” He asks, leaning against the hull of the plane.

Bucky makes a disgruntled sound beside her while she gives Joaquín a slow, crooked grin and a raised brow –the kind of look that says she’s already figured him out and isn’t sure if she’s impressed or just amused.

“Oh, it’s great,” she says, and the look Bucky gives her is one of warning as he stands up. Then she’s leaning forward some, and clasping her hands together in a snarky little clap. “Everyone I love is either dead or in hiding. My closest friend fucked off to the forties with his ex-girlfriend’s aunt. And, oh, the general public doesn’t particularly like me because I’m the only one in the public eye still, so I’m easy to blame.”

Joaquín stares at her for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh.”

“It’s great,” she repeats, giving him a painfully fake smile. “Love it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t –,”

“Give me a ‘chute,” Bucky orders, interrupting the stammering of the officer. 

Joaquín shakes his head. “Oh, no. We’re too low for that –,”

But the soldier doesn’t let Joaquín finish his sentence before he’s tearing off his sleeve and throwing himself out of the plane. Joaquín looks horrified for a moment before he turns to her, frowning deeply.

“Do you…can you jump out of a plane without dying?”

“You wanna find out?” 

“I really don’t,” he practically begs. 

“Too late, flyboy.” And she’s grinning as she falls backwards out of the plane with a salute. 

Joaquín stares down as she falls, bracing for her impact, but it never comes. Actually, she’s nowhere to be seen as he pulls back into the plane and looks up with a hard exhale.

“Dios mío,” he breathes out. “I might be in love.”

2027

For the last week, Sam has been complaining about two things: the New Avengers and her absolute refusal to get involved in the issue. She insists it's because she’s not going to choose a side; she’s known both him and Bucky long enough to be friends with them both. He insists she’s a liar and just likes watching the two of them argue.

She doesn’t deny this.

However, she’s not really sure why Sam is so concerned with whether or not she chooses a side. She literally lives in D.C. and works with him and Joaquín on a regular basis. Less than six months ago, she helped stop Ross and Stern and prior to that, she ran missions with both him and Joaquín overseas.

To be fair, there’s a two part explanation for why she’s stuck around D.C. as long as she has. One, because prior to this New Avengers nonsense, she fully intended to join the team. However, the second reason is much more selfish –though, she’d argue that she deserves to be a little selfish after the hell that has been her life.

And that selfish reason comes down to Sam’s very attractive, very confident partner.

When they met three years ago, she didn’t think much of Joaquín Torres. A little jumpy, way too hyper –but he meant well. Even then, she thought he was cute. And he helped tremendously with the Flag Smasher situation –proved he wasn’t just some fanboy with a hero complex (though he might still be a fanboy, deep down). But as she continued to work with them after Sam officially took up the mantle of Captain America, Joaquín just kept growing on her. 

When she settled into her life in D.C., it was Joaquín that became her closest friend in the capital. He helped find her an apartment that wasn’t the worst, and had given her a list of the best places to eat around the area. Then insisted he take her whenever they got down time. He calls it Team Bonding.

She calls it Not Dating.

“What’s the plan for dinner today, Glimpse?” He asks as she pops into their base of operations. He’s not looking at her when she appears, though he never does anymore. The signature whoosh sound that follows her appearance gives her away, now that he’s trained to hear it. 

“I was thinking that ramen place in Petworth?” She suggests, plopping down on the couch and looking at her phone. “It’s the next on the list, but your list seems to keep getting longer.”

It’s a passive observation; the list he gave her when she first settled in had maybe thirty restaurants and they’d hit about half of them. However, every time she opens the Google sheet he made, somehow there’s always two or three more that weren’t there before. 

He turns around in his chair, leaning back as he looks her over. Feeling his eyes on her, she glances up from her phone with a soft smirk. 

“Gotta find ways for you to keep me around, cariño,” he grins. 

Her eyes are glued to her phone, though she’s not actually looking at anything. Every single time he says something affectionate or flirty in Spanish, her brain sort of short circuits. She took Spanish in high school, but it never really stuck. There’s a handful of phrases she knows, and she’s learned some from working with Joaquín –anything she’s learned from him is either flirty or inappropriate, however. 

“Oh yes,” she chuckles in response, kicking her feet up on the couch. “Because I only keep you around for your food recs.”

“Food recs, good looks, witty banter…,”

“You’re just the whole package, aren’t you, Torres?” 

“Your words, not mine,” he points out, pushing himself out of his chair.

Sitting beside her, he lifts her legs to rest on his lap, one hand lingering just above her knee. They share a look –a knowing one, like they both are aware that they’re playing with fire. It’s always like this when they’re close; hyper aware of how it feels to touch one another in a way that’s nothing short of unprofessional. Sometimes it’s a hand on her knee when they’re seated together. Sometimes it’s her fingers brushing the nape of his neck when he’s at his computer. 

There’s always a lingering question between them in these moments. Will they cross that line finally? Who’s going to be the one who does it? But neither of them ever do. Sometimes it’s an interruption, sometimes it’s one of them backing down. 

But they never make it past the touching. 

“I feel like I’m interruptin’ something in here,” Sam announces as he walks into the room. 

Sam is aware of how she feels, and while he doesn’t necessarily tease her about it –he’s annoying about it. 

