#in that moment where he is completely vulnerable and fragile all he thinks about is Lucy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ilovebabyonboard · 14 days ago

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The Vitals Don't Lie

PAIRING: Bob Floyd X Nurse!Reader

CATEGORY: Fluff

SUMMARY: At the San Diego base infirmary, the nurse quietly observes the Top Gun recruits, especially Lieutenant Robert “Bob” Floyd, whose reserved nature and subtle glances don’t go unnoticed. When Bob is rushed in after a bird strike and emergency ejection, vulnerable and injured, the nurse’s concern deepens. Amidst medical checks and quiet moments, a fragile connection forms between them—an unspoken promise of something more once he recovers.

WORD COUNT: 2.7K

WARNINGS: Might be repetitive

The San Diego base infirmary woke slowly with the day, the pale light slipping in through the windows, catching on metal trays and the sheen of freshly mopped floors. It smelled like antiseptic and bitter coffee, a scent you’d grown accustomed to — strange, maybe, but comforting in its own way. It meant routine. Order. A kind of quiet before the flight-line chaos.

You sat behind the familiar white desk, clipboard balanced against your knee, absently spinning your pen between your fingers as the next round of Top Gun recruits shuffled in for their flight clearance checks. The room was filled with the usual blend of testosterone and early-morning haze: boots scuffed against linoleum, flight suits half-zipped, adrenaline simmering just beneath the surface.

You’d seen it all before. This job — this room — it was muscle memory by now. Wrap the cuff, listen for the heart beat, mark the chart. Most of the pilots were in and out before you could blink, barely sitting long enough for the vitals to stabilize, too preoccupied with thoughts of sky-high speeds and maneuver sequences to care much about blood pressure.

But then there was him.

Lt. Robert Floyd.

Bob.

Bob was never loud. Never jockeyed for attention like the others. He didn’t crack jokes or lean too far into the flirtation that usually buzzed around the exam table. Instead, he always waited patiently. Quietly. Shoulders squared, posture careful, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for a final exam, eyes avoiding yours except in passing — but when they did meet yours, there was something there. Brief. Gentle. Intentional.

You, the only nurse stationed at this base, had come to recognize the patterns of the recruits.

Where Hangman flirted, Phoenix smirked, Rooster teased and Fanboy whistled low when you passed —

“Think she’d know if I fake a sprain?” "If I knew there was a hot nurse here, I would've come sooner." “Out of your league, bro. Like… multiple atmospheres out.”

Bob never said a word. Not once.

But he looked.

Not even when you took his blood pressure last month and he had to pretend it wasn't alarmingly high.

You’d seen him stumble a little over his words once, trying to thank you for handing him his completed chart. Another time, you watched his ears turn scarlet when your fingers brushed his while wrapping the pressure cuff. And last month, when you read off his blood pressure — unusually high — he’d just mumbled something about too much caffeine and looked anywhere but at you.

"Must've been the coffee."

You weren't stupid.

You knew it wasn't coffee

Today, the recruits filtered in one by one, lining up neatly by the wall as you moved down the row. Clipboard in hand, gloves snapped into place, you carried yourself with the same quiet confidence you always did. It was part of the job—being composed, a little distant. Untouchable.

Hangman was the first to pipe up, his voice coated in lazy amusement.

“Didn’t know Top Gun had perks like this,” he said, nodding toward you with a grin, his eyes sliding over to Bob. “No wonder Floyd’s always early.”

Bob didn’t look up. Just kept his hands folded neatly in his lap.

You didn’t look up either—but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

You moved through the line with practiced ease. Hangman rolled his eyes when you handed him a hydration pack.

“Try drinking something that isn’t jet fuel,” you said, scribbling on your clipboard.

“Only if you’re the one pouring it,” he shot back.

You gave him a pointed look and moved on.

Then it was Bob’s turn.

He didn’t move until you lifted your eyes to his. That’s always how it was—like he was waiting for permission.

“Your turn, Lieutenant,” you said gently.

He stood, slow and careful, posture straight but not stiff. His movements were always so measured, like he didn’t want to take up more space than he deserved. He lowered himself onto the stool, not letting his knees bump yours.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” you said softly, voice lighter than before.

“Morning,” he replied, just as soft. His eyes flicked up, then quickly down again.

You wrapped the pressure cuff around his arm, your fingers brushing against the skin of his forearm. He didn’t flinch — but he did hold his breath. Just for a second.

The room fell into a still kind of quiet, the kind that made you hyper-aware of every detail. His pulse thudded against your fingertips — steady, but fast. Too fast.

You didn’t look at him right away. You listened. You let the quiet stretch out, linger, become something intimate. Not awkward — just aware. There was always a hum around Bob. A tension made of things unsaid.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, low and teasing:

“You nervous, Lieutenant?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Just… long run this morning.”

You glanced at his chart. Tapped it lightly.

“No PT logged,” you said with a knowing smile.

Bob exhaled a short laugh — quiet, almost shy. “Guess I forgot.”

You looked up.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

The weight of it—the eye contact—felt heavier than it should’ve. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. There was something about Bob that always made you want to pause. He never took up space the way the others did. But he held it. Quietly. Unshakably.

“Heart rate’s a little elevated,” you note, jotting it down. Then, without thinking, you murmur under your breath:

“Easy, flyboy.”

Bob blinks. Caught. You see the faintest twitch of a smile tug at his mouth—like he’s not sure he imagined it.

Behind you, someone snickers. Probably Fanboy or Phoenix. You don’t turn to check.

Instead, you hand Bob his chart, letting your fingers brush his for just a second longer than necessary.

“All good,” you say. “But next time, don’t forget to log that mystery jog.”

He nods. Quiet. Composed.

But when he stands, you catch it—that half-second pause, like he wants to say something else.

Then: “Thank you, ma’am.”

Simple. Respectful. But it lingers in the way he says it. In the way he walks a little slower than usual on the way out.

He walked a little slower than the others on his way out, but you pretended not to watch.

When the last chart was filed and the tray was wiped down, you sat alone again behind the white desk, the coffee cooling beside you, the quiet returning.

And for the first time in a while, you hoped someone’s vitals were just a little too high again tomorrow.

The hum of the infirmary felt different this morning—restless, urgent. You were organizing supplies when a sharp knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.

A flight medic hurried inside, eyes wide with concern. “We’ve got an emergency. Lieutenant Floyd was involved in a bird strike and emergency eject. They’re bringing him in now.”

Your heart stopped.

Bob.

The name echoed like a jolt through your mind. You barely registered the medic’s next words—something about a possible concussion and bruising—but your world narrowed to a pinpoint of worry.

“Where is he?” you asked, your voice tight.

“ER. Down the hall. You’d better get ready.”

Without hesitation, you grabbed your coat and rushed toward the emergency room, each step pounding with urgency. The corridor stretched endlessly, sterile walls blurring past as adrenaline flooded your veins.

You pushed through the double doors—and there he was. Bob, usually so composed and confident, now lying still beneath the harsh hospital lights. Monitors beeped steadily, but his face was pale, bruised, and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze as you stood there, overwhelmed by relief that he was alive—and fear for what the injuries might mean.

You moved closer, your presence calm but urgent.

“How are you, Lieutenant?” you asked, voice soft but edged with worry. You pulled the curtain aside and stepped closer, careful not to startle him.

Bob’s gaze lifted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Morning, Nurse.”

The words were simple, but the warmth behind them caught you off guard. You quickly masked it behind a professional smile as you reached for the blood pressure cuff. “It’s the late afternoon, Bob,” you teased lightly.

“Oh.” Bob said sheepishly, his glasses slightly askew. He reached up slowly, fingers fumbling to adjust them, wincing when the movement tugged at a fresh bruise along his temple.

You caught the motion, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady his wrist—light, tentative. “Easy there,” you said softly.

He allowed you to hold his wrist a moment longer than necessary, eyes searching yours like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

You cleared your throat and slipped the cuff gently around his arm. The warmth of his skin under your fingers sent an unexpected flutter through your chest, but you kept your tone steady. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”

Bob’s usual calm was replaced by a quiet vulnerability you’d never seen before. His breath hitched slightly as the cuff tightened, and for a brief second, your eyes met, holding a fragile exchange neither of you spoke aloud.

The monitor beeped steadily as you jotted down his readings—heart rate elevated but stable, likely a mix of adrenaline, pain, and something unspoken between you.

You finished noting his vitals and set the cuff aside, your eyes softening with concern.

“Alright, Bob. I’m going to check you for a concussion now,” you said gently, pulling on your gloves. “I need to see how your reflexes are, check your pupil response, and ask you a few questions. Just follow my lead, okay?”

Bob nodded slowly, his usual composure giving way to something more fragile. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, a stark contrast against the bruises on his face. He blinked a bit more than usual, his gaze drifting, unfocused.

You started with the basic checks—light reflex with your penlight, following your finger with his eyes, simple coordination tests. His responses were delayed, and his hands trembled slightly when you asked him to touch his nose then your finger.

“Bob,” you said quietly, concern threading your voice. “How are you feeling? Any headaches or dizziness?”

He swallowed hard, his lips twitching into a sheepish smile. “Wait... I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before dropping away. “I can't focus- You're just... You're really pretty.”

Your breath caught at the unexpected confession, but you kept your expression neutral, professional, though your heart thudded faster than it should.

It’s okay,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You were equally as flustered, but quickly reminded yourself he was clearly out of it—his brain scrambled from the injury and adrenaline.

Bob’s cheeks deepened to a richer shade of red, and he looked down at his hands, fidgeting awkwardly on the thin hospital sheet. He let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, wincing again as he shifted slightly. “I think I’m making a fool of myself.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering up shyly, searching yours like he wanted to say more but was tangled in his own nerves. His lips parted slightly, then closed again without words.

You found yourself leaning in just a fraction closer, the space between you shrinking, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re doing great,” you assured him gently, “but you need to rest. It must be the concussion messing with your thoughts?”

“You always look nice,” he said, voice barely audible. “I just… I don’t say it.”

You fought the urge to reach out, your fingers itching to brush a stray hair from his forehead, but you kept it professional. You had too.

He blinked slowly, eyes heavy, then half-closed. “Maybe... after all this, you could show me how you stay so calm. Teach me to be like you.”

Your breath caught, a delicate warmth blossoming deep in your chest. The quiet hope in his voice made the sterile room feel suddenly intimate, like you were the only two people in the world.

You gently squeezed his wrist, your smile soft and full of promise. “I’d like that, Bob. When you’re ready.”

His tired smile deepened, genuine and vulnerable, and in that moment, the space between you seemed to shrink until it disappeared entirely — a quiet, tender understanding passing between you.

For now, rest was what he needed most. But soon, you knew, there would be time for more—time for laughter, for stolen moments, for something real and lasting. And when that time came, you’d be there. Right beside him.

Because some connections were worth waiting for.

#bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd x y/n #fanfic #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman #bob floyd fic #bob x reader #robert bob floyd #bob floyd #top gun maverick #top gun maverick x reader #top gun maverick x you

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papayainsectorone · 2 months ago

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Teach me more

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summary: Weeks after the tender one-night encounter, Oscar reaches out, sparking a quiet, intimate reunion where vulnerability and longing open the door to something deeper.

content: 18+! smut, nsfw descriptions, oral sex, praise kink, Soft angst, gentle intimacy

word count: 6,5k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this was just screaming for more parts

teach me series

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It’s been a few weeks.

Not that you’ve been counting. Not exactly.

Life moved on, at least on the surface.

You're sitting in bed, the dull glow of your phone lighting up your face, when a message flashes across your screen from a number you don’t recognize.

Hey. Um. It’s Oscar. I think I forgot to get your number that night.

A pause. Then another bubble.

Unless you meant not to give it to me. In which case—sorry for texting. I just. I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.

You freeze for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, a little breath caught in your chest. His name feels strange here, ordinary among the chaos of your inbox. Like a secret slipping into the light.

The night at the hotel hadn’t exactly ended with a plan. Just soft kisses, flushed skin, words whispered against each other’s mouths before sleep pulled you both under. You left the next morning with a kiss to his shoulder, the room still warm with his scent. He had stirred, but only slightly. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

You hadn’t expected this.

Another buzz.

I didn’t mean to wait this long. I kept thinking I’d find the right time. But I think I was just nervous. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want to talk to you again. Is that okay?

You stare at the message a little longer than necessary. The honesty in it—awkward, gentle, completely unpolished—makes something flutter quietly in your chest.

You type a reply, then delete it. Try again. Keep it simple.

Hi, Oscar. Of course it’s okay. I’m glad you reached out.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then your phone lights up again.

Can I see you?

That’s when it hits you—not just the memory, but the weight of what it felt like to hold him, guide him, watch him break apart in your hands. You remember the way he looked at you, like you were something fragile and holy all at once. And now he wants to come back. Or maybe not just come back—maybe he wants something more.

You glance around your room. It’s quiet. The night is early. You’re not wearing anything special—just soft joggers and a loose shirt—but your heart’s thudding like something important is about to happen.

You type:

You free tonight?

The reply is almost instant.

I can be.

You give him the address. No more questions. No hesitation.

Just a quiet understanding settling between you.

And as you set the phone down and head to the mirror to check yourself, brush your fingers through your hair, adjust the curve of your lips—just a little—you feel it.

That same spark from before. But different now.

Not a reunion.

A continuation.

He doesn’t knock like someone unsure of their welcome.

It’s more like a quiet question at your door—three light taps and then stillness. You open it to find Oscar standing there in a hoodie too big for him and jeans that hang a little loose on his hips, like he forgot how to be casual and dressed in what made him feel safest. His hair’s a bit messier than before, curls that weren’t quite tamed, and his eyes meet yours for half a second before they dart away.

But he smiles.

It’s small, sheepish, and utterly sincere.

“Hey,” he says.

You step back to let him in, and he walks past you slowly, the space between you briefly electric as his shoulder brushes yours. He smells the same—something warm and quiet, like fabric softener and something you can’t name but remember instantly.

You both stand there in the soft light of the living room, the quiet stretching between you—not tense, just... full. He’s hovering like he’s not sure how to greet you. His arms shift like he’s thinking about hugging you but second-guessing himself.

You tilt your head and smirk a little, stepping closer.

“Oscar,” you say, a lightness in your voice. “Come here.”

He goes scarlet.

It blooms up his neck to his ears, blooming across his cheeks. But he laughs—half-breathless, half-mortified—and finally, finally moves in.

The hug is shy at first. He steps into your space and wraps his arms around you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold tight. But when you press in, close and warm and solid against him, he exhales. His arms tighten just slightly.

You feel him sink.

Not all the way, not yet—but it’s a beginning. His cheek rests just briefly against your shoulder, and for a second, you just breathe together.

Then he pulls back, eyes still pink around the edges, and says with a crooked smile, “That... might be the best welcome I’ve ever gotten.”

“Then you should come over more often.”