While she doesn’t jerk away from Joaquín, she does move her legs away from his touch. His fingers drag across the fabric of her jeans as she pulls away, like he refuses to give up that closeness. But she’s standing up and pocketing her phone. 

“We’re going to that ramen place,” she offers, and Joaquín is throwing his head back against the couch. “You in?”

“No go,” he responds, shaking his head. “We’ve got some intel we need to review –remember what happened last month?”

“Yeah, Bob,” she snickers, recalling the picture of the New Avengers in the papers. “Isn’t he just…a guy? I thought Bucky had that handled?”

“Not Bob,” Sam corrects, rolling his eyes. “Dude isn’t just a guy either. Not that point though –the other thing that happened last month.”

“Krane?” Joaquín asks, frowning deeply, standing now.

She groans, rubbing the hell of her palm into her eye. “Fucking Krane.” 

Dr. Lenora Krane –the reason she has powers and the reason Nick Fury brought her on board in 2015 after just barely being seventeen. While the New Avengers were off handling Bob, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was bribing the Senate to pardon the doctor in order to put her to work for the U.S. government on a military base in California. However, that lasted as long as anyone could have predicted: last month, the reformed doctor went off the grid and no one has been able to find her since. 

Until today, apparently. 

Joaquín shifts into work mode with ease, sliding back into his chair and opening the files Sam has sent over. She sits on the arm of the chair, reading over the files as they pop up. Grainy photos and half-assed security feeds show her in Manhattan shortly after the Bob incident, but she seems to be making her way down to D.C. again. 

Even in bad photos, seeing the woman who made her life hell for most of her teen years makes the hero’s skin bristle. 

Taken from the children’s home she had grown up, under the guise of being a foster parent, Krane made it seem like her life was going to be great. But then the experiments started and only ended when Maria Hill infiltrated the lab she was kept in. Hill took her under her wing, kept her out of the system, then gave her a place amongst Earth’s mightiest heroes. 

The rest is history –though it seems like it might be repeating itself.

“What’s her deal?” Joaquín asks, looking up at her now as he leans back in his chair. “You think she’s here for you?”

His arm wraps around her from behind, linking his thumb through a belt loop since she’s using his arm rest as a seat. It’s comforting, though, whether he means for it to be or not.

If Sam notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

“I mean, I am the reason that she lost all her work and went to jail for nearly ten  years,” she points out, crossing her arms over her chest as she glances down at him. The look on Joaquín’s face is genuine concern, and it makes her heart ache. “She’s had a long time to plot her revenge against me.”

“Which means you are in danger,” Sam concludes, looking down at her with deep concern. “I’ve already talked to Barnes, you’re going to stay with him and his team of assholes. Differences or not, that Tower is the safest place –,”

“I am not going into hiding,” she counters, shooting up from the chair. Joaquín’s fingers are still caught in her belt loop and she yanks him out of his seat as she jumps up. “Joaquín –,”

“Sorry, shit,” he complains, letting her go finally and shaking out his hand. “She’s right though, Sam. We can’t just send her away, she’s an Avenger.”

“More importantly, I don’t want to uproot my shit and go hang out with Bucky. His team is weird. And Walker is there.”

“I thought you didn’t have a preference?” Sam argues, brow raised as he looks between her and Joaquín.

“You know damn well I’d rather be here than there,” she snaps back, pointing at him. “I am more than capable of handling myself, Sam. You know that.”

For a moment, there’s a tense silence in the room. There’s no reason to pick a real fight over this, but she doesn’t like being made to feel small when she’s been doing this since 2015; it’s not her first fight and it most certainly won’t be her last.

But finally, Sam nods in agreement. “You’re right. I can’t bench you –but I can at least make sure you’re not alone. One of us will stay with you.”

She’s about to argue that she doesn’t need a babysitter, but Joaquín is throwing his hand in the air. 

“I volunteer as tribute!”

Sam and her both look at him like he’s lost his damn mind. Joaquín has enough self-awareness to look sheepish as he drops his hand and clears his throat. Then he tries to shrug nonchalantly. 

“I mean –I can stay with her. Not a big deal.” 

Covering her face with her hand, she shakes her head. There’s definitely a blush burning her cheeks, and his excitement doesn’t help the feelings that simmer just below the surface.

“Smooth, kid,” Sam sighs, and she can just hear the eye roll in his voice. “I’ll get a notice sent back to New York –S.A.B.E.R. is working on pinpointing her next location. Until then, you two go grab whatever you need from Torres’s place. Joaquín, when you get to her apartment, set up security protocols.”

“Heard,” he replies, sitting back down to transfer whatever data he may need to his laptop. Sam has disappeared back into his office, already on the phone. Then he grins up at her. “I got you, hermosa.”

Without thinking about it, she lays her hand on his shoulder gently. Their eyes meet, and she squeezes. “I don’t doubt that, flyboy.” 

And she doesn’t. Not for a second. 

It’s her that interrupts the moment this time, though, pulling away with a wave of her hand. “Okay –I used my powers to get here, so we can do that or you can drive.”

“Oh fuck no,” he immediately says, pushing his chair away from his desk to gather his cables. “Last time you quantum jumped us, I threw up.”

“It’s not quantum jumping,” she reminds him, rolling her eyes. “It’s teleporting. And you only threw up because you weren’t ready.”

“Nope. I’m driving.”

“But I’m faster.”

For a second, he stands up and she thinks he’s going to counter her again. Instead, he hands her a rolled up set of cables, and she takes them without question. With a sudden yank though, he’s pulling her closer and resting his free hand on her hip. Her hand immediately hits his chest as a way to keep herself upright, but the sudden closeness makes her heart pound in her fingertips –or maybe that’s his heartbeat. 

“Faster isn’t always better,” he murmurs, leaning down into her space. 

She’s about to respond –something wildly inappropriate, probably, but she’s not 100% sure because all thoughts have scattered the moment he pulled her in –when Sam walks back through the doors. With that distinctive whoosh, she’s on the other side of the room, cables in hand and for once, a blush burning her cheeks. 

Joaquín is trying to hold back a smug grin. 

Sam is unimpressed by them both. 

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

“I always forget how tiny your place is,” Joaquín comments as he drops his bag on her coffee table. 

If she rolls her eyes any harder, she’s certain they’ll get stuck that way. Setting their dinner on the counter –burgers, which she’s bitter about because she really wanted ramen –she takes out their respective meals. 

“I’m gonna go change, feel free to get comfortable.” 

Joaquín is looking around her apartment as if he hasn’t been there before, though she can feel his eyes as she walks into her bedroom. When she comes back out  –an old band t-shirt and sleep shorts replacing her jeans and top –he’s looking over the photos she’s hung up on the wall. She grins and taps his shoulder as she passes by, returning to the kitchen to take out plates for them. 

When he seems to have gotten over his surprise, he’s behind her with a hand on her lower back. The touch is warm, and secure, and she doesn’t flinch away from it. With no real threat of interruptions –no one to walk in on them or alarms to go off –the only thing standing between them is…well, them.

“The couch is a pull out, so you should be relatively comfortable,” she explains, glancing up at him over her shoulder. 

He’s reaching over and stealing a fry, hand still pressed against her back. The whole thing feels a little more domestic than she’s used to, but she’s not going to be the one that pulls away this time. Not as she turns around, and his hand is pulled around to rest on her hip again. 

Joaquín looks down at her, eyes searching, but not in a way that demands answers. It’s quieter than that –curious, cautious, like he’s waiting to see if she’ll bolt. 

She doesn’t.

“Didn’t think you’d hover this much when you volunteered to babysit,” she teases, glancing at him as she grabs another fry, tone light but not pushing him away.

“If it’s not welcome, I can leave you be,” he replies, his voice low, steady. His hand is still on her hip though, anchoring her.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke it off.

“It’s welcome,” she says instead.

He studies her for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. But his face breaks out into that boyish grin she thrives on seeing. “Okay,” he says, quieter now. “Good.”

But still, neither of them moves to close the space. The silence hums in the air, in the stillness, in the way his fingers stay at her hip like he doesn’t want to let go. Like he’s waiting for her to make the move.

She doesn’t know why he never does –not when he’s always the one who flirts first, who pushes the edge of that line just enough to make her wonder. And now, with nothing stopping them, it’s somehow harder. Closer. Sharper.

It’s him who pulls away this time, moving through her kitchen with ease as he opens her fridge and pulls out a beer. For a moment, she looks to whatever divine powers might be out there and silently wonders why the hell they keep dancing around this –and why the hell she can’t just man up and do it herself.

Nothing answers, of course.

“So what do you usually do when you’re home, all alone?” He asks as he takes what’s left of his food into the living room and drops onto the couch; he’d eaten half his burger on the way over. “Besides think about me, of course,” he adds for good measure, winking at her.

One more eye roll, then she’s joining him on the couch, sitting with her legs crossed under her. Her knee is brushing his thigh and he makes no move to get away. “Honestly, between watching trashy T.V. or reading trashy romance novels, I’m not the most exciting of people.”

Joaquín scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t believe that for a second. An OG Avenger and you don’t do anything exciting outside of work?”

“Being an Avenger isn’t half as exciting as you think it is,” she reminds him, giving him a pointed look. “You learned that the hard way, remember?”

Even if he pretends it didn’t happen, she can’t. Not when she sat in the hospital with Sam for days, worried that Joaquín wouldn’t wake up. She’s had a lot of close calls in her life, and she’s lost a lot of people in the last ten years. Watching him plummet into the ocean from the security feed of his mask scared the living hell out of her, and that’s most certainly contributed to their dialed up flirting recently. 

She’s not afraid to admit she thought she almost lost him. Truth be told, she told him that in the hospital when he woke up. But then he told them both how he just wants to be like them –to be a hero, to do right by the world. How he wanted to get out of Miami and prove himself worthy –and she couldn’t scold him for being reckless. Couldn’t argue with him that she almost lost him. Because he knew that. He knew the risks he took, and it wasn’t her place to remind him.

“Yeah, yeah.” He brushes it off. Always does. “When Krane is handled, I’m gonna take you out and show you how to use your down time.”

She raises a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Is this you finally asking me out, Torres?”

For just a beat, maybe two, they stare at each other. She’s crossed the line, finally. Pushed them to confront each other; to act on whatever these feelings they both clearly have are. Their food is long forgotten on the coffee table, and his hand is resting on her bare knee. 

“What if I am?” He asks, leaning in closer. 

“If you are, I’d say it took you long enough.”