You guide him toward the couch. He hesitates before sitting, like he’s still not sure what this is—what you're expecting, what he's allowed to want. But he follows, folding down onto the cushions with a little exhale like he’s been holding something in since the second he texted you.

You sit beside him, close but not crowding. The silence stretches again—comfortably this time—and you just let it. You can see him working something out behind those soft brown eyes. Turning it over. Trying to get brave enough to speak it.

You don’t push. You never have to.

Finally, his voice comes quiet and tentative. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “Since that night.”

Your heart gives a little stutter, but your smile stays easy, inviting. “Yeah?”

He nods. Then: “I… I wanted to text you. Right after. But I didn’t have your number. And I didn’t want to ask at the front desk, because…” He flushes again. “I think I forgot how to function as a person for a few days after.”

You laugh, soft and low.

His smile flickers wider for a second before his expression turns shy again, his gaze dropping to his hands. He fidgets with a thread on his sleeve, and when he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I want to return the favor.”

You blink, then tilt your head slightly, warmth blooming low in your chest. “You want to…?”

He looks up—eyes big, cheeks pink. “Do something for you. Like you did for me. Not because I feel like I owe you or anything, just… I’ve never done it before. Not properly. And I—” He swallows.

You let the quiet sit between you for a few seconds longer before reaching out and laying your hand gently over his. “You sure?”

He nods, quick and eager. “I’ve been thinking about it. About how you made me feel that night. And I want to do that for you. If you want to teach me that is.”

That earnestness in him is still there—the nervous edges, the twitch of uncertainty—but there’s something steadier underneath it now. A real desire to learn, to explore, to care for you the way you cared for him.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Okay,” you say.

You shift a little on the couch, angling your body toward his, your knee brushing his. He hasn’t stopped glancing at your mouth—not in a lewd way, more like he’s curious. Hungry, maybe. Definitely nervous.

You smile softly and nudge him with your shoulder. “So… do you want to do it now?”

Oscar’s eyes snap to yours. “Wh-what?”

You laugh under your breath. “You want to try, right? Giving. Touching. All that?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. No—I mean yes. Fuck.” He rubs his hands over his jeans, like he’s trying to wipe the nerves off his palms. “If you want to. But you obviously don’t have to. I didn’t mean like right now unless you—unless you're cool with it. Not that I expect—shit.”

You tilt your head at him, smiling slowly. “Oscar.”

“Yeah?”

“Last time I had your dick in my mouth. You really don’t need to be this nervous.”

He turns a vivid shade of red and drops his face into his hands with a groan. “You cannot just say that so casually.”

You lean closer, bumping his shoulder with yours. “I absolutely can. Come here.”

When you open your arms, he hesitates only for a second before melting into your hug. He’s warm, solid, and still a little tense—but there’s a relief in the way he exhales against your neck that makes your chest squeeze. Like this is the part he didn’t know he needed. Just being close. Just being held.

You murmur against his ear, “So… do you want to?”

His voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” You pull back slightly, enough to see his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted. “Then let’s start with a kiss.”

He swallows. “You mean like… now?”

You don’t say anything. Just smile and wait.

He swallows again, the nervousness still there, but his eyes search yours for permission. It’s all in the way he’s leaning in just a little, testing the waters. You don’t say anything at first, letting the silence hang for just a beat longer than necessary. Then, you give him a soft nod.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “just kiss me, Oscar.”

It’s like a switch flips inside him. His hand, still on your waist, moves to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. He pauses there, waiting—his lips brushing lightly against yours. Soft. Almost unsure.

You smile against him, keeping it light but encouraging. “Relax. Let go a little.”

His lips move gently over yours again, this time with a little more intent, a little more pressure. He’s still a little tentative, but his breathing’s deepening, and his hand around your neck gives a small tug, pulling you closer, testing the boundaries of your proximity.

You let him guide you, not rushing him but making sure he knows what feels good. As he leans into the kiss more, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to show him the right angle. You let your lips part a little, just a breath away, enough to encourage him to follow your lead.

“Open your mouth a little,” you whisper, just above a breath. “Not too much—just enough for a kiss to deepen.”

Oscar does it—hesitant at first, but you feel the way his body relaxes into the movement, his chest pressing against yours. He gets it. The tension is starting to fade, but he’s still figuring it out. You kiss him back slowly, just enough to keep him moving in the right direction, giving him the confidence to let go of that nervousness and trust his instincts.

You pull back for a second, just enough to look into his eyes. “That’s good. Now, try this: gently move your lips over mine. Like you’re tracing a line. Just… feel the way my lips feel against yours.”

His brow furrows in concentration, but he does as you say, shifting his lips against yours slowly, like he’s mapping out the motions. It’s clumsy at first, but there’s something so sweet in the way he’s trying. His hands, a little unsure at first, are now gently guiding you closer. His touch on your neck is warm, secure, and his other hand—after a moment’s hesitation—moves to your side, resting there.

You can feel the way his breath stutters when you respond to his kiss, your hands moving to his shoulders and guiding him closer. “Good. You’re doing great. Now—try to move with me.”

His eyes flutter open for just a moment, unsure but eager. “Move with you?”

“Yeah.” You grin softly, guiding his hands with yours so they settle around your back, your body shifting a little, pressing him closer. “It’s not about thinking too much. Just feel the rhythm. When I move, you move. Follow my lead.”

Oscar takes a deep breath, his hands tightening around you, and he follows your motion. It’s like a dance. A slow, soft one where every shift, every touch, feels like a conversation between your bodies. His kiss deepens again, but this time with more trust, more confidence.

“You’ve got it,” you whisper, and the words seem to fuel him more than you expect. He lets his lips linger longer this time, his hand moving from your back to the side of your face, cupping it gently. You can feel the way he’s starting to get lost in the moment, the way he’s learning to just let go and feel what you’re doing together.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, a teasing edge to your voice. His face flushes, but he doesn’t pull away, leaning in even more, following the rhythm you’ve set. His lips press firmly against yours, his movements more fluid now, like he’s finding a way to match your pace.

You can feel the intensity growing, and you guide his hand—gently, slowly—down your body, just showing him the way. “Let your hands move, Oscar. It’s okay to touch. Just pay attention to how I react.”

He hesitates only for a moment before he slides his hand lower, his touch tentative, like he’s still unsure of himself. You let out a small, satisfied hum against his mouth as his hand brushes against your waist, and that seems to be enough to push him forward.

You pull back again, just a bit, watching him. “That’s it. Just keep following. Trust your instincts.”

As Oscar’s hands slide under your shirt, his touch is careful, almost reverent, like he's trying to navigate uncharted territory. He’s already getting the hang of kissing, but the way his fingers hover, hesitant, grazing lightly over your skin, tells you he's still not entirely sure of what to do next.

You break the kiss, just enough to murmur softly against his lips, keeping him close. "You're doing great, Oscar. Just take it slow." Your voice is warm, reassuring, the kind of softness that encourages him to keep going, but without rushing him. “The touching, the way you move... it gets easier when you lose some clothes. Let your hands explore, but do it slowly, okay? You’ll find the rhythm.”

He nods, the nerves still there, but his gaze is a little more focused now, more intent as his hand inches higher, moving carefully up your side. There’s a slight hesitation, then his fingers brush over the curve of your breast, just the faintest touch, and you can feel the way he holds his breath, waiting for your reaction.

Your hands slide up his arms, guiding him a little, showing him the way. “You’re almost there. Don’t overthink it. Just feel the way I react.”

His fingers linger for a moment longer, like he's trying to figure out if that’s okay, but you can feel the way his thumb moves in small, tentative circles over your skin, testing the response. It’s delicate. He’s waiting for some sign that it’s right. You let him feel the way your body leans into his touch, how your chest lifts slightly under his hand as you breathe deeper.

“Good,” you whisper, “Keep moving like that.”

Oscar’s breath quickens, and the kiss he presses to your lips is a little more urgent now, as if he’s feeding off the way you respond to him, the way your body relaxes under his hands. His fingers trace the edge of your bra now, still tentative but searching for the next step.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. “Don’t be afraid to touch more, Osc. I want you to feel confident. You don’t have to rush, but trust your instincts. Just let your hands go where they want to go.”

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, but there's something else there too—a flicker of curiosity, of determination.

“Relax,” you murmur, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips. “You’re fine. You don’t have to worry about making a mistake. Just take your time.”

The moment is quiet except for the sound of his breath and the gentle rustle of clothing. He shifts again, this time pulling back a little to give himself a moment to think. His fingers tug lightly at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for a sign from you.

You let him do it, your hands resting on his shoulders, letting him feel the movement, feel the control shift a little more in his favor. The shirt comes off, tossed to the side, and you stay close, your bodies pressed against each other, both of you warm, hearts racing a little faster. His hands, now bare against your skin, move with more confidence, cupping your breast gently.

“Good,” you say again, your voice soft but filled with approval. “You’re doing great.”

Oscar’s fingers flex slightly, still unsure but starting to gain more confidence. The kisses become deeper, slower, and as his thumb brushes against your nipple, you feel a small gasp escape you, your body responding instinctively to the sensation. You shift a little, pulling him closer as your lips move against his, offering more encouragement.

“See?” you murmur, lips still on his, the breath between you hot. “You’re getting it. Trust yourself.”

He kisses you with a new sense of purpose now, the nervous tension still present but not overwhelming, replaced by something else—something softer, more intimate. His hand moves again, cupping your breast more fully, his fingers kneading gently, exploring. You feel the way his thumb traces slow, deliberate circles, and it makes your breath hitch slightly.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper, “Is this okay?”

You smile softly, cupping his cheek with your hand. “Yes, Osc. It’s more than okay.”

You guide him, letting him learn the rhythm of your movements, the way you react to his touch. He’s learning, discovering how to move with you, how to match your pace. There’s a new sense of confidence in him now, the kind that comes from knowing you’re there, guiding him, encouraging him with every movement, every kiss.

And when his lips press against your neck, when his hands move to the small of your back and pull you closer, you know that this moment—the slow, tentative exploration—is becoming something more. It’s not just about giving. It’s about feeling each other, learning each other’s rhythm, and trusting in the connection you’re building together.

“Good,” you whisper against his ear. “You’re doing everything right, Osc.”

And with that, he kisses you again, his movements a little bolder this time, more assured, as if he’s finally letting go of the last bit of hesitation. And you welcome it, savoring the feeling of him learning, trusting, and most importantly—letting himself be the one to give.

He pulls back slightly, lips still tingling from the kiss, his chest rising and falling with a little more urgency. His hands hover over you, not quite sure where to go next. The intensity in his eyes is undeniable, but there’s still a trace of nervousness that’s impossible to miss. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper, but filled with eagerness.

“I want to do more,” he says, the words tumbling out with a kind of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten.

You smirk, a playful glint in your eyes. “Okay,” you reply, voice teasing as you lean in just a little closer. “But how’s that gonna work with my pants still on?”

Oscar’s face flushes instantly, his gaze darting down to your pants as if he’s just realized the physical barrier between you. His breath catches, and you can see the way his mind works overtime, trying to figure out the next step.

You watch the way his hands twitch at his sides, clearly debating whether or not to move, before he hesitantly mutters, “Okay, so... uh, how do I... do I just pull them off?”

You laugh softly, leaning back a little to give him space, your voice smooth and teasing. “It’s not complicated, Osc. You can just take them off.”

His fingers tremble as he watches you, his breath quick and shallow. There’s an eagerness in the way he shifts his weight, but also an unmistakable hesitation, like he’s testing the waters, unsure of the next step. His hands hover near your waistband, a question in his eyes as he looks up at you, searching for some kind of reassurance.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, offering a gentle smile to calm the nerves still showing on his face. You can see the uncertainty in his eyes, but also a quiet determination, like he’s ready to move forward.

With a soft exhale, he nods and slowly lowers his hands, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your pants. He pauses, and you can tell he’s still figuring out the rhythm, unsure of the exact moment when it’s okay to go further. The tension between you both is palpable now—his body language speaks volumes, his eyes wide and still a little shy, but his touch more deliberate.

“Just... take your time,” you add softly.

He swallows, his throat tight with nervous energy. “Okay...” he whispers, more to himself than to you, before gently pulling at the waistband of your pants, easing them down just a little at first. His movements are hesitant at first, then grow more sure as he pulls them further down your legs.

As your pants fall to the floor, Oscar stops, eyes flicking between your face and the exposed skin of your lower body. His breath is shallow, chest rising and falling as he hesitates, unsure of what comes next.

His lips are still close to yours, but he pulls back slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, then, with a nervous glance, his voice barely audible, he asks, “Can... can you take your bra off?”

You smile softly at his shyness, the way his hands are still unsure, his movements delicate like he’s handling something fragile. You giggle, the sound light and teasing as you reach up and tug at your own shirt. “You can do it too, Oscar.”

He looks at you, cheeks flushed a deeper red, embarrassment making him fumble slightly with his words. “I—I don’t know, I think that’s complicated.”

You gently guide his hand, placing it against your back, your fingers trailing over his skin, feeling how his breath catches at the contact. "It's that easy," you whisper, giving him a reassuring smile.

Oscar’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the clasp of your bra, and for a moment, you feel a hint of hesitation from him again. His fingers brush over the fabric, then find the clasp. The tension in his hand is almost cute, a stark contrast to the quiet confidence he’ll soon find in himself.

With a soft click, the clasp releases, and you help him slip it off your shoulders. He watches you carefully, almost mesmerized by the movement, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and awe.

You let the bra fall to the floor, your skin now exposed, and Oscar’s gaze lingers on you, his breath quickening as he takes in the sight of you before him. You notice how his eyes darken, the uncertainty still there, but now there's a spark of something else—a hunger that's new to him, but unmistakable.

His hands, once hesitant, now hover near your waist, fingers grazing the soft curve of your body as if he's unsure where to touch next, the weight of his touch still gentle, unsure.

Oscar’s eyes flicker downward—just briefly, but enough that you catch it. His gaze lingers at your chest, hesitant, as if he’s thinking something but unsure whether he’s allowed to want it. It’s shy, not presumptuous—like he’s asking without speaking, uncertain whether it’s okay to take that next step.

You smile softly, reading him with ease. No need for him to stumble over the words. You lift your hands slowly and place them gently over your chest, just above your heart, then slide them outward in a quiet invitation.

“It’s alright,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You can touch them.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, eyes darting up to meet yours—like he’s making sure you mean it. And when he sees the patience there, the warmth, he nods a little, more to himself than to you. Slowly, his hands come up, tentative at first, brushing lightly against your skin. His touch is feather-light, reverent, almost like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real.

You can feel the faint tremble in his fingertips, but it doesn’t distract from the care behind every movement. He’s paying attention—watching your breathing, your reactions, adjusting as he goes.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, your voice a steady anchor.

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He leans in again, and this time, his mouth brushes over your collarbone, tentative and soft. You feel the warmth of his breath before the touch of his lips, the slow press of his mouth moving down, finding new terrain with care. When he brings his lips lower, there’s a pause again—checking, gauging.

You tilt your head and say gently, “Try using your mouth. Just… go slow. Feel what I do.”