A grin breaks out over his face, and Joaquín doesn’t waste any time as he wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss. He’s pulling her into his lap, and she’s on her knees straddling him. Other hand sliding up her shirt, he groans as his fingers skim below her breasts, realizing she isn’t wearing a bra.

“No sabes cuánto he deseado esto…,” he whispers against her lips, and even though she’s not sure what he’s saying, it sends a shiver down her spine. Taking advantage of his mouth being open, she licks into it, deepening the kiss as her hands trail down to the hem of his shirt. 

Just as she manages to pull his shirt over his head, glass shatters. They yank back from one another, looking at the broken window. It’s a split second –panic, a flash bang rolling into her living room. Joaquín is covering her with his body, just as a whoosh surrounds them. She’s not positive where she’s sent them, but they land with a thud against gravel and roll off one another with a groan. 

From the rooftop of the neighboring apartment building, there’s what’s supposed to be a disorienting bang and a flash of light. Her apartment lights up, and she sits up on her knees as they both watch smoke pour out of the broken window. Joaquín kneels beside her, feeling on the brink of throwing up from the sudden teleportation. He reaches out to touch her shoulder though, making sure she’s okay. 

“Fucking Krane,” she hisses, standing up. He watches her from the corner of his eye before looking back at the apartment. The D.C. air is frigid, and police sirens are echoing in the night as they approach the apartment building. “We need to call Sam –,”

“Both our phones are in the apartment,” he interrupts, reaching out to take his shirt from her. There’s a heavy feeling in his chest; another screw up. Another mistake that could have been avoided, just like when he tried to take down that missile. Only this time, it’s not his life that’s in danger. It’s hers. “Mierda –this is my fault.”

“How is it your fault?” 

“I didn’t set up the security protocols.” He slips on his shirt, then reaches out to take her hand. There’s no hesitation when he does this; just takes her hand and pulls her close as he leads them across the roof of the building. “We need to get outta here. If Krane is nearby, then you’re in danger and I don’t have…anything.”

The realization sinks in that the wings are at base, but his computer –his government issued computer, with thousands of gigs of data and files on it –has been compromised. If Krane gets a hold of that, and he can’t wipe it before she gets into it, then it’s more than just her that’s in trouble.

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “My laptop –,”

“I can get it,” she quickly reassures but he’s putting his hands up. “Joaquín, that’s my whole job –in and out –,”

“The apartment is compromised,” he counters, shaking his head. “I can’t let you go back in there.”

“In and out,” she argues and he’s caught between not wanting to screw something else up and keeping her safe. He knows she’s good; she’s an OG. She’s been doing this long before he came along. But if something happens to her…

Except, she’s not giving him a chance to argue. She never does, because he’s not usually the one arguing against her. But that sound –that whoosh that has trained his brain to listen for –echoes in the air. And then she’s gone. 

“Dammit,” he hisses, pounding his fist once against the wall. 

He waits, watching from the edge of the building. 

Seconds. That’s all it should take.

She’s done this a thousand times. Disappearing across rooftops, slipping into sealed rooms, snatching intel mid-conversation without a whisper. The police are surrounding her apartment complex, guns drawn. No one has come in or out of the building since she entered, which is…bad. 

So why isn’t she back?

He paces on the rooftop, trying to calm his breathing. One beat. Two. Five. He stares at the spot where she vanished, willing the air to whisper with that tell-tale signal again. His ears are still ringing from the flashbang thrown through the window barely five minutes ago, and it sets his teeth on edge. But…

Nothing.

“She should be back,” he mutters aloud, to no one. “Why aren’t you back?”

His pulse hammers in his ears. She always makes it back. She’s cocky about it. Makes jokes. Teases him that she’s always going to be faster, always going to be a step ahead. Because she is, and he knows she is. In the three years he’s known her, he’s not once thought he’d ever be better than her. Because he’s too amazed by her –how could he want to be better when everything she does is so graceful and damn near perfect? 

All he had to do was protect her, and somehow…he blew it.

Sam’s going to kill him.

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

The guilt has been a slow bleed. Every hour without a lead makes it worse. 

Joaquín hasn’t slept. Not really. A few hours here and there, usually when Sam physically pries him away from the screen or the chair or the growing pile of coffee cups that he’s surviving on. But even when he does sleep, he dreams of her –trapped, bleeding, calling for him. Every time, he wakes up choking on guilt.

She’s been missing for seventy-six hours. Seventy-six hours since she vanished inside that apartment. Since she dove into danger to retrieve his laptop –his responsibility –because he hadn’t done his damn job in the first place. He was too distracted. Too busy being in love with her to remember that she’s not invincible.

Joaquín drags a hand through his curls, fingers catching as he stares at the rows of code on his screen.

“Come on, come on…,” he mutters, cycling through yet another security node.

He’s torn apart every digital trail Krane has ever left –fake aliases, ghosted emails, the occasional off-the-grid bio signature from a black market medical clinic. None of it points to where she’s keeping her. But Joaquín isn’t just looking for Krane anymore.

He’s looking for her. For the woman who scared the hell out of him by jumping out of that plane three years ago. Who teases him about his stupid restaurant spreadsheet; who kisses him like she’s just as wrecked as he is. 

He almost had her. Finally. And now?

Now all he has is silence. And a red blinking cursor on a map overlay.

But then –,

Something pings.

It’s small. Barely a whisper in the code. But Joaquín freezes, eyes narrowing. He backtracks, isolates the data string, and enhances the feed. It’s a signal bounce –from his laptop. A handshake request that shouldn’t exist, buried beneath three layers of dummy networks. Krane must have booted it, just briefly. Just long enough to trigger the dormant emergency protocol he’d hardwired into the system during a long forgotten all-nighter.

He stares at the screen as coordinates materialize. They’re fuzzy. The GPS is spoofed, bouncing between old S.H.I.E.L.D. black sites, but there's a pattern to the chaos.

“She’s not hiding you,” he says under his breath, breath catching in his chest. “She’s parading you. Daring us to come.”

He should feel fear. Hesitation. He doesn’t.

He locks onto the most consistent coordinate. An abandoned logistics warehouse 40 miles outside Richmond. Nothing special. No heat signatures from satellites. But something about it hums wrong. Quiet in a way that feels intentional.

That’s where she is. He knows it. He feels it in his bones.

Sam’s voice breaks the moment. “Any progress?”

Joaquín turns slowly, eyes still lit by the screen. “Yeah. I think I found her.”

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

She’s strapped to a reinforced medical chair, wrists restrained in a way that numbs her fingers. Her powers are suppressed –some kind of electromagnetic field layered into the restraints, maybe nanotech. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same: she can’t phase. Can’t jump. Can’t fight.

It’s like trying to scream with no voice. Like being a kid again.

Krane stands over her, monologuing in that smug, academic cadence that always made her want to tear her own ears off. She’s pacing now, dragging her fingers along the edge of a steel tray holding tools that aren’t exactly designed for healing.

“…quantum stability, neural mapping, synaptic plasticity,” Krane is saying, like she’s checking off items on a list. “You’re a blueprint with legs, nothing more,” the scientist finally concludes, looking over the hero with the same sadistic smile she’s always had. “You think you’re going to save the world again. But you’re just a failed experiment clinging to a label.”

She doesn’t respond. Not because she’s too weak –though Krane’s been dosing her with something, and her limbs feel like sandbags –but because she’s saving her strength. Waiting. Waiting for the moment when the sedatives slip, when the field flickers, when Krane makes a mistake.

Because the doctor always does.

But if she’s being honest, that’s not the only reason she’s quiet. The real reason –the part that burns low in her chest, white-hot and ugly –is this: she let Krane take her.

She didn’t fight back. Not really.

She had a window. A second and a half, maybe two. Enough time to jump. Enough time to leave. But she didn’t. Because the second she started to move, Krane said Joaquín’s name. Said it so calmly, so casually, like she hadn’t been watching them through the drone in his laptop camera.

“You go for this computer and I send a kill switch to your flyboy’s pacemaker,” Krane said, having picked up the laptop. There’s a remote in her hand –small, round, blinking. “You know he has one now, right? After that nasty fall into the ocean? Poor thing –you know, we had to restart his heart.”

“We?” She asked, looking at the doctor in disbelief.

“You should have read the file carefully, Glimpse,” the doctor scolded. “I’m reformed, remember? And before you, I was a very decorated military doctor.”

It was bullshit. It had to be.  But she didn’t know for sure. 

And that split second of hesitation –of imagining Joaquín’s body hitting the floor because she called Krane’s bluff –was enough. Enough for Krane to sedate her. Enough for the world to blur. 

Enough to lose.

And now, here she is. Chained and doped up in some forgotten corner of Virginia, reliving the worst years of her life like it never ended. Except this time, she’s not a little girl. She’s not powerless. And she knows that there’s at least two people looking for her.

And she knows neither of them will stop until they find her.

Her eyes flick to the blinking red light on the wall. A low pulse, like a heartbeat. It wasn’t there five seconds ago. That light isn’t part of the baseline infrastructure. She knows this place. Knows how Krane likes her labs –clinical, sterile, and absolutely under her control. 

That flicker is out of place. 

That flicker means hope.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t give Krane the satisfaction of knowing something’s changed.

Across the room, Krane is talking again –some self-righteous, pseudo-academic garbage about neural mapping and genetic anomalies and “weaponized empathy.” Her voice cuts through the silence like a scalpel. Her eyes are wild now, hands moving faster, yanking wires from machines and double-checking restraints that don’t need checking. Because something’s wrong. She can feel it.

And Krane knows it, too.

She tracks the shift in Krane’s energy with careful, weary eyes. There’s a tremor in her hands now. That smug detachment has begun to crack.

Good. Let it crack.

The moment comes in a shudder of metal. A deep, violent boom rattles the concrete walls as the lab door explodes inward in a spray of steel and sparks. The force of it echoes through her chest, more felt than heard. For a second, the light above her sputters out –then returns, flickering.

The first figure through the smoke is Sam. Wings half-folded, shield in hand, eyes like fire. He moves with that signature precision: not so much charging as cleaving through the space, knocking aside a pair of armored guards with brutal efficiency. They hit the wall hard and don’t get back up.

Joaquín follows half a beat later, sliding through the debris like a storm wrapped in a man’s frame. He’s dropped the wings for speed and brute force, shoulder-checking the last guard so hard the man’s body crumples like foil. He doesn’t slow –his eyes are already locked on her.