His eyes meet yours once more, wide and focused, and then he nods. The next kiss he places is more deliberate. Then another. His lips find their way over your skin, curious, unhurried. His mouth is warm, his movements careful, and when he finally brings them to the soft curve of your chest, there’s a deep inhale from him—like he’s taking in the gravity of being allowed this closeness.

You rest your hand lightly on the back of his neck, a steady presence as he explores. The gentleness in him is unmistakable—every motion driven not just by want, but by intent to care, to learn, to give. And though there’s still a touch of awkwardness in his pace, there’s something so earnest in it that you can’t help but be moved.

When he looks up again, your eyes meet, and you catch the flicker of a question there—half uncertainty, half hope. You don’t need him to say it aloud. Instead, you brush your thumb gently across his jaw, nodding once. Go on.

He dips his head again, slower this time, guided not just by your reassurance but by something beginning to settle in him—an instinct, a quiet want to understand what makes you feel good.

His mouth finds your nipple, warm lips pressing gently against the softest part of your chest. Then, after a breath, he lets his tongue move—tentative at first, a careful sweep over the most sensitive skin.

You exhale sharply, your body reacting before your mind can catch up, and a soft moan escapes you—quiet but unmistakable.

Oscar freezes.

He pulls back a little, wide-eyed, almost as if he’s afraid he did something wrong. But you can see it—behind the surprise, there’s something else. A flicker of pride, of wonder, like he hadn’t expected to cause that sound. Like he’s just realized what it means to have that kind of effect.

You don’t make him wait in the silence. You rest a hand against his cheek, anchoring him again.

“That was so good,” you say softly, breath still uneven. “ Keep going.”

His lips part slightly. “Oh.”

There’s a flush creeping up his neck again, but now it’s mixed with something else—something less uncertain. Like he’s starting to believe he can do this, that he’s allowed to want to make you feel good.

He nods a little, almost to himself, and then lowers his head again. This time with purpose. His mouth moves more deliberately, tongue tracing over your skin in slow, careful motions. He listens—truly listens—with his whole body. To every shift in your breath, every sound you make, adjusting, learning.

His hands stay light on your waist, grounding him, giving him balance as he explores, and you let yourself feel the sincerity in each movement. There’s no rush in him, no ego. Just a quiet, growing desire to understand what it means to give.

Your breath comes quicker now, soft and uneven, as his mouth lingers and learns. He’s warm above you, steady in a way that grounds you—but you can still feel the slight tremble in his limbs, like all of this is still so new and so much.

Your hips shift gently beneath him, a quiet arching of your back, searching for more contact, more of him. A soft sound escapes—his name, just a murmur: “Oscar…”

He pauses for a heartbeat, breath brushing your skin, eyes flicking up again like he’s listening with his whole body.

You reach for his hand resting at your waist—warm and tentative—and guide it slowly with yours. There’s no resistance, only his quiet breath hitching in his throat as he lets you move him, trusting the way you wordlessly teach him what you want.

You draw his hand lower, inch by inch, between your thighs, your own fingers still covering his. His palm presses against you over your underwear, and even through the thin fabric, the sensation is enough to pull another quiet sound from your throat.

His whole body stills at the sound, like he’s memorizing it.

He swallows, nods once, and his thumb shifts slightly under your hand, tracing gently, carefully. It’s not practiced—but it’s focused. He’s tuned into every reaction you give him, like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to understand right now.

You press your hand gently over his again, showing him the motion, the pressure, how to move just right. Each small adjustment draws more breathless sounds from your throat—soft, unfiltered, real—and he absorbs every one like a secret meant only for him.

Then, in a hush, like it’s just dawning on him:

“You’re… wet.”

You can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips, even through the haze of building sensation. “You did that,” you murmur, tilting your head so your nose brushes his.

Oscar blinks once, like he’s not sure he heard you right. But then something shifts behind his eyes—like pride, like wonder—and it warms his expression all the way through. He smiles, shy and stunned, and the sight of it makes something tighten in your chest.

His fingers hesitate again at the edge of your underwear, barely grazing. He looks at you, asking without words—but his voice follows anyway, low and reverent:

“Can I take them off?”

Your breath catches. You nod, brushing your lips over his. “Fuck yes.”

His hand trembles as he hooks his fingers at the waistband, and he moves slowly—like he’s still making sure it’s okay, like the act itself feels like more than undressing. Like he’s unwrapping something delicate, something he wants to treat with reverence.

And even though he’s the one undressing you, he looks the most undone.

Oscar’s breath stirs the space between you, shallow and uneven. His eyes flicker over your face, like he’s trying to commit every expression to memory. And even as he keeps touching you, something shifts—less uncertainty, more instinct.

You feel it in the way his fingers move—still careful, but surer now, guided by the sounds you make, the way your body leans into his. He’s learning you like a language he’s just begun to understand, but one he’s determined to speak fluently.

And then—like his hand has a mind of its own—you feel his touch dip lower, sliding down with a growing sense of purpose.

You inhale sharply, your hips shifting on instinct. Oscar freezes for just a second, eyes searching yours as if silently asking: Was that okay?

You nod, biting your lip, breath catching as you whisper, “Keep going.”

His fingers flex, moving carefully, reverently, like he’s trying to match every movement to the rhythm of your breath. And when he brushes right where you’re aching for more, a soft sound escapes you—one you weren’t planning to make.

It hits him like a shot of light. His gaze flashes up, cheeks flushed, lips parted in quiet awe. He doesn't speak—but you can see it in his face. He felt that. Felt you.

And he wants more of it.

You guide his hand a little more, hips lifting instinctively as you press his fingers exactly where you need them. Oscar watches, lips slightly parted, stunned again by how much you trust him with this. With yourself.

Your breath hitches, and so does his.

The position is a little twisted now—your legs parted, his arm angled awkwardly between you. He hesitates, glancing down, then shifts with quiet determination, settling lower. His body moves between your thighs, shoulders easing into place like he’s not even thinking about it—just following the path you’ve traced out for him.

And then his head dips, hovering just above you.

You watch the realization settle on his face—how close he is now. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven with nerves but anchored by something steadier underneath. Curiosity. Want.

He looks up at you again, seeking something wordless.

You nod.

He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, before leaning in—not rushed, not certain, but ready to try.

His eyes flick up at you again, wide and a little wild with nerves—and something else. Hunger. Wonder.

You whisper, soft and sure, “Just like you did with my nipples, Osc.”

Something clicks.

He nods slowly, almost imperceptibly, and then he lowers his head again. You feel the first hesitant brush of his mouth—warm, gentle—like he’s still testing what this means, what it does to you. His lips part, tongue moving with cautious care, mirroring the rhythm he found earlier.

Your breath catches.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His hands tighten slightly on your thighs, anchoring himself there, and he does it again—more confidently this time. You moan, soft and open, and you feel the way he reacts to it, the way he leans in, driven by every sound you make. It’s almost as if he’s listening with his whole body.

You shift your hips just enough to guide him, not too much, not to overwhelm. He gets it—he always gets it. That focus, that eagerness to learn, to give, pulses in every slow stroke of his tongue. He’s shaky, but present. Nervous, but determined.

You thread your fingers through his hair, murmuring praise, letting the sound of his name fall like a reward. And even through the nervous tension in his shoulders, you can feel it: the beginnings of confidence. He’s starting to feel the effect he has on you.

Your hips twitch under his mouth, a stuttered gasp escaping as the feeling mounts—his tongue moving with growing rhythm, driven by each sound you let slip. You murmur his name again, soft and unguarded, and something in it must hit him because his grip tightens slightly at your hip, like he’s holding on for dear life.

But there’s still one of his hands, fisted in the sheets like he doesn’t know what to do with it. You reach down, unraveling his grip with care, your fingers weaving between his. He hesitates, lips still working against you, until you guide his hand lower.

You line up his fingers, just where you want him, and press gently, urging him inward. It’s slow—you’re slow—because this part matters, too. Not just what he’s doing, but that he’s learning how to do it, that he’s feeling it.

When the tips of his fingers slip inside, you let go.

He stills for half a breath, mouth never leaving you, and for a moment you think he might ask again, but then—you feel it. The tiniest movement. A slow, tentative curl of his fingers, careful and attentive. And then again, a little deeper, more sure.

Your body arches up, a soft, broken moan slipping from your lips.

That sound does something to him—you can feel it in the way he leans in more, how his tongue and fingers begin to find a rhythm, syncing with the rise and fall of your hips. He’s watching, even when he’s not looking. Listening, even when you can’t speak.

There’s reverence in his movements, but also a growing hunger. Like now that he’s seen what he can do to you, he wants more of it—wants all of it.

And then it hits.

When he feels it—really feels it—the way you clench around his fingers, the way your body pulses and quakes, and a groan escapes him, low and guttural. It vibrates against your core, deep and unfiltered, and the sound alone sends another jolt through you. Your hand still tangled in his hair, fingers twisting, and he responds in kind—tightening his grip around your thigh like he needs to ground himself just as much as you do.

Like a slow, rising wave that suddenly crashes—your breath catches, your back arches, toes curling tight as that first ripple of release rushes through you. It builds and breaks again, and again, thighs tightening around his shoulders as if your body can’t bear the intensity of it without anchoring to him. You hear yourself—soft, desperate sounds leaving your lips without permission—and he doesn’t stop. Not until the tremors begin to crest.

He rides it out with you, mouth still pressed to your skin like he’s drinking you in, letting you unravel completely beneath him.

You’re still catching your breath, body loose and trembling, when he finally slows down. His fingers still for the first time in what feels like forever, and he leans back slightly, face flushed, chest rising and falling. His lips glisten, his cheeks are pink, and his wide eyes search yours—hopeful, almost stunned.

You laugh—a breathy, wrecked kind of sound—and run a hand through your hair. “Fuck, I— I never felt it that hard, Osc.” You’re not sure your voice even sounds like yours. “That was… that was amazing.”

His whole face lights up like he’s just won something he didn’t think he could. “Really? Oh my God—really?” He sits back on his heels, grinning helplessly. “It felt so good—doing that. I’m just… I’m glad it was good for you.”

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. And then you notice—his face, painted in the evidence of what he’s just done. He looks blissed out, messy, proud. You barely have time to say anything before he glances down at his fingers—still slick—and without thinking twice, lifts them to his mouth, licking them clean.

Your eyes widen. “Oh fuck…”

He grins at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself now, and you reach for him—pulling him in until he’s draped over you, your hands moving gently over the warm, freckled expanse of his back. You kiss the curve of his shoulder and whisper, “Do you want me to do something for you too?”

He lets out a small, flustered laugh against your skin. “Uhm,” he starts, shifting his hips a little—and that’s when you see it. The small, darkened patch near his waistband. “I think you already did enough,” he says, cheeks turning crimson again. “I really… I really loved the sounds you made and when you - .... when i felt it.”

You blink—then let out a soft, incredulous breath of laughter, overwhelmed and charmed in the same breath.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, hand curling protectively around the back of his head as he nestles against you.

He hums.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft sound of your breathing, both of you still trying to come down from the intensity of what just happened. Oscar rests his head against your chest, his body warm and solid against yours. You run your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, lost in the feeling of him close to you—like it’s all finally starting to settle.

You both know what just happened, but neither of you rushes to fill the silence. Instead, you just hold each other, the weight of the moment still fresh, both of you feeling the aftershocks of the closeness you just shared.

Oscar sighs softly, his voice a little rough when he speaks. “That was… wow. I don’t even know how to say it. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

You chuckle softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “It’s okay to be speechless. I think I might be too.”

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining, and you squeeze gently, your voice soft as you look at him with a playful, yet sincere grin. “I can’t believe this is really the first time you’re doing this.”

Oscar meets your gaze, his cheeks flushed as he smiles. “I have a great teacher.”

Your heart skips at the sincerity in his tone. “Well, you’re a quick learner, Osc,” you tease, reaching up to gently ruffle his hair. “I think I’m impressed.”

Oscar chuckles softly, the shyness still there, but it’s mixed with a sense of quiet pride. “Guess I had a good example.”

The warmth between you doesn’t fade. It lingers, soft and steady, as you both settle into the quiet, the world outside fading away for just a while longer.

And for the first time, it feels like something more than just a shared experience. It feels like connection. Like the beginning of something deeper.

Oscar squeezes your hand, pulling you a little closer. “Can we… just stay like this for a bit?”

“Of course,” you whisper, your heart a little lighter than it was before.

And in the comfort of the quiet, you both drift into a peaceful silence—knowing there’s more ahead, but for now, content just being here.

PREVIOUS PART - NEXT PART

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri #op81 #𓊆papayainone𓊇 #op81 smut

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vinnyvamppp · 4 months ago

Note

HEAR ME OUTTT

You should write for Nolan Grayson, the drought for fics w/him are very much real 😭

The Replacement PT 1

NOTE: I'VE BEEN WANTING TO BUT THE AMOUNT OF MARK GRAYSON OR INVINCIVLE VARIANT REQUESTS I HAVE ARE MAKING MY FINGERS CRAMP. With that being said, I present to you:

Synopsis: Earth has made him comfortable. Weak, even. His half-human son may never be strong enough to carry the Viltrumite legacy, and his pet or wife is a distraction he can no longer afford. But you offer him a solution: a true heir.

Warnings: Considerations of Cheating, Drama, Childhood Friends, Changes to Plot For Convenience, Pre-Invincible Timeline, Nolan's Beginnings To Conquering Earth, AND DW HE STILL HAS HIS LOVING FAMILY. Word Count: 1,493 (PART TWO)

Omni-Man/Nolan Grayson x Fem!Viltrumite!Reader

The air was thin at this altitude, but it was nothing to you. Standing on the snow-dusted peak, your loincloth barely moved in the wind. The desolate breeze calming the maelstrom of thoughts whirling about. Below, the world stretched in all directions, so vulnerable, so fragile.

"You've been here for too long, Nolan." Your voice was measured, but sharp enough to carve through the silence. Across from you, Nolan Grayson stood with his arms crossed, his expression impassive, but you knew better. He had always been good at masking his thoughts, but you had centuries of experience reading him. His stance, the way his fingers subtly tensed, told you everything.

"I don’t need a reminder," he replied, his voice laced with something close to amusement. "I assume you didn’t travel across the galaxy just to lecture me?" You took a step forward, tilting your head. "No. I came because your absence has been noted."

His brow twitched, just slightly. Even after all these years, Viltrumites hated the idea of being monitored. "They sent you?" You scoffed. "They don't know I'm here." Now, that got his attention. His eyes, those sharp, calculating things, narrowed as he studied you. “And why would you withhold that information?”

"Because I know you, Nolan. Better than they do." You folded your arms, mirroring his stance. "I know why you’re hesitating." For a moment, he said nothing. You let the silence stretch between you, let him wrestle with the implications. It wasn't hesitation from weakness. No, that wasn’t Nolan. But sentimentality? Attachment? Those were cracks in his foundation, and cracks were dangerous.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "You think I’ve gone soft?" He asked, your lips pursing momentarily in thought. "I think you’ve gone comfortable," you corrected, your gaze flicking toward the horizon where a city pulsed with artificial lights. "This planet is changing you. The longer you stay, the harder it will be to finish what you started."