For a moment, she’s not Glimpse, a former Avenger. She’s just the girl strapped to the chair, covered in bruises and half-drugged, barely upright –but seen. Found.

And Joaquín looks at her like she's the only thing in the damn world worth saving.

He’s at her side in seconds, hands already on the restraints, breath coming fast and shallow.

“Hey,” she says, voice dry, mouth cracking into the ghost of a smile. Like this is just an everyday thing for them.

“Hey,” he breathes, eyes scanning her face like he’s checking for fractures. She’s certain she looks worse for wear; if the bruises on her arms are any indication, she’s certain her face isn’t much better. 

“Jesus, I –,” but he doesn’t finish. Just rips the cuff open with a grunt, tosses it to the floor, and moves to the next.

Her fingers twitch back to life. Painful, sluggish –but working.

Behind them, Krane shrieks. She’s at the far end of the room now, fumbling for something –another syringe, or maybe that damned remote again. Sam crosses the space in two strides and kicks it out of her hand before grabbing her by the collar and slamming her into the wall with controlled force.

“You’re done,” he growls.

Krane gasps for air, blinking like she can’t process how quickly the tables have turned.

Joaquín finishes unfastening the last restraint, and her body sags forward –only for him to catch her, arms steady around her frame. She doesn’t collapse, though. She uses his grip to pull herself upright, standing on legs that shake but hold.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. 

“I know,” she answers, but she’s pulling back some. Steadying her stance. She doesn’t need a full recovery. She just needs a little bit of spite and one shot.

“I can walk,” she adds, looking up at him.

Joaquín looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. Just stays close, hand at her back as she half-limps, half-strides toward the scientist that Sam has pinned to the wall. Half crazed, clawing at Sam’s hands to release her –Krane looks certifiably unhinged. 

Finally, her outsides match her insides.

“You don’t understand! All my work –everything I’ve worked on –it’s her!” The scientist screams, bucking against Sam’s hold. “I can change the world with her!”

And then she hears it: the click of a syringe behind them. Krane kicks Sam away, more force behind the movement than he expected. Still sneering. Still trying. The doctor lunges, chemical cocktail in hand –some desperate move to keep control. The scientist is aiming for Joaquín, but she’s not half as fast as the Avenger. 

Even if the drugs are weighing her down, and every muscle in her body is screaming at her not to, she shifts her weight, ducks under Joaquin’s arm, and slams her fist into Krane’s jaw with everything she has.

It’s not graceful. Not elegant. It's not powered or calculated.

It’s just…personal.

Joaquín lets out a low whistle as she nearly drops to her knees, but he catches her immediately. With ease, he’s lifting her into his arms, and she’s pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck with a wrecked sigh. All the strength she had left was put into that punch, and with Krane down –she’s able to finally drop her guard and give into the exhaustion. 

Vaguely, she’s aware of Sam telling Joaquín to get her out of here. But her body is exhausted, and finally quits on her as Joaquín promises he’s going to get her out of there. 

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

Luckily, she’s only in the hospital two nights. One night to clear her system of whatever drugs Krane had given her, a hook up to an IV to get her body regulated again, and another night for observation. Outside of drawing a little more blood than she should have, Krane didn’t intend to kill the hero –she intended to use the hero as a blueprint for more. 

Her apartment is still out of commission –smoke damaged and a crime scene, naturally –so he takes her back to his place. Sam brings her some clothes, and Joaquín zips her into his hoodie, saying she’s going to stay with him until she’s 100% again. He waits for an argument from her, but it never comes; she just slips herself into the passenger seat of his car and tells him to drive slowly.

The first few days are easy enough; she spends most of them asleep in his room, tucked into his bed like she belongs there. He makes her get up to shower and eat, but otherwise he lets her chill and recover from everything. He tries to leave her be during the day, especially when she’s asleep, but sometimes he just lays in there with her. Letting her curl into his side as he watches whatever is on T.V., holding her through the recovery. Maybe they should have talked about what this is between them, but Joaquín thinks there’s no reason to anymore. 

By the end of the week, she’s up and moving. 

More than that, really. 

Joaquín stepped out to help Sam with the last few details with Krane. He’d been gone maybe an hour –two tops. Left her in bed, sitting up and scrolling through her phone with a kiss to her temple and a promise to get dinner when he got back.

So imagine his surprise when he walks into his apartment and she’s standing in his kitchen, wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else, cooking dinner. There’s music playing, and she’s singing along as she scrolls through the instructions on her phone. Joaquín can’t help it as he stares, arms crossed over his chest. This is the most awake she’s been in days, and the thought that maybe he has even a little influence on that makes him smile.

Pushing off the doorframe, he slips in behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “Mírate...mi cielo,” he murmurs against her ear, grinning as he looks over the ingredients on the counter. “Need some help?”

She glances up at him, and the smile she gives him could knock him out if he really wanted it to. “I’m almost done –you can take the pan out of the oven though.”

He hums, debating. “If I do that, I gotta let you go. And I don’t think I wanna do that.”

“At least turn off the oven so it doesn’t burn,” she counters, but she’s reaching over to do it herself.

The motion is innocent enough –but combined with her bare legs and his shirt and her ass brushing against him as she does it…Joaquín’s grip on her waist tightens some, cock twitching in his jeans, before he turns her around and presses her against the nearest clean countertop. She raises a brow up at him, but there’s a smirk on her face as her arms wrap around his neck.