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You sound like Thragg." That name sent a flicker of irritation crawling down your skin. "Thragg wouldn't have given you the courtesy of a conversation." His amusement faded. He knew that was true.

You took another step, closing the distance between you. "You need an anchor, Nolan. A reason to return to Viltrum when this mission is complete. And her—" your lip curled slightly as you referenced the human woman, Debbie, "—is not it." His eyes narrowed. "Careful."

"Don’t pretend you care," you retorted, undeterred. "A convenience? What is she to you, Nolan?" Silence. “She’s nothing compared to us—compared to what we are.” He began his admission, “But I allowed myself to pretend otherwise. A weakness. She is nothing more than that, and she never was.” His fingers twitched at his side, mulling over the betrayal in his words.

"You may think you've bought yourself time, but Earth won't make you stronger, and neither will playing house with a human," you continued. "But if you were to have a child with me—one who could be raised with the strength of our people, not poisoned by human frailty, you wouldn’t have to do this alone." Nolan’s jaw tensed. “Mark is already half-Viltrumite.” "Mark is half of something weak," you countered. "Would he ever be allowed to stand among our kind? Would you? You know the truth, Nolan, when the time comes, he will be an obstacle. She will be an obstacle." His silence was damning.

You let the weight of your words settle. Then, more softly, you added, "You’re too valuable to be cast aside, Nolan. But without proof of your commitment, they will find someone else to finish what you couldn’t." His eyes met yours again, and for the first time in years, you saw something shift behind them.

"You can still have what you came here for," you pressed, voice just above a whisper. "A family. A legacy. But one that ensures your survival when all of this—," you gestured to the planet below, "burns." For the first time that night, Nolan didn’t have an immediate response.

And that was the first sign that you were winning. The wind howled between you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then— "I need time to think," Nolan said finally, his voice low, rough as he remained perturbed. "You need time to think," you echoed, tilting your head slightly. "Very well. But let me give you something worth thinking about, Nolan."

His eyes flicked to you, wary. He had always disliked being cornered, and yet, here he was, trapped by words instead of fists. You turned away from him slightly, eyes tracing the horizon, as if lost in thought. Then, your voice softened. Not weak. Never weak. But calculated. Controlled. "He needed time too," you murmured. Nolan’s brow furrowed. "Who?"

"My husband."

The words alone felt like steel being drawn across a whetstone—sharp, deliberate in preparing for something deeper. "You never spoke of him," Nolan said after a pause. "Because there was nothing to speak of," you replied. "Not anymore." You let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of your words to settle before continuing.

"He was strong, Nolan. Stronger than most. He had earned his place in the Empire a thousand times over. Conquered dozens of planets before we were even paired." Your voice remained even, but there was a restrained edge beneath it. "And yet, for all his strength, for all his victories, he died." Nolan's eyes darkened, watching you carefully. "How?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose, gaze still locked on the distant city below. "An inferior race." The words dripped with disgust, as if merely saying them left a foul taste in your mouth. "A species that should have never been a threat. But they were desperate. And desperation, as you know, makes lesser beings reckless."

Your fists clenched at your sides, but your voice remained steady. "They used weapons he hadn't accounted for. They didn't fight—they ambushed. A tactic born from fear, not strength. A coward's strategy. And he paid the price for underestimating them."

You turned back to Nolan now, expression tense. "I watched as they burned his body. As the remains of a Viltrumite were reduced to nothing by hands that should have never been capable of harming him." His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

And so, you pressed further.

"You understand now, don’t you?" you asked, voice low. "It doesn't matter how strong we are if we allow weakness to fester. If we allow ourselves to hesitate." A pause. "You think I’m hesitating?" Nolan’s voice was quieter this time, as if testing the words himself.

You gave him a pointed look. "I know you are. We have been friends for centuries."

For the first time since your arrival, he didn’t deny it.

A victorious chill crawled up your spine.

"I thought of you after he died," you admitted, stepping closer. "Among all the warriors of our kind, there are few I would have ever considered worthy. But you, Nolan... you have always been different." Something flickered in his eyes. It wasn’t pride, not yet, but it was something dangerously close.

"You are one of the strongest among us," you continued, voice soothing. "You were sent here because of that strength. But even the strong can fall, Nolan." Your words took a sharp turn, more insidious. "Do you think our kind will mourn you if that happens? Do you think they will even blink if you are slaughtered by an inferior race? You know what they will say?"

He didn’t answer. But you did.

"They will say you were not strong enough." The words hung between you, suffocating. Nolan’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides. You could feel the trepidation building within him, the conflict. Then, you leaned in just slightly, gaze unwavering. "But you are strong enough, aren’t you? Strong enough to ensure your legacy does not die on a planet of insects."

Silence.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. "If we do this," Nolan said finally, voice low, measured. "It is not because I need your help. It is because it is logical." A slow grin tugged at the corner of your combined lips. "Of course."

He exhaled, running a hand down his chin, and for the first time, he looked… unsure. "I’ll contact you soon." The words left his mouth slow, deliberate. But even as he spoke, his gaze lingered on you for longer than it should have. There was no hesitation in his stance now, no rejection in his posture. Only consideration and calculation. He was already deciding. Already choosing, even if he refused to say it outright. And that was enough for now. "Take all the time you need." Then, with one final glance toward the city below, you added, "But not too much. We wouldn’t want you getting too... comfortable again."

And with that, you disappeared into the night, leaving Nolan alone in the skies with the weight of his thoughts.

Should I do a part 2? I just like being messy on here.

Materlist

#fanfic #invincible #x reader #fem reader #nolan grayson #nolan grayson x reader #omni man #viltrumite #invincible season 3 #invincible show #invincible season three #invincible comic #invincible spoilers #omni man x reader #viltru

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lady-arcane · 4 months ago

Text

The Strongest Man and His War with Sleep :

Sleep is a mercy he cannot afford.

Gojo Satoru has never been good at resting.

It’s not just about the nightmares—the ones that creep in like thieves, whispering names of the dead in his ears. It’s not just about the fear—that if he lets go, if he closes his eyes for too long, the world will crumble without him watching.

No, it’s deeper than that.

Sleep is vulnerability. And vulnerability is something the strongest man alive is not allowed.

So he doesn’t sleep. Not properly. Not often.

Instead, he runs himself ragged, burns his energy down to the wick, pretends exhaustion is something that only happens to other people. He hides behind laughter, behind endless motion, behind the overwhelming force of his own presence.

Because to stop—to be still—means to listen to his own thoughts.

And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

-----

You notice it, of course.

The way he’s always moving, always talking, always shifting from one thing to the next like silence might swallow him whole. The way he rubs at his temples when he thinks no one is looking. The way he leans against doorframes just a little too long, like standing upright is a battle he’s barely winning.

"You don’t sleep, do you?" you ask one night, watching him sprawl out on your couch like he owns it.

He grins, too wide, too easy. "Who needs sleep when you’ve got these?" He gestures vaguely at his eyes, like the sheer force of his existence makes him immune to basic human needs.

You roll your eyes. "That’s not how bodies work, Satoru."

He shrugs, lazy, dramatic. "Maybe yours."

You don’t press the issue. Not yet.

But you see the way his hands still for a fraction of a second. The way his smile flickers, just briefly, like a neon sign struggling to stay lit.

And you know.

You know that beneath all that brightness, beneath the godlike arrogance and the infuriating charm, there is a man running on borrowed time.

A man who is tired.

-----

When Gojo does sleep, it’s not gentle.

It’s not peaceful, like in movies, where lovers rest entangled in soft sheets and morning light. It’s not slow and dreamy, where sleep comes like a lover’s touch, warm and welcome.

No.

When Gojo Satoru sleeps, it’s like something in him collapses.

Like a puppet with cut strings. Like a body giving out after carrying too much for too long.

It doesn’t happen often—not really. But when it does, it’s as if his body is making up for years of neglect in one go. He sleeps like the dead.

No amount of shaking, nudging, or even yelling will wake him. You’ve tried. Once, you even held a mirror under his nose to make sure he was still breathing.

(He was. But it was unnerving, seeing him so still.)

-----

"You should go to bed," you tell him one night, watching as he leans against the counter, eyes half-lidded.

He smirks. "What, you worried about me?"

You don’t bother answering. Instead, you grab his wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom.

"I don’t need—"

"Shut up, Satoru."

Surprisingly, he does.

He lets you drag him, lets you push him onto the bed, lets you pull the covers over him like he’s something fragile, something worth protecting.

And when you card your fingers through his hair—slow, soothing, like a lullaby made of touch—he doesn’t protest.

His breath evens out. His body melts against the mattress. And before you can even make a joke about it, he’s gone.

Fast asleep.

Completely, utterly, unmovable.

-----

Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive, is impossible to wake up.

You learn this the hard way.

You try shaking him—nothing.

You try calling his name—still nothing.

You even flick his forehead, the way he does to others—but he doesn’t so much as twitch.

It’s honestly a little terrifying.

It’s like he trusts you enough to completely let go.

Like, in this moment, in this space, he believes—just for a little while—that he is safe.

And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

Because Gojo Satoru is not a man who allows himself to feel safe.

Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Not with the ghosts of the past clawing at his heels.

Not with the knowledge that the moment he closes his eyes, something else might be taken from him.

But here, now, with you—he sleeps.

And that means something.

-----

In the morning, when he finally stirs, stretching like a cat in the sun, he blinks at you blearily.

"You let me sleep," he murmurs, voice thick with something you don’t quite recognize.

You hum, tracing lazy patterns on his wrist. "You needed it."

A pause.

Then, a quiet chuckle. "You didn’t try to wake me, did you?"

You don’t answer.

Because if you admit how hard you tried—how impossible it was—you might have to admit what that means.

Might have to admit that Gojo Satoru, for all his power, is still just a person.

A person who gets tired.

A person who needs rest.

A person who, in the end, just wants to lay down his burdens—if only for a little while.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s chosen to do that with you.

So instead, you smirk, flicking his forehead in revenge.

"Don’t get used to it, Satoru."

His laughter is bright, easy, filling the room like morning light.

But when he pulls you close again, burying his face in your shoulder, you think—maybe, just maybe—he already has.

-----

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livvymd · 5 days ago

Text

JUST SHUT UP.

꣑ৎsummary: After you kiss Arthur to stop his nervous rambling, he shyly admits he’s dreamed of moments like this, hinting at feelings he’s been too scared to say aloud. slight smut, mostly fluffy!

The flat was wrapped in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun, pale gold light spilling through the half-drawn curtains and pooling in lazy puddles across the worn fabric of the sofa where Arthur sat. The air hung heavy with the faint scent of your vanilla-scented candle, mingling with the subtle musk of his shampoo still clinging to his curls, creating a quiet, intimate atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the storm brewing inside him.

His fingers were restlesss, moving in a jittery rhythm that betrayed his nerves: tugging repeatedly at the frayed hem of his hoodie, tapping lightly and unevenly against the worn denim of his jeans, curling into fists only to release them moments later as if unsure what to do with the sudden energy pulsing through him. Those hands, usually so steady and deliberate when he was filming, now jittered like leaves caught in a breeze, betraying the turmoil twisting inside.

Every so often, his gaze flicked upward, seeking yours, brief and fragile like the spark of a match that’s quickly snuffed out before it can catch flame. His eyes held a wild, searching quality, darting away before you could catch the full storm beneath the surface.

He’d been like this all day. The familiar, easy confidence that usually radiated from him; the quick wit, the self-assured sarcasm he wore like armor in front of the camera, was nowhere to be found. Instead, a quieter, heavier weight settled deep inside him, constricting his chest and knotting his throat in a tight, unrelenting grip. It was the kind of nervousness that made every breath a small battle, each inhalation shallow and uneven, and every word feel like a treacherous leap into unknown territory.

Yuo could see it in the subtle way his jaw clenched briefly before loosening again, as if fighting to steady himself. The quick flick of his tongue over lips suddenly too dry and cracked gave away the discomfort he was trying hard to mask.

Arthur cleared his throat, a small, almost desperate effort to find footing in the conversation, a lifeline cast into the swirling chaos of his thoughts. “So, uhm- if you move the bishop here- wait, no, the knight, I mean- then the queen’s forced to- oh god, I’m mixing it up, aren’t I?”

His voice cracked sharply on the last word, raw and brittle, betraying just how tangled and frayed his nerves were beneath the surface. You watched as he bit the inside of his cheek, a quick, embarrassed flush rising beneath his skin, painting his pale cheeks a soft shade of pink. His eyes widened, shimmering with that frantic, hyperfixated intensity he always got when he was desperately trying not to mess up, as if the pressure was about to crush him whole.

“Arthur.” You said softly, but with quiet firmness, your voice steady, reaching out to him across the space between you.

“-sorry, so the knight- ” he pressed on, words tumbling out in a rush, faster and faster, the tremble in his voice growing more pronounced like a leaf caught in a storm’s howl, vulnerable and unmoored.

“Arthur.” You repeated, this time a little louder, your hand reaching out with gentle certainty to catch the edge of his hoodie, anchoring him in the moment, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn't, really.

The desperation in his rambling was almost painful to watch. Llike he was desperately trying to fill the silence screaming loud between you, as if words could stave off the weight pressing in. Without thinking, your fingers curled gently around the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer until the shrinking space between you vanished altogether.

The moment your lips brushed his, Arthur froze. Completely still, breath caught somewhere between surprise and something softer, more fragile. His lips were impossibly soft, warm, tentative, and almost hesitant against yours, like a whispered question seeking permission. His hands hovered awkwardly in mid-air, suspended as if unsure where to land, before trembling ever so slightly as they finally found the curve of your waist.

There was a quiet, startled squeak trapped in his throat, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding until that very second, breaking free in a fragile, desperate sound.

For a heartbeat, you thought he might pull away, overwhelmed by the sudden closeness, by the intimacy so unexpected it threatened to swallow him whole. But then his fingers curled tighter around your sides, gripping you like a lifeline, anchoring himself and you both firmly in that electric moment.

When you finally pulled back, his breath hitched in shallow, uneven gasps, eyes wide and shining with an unspoken awe, cheeks flushed a deep rose that spread slowly beneath the soft light filtering through the window.

“Oh. Um. Sorry- did I- was I-” His words tumbled out in a flurry, awkward and fumbling, tripping over themselves like a boy caught somewhere between nervousness and wonder.

“You were rambling,” you said softly, your voice low and warm, still holding the hoodie strings loosely between your fingers, grounding both of you. “It was cute. But I really needed you to shut up.”

His lips curved into a dazed, sheepish smile that made your chest tighten with affection and something deeper, something tender. But even as he smiled, his eyes drifted back down to your mouth as if it held a forbidden secret, something he couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t quite believe was real.

The silence thickened around you then, pulsing heavy with everything left unsaid, everything hanging just beneath the surface, until finally, something inside him snapped, and you both knew things would never quite be the same again.

One hand slipped slowly to your hip, fingers pressing firmly, pulling you flush against the steady heat of his body. Before your mind could fully register the move, you swung a leg over his lap, settling down gently with a softness that made his chest tighten. The weight of you. warm, real, sent an electric jolt straight through him, as if you had knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His breath caught, short and sharp, a stuttered inhale that trembled on the edge of a gasp.

You almost laughed. Beneath the thick fabric of his jeans, you could feel the unmistakable hardness pressing insistently against your inner thigh. It was taut and unyielding, the rigid line of his erection outlined clearly beneath the denim, straining upward like it was aching for release. The heat radiating off him was almost overwhelming, the way his body seemed to pulse and throb, every muscle taut with need. You could sense the subtle twitch beneath your touch, a desperate, restless tension held in check but barely. You had only kissed him, how nervous could he be?

His hands hovered uncertainly for a heartbeat, trembling with hesitation, before finally settling on your thighs. His thumbs moved in slow, featherlight strokes, tracing invisible patterns across your skin, the touch almost reverent, like he was afraid to disturb something sacred. Every subtle shift you made sent fresh sparks of sensation along the rigid length pressing beneath you, the friction building a slow-burning fire that pooled low in your belly.

His eyes flickered rapidly between your gaze and your lips, swimming with a chaotic mix of awe, terror, and something delicate and raw that made your heart ache fiercely. The vulnerability in his expression was breathtaking, an unspoken confession held in the depths of his dark eyes.

“Holy shit,” he breathed out, voice low and rough with breathless wonder. “You’re- um- really- um-”

You leaned in closer, your forehead coming to rest against his, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and trembling. “Spit it out, Arthur,” you whispered, voice gentle but firm, grounding him.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat visibly working as if wrestling for control over a flood of emotions. His face flushed a deep, burning red, nearly betraying every nerve firing wildly beneath his skin. “It’s just- fuck, you look so beautiful like this. On my- on my lap. I- uh-” His voice cracked slightly, eyes flickering back up to yours, wide and shimmering with an almost breathless sincerity.

You tilted your head, the tiniest smirk teasing at your lips. “What?”

He closed his eyes tightly, then buried his face in your shoulder with a muffled groan of embarrassment. “I- I had a dream like this,” he admitted in a whisper, his voice cracking with vulnerability. “And I never thought it’d actually happen. I won't actually explain the dream because uhm- it was- it was obviously a bit different in some aspects like uhm- it was just.. different, In some ways.” He let out a legitimate gasp of air after saying all of that.

You laughed softly, warmth blooming deep in your chest. Your fingers threaded through the soft curls at the nape of his neck, gently tugging him closer as he groaned again, overwhelmed by the flood of his own feelings.

“Arthur, look at me.”

“No,” he muttered, voice muffled and miserable against your skin. “This is so embarrassing.”

Slowly, carefully, you pulled back just enough to catch his gaze. His lashes fluttered nervously, cheeks flushed with pink, lips bitten raw and pink from nerves and the lingering kiss. The vulnerability in his eyes was so pure it made your heart tighten in a way you didn’t expect.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” you whispered, your thumb tracing soft, slow circles over the curve of his cheek, your touch featherlight and grounding. “Because I’ve thought about this too.”

His eyes widened, the sudden realization washing over him like a gentle tide, lips parting slightly in a breathless, dazed smile that held something almost reverent, like he was discovering a secret he’d longed for but never dared to speak aloud. For a heartbeat, he looked so overwhelmed, so achingly vulnerable, you thought he might simply burst from the weight of it all.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, caught somewhere between wonder and disbelief.

Then, tentatively, as if testing the waters of a dream come true, Arthur leaned up again. His lips met yours with a slow, reverent tenderness, each brush of skin like a whispered promise. There was a gentle hesitancy in his kiss, as if he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight, yet beneath it was a growing confidence, fragile but fierce.

His hands curled around your waist, gripping firmly but with a slight tremble that soon steadied, anchoring both of you in the moment. The soft tickle of his curls brushed your cheek, warm and comforting, as the outside world, the distant hum of traffic, the fading light shifting softly through the windowpanes, blurred into nothingness.

You felt your chest flutter with a sudden rush of warmth, your heart swelling with a tenderness so profound it almost took your breath away. And in that suspended, perfect moment, you realized something simple and true: you never wanted him to shut up, except maybe sometimes, just like this.

"Wow, like- wow. Obviously its not- its not exactly like my dream, I don't expect we would be doing any of the- uh-, stuff we did in my dream anytime soon but, wow, that dream was great- you know?, like, wow, you should've seen me when I woke up, haah, uhm-"

"Arthur, what the hell are you talking about?"

"...What are you talking about?"

#arthur tv x reader #arthur tv #atv x reader #ukyt #uk youtubers

143 notes · View notes

nameless-ken · 4 months ago

Text

Bucky Barnes x Reader - epilogue

The Stranger That Knows Me Best is a heartfelt story about connection, vulnerability, and taking chances on the unexpected. Two introverts discover that sometimes, the person who understands you best is the one who you've never met.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: slight angst but mostly fluff!

Masterlist

The past year has been a lesson in patience, in love stretched across miles, in longing softened by ink and paper.

Y/N, By the time you read this, you'll be somewhere between where we've been and where we're going. I keep thinking about the first letter I sent you, how I sat there rewriting the same lines over and over because I didn’t know how to talk to a complete stranger hundreds of miles away. And now? Now, I don’t know how to live everyday and not talk to you. I find you in every quiet moment, in every song that plays, in every empty space that should be filled by you. I know the past year hasn’t been easy. I know we had days where the distance felt impossible, where time zones and phone calls weren’t enough. But we made it. And I can’t wait for the moment I get to hold you again, no miles, no screens, no letters between us—just you and me. I love you. —Bucky

You tightly hold the last letter Bucky sent to your old apartment, tears blurring your vision as you carefully fold it and tuck it back into your carry on purse. You wipe away the few streaks from your cheeks as the pilot announces the final descent into the lively New York City.

Your heart thrums in anticipation, hands gripping the armrests as the city scape comes into view beyond the window. A year ago, Brooklyn was just a place, a doomed stop with an inevitable goodbye. But now? Now, it’s more.

It’s home.

A quiet smile tugs at your lips as the wheels touch the ground, steady and sure. There’s no sadness this time. No ache, no uncertainty, no fear of what comes next.

This time, you’re arriving home. A new, promising, more permanent home. With him.

You and Bucky have healed the past year. Together and alone. You stayed in Oregon after he surprised you at your graduation but Bucky made sure to confess his feelings to you before he left.

"I don’t want to let you go," he had said, voice rough with emotion, hands clenching at his sides as if he was holding himself back from reaching for you. "Not again. Never again."

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t care. God, you cared more than you had words for but because love, real love, felt too raw, too fragile to hold after everything you had been through. You weren’t sure if you were ready for a relationship, but you knew you couldn’t let him go either.

So you agreed to stay in contact. Letters at first. That has always been your safe space. As the months passed, wounds mended and your trust was rebuilt through all of his carefully written words, the letters turned into more. More quickly from texts to phone calls, the sound of Bucky’s voice became familiar again. He never pressured you for more. No expectations–only his continued patience and understanding.

Bucky let you set the pace. And somewhere along the way, in the quiet constancy of him, in the way he never wavered, never gave up on devoting his time and heart to you, you realized what had been true all along.

You’d fallen in love with him.

That realization for you gave you the strength and bravery to accept his invitation to a trip, a planned weekend getaway to a city halfway between both of you. The first time since your graduation seeing each other again.

You close your eyes as the memories come rushing back as you wait to unboard the plane.

The way he was waiting at the arrivals gate, shifting anxiously on his feet, his expression nervous, like he was expecting you not to show up, until he saw you. And then his face became full of pure, unfiltered relief. He wrapped you in his arms before you could say anything, holding you, afraid to let go. You felt the same way, tears glistening both of your eyes as you collapsed against each other.

That weekend was a dream. Wandering the unfamiliar streets hand in hand, laughing over terrible coffee, stealing glances across a candlelit table at a small restaurant that Bucky reserved weeks before. The way he looked at you under the streetlights, his fingers traced mindless patterns against your palm as if he couldn’t believe you were real, here, his.

You remember the hotel room, the late-night talks, the way you curled into him, muttering about the future. The first time you whispered I love you into the quiet, and the way he froze for a second before pulling you closer, burying his face into your neck as he breathed out,

“God, I love you too. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you.”

It was the most perfect, unbelievably happy weekend you ever had. And it solidified what you already knew in your heart.

Bucky was home. He is home.

And now, as you gather your things and follow the line out of the plane, you know without a doubt—you’re so happy to finally be home.

You navigate through the terminal, weaving through the rush of travelers, your grip tightening around the strap of your bag as the anticipation builds in your chest. You look around frantically, over the heads and shoulders of your fellow travelers and see him.

There he is. Bucky. In his usual battered jeans and leather jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets as he bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, showing the same amount of anticipation as you. His eyes scan the crowd, restless, searching until they land on you.

His entire face shifts. The tension melts, his shoulders drop, and for a second, he just stares at you like he can’t believe you’re really here. Then, he moves.

You barely have time to drop your bag before he reaches you, arms wrapping around you so tightly that your feet barely touch the ground. The scent of him fills your senses as you bury your face in his neck.

“You’re here,” he murmurs against your hair, voice thick with heavy relief. “You’re finally here.”

You nod against him, gripping the fabric of his shirt like you never want to let go. “I’m home.”

Bucky pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the dampness at your cheeks. “Damn right you are.”

He kisses you then, right there in the middle of the terminal, he doesn’t care about the people moving around you. You and this moment are the only things that matter.

Brooklyn rushes past in a blur of streetlights and familiar city chaos, but inside the car, everything feels steady—grounded. Bucky’s fingers weave through yours, his grip firm, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. The radio plays softly in the background as neither of you speak much. You don’t need to. The quiet is comfortable, charged with the unspoken understanding that everything is finally falling into place.

He sneaks glances at you every so often, like he’s making sure you’re real. Every time you catch him, he just smirks and squeezes your hand.

"If you keep looking at me like that, Barnes," you tease, your thumb brushing against his knuckles, "I might start thinking you missed me."

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, ‘missed’ doesn’t even cover it."

And you believe him. Because you missed him, too. In ways words could never quite capture.

Even though you were never the type to map out your future, you know now that you never could have planned a chapter like this. This kind of love—the kind that sneaks up on you, that lingers, that fights to stay. It wasn’t something you expected to find. But Bucky? He made it impossible to resist. Over the last year, his unwavering patience, his devotion, his quiet, steady love proved again and again that this is real. That this is worth everything.

Through long conversations—some easy, some difficult—you both built a foundation meant to last.

The city begins to slow as Bucky turns onto a quieter street. Brownstone townhomes line both sides, bathed in the warm glow of porch lights and the occasional flicker of a television through a window. Your fingers tighten around his as your heart stutters, realization washing over you.

This is it.

Your new home.

Together.

Bucky pulls into a parking spot in front of a townhouse with wide steps leading up to a dark blue door. The sight of it, so solid and welcoming, makes your throat tighten. It’s not just a temporary place to stay. This is yours, together.

Before you can even process it fully, Bucky is already out of the car, rounding the hood to open your door. He doesn’t rush you, only reaches for your hand to help you out.

"You ready?" he asks, his voice softer now, eyes searching yours as you stand next to him in front of your home.

You take a breath, taking in the way he’s looking at you—no trace of anxiety to be seen, only adoration.

You squeeze his hand, stepping closer.

"Yeah," you whisper, smiling up at him. "I’m ready."

Bucky keeps a hand at the small of your back as he leads you up the steps to the front door. He pauses, giving you a look that’s entirely too pleased with himself.

“What?” You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

Bucky’s hand never leaves the small of your back as he nudges the door open, watching for your reaction like a man who’s been waiting for this moment for far too long. His lips twitch into that boyish smirk you’ve come to know too well.

Your mouth parts in shock.

The entire living room is decorated. A homemade banner stretches across the space, big, uneven letters reading Welcome Home. Balloons in soft blues and creams float in the corners, tied down by little weights. A bouquet of fresh tulips—your favorite—sits in a vase on the kitchen counter.

But what really gets you, what makes your throat tighten and your eyes sting, is the sight of the boxes you shipped ahead of time. Not a single one remains unpacked. Your books are already on the shelves, your framed pictures placed thoughtfully around the space, your favorite blanket draped over the couch.

It already looks like home.

Your eyes sting, and you swallow hard before turning to him, voice barely above a whisper. “You did all this?”

“Didn’t want you comin’ home to a mess,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you’d be tired. Thought maybe this’d make it easier.”

Easier. Like he hasn’t already spent the past year making everything easier just by being there.

Emotion swells in your chest, too big to contain. You reach for him instinctively, hands settling against his chest. “Bucky…”

Before you can find the right words, he beats you to it.

He cups your face gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek. His lips press against your forehead, lingering there as he exhales.

“You’re here now,” he murmurs. “We’re home.”

It’s not grand or dramatic. There’s no over-the-top declaration. Just quiet certainty. Just him.

And that’s all you need.

You melt into him, arms wrapping around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He holds you just as tightly, anchoring himself to you.

After a long moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, your heart full to the point of aching. “I love you,” you whisper, the words slipping out so effortlessly, so naturally, like they’ve lived on your tongue forever.

Bucky’s eyes search yours, memorizing the moment, storing it away somewhere safe. Then, with a slow, almost disbelieving smile, he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

Your lips twitch, and you cup his face, brushing your thumb along the stubble on his jaw. “I love you.”

A soft, shaky laugh leaves him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, like he’s been waiting forever to do it. Like he’s finally home, too.

Later that evening, after the excitement of your arrival settles and the last of the takeout containers have been pushed aside, you curl into the couch, legs tucked beneath you. Bucky sits beside you, his arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your shoulder.

You glance around the room, taking it all in—the space you’re building together, the life that’s finally yours. It feels surreal, like you’re caught in some fragile moment that could slip through your fingers at any second. But it’s all real. He’s real.

Your mind drifts, tracing back the previous months that have led here.

Sam had insisted on helping you find your footing in the city, setting up a meeting with an old friend of his, the editor-in-chief of a local magazine, who owed him a favor. You remember the nerves rattling through you when you first interviewed, the overwhelming self-doubt. But Sam believed in you. And now, here you are. The new assistant editor, ready to carve your own place in the industry.

And Bucky…

Your gaze shifts to him, watching the way his eyes soften as he looks back at you. He’s changed in ways that make you want to scream with pride. The man who once struggled to let anyone in now stands solid in his place at a physical therapy clinic only blocks away, guiding patients through their recovery, offering quiet encouragement, a steady hand.