“I take it you’re not hungry,” she teases but she’s cut off as he lifts her onto the counter.

“Oh baby, I’m starving,” he reassures, hands sliding down her waist now to grip her thighs, parting them so he can stand between them; pressing the growing bulge in his jeans against her center. “But I’m gonna need to start with dessert.”

“What are the odds one of us gets kidnapped again?” She jokes, pulling him closer by the back of his neck.

“Let’em try to take you from me again,” he promises, fingers trailing up her bare thighs and over the front of her panties. 

He nearly groans at the wet spot he feels, toying with her carefully through the damp fabric. The sigh she lets out, coupled with how her head tilts back, encourages him to pull her closer to the edge of the counter and kneel down between her legs. Slipping them over his shoulders, he presses open mouth kisses on the inside of her thighs before finally kissing the fabric that’s slick.

Her hands find his hair almost instantly, and he grins against her as he pulls the ruined garment down her legs finally. With how much they’ve teased each other over the years, and how often he’s thought about this exact moment, he wants to take it slow. Wants to drown himself in between her legs. But now that he’s here, all thoughts escape him as he licks a stripe from top to bottom, groaning at the taste. Then it’s entirely useless to consider what he’s going to do next, because all he wants is to feel her cum on his face as he dives in entirely.

The fingers in his hair tug, and the gasps coming from her lips only push him further into her as he sucks on her clit. With two fingers, he spreads her wider, allowing both a better view and more room as his tongue laps up into her entirely, taking in every ounce of her that he can. 

“Fuck,” she breathes out, and her legs are shaking. “Joaquín, please –I need –,”

Mouth still on her, he looks up through his lashes at the mess she is. Then, he pulls away just enough for her hips to chase his mouth but his fingers are what she meets. She writhes under his touch, fingers tightening in his curls as he spreads his spit and her slick all over her.

“What d’you need?” He asks, teasing, barely touching her now as her hips buck off the counter. “Gotta use your words, cariño.”

“Touch me,” she begs, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. “Please, I need you to –,”

“Like this?” 

His finger slides inside with ease, and the feeling of her clenching around just the one is enough to spur him on and he pulls her into a messy kiss. Her frantic yes, yes, yes’s are swallowed as he licks into her mouth, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Then, he slips another finger inside and she bites at his bottom lip, causing him to groan in response. Her grip on his hair tightens, hips moving against his hand, a silent plea to keep going. 

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” He murmurs into the kiss, breaking it only to trail wet kisses down her jaw and over her neck. She’s nodding frantically against him, eyes screwed shut as he picks up his speed and brushes her clit with his thumb. 

That seems to be her undoing as she cries out, clenching around his fingers tight as he feels her drip down his hand. He doesn’t pull away, but slows down his movements, easing her through the orgasm as her body shudders and falls limp against his chest. When she’s finally come down is when he finally slides his fingers from her sensitive core, causing her to shudder at the feeling.

“You good?” He asks softly but she’s dramatically falling back onto the countertop with a sigh. 

“I’m…much more than good,” she manages to say, leaning on her elbows to look up at him. 

Her eyes are trailing over him now –taking in the slick that he’s certain is on his face, down to his hand that’s still wet from her orgasm then to his dick that’s too hard to hide at this point. The gears are turning in her head; he can practically see them as she sits up and reaches for his belt. He’s about to stop her, tell her that she doesn’t need to return the favor, but then he’s swept up in a whoosh and they’re falling back into his bed.

“Fuck, I hate when you do that,” he complains, but there’s no bite in his tone as she reaches out for him. 

“You’ll get used to it,” she promises, tugging his shirt off over his head. 

Joaquín doesn’t hesitate to toss it to the side, fumbling with his belt and jeans next to kick them off. Then she’s throwing the shirt she has on into the pile, and he leans back into the pillows, staring shamelessly up at her. Every curve, every scar, every freckle –he’s staring like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her skin just in case she suddenly changes her mind.

But she doesn’t.

Thank god, she doesn’t as she finds herself straddling his hips with her hands on his chest. Joaquín sits up, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her into him, trying to get as close to her as possible. Her hips roll against him as she pulls him in once again, kissing him like her life depends on it. His hands are guiding her hips, dragging her against his cock in order to coat him in the remnants of her first orgasm. 

The head of his cock catches her clit, and she gasps into his mouth. Joaquín grins into the kiss, unable to help himself, as he looks up at her again. His other hand gropes her chest, pinching and twisting at her nipples as he bites at her bottom lip.

“Joaquín, please,” she sighs, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe over his lips. She’s reaching between their bodies now to grasp his hard cock in her hands. “I need you –I need –,”

“What do you need, cariño?” He teases, trying to keep his hips from bucking up into her. “Take what you want, baby. C’mon…,”

She nods frantically, rising up onto her knees above him. Joaquín’s gaze drops to her hand around him, where she’s guiding his cock into her soaked core. As she slowly eases him into her, one of her hands shoots up to grip his arm, digging her nails into the skin to distract from the stretch. Joaquín’s head falls back again as she sinks down on him, his hands dropping to her ass just to hold something. Because if he doesn’t –shit, he’s going to lose any semblance of control he has.