He’s told you some stories about his clients. An older woman who insists on bringing him baked goods to every appointment. A stubborn teenage athlete who reminds him too much of himself at that age. You catch the way his enjoyment appears on his face everytime he talks about the work, feeling fulfilled in ways he never thought possible.

But more than that, Bucky has let people in.

Flashbacks from the past couple months drift through your mind. As you and Bucky went about looking for a new home to rent, you spent more time in Brooklyn. And Sam didn’t let the experiences stop.

Sam has been a beacon in your relationship and who you now consider one of your best friends. He’s always been determined to drag Bucky out of his shell so you both decided to make the effort and push past the old tendencies of retreat and allow yourselves to open up to a new world of experiences.

The bar is excited with life, music pulsing through the floorboards, rattling in your chest. The air is thick with beer and sweat. It should be overwhelming, but with Bucky’s arm looped around your waist, you can’t think about anything else. You admire his protectiveness. It’s not an act of possession. It’s comfortable and grounding.

Sam stands across from you, drink in hand, telling some ridiculous story about a botched date, a missed reservation, and a very unimpressed woman. His hands move wildly as he reenacts the whole thing, voice animated, drawing laughter from the new group of friends he introduced you both to.

You giggle and feel Bucky chuckle beside you, his body vibrating slightly against yours. He’s relaxed in a way you don’t always get to see, his usual broody exterior softened by the good company and a couple of drinks.

You don’t even realize how close you’ve drifted to him until the room around you fades into the background, until your foreheads are nearly touching. His breath ghosts over your cheek, his gaze dipping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes, and for a second, the world narrows to just you and him.

His fingers flex against your waist, a small squeeze.

You smirk, tilting your head jokingly. “You keep looking at me like that, Barnes, people might start talking.”

Bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Let ‘em talk.”

His grip on you tightens, just enough to make your pulse flutter, just enough to tell you what you already know. He’s not letting you go. Never again.

Sam’s place is warm, filled with laughter bouncing off the walls. The setting invites easy conversation and good company.

Plates are pushed aside, empty glasses refilled, and now the living room is alive with game night in full swing.

You and Bucky, however, are horrible at charades.

Neither of you have much enthusiasm for acting things out, and it shows. Bucky flat-out refuses to perform anything more animated than a halfhearted gesture, and your attempts aren’t much better.

“You both are THE worst team in charades history.” Sam exclaims, shaking his head in slight disappointment. The rest of the group groans and laughs as you struggle through yet another round.

Still, Bucky leans in close, murmuring guesses in your ear, half the time being terrible.

“C’mon, doll, that’s definitely a—wait, what are you doing?”

You groan, gesturing wildly, barely holding back laughter. “How do you not see it? It’s so obvious!”

“Not a chance,” he smirks, shaking his head. “You’re making that up.”

"You are the worst partner," you tease, lightly swatting his arm.

Despite your efforts—or lack thereof—you both lose spectacularly. The others tease you about it even after the game ends, Sam declaring an official ban on you and Bucky ever teaming up again.

But later, when the night slows and the energy lowers, you find yourself curled up against him on the couch. His arm draped lazily around your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly playing with yours, tracing soft patterns against your skin.

Losing didn’t matter.

Not when the night ends like this.

You tip your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, and he’s already looking at you, the corner of his mouth tugging up in the softest smile.

Yeah. The night was definitely a win.

The quieter moments over the last few months snuck up on you, the ones that didn’t seem significant at first but settle deep in your mind, lingering long after they’ve passed.

One early spring afternoon you and your new friends stroll through the park, conversations overlapping with easy laughter. The air is cool with the sun peeking through the bare branches.

Bucky walks beside you, his hand brushing against yours every so often. But what truly captures your attention is the way he’s engaged in a conversation that isn’t forced or guarded, he’s relaxed, voice steady. He listens, he responds, and he even throws in a dry remark that makes the whole group laugh.

It’s such a simple thing, and yet, you remember the version of him from over a year ago—the one who would have kept his head down, who would have listened silently. And now, here he is, with people who genuinely enjoy his presence.

You squeeze his hand and when he glances at you, you smile brightly. He squeezes your hand back.

Your hand stays in his, tightly as everyone settles into a restaurant booth for brunch. Loud chaos of plates and coffee cups overflow the table. You sit across from Bucky at the crowded table, but your focus stays entirely on him, watching as his expression shifts between amusement and exasperation at Sam’s latest ridiculous story.

Sam’s hands move animatedly as he talks, voice dramatic, eyes wide, clearly embellishing whatever tale he’s spinning. Bucky, arms crossed, leans back in his chair, unimpressed.

“That never happened,” he says flatly.

“Yes, it did!” Sam insists.

Bucky just shakes his head, taking a sip of his coffee. And you can’t help but admire the way his eyes crinkle at the corners slightly.

You nudge his foot under the table and mouth to him you love it, just admit it.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours, and mouths, not a chance.

You arch a brow, fighting back a grin. Liar.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he takes another sip of his coffee, but the ghost of a smile lingers. His foot nudges yours back under the table with a silent drop it.

You lean forward slightly, elbows resting on the table as you mouth again, you’re having fun.

Bucky’s lips press together, eyes narrowing just slightly before he mouths back, debatable.

You roll your eyes, you know him too well now to realize he is enjoying this, even if he’ll never admit it out loud.

Across the table, Sam groans. “Okay, what is this? Some kind of creepy silent flirting? Just say what you wanna say like normal people.”

Bucky finally smirks, setting his coffee down with a soft clink. “Says the guy who just reenacted a story that never happened.”

The whole table erupts into laughter, and you just shake your head, nudging Bucky’s foot again. This time, he doesn’t push back. Instead, he just looks at you with a gentle softness in his eyes.

Yeah, he’s enjoying this.

Even now, sitting in your new quiet home, you know you’d be content spending the rest of your life like this. Just you and him.

Still, you’re more grateful than ever for the friendships you’ve made and the ones you’ve kept. Wanda has remained a constant. She has been there so much over the past year, watching your love and relationship sprout and grow so bright. She helped you pack all your things and dropped you off at the airport on your way home to Bucky.

You shift your carry-on higher on your shoulder, glancing over at Wanda, who stands beside you, arms crossed and eyes suspiciously glassy.

“You’re gonna cry,” you tease, nudging her side.

Wanda scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Please. I don’t cry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t.” She clears her throat, blinking rapidly. “It’s just… weird, that’s all. You not being here.”

Your chest tightens at that. It is weird. Oregon has been your home all your life, and saying goodbye, to head toward one of the most important chapters of your life, carries a bittersweet weight.

But Brooklyn is waiting. Bucky is waiting.

“I know,” you say softly. “But you’ll visit. And I’ll visit. And it’s not like we won’t talk every day.”

Wanda huffs. “Yeah, yeah. You better not get all ‘too busy with my new life’ on me.”

You grin. “You’ll force me to talk to you, even if I tried.”

“Damn right.” She pauses, her expression shifting. “But seriously… I’m proud of you. For going after this. For going home.”

Your throat tightens. You blink quickly, forcing a smile. “Don’t make me cry right before I get on a plane.”

Wanda smirks, bumping your shoulder. “I knew you were the crier between us.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. Then, before you can overthink it, you pull her into a tight hug. She grips you just as fiercely.

“Love you,” you mumble into her shoulder.

“Love you too,” she says, voice muffled. Then, pulling back with a smirk, she adds, “Now go before I do start crying and completely ruin my reputation.”

You laugh, adjusting your bag one last time. One last deep breath. One last glance at the place you’ve called home for so long.

A sigh escapes you, the weight of everything—the past, the future, the sheer enormity of how far you’ve both come—settles into your bones.

Bucky’s fingers trail down your arm, his touch grounding. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” he murmurs, tilting his head to catch your gaze.

You shift, pressing into his side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. “Just thinking about how much has changed.”

His lips curve into a knowing smile. “Yeah?”

You nod, eyes flickering up to meet his. “Almost two years ago, we were two strangers trying to make sense of everything. Now, we’re here. Together.”

Bucky hums, his hand slipping beneath your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Together,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

There’s a gentle acknowledgment that the journey isn’t over. You’re both still healing, still working through old wounds and learning how to navigate life as it comes.

“Oh I have one more thing for you.” Bucky whispers and gets up, grabbing an envelope from the kitchen counter. “A welcome home letter. I figured we’d carry on the tradition, you know, just because we’re finally here together, doesn’t mean we can’t continue to write to one another.”

You smile at his suggestion, reaching for the envelope as he settles back down beside you.

Bucky watches as you unfold it and absentmindedly rubs circles against your arm.

You take a breath, eyes tracing the words meant only for you.

Y/N, I know from here on out I get to see you everyday. I get to wake up next to you, hold you and kiss you whenever I want. But still, I can’t help but find myself reaching for a pen. I feel like there are things that I can only seem to say like this. I hope we carry on this tradition. I don’t want this to change. Each of us digging into each others minds that we somehow find new facets we haven’t uncovered before. It’s fascinating to communicate so openly through written words, that even therapy probably couldn’t pull from me. I am eternally grateful that you have chosen to continue to try this with me. Not just the letters but life. There’s not a singular soul on this planet that I would choose over you. You are my entire universe and I will love you in a way that doesn’t change, even as everything else does. And I hope that, no matter how much time passes, no matter where life takes us, I’ll always find a way to remind you. So, here’s to you, someone who started out as the stranger that knew me best. And now to us, a love I hope to cherish and honor for the rest of my days. And here’s to the words that started it all. – Bucky xx

You press the letter to your chest, blinking back the emotion swelling behind your eyes. Bucky shifts beside you, wrapping you warmly in his arms.

“Still gets you, huh?” he murmurs, his lips curving in that small, knowing smile.

You glance up at him, seeing every chapter of the past, present, and future reflected in his blue eyes. “Always,” you whisper.

Even as things change or fade over time, you know your love will last for lifetimes because you’re both deciding to do it together, no matter how hard it gets. Through the small and big moments. You’re doing it together.

It’s not perfect. It rarely will ever be. But you’re growing.

And that’s enough. That will always be enough.

Taglist (please lmk if you don't want to be apart of my taglist or comment below to be added!): @mutifandomkid @civilbucky @ozwriterchick @buckyb-stan @lomlbuckybarnes @kjah97 @danzer8705 @laprofesoratinacita

Thank you so much for reading <3 my requests are open for Bucky, so please if you have any ideas send them my way!

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emmaxdelicate · 6 months ago

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THE GREAT WAR (part 2) | op81 x reader

summary: the aftermath of your fight with oscar

pairings: oscar piastri x fem!girlfriend!reader

warnings: use of y/n (one time) (if there is something else please lmk!!)

a/n: this is the part 2 to this fic, i reccomend reading it before this one!

word count: 1.3k

you shivered, but not from any cold. it was one of those statements that cut deep, they replayed in your head all of the time. how had it come down to this? the love that you two shared once felt unshakable. now, it felt fragile, like a glass about to fall off the edge of a table, ready to shatter completely with even just one little wrong move.

a soft knock on the bedroom door cut through your daydreaming, and you turned. the door creaked open a fraction, and Oscar's hesitant face appeared in the gap. he looked just as wrecked as you felt, his eyes rimmed red and his hair sticking up in messy locks. he must have been awake all night too.

"can I come in?" he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

you hesitated a moment before nodding slightly. he slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. he lingered near the doorway, his posture unsure, as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

"i didn't want to sleep," he began, "not while things are… like this."

you stared at him, your expression unreadable. he couldn't tell if it was hatred, worried, or regretful. "oscar. i don't even know where to start."

"then i will," he said quickly, taking a tentative step closer. he knelt to the floor across from you, his knees brushing against yours. his hands fidgeted in his lap; a nervous habit of hisyou knew all too well.

"i've been selfish," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "i've been so focused on racing, on trying to prove myself to the team, that i didn't stop to think about how much it was hurting you. i thought i was balancing everything, but i wasn't. i see that now.".

you looked down as your chest drew tight with the words. "Oscar. i never wanted you to give up your dream. i only wanted to feel like part of it.that I matter to you.".

"you do matter," he said, his voice full of fervor as he reached for your hands. he was almost hesitant to touch you, as if he was scared you would pull away, but you didn't. his fingers wrapped around yours, firm yet soft. "more than anything. and i hate that i've made you feel otherwise."

you looked down at your interlocked hands, his touch warming and grounding you. "it hasn't been easy," you whispered. "i've felt alone, lots of times. and I know it's not all your fault, but i didn't know how to tell you without feeling like I was asking for too much."

"you're not asking for too much," he said firmly. "you're asking for what you deserve. and I'm sorry i haven't given it to you."

he took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "i know words aren't enough to fix this. i need to show you that i'm serious, that i'm willing to fight for us. and will, y/n. i'll do whatever it takes."

the sincerity and regret in his voice were palpable, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope. but the wounds between you wouldn't be so easily healed.

"it's not going to be easy," you said quietly. "there's a lot we need to work through."

"i know," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "but i'm not afraid of the hard stuff. not if it means i get to keep you."

you looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw the vulnerability in his expression. you could barely look him in the eye like this. he wasn't just apologizing- he was laying his heart bare, putting everything on the line for you. it was a side of him you hadn't seen in a long time, and it reminded you of why you'd fallen in love with him in the first place.

"i don't want to give up on us," you admitted, your voice breaking. "but I can't do this alone, Oscar. i need you to meet me halfway."

"i will, baby, i promise. every step of the way."

neither of you spoke for a moment. then you leaned forward, your forehead against his, and his hands gently cupped your face as thumbs brushed the beginnings of tears away.

“i love you, so much” he said softly, his voice now steady and sure. “and i’m going to spend every day proving it to you.”

the succeeding weeks were far from ideal, but they reeked of small steps forward. oscar made good on his promises, calling when he was away each night, asking about your day, listening to your stories, and then sharing his own in return. simple as it may sound, that made a whole lot of difference.

when he was home, he tried to make time for you. he did little things that surprised you: a note written in his own handwriting tucked into your bag, your favorite flowers waiting on the kitchen counter. he even took a day off from training to spend the afternoon with you, something he hadn't done in months.

but it wasn't the gestures that mattered; it was how he had shown up for you, listened to and communicated with you, made sure you felt seen and valued. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were partners again, two people working together and not growing apart.

one evening, as the sun set over the city, you both sat out on your apartment's balcony. the sky was painted in shades of gold and pink, a cool breeze rustling through the air. you sat next to each other on a cushioned bench, hands intertwined..

"this is nice," you finally said, breaking the comfortable silence.

"it is," he agreed, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "i've missed this."

"me too."

he turned to you, his expression thoughtful. "i've been thinking an awful lot lately about us- about what we've been through."

you cock an eyebrow, a small smile playing on the edges of your lips. "and what did you come out with, mr. Piastri?

he chuckled low in his throat, but his voice turned serious. "that i never want to take you for granted again. that i'm really lucky to have you, and i need to do better at showing it."

"you already are doing better," you said, squeezing his hand. "but it's not just about you, Oscar. i need to do better, too- at communicating, at being patient. this is a two-way road.

he nodded, his eyes shining with gratitude. "thank you. for not giving up on me. on us."

"i told you," you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. "you're worth fighting for."

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "so are you."

as the city lights below began to sparkle, so did a feeling of peace finally settle over you. the storm that threatened to rip your heart apart had indeed passed, and in its calming, it left a love that was now stronger because it had survived the tempests.

you didn't know what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, you weren't afraid. you knew that with Oscar by your side, you could face any obstacle that came your way.

and that was all that mattered to you.

tags: @daemyratwst

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emmylksblog · 8 months ago

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ONE STEP AT A TIME // Héctor Fort

summary: after a big fight, you’re feeling like a total fraud but still show up to Hector’s game. Emotions run high, but a sweet moment brings you back together. based on this request.

genre: slight angst, fluff

warnings: none

a/n: hey girlies! 💅 it's been a while since i last posted, where did the time go? life got hectic with uni and all that grown-up stuff that i just went survival mode for a while 😰 but i’m back tryna be consistent 🫶🏻

The final whistle echoes through the stadium, and as the crowd begins to disperse, you make your way to the players’ exit, weaving through clusters of fans. Your heart pounds, a mix of worry and anticipation tightening your chest.

You finally catch sight of Hector, walking off the field with a noticeable limp. He’s putting on a brave face, smiling politely at fans, but you notice the tension around his eyes, the way he tries to mask his discomfort.

“Hector!” you call out, your voice getting lost in the hum of the crowd. He turns at the sound of your voice, eyes searching for a moment until they land on you. His expression shifts—first surprise, then something softer, almost relieved. He takes a few hesitant steps toward you, and you close the gap.

“Hey, I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, his voice warm but guarded. He tries to meet your gaze, but his eyes flicker with hesitation, as if he’s unsure of what to say after days of silence between you.

“Of course I came,” you reply, keeping your tone steady, though your heart feels heavy with everything left unsaid. You glance down at his leg, noticing how he shifts his weight to avoid putting too much pressure on it. “Are you okay? That looked pretty rough.”

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, just a bit bruised. The medics insisted I sit out the rest of the game, but it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Your eyes linger on his leg, catching every wince and grimace he tries to hide. “Come on, let me take you home,” you offer, voice gentle but firm. He hesitates, looking like he’s about to refuse, but something in your expression makes him nod.

The car ride is quiet, the city lights casting soft shadows across his face as he stares out the window, lost in thought. You steal a few glances his way, trying to read him, feeling the weight of unspoken words between you. Your heart aches to explain everything, to ease his worry, but the words feel stuck, too fragile to break the silence yet.

When you finally arrive at his apartment, he takes a step out of the car, flinching slightly as he shifts his weight. You reach out instinctively, offering your arm for support. He gives you a small, grateful smile, and you both walk inside, each step slow and careful.

Inside, you help him ease onto the couch, and he lets out a deep, relieved sigh as he stretches his leg out. Without a word, you head to the kitchen, grabbing an ice pack and a towel. Kneeling beside him, you press the cold pack gently to his injury, your hands moving carefully, focused on not causing him any more pain.

He watches you quietly, his gaze lingering on your face. “Thank you,” he says softly, his voice carrying a hint of something vulnerable. “You didn’t have to do this.”

You pause, glancing up at him, your fingers still on the ice pack. “I wanted to be here,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. You drop your gaze, suddenly feeling exposed. “I know I haven’t been around much. And I’m sorry.”

His brows knit together, and he studies you with a mixture of concern and confusion. “What’s going on?” he asks gently. “You’ve been so distant, I thought… I don’t know, that you needed space or maybe… I was making things harder for you.”

You feel a pang in your chest, his words hitting closer to home than you’d like to admit. You try to find the right words, the ones that will explain everything without unraveling you completely. “It’s… it’s not you,” you say finally, glancing down at his hand resting on his knee.

Your fingers brush against his in a brief, hesitant movement before you pull back. “I just… I feel like a fraud sometimes. Like I’m constantly putting on a face for everyone, and I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore. And I didn’t want to bring you into that.”

He’s silent for a moment, his gaze steady and unwavering. Then, he reaches out, his hand covering yours in a gentle but firm grip. “You’re not a fraud,” he says, his tone soft yet resolute. “And even if you don’t believe that right now, I do. I see you—all of you. And I’m here because I want to be, not because of some version you think I expect.”

Your breath catches, the weight of his words sinking in. You look away, blinking back the emotions threatening to spill over. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing, grounding motion.

For a long moment, you sit in silence, letting his words sink in, feeling the warmth of his hand against yours. Slowly, you look up, meeting his gaze, feeling a flicker of relief settle in your chest.

“I just… I don’t want to let you down,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he leans back, still holding your hand. “You could never let me down,” he says, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “We’re in this together, okay? Whatever you’re going through, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

His words hit you like a wave, and you feel the last of your walls begin to crumble. Without thinking, you lean forward, resting your head on his shoulder, feeling his arm come around you in a steady, comforting embrace. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push for more. He simply holds you, his presence a quiet reassurance that, no matter how messy things get, he’s here.

You stay there for a while, the tension between you slowly dissolving, replaced by the familiar warmth of his closeness. After what feels like an eternity, Hector pulls back slightly, tilting your chin up gently with his fingers so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I care about you,” he says softly, sincerity etched on his face. “You’re not alone in this.”

In that moment, you feel everything you’ve been holding onto begin to lift, replaced by the quiet, steady assurance of his love. You’re about to say something, to thank him, when he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of the gesture sends warmth flooding through you, solidifying the connection that had felt frayed just moments before.

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. And as you lean into him again, you know that together, you’ll find your way through the chaos, one step at a time.

#hector fort #hector fort x reader #hector fort x you #fc barcelona x reader #fcb x reader #footballer x reader #footballer x y/n #marc guiu #marc guiu x reader #pablo gavi x reader

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wannaeatramyeon · 1 year ago

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How Lookism men confess to YOU they've caught feelings

G/N. Soft. Fluffy. All that good stuff. (Gun, Jake, Goo, James Lee/DG, Johan, Vin, Samuel, Eli, Ryuhei)

Gun opts for somewhere private, just the two of you. Whether that's his home, yours, or somewhere only you both know.

He tells you with certainty his feelings for you. That there's no point divulging if he didn't think it would work out, if you weren't better together.

Intensity radiates from him. His words, eyes, aura. He keeps his confession simple and to the point, unexpectedly romantic with how matter of fact he is.

Jake thought he was being subtle, but there's a lot of prying eyes in the shadows.

He shoos the Big Deal members away in his best authoritative, no nonsense boss tone. The one he reserves to deal with serious matters. Which this is. Of utmost seriousness.

Behind his beaming toothy grin and confident stance are anxious eyes. His words are cheesy and well-rehearsed. Sincerity pulses through his every fibre, leaving you starry eyed and breath hitched.

Goo announces his feelings with a grin on his lips.

Corners you somewhere crowded, at a completely inappropriate moment. But of course. It's only inappropriate if Goo deems it to be so, and there's no time like the present.

The words are said lightly, like he could play it off as a joke any moment. His ego too fragile for rejection. But his carefree attitude is off kilter, body language tense. Gaze steady and more serious than you have ever seen.

James is flippant. The arrogant, cocky man claims you as his already. Confesses without any doubt in his mind that rejection could happen, or it could sting.

He's not a gambling man. Only plays when the odds are in his favour and the gains far outweighs the losses.

There's no ifs or buts. Talks about 'us' and 'we' and a future where you're by his side.

Johan pulls out the words reluctantly and when you least expect. Like they will choke him if he keeps it from you any longer.

He says it without looking at you. Eyes fixed on the ground, a point in the distance, Miro, Eden, anywhere but you.

Brows knitted together, hands white knuckled. A second away from running away. But he needs to tell you, he has to. The words are too big to swallow down anymore.

Vin peppers his confession with insults and half-jokes. A type of self defence to spare his heart.

Hands in pocket, like it's no big deal. Words spilling out, trying to inject indifference into them. Back against the wall, peering over at you.

Sunglasses firmly on, eyes shielded. Because he can't bear to be any more vulnerable than he has to right now. His words are barbed and prickly, but his feelings are completely bared.

Samuel offers his heart in between lofty promises and delusions of grandeur.

Words murmured against the back of your hand, breath ghosting over your skin. Eyes fixed on yours, fiery and almost challenging you to say no.

But a relentless phantom haunts him, one that he silences over and over again.

-That being by his side won't be enough, that offering you to be his queen is inadequate, lacking and there's so much more that you deserve.

Still, he promises you the world and is committed to giving you nothing less.

Trepidation lines Eli’s words. Like he can’t believe he’s here again. After everything that has happened, with everything on his plate.

He’s forced himself to make room for you, carved out a part of his life.

He confesses in a cramped dusty room in Hostel. Sat opposite one another on rickety uneven chairs, so close your knees are touching and there’s no personal space left.

Body leaning forward, craving your touch and proximity as he rids the last remnants of hesitancy and takes a leap of faith.

Ryuhei tells you over and over again.

Until it becomes a daily mantra of sorts for him, and part of your day for you. At first as a joke, or at least you thought so. And then his earnestness snowballed until you could no longer ignore it.

He confesses, with the same sort of childish joy he always feels when he's with you. Tonight, his blood is thrumming in his vein and his pulse is beating in his ears.

With a hushed voice and hope in his eyes: he tells you once more.

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missstratford · 6 months ago

Note

hi! how are you?:) i wanted to request some draco fluff wherein he and reader are in a secret relationship during 6th year, but draco sees either ron/harry confess to her and she didn't turn them down completely as she panicked and couldn't think of a reason, besides telling them that she's taken. it turns into a kind of a big fight but they eventually make up + their relationship is revealed at the end. rest of the details are up to you^^

hopefully you enjoy the holiday season~

A/N: Hi anon! this was such a sweet request I couldn't help but write this one. Hope you like this. Happy Holidays!💞

The pale afternoon sun bathed the stone steps in a soft glow, making you squint as you climbed toward the Owlery, its fleeting warmth offering little relief from the sharp winter air.

Mellow hoots from a few anxious owls welcomed you in as you caught sight of the tall figure standing farther inside.

“Celeste, OOF, you’ve nipped me quite enough lady.” You heard him murmur softly, his hands briefly grappling with the brown owl as he secured the letter.

“Thought I’d find you here.” You smiled, walking closer to Draco. His fingers absently wove into yours as he set the impatient owl free.

He turned to gaze into your eyes, an adoring smile gracing his lips. “Sent a letter to Mum, haven’t spoken to her in a while.” He said bringing his lips closer to yours.

“I haven’t seen you all day,” you murmured against his lips. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat in agreement, his lips pressing gently against yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, as though savouring the sweetness of the moment.

You pulled away with diffidence, “Someone could walk in-“, your utterance drowned in the urgency of his kiss with renewed vigour.

His fingers cradled your face tenderly like it were porcelain. You held on to him desperately as though the two of you were torn apart lovers meeting after years. You parted while he kissed your temple, the two of you making your way out.

You walked beside him, dropping your hands from his hold, a protest made way to his mouth, “We could get caught.” You interrupted.

“I wouldn’t mind.” The suddenly blow of wind carried his lingering words.

There it was, the topic much debated between you and Draco. You couldn’t bear the scrutiny that would accompany the announcement of your relationship. He was a cauldron filled to the brim with love for you, his resolve dripping away from the rim day after day.

You moved apart to keep a respectful distance making it look like you were nothing more than mere acquaintances catching up.

“The Yule Ball is barely two weeks away.” You spoke up, a feeble attempt to drop the point of contention.

“Yes, and I’m not going.” He said.

You paused, looking at him in surprise. "What do you mean, you're not going?"

Draco's gaze softened, his eyes lingering on you before he spoke. "I can't, not without you by my side." His voice was quiet, but there was a weight to it, the words steeped in frustration and reluctance. "Except I’d rather not give anyone a reason to gossip."

Your heart ached at the hint of vulnerability in his tone. You both knew the reality of your situation, how precarious your secret relationship was. The truth was, you loved Draco to a point where you feared your relationship would lose the delicately guarded intimacy, the doting tenderness, and the quiet respect you had for one another the moment it was exposed. There was a part of you that feared the world would tarnish what you had, reduce it to something shallow and public—something to be dissected by prying eyes. Draco knew it too. The weight of unspoken understanding hung between you, the fear that once the truth came to light, everything precious and fragile about the bond you shared would be lost in the chaos.

"But it’s the Yule Ball, Draco," you pressed, gently taking a step closer, "it’s the one time everyone can let go, even if it’s just for a night."

He bit his lip, the conflicting emotions swirling on his face. "I understand... I just wish—"

"That we could be open?" you finished for him, your expression softening. "Me too. But not yet, not like this."

The wind picked up again, sending a chill through the air, and you shivered, though you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the heaviness of the conversation.

Draco’s hand found yours once more, his fingers warm against yours. "Let’s just get through this year," he murmured, "then we’ll figure it out."

☆*»»»«««*☆

The mindless prate of Professor Binns still rang in the back of your mind as you ambled away to the Great Hall in desperate need of food.

Your steps faltered as Harry Potter unexpectedly halted you, his presence a sudden interruption in your path.

“Hey” he smiled, eyes catching yours. “Hey” you murmured in reply, hunger and confusion addling your brain. What could he possibly want? You’d barely exchanged a handful of words in class, and never enough for him to stop you in the hallway for a conversation.

“So, um... you’ve heard about the Yule Ball this year?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. He shifted awkwardly on his feet, his eyes flickering to the floor before meeting yours again. “I mean, I’ve been thinking... maybe, um, we could go together? To the Yule Ball, I mean.” He cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep red. “Not that I expect you to say yes, or anything. I just thought... well, it might be nice, y’know?”

There was a long pause, his hand rubbing his neck as though he were searching for the right words. “I’ve liked you for a while now... and I thought I’d, well... ask.” He let out an awkward laugh, his smile a bit uncertain but genuine.

Your brain seemed to freeze, panic setting in. You scoured for excuses, I have a boyfriend .No. I have a boyfriend whom I adore and will eventually marry. No.

Leave me alone or I shall hex you to death? Absolutely not.

Your instead choose to say, “Harry, I... I really don’t know what to say. I’m flattered, this is really nice, but I—well, I can’t really think straight right now. I’m just... I’m not sure it’s the right time, you know?”

You watch Harry nod politely, “Right... I get it. Just know that I meant what I said. Whenever you're ready, or if you ever are... I’ll be here." With a gentle smile he turns and leaves.

You turned around, instinctively searching for the familiar face of your friend, instead, your gaze met Draco's. A sense of calm washes over you, the quiet reassurance of his presence grounding you. Knowing that he wasn’t far away made everything feel just a little bit easier.

You raised your brows as if to say that was close. In response,Draco clenched his jaw and walked away in the opposite direction.