Her grip on his arm tightens as their hips meet again, sinking him entirely inside her as she tries to adjust to his size. Joaquín groans as her walls clenched around him, and his hips involuntarily buck up –causing her to cry out in surprise and lurch forward, her hands gripping his shoulders tight. With her tits in his face, and his hands grasping her ass, Joaquín is done for –fuck control, he needed to ruin her.

Joaquín trails his fingers down her arms before wrapping them back around her hips, holding her tight against him as he pistons up into her. Not expecting that, a surprised cry leaves her lips as he catches her mouth with his again. He pulls her up, and she gets the hint as she rises to meet his thrusts, bouncing on his cock to bring herself closer and closer to the edge.

“Been thinking about you like this for so long,” he admits. He punctuates his last word with a hard thrust up that has the tip of his cock grazing a spot so deep inside her it makes her drop her face into his neck, crying out his name again.

“Fuck, Joaquín –you feel so good– please, god– please, please–,” Her words die in her throat when he yanks her down particularly hard, pressing her hips down to meet him and holding her there in slow, hard grind. She lets out a choked sob of his name, clenching hard around him and stealing a low moan from the back of his throat. 

She moans again, and Joaquín jolts up some as he feels her tongue trailing over the vein in his neck and over his jaw. Her mouth is on his again, and he can feel her tightening around him as her wetness starts to smear between their bodies. The sound of their skin slapping against skin only urges him forward, each thrust becoming messier and harder. It’s almost too much as his one hand dipped between their bodies, fingers fluently toying with her clit.

“Ven para mí,” he manages to breathe against her lips, nipping at her bottom one. “Cum for me again, baby, please –need you to cum on my cock –,”

Between the touch on her clit and the thrusts up into her, Joaquín can tell she’s close and he’d be damned if he came before her. Kissing her harder –all tongue, and teeth, and spit –he speeds up his thrusts in time with his fingers on her clit. She bites his lip for a moment before she gasps, closing her eyes tight as her body tenses up under him, only to spasm around him as she comes undone again. The only sound she makes are airy gasps of his name, begging him to keep going. Joaquín isn’t far behind as he thrusts up into her a few more times before his hips stutter against her. 

“Where –,”

“Inside –god, please,” she insists, holding tight to him as if afraid to lose his touch. “Pill -,”

Joaquín doesn’t think twice as he nods, taking hold of her jaw to kiss her again as he tenses up below her. He rolls his hips once, twice –then groans into her mouth as he fills her deep. She’s grinding against him still, riding out both of their orgasms now, as they both slowly come down. 

Then she drops against him, breathing heavily. Joaquín’s hand drops away from her jaw, pulling her back with him as he collapses on the bed. Her forehead presses against his neck, tucked just under his chin as she tries to catch her breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a breath himself, as he savors the moment of her skin against his, holding her close to his chest.

They lay like this for a while –basking in each other’s touch, enjoying the warmth both are feeling. Joaquín is still buried inside her, still half-hard, but he makes no move to pull out. Not when she’s laying on him like this, melting into his touch. Just as he’s about to say something –ask her if she wants to take a bath or something –both their phones ring. The same ringtone, for the same person –texting them both at the same time.

“You think he knows he’s always interrupting?” She asks, but her voice is hoarse. 

“There’s no way he doesn’t,” Joaquín responds, but he doesn’t move from the bed. Instead, he pulls her closer and pulls the blankets up over them both. “He can figure it out without us.”

“You know he’s gonna show up at the door,” she points out, but she’s pressing herself somehow closer to him as his arms tighten around her. 

“I don’t even care –I got my girl in my arms. He’ll understand.”

-------

Taglist: @messrkarmaismygf13 @thecowboyfiles (you asked me to share with the class so here we are)

[averywiseanimatedcat]

Although I understand the sentiment of this post, it gave me a massive ick.

Solo women travel in the Middle East too, a quick google you’ll find a couple of creators. No place is 100% safe to travel as a woman but my issues with this post is the racial undertones. And I don’t think OP meant it to be that deep, but it’s reading as that deep.

OP didn’t even do a quick google to spell Azerbaijan properly, and lumped in 3 Middle Eastern countries (comprising a total of about 23 million people) that are very different culturally and ethnically into one. Which is what Western media looovvves doing. Imagine if I lumped Germany, France and Serbia all in one as if they were the same then didn’t even spell France properly? I’d have French people in my walls.

Personally, I think people travelling in these regions (be it men or women) is essential to combat and begin to repair damage the USA’s propaganda machine has been doing to these regions and its people for decades. Subtle racial/religious based undertones like the ones in this post generate racism and fear about this entire region and its people.

Are we not better to meet each other to learn and grow in whatever capacity we can instead of sitting in fear on opposite sides of the world judging each other? Yes, there are issues with woman’s rights, as there is in every country of the world. But no woman suffering is helped by the spreading fear of an entire regions worth of people. If men have to be the first to go in and remind the world these are actual people because the USA is always just itching at the trigger and we have problems with Islamophobia, then bloody hell they should go and I really don’t care if it’s not safe enough for me yet.

The men who are doing "walking challenges" around the world make me so mad. Oh you're casually walking through Iran and Afghanistan and Azerbajdzjan and whatever. Oh the people are so nice? Oh you're happily sharing a room with 3 other male strangers? Oh you got picked up by a nice group of friends who drove you for a couple hours to your next stop with no incident? Fuck you