☆*»»»«««*☆

The Astronomy tower seemed desolate that night with your sole presence treading back and forth in anticipation of Draco.

You convinced yourself to wait another few minutes before retiring to bed when you heard subdued stomps making its way up the stairs.

The dark silhouette revealed itself to be Draco as he stepped into the moonlight.

“Well you’re early.” You said unable to keep the frustration from seeping in your voice.

“I assumed you were waiting for your date," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wouldn't want to interrupt, of course."

His attitude took you aback and you blinked, momentarily thrown off. "What?" you asked.

“You’re little date with Potter. Is he turning up soon?” He titled his head, rudeness gripping his tone.

“Have you lost your mind, Draco? I’m here to meet you, my boyfriend, unless you think you’re not?” you bit back, confusion evident in your tone.

“You tell me.” He said quietly. You felt a pang in your heart.

“I heard him ask you to the Ball earlier today,” Draco said, his tone sharp, as he moved closer, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say no. Funny how your answer seemed to change when it came to me.”

“I panicked!” you said, voice rising. “I didn’t know what else to say except that-“

“That you are with me," he finished, his voice tight with frustration. "Is it really so difficult for you to love me openly, that you’d happily entertain Potter’s advances?" He gritted his teeth.

“I didn’t happily entertain anything.” You shouted. “And I am not afraid. It’s just that…that I-“you trailed off not knowing what to say.

“Know this,” Draco said, his voice soft but fierce, "I trust my love for you enough to stand in front of all of the world and scream it at the top of my lungs, without fear of losing you."

“Do you trust your love for me? That’s what you need to answer.” With that Draco left you standing with a bleeding heart.

☆*»»»«««*☆

You found him the next morning. Having creeped into his dorm, into his sheets. Before the sun could greet Hogwarts, you greeted your love.

“I’m sorry” you mumbled into his back as your hands hugged him from behind. “Come here” he whispered, voice thick with sleep. Turning around he engulfed you and peppered kisses to the top of your head.

Both of you lay there in lazy embrace finding solace in each other’s arms.

“I’m sorry too.” Draco spoke after a while. “I understand your fear. But I want you in my life forever, love. I don’t want this to stay just an amour.” You heard his muffled voice as he buried his face into your neck.

"Draco Malfoy, did you actually propose to me, then?" you asked, humour lacing your tone.

Draco huffed out a laugh, “Next time, in a few years. I’ll do it properly.” He grinned. You kissed him lovingly affirming his thoughts.

You walked in the Great Hall with a light spring in your step. You carefully navigated around a group of excitable fourth years, making your way toward the Gryffindor table.

Harry caught sight of you and quickly stood up, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Good morning. Have you made up your mind then?” he asked, excitement stirring his patience.

“Harry, I’m really sorry. You see I should’ve mentioned that I’m going with my boyfriend.” You gestured subtly toward Draco, who sat at his table, oblivious. “I hope you understand.” With an apologetic smile you turned and left a fumbling Harry behind you.

“Good morning again,” you grinned as you slid into the seat next to Draco at the Slytherin table. Draco glanced at you, his usual cool expression softening with the tiniest hint of a smile. “What—” he began, but you cut him off, “I love you,” you said, your voice steady, before planting a soft kiss on his lips.

He chuckled softly, his hand finding yours under the table. “About time you said it out loud,” he murmured, his tone warm and affectionate. “I’ve been waiting for that.”

As you both settled into the moment, the weight of the world—Hogwarts, expectations, and even the gossip—felt like nothing compared to the joy in his eyes. You were both free now, no longer afraid to let the world see what you shared.

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hollowed-theory-hall · 10 months ago

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Still going through the slowest Deathly Hallows reread, and I encountered this lovely Tomarrymort moment I felt like sharing. I mean, I saw some people mention how Hermione refers to their mental connection as a relationship:

“You never really tried!” she said hotly. “I don’t get it, Harry—do you like having this special connection or relationship or what—whatever—” She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood up. “Like it?” he said quietly. “Would you like it?” “I—no—I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean—” “I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when he’s most dangerous. But I’m going to use it.”

(DH, 202)

Above Harry clearly denies it, but later in Deathly Hallows, there's a moment I didn't see talked about as much, where Harry, in his own mind, agrees with Hermione:

Harry was just able to make out the indistinct features of an object that looked like a skull, and something like a mountain that was more shadow than substance. Used to images sharp as reality, Harry was disconcerted by the change. He was worried that the connection between himself and Voldemort had been damaged, a connection that he both feared and, whatever he had told Hermione, prized. Somehow Harry connected these unsatisfying, vague images with the destruction of his wand, as if it was the blackthorn wand’s fault that he could no longer see into Voldemort’s mind as well as before

(DH, 375)

Not only did Harry lie to Hermione but he actually prizes his connection to Voldemort for its usefulness and for the sense of purpose it gives Harry. Now, I want to expand on the latter one.

I already talked about how in Deathly Hallows, Voldemort's sole purpose and obsession is Harry, but, Harry isn't much different. Like, he has a few other things going on, but a lot of his sense of purpose and sense of self hinges on Voldemort.

The reason these visions from Voldemort become so important to him is that he feels it's the only useful thing he can do since they're stuck on the Horcruxes' front. They give him a sense of purpose. The fact he connects the loss of his connection with Voldemort and the destruction of his wand is so fascinating to me.

Because Harry's wand is so important to him, he describes it as a piece of himself, like a living thing that is part of him:

The holly and phoenix wand was nearly severed in two. One fragile strand of phoenix feather kept both pieces hanging together. The wood had splintered apart completely. Harry took it into his hands as though it was a living thing that had suffered a terrible injury. He could not think properly. Everything was a blur of panic and fear. Then he held out the wand to Hermione

(DH, 300)

Without realizing it, he was digging his fingers into his arms as if he were trying to resist physical pain. He had spilled his own blood more times than he could count; he had lost all the bones in his right arm once; this journey had already given him scars to his chest and forearm to join those on his hand and forehead, but never, until this moment, had he felt himself to be fatally weakened, vulnerable, and naked, as though the best part of his magical power had been torn from him.

(DH, 303)

Connecting something he thinks about like this and his connection to Voldemort is... well, it's interesting, to say the least.

I mean, of course, there is the twin core and its protection, and it's clear why he would connect his wand to Voldemort, but Harry was always fond of his wand despite its connection to Voldemort, not because of it:

Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its relation to Voldemort’s wand was something it couldn’t help — rather as he couldn’t help being related to Aunt Petunia.

(GoF, 310)

So, I find all this kinda interesting. How during the final book Harry's sense of purpose and being becomes more and more hinged on Voldemort while essentially the same thing is going on with Voldemort who forgot about the ministry entirly and is only focused on killing Harry.

#harry potter #harry james potter #tommarymort #harrymort #deathly hallows #hollowedrambling #hp #harry potter and the deathly hallows

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yandere-romanticaa · 1 year ago

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Honestly I love the idea of dabi gaslighting you into being crazy for him, because it mixed the two camps yandere dabi gets written as, the first being cruel and awful with darling as a plaything, the second being softer with darling as a fragile doll. Personally I think it's a little bit of both, because Dabi is no where near a good man, but the idea he'd completely abuse darling just the way his father did to his mom, seems to hypocritical. Instead framing it like Dabi hates the vulnerability but sorting accepting it hatches a plan where if he can slowly but surely convince you that you are the crazy one, you somehow need him, that you'll need him and that's more stable than love and when he's that insurance he can trust you enough to be softer and all you'll be is grateful. It mixes his love with the awful means he chooses to take it, since he can't be vulnerable enough to trust love but taking it is what a villain can do

I just can't see him as the 100% sadistic bastard which some fics portray him to be. While I do agree that sadism would be a big aspect of his character, there would be times when he would just. Hold you. Cling onto you.

It's weird when it happens for the first time. You've been alone for a few days and then Dabi is home. He kicks off his shoes and wordlessly makes his way towards you. He reeks of ash and blood but you find it difficult to focus on that when you feel the scorching feeling of his arms enveloping your frame.

You still as Dabi gently rests his forehead against the crook of your neck. You feel the staples of his marred flesh against your own as he uncharacteristically inhales your scent.

"...I missed you." he mumbles in a tone so quiet that if he weren't sitting so close you could have sworn that you made it up. As much as he makes fun of you, Dabi loves your fragility. He loves just how easy you are to break but he has the fire power to ensure your safety. The thought makes him giddy like a schoolboy but he's sure not to show it.

His glee would give you an inkling of power over him. He doesn't want that.

As time goes on, it starts becoming hard to judge Dabi properly as a person. You slowly unveil the truth over the ages you spend with him and, to be frank, you are lost at how you ought to see him.

It really is his father's fault for turning out the way he did. The man hardly ever spoke about his feelings but one evening a fuse broke and he told you everything. Your horrified reactions only added more fuel to his hatred as you held him in your arms, by your own volition for once. He proudly boasted how he lost the ability to cry ages ago but the pools of blood leaking out of his eyes told you a different story. The scarlet liquid stained your white t-shirt, the splotches a grave reminder of this evening.

In that moment, you were not speaking to Dabi but rather the lost little boy who could never be good enough. He made your heart swell with all sorts of colorful feelings.

By the time he fell asleep, you were still wide awake, terror running rampant in your heart with the realization that you started to fall for your captor.

And in no time, Dabi picked that fact up. Let me tell you, it made his life so much easier.

Whenever he wanted to prove a point he would just thug at your heartstrings and make you feel like a fool. He has done so much for you, is this how you are going to repay him? Depending on the severity of the fight he might threaten to burn you, but that would be a last resort.

Dabi would like to keep you in one piece, thank you very much.

He is awful and he knows it. But he's just gone too far, he is too attached to you. If you were to ever leave, he would simply go haywire. It has gotten to the point where he needs you like air but you will not have a single clue about that.

The less you know, the better.

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theresatzu · 3 months ago

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Olive branch - Part 1

----《 Isagi Yoichi spin-off 》 ----

------------------《▪︎□▪︎□▪︎□▪︎》---------------------

Pairings. Isagi Yoichi x reader

Characters. Isagi Yoichi, Bachira Meguru, OC's & reader insert

Tropes. fluff, crack, burned house, estranged friendships, pining & separation arc

Chapters.

-----------《Synopsis》 -----------

A ferocious fire had caused you to lose your apartment. With no possessions left and no place to stay, your former friend Isagi Yoichi extended you an olive branch; you are to stay with him until your fiancé would return.

In which you're lost and confused, Isagi is a puzzle you just can't seem to solve, and the world is a willing witness to everything else that ensues.

-------------------《▪︎□▪︎□▪︎□▪︎》--------------------

Two months from now, you would be grateful for the blazing fire that had caused to completely upheave your life and derail your set out path.

But now, you were utterly wrecked.

A stray tear slipped out of your eye as you sniffed.

The cause of your sorrow? The absolute demolition of your own home.

It was an unfortunate occurrence. Japan during the summer was dry, and your apartment just happened to be located near a vulnerable place.

With the additions of the building being obsolete and made of fragile material thrown into the mix, it really was just a matter of time before disaster would strike.

But you'd never imagined it would be now, of all times.

Your fiancé was working abroad. He was a commendable footballer. Thus, he'd make long hours training and playing in matches in countries you'd never even visited.

But the moment he would return, in about two months, you were set to marry. In the meantime, you had taken residence in a quaint apartment before you would eventually settle into a more spacious place.

However, with all your belongings gone up in smoke and your fiancé being unreachable, you had no idea how to proceed.

Besides, the house you'd been eyeing wasn't available yet. Of course, that left open the option of your parents' home, but...

Your job revolved around the administrative tasks surrounding the JFU. You'd been hired long ago and had long since made a name for yourself within the prestigious company, consequently being involved in a plethora of projects that needed due finishing and personal attendance.

And your parents' home was located too far to be able to make the trip. Ten hours travelling for work really wasn't ideal.

So your parents' house was ruled out, too.

Instead, you opted to temporarily seek your refuge at a hotel, where you could figure out your next steps to navigate this maze of hardships.

Sighing, you close your laptop (one of the few things the fire had managed to spare) after scouring the internet for rentable appartments that you could afford at the moment.

Of course, you had enough money, being an important executive within the JFU and all, but what would your fiancé think?

That was a great question.

Your eyes drifted to your phone. You had tried calling him, but the calls never went through. He must've been very preoccupied with his training, considering the upcoming match he was looking forward to.

But still... it stung that in time of need, you couldn't seek comfort by him.

Well, alas, dwelling on it would bring you no further. You draped your blanket over you, ignoring how peculiar the cheap hotel sheets felt rubbed against your skin.

Before you fell asleep, you removed the necklace with a pendant from your neck. It had been a precious gift, given to you five years ago by your fiancé.

You traced the outline of the piece of jewellery, eyes misty with the promise of tears.

If only he were here, comforting you, telling you you weren't alone in this.

"Please return to me." You whispered in the dead of the night to the necklace, the wind your only witness.

Xxx-xxx-xxxx

heyyaa Y/n

I rlly hope you still have the same number

or this'll be suuuper awkwarddd :0

Send at 8:26 am

You

who's this?

Sent at 8:32

Xxx-xxx-xxxx

your bestest friend in the whole world

sent at 8:32

You

...

Sent at 8:33

Xxx-xxx-xxxx

... I stole your cookies once and gave your boyfriend the blame

Sent at 8:33

You

bachira?!

Sent at 8:33

Xxx-xxx-xxxx

of all the things you could remember about me!! :((

I'm hurt.

Sent at 8:34

You

ok.

Sent at 8:34

Xxx-xxx-xxxx

you're cold

HEARTLESS!!

Sent at 8:35

You

sorry :)

Sent at 8:36

Xxx-xxx-xxxx

I can feel that sarcasm from three planets away

YOU MEANIE

I WON'T TEXT YOU IF YOU'RE LIKE THIS !!

Sent at 8:36

A split second later, your phone lit up with an incoming call.

You stared at it, the unknown number glaring at you. You wavered.

Sighing, you pressed a button.

"Hello?"

"HI Y/N! HOW ARE YOU? AND BY THE WAY, YOU SUCK!" A loud voice yelled in your ear.

You blinked, holding the phone away from you until the boisterous shouting ceased.

"...Bachira." You said disbelieving, wondering if you were hearing things. Maybe you hadn't come out of the fire entirely unscathed.

"The one and only!" Bachira's jovial voice rang through the phone.

You went quiet at his voice.

"Why... uh, why--" You cleared your throat, "why did you call?"

"Can't I call my bestie?"

"We haven't spoken in five years."

"...do you have another best friend?"

"...no."

"Then my point still stands."

You shook your head, Bachira's childish attitude... some things really never changed.

"Bachira."

A defeated sigh at the other end. "Okaayy. You got me. I heard 'bout the fire. How are you doing?" He asked genuinely.

"Holding up." You answered honestly. "But I have nowhere to stay, and almost all of my things were lost in the fire."

Bachira winced. "Ai. Where are you staying now?"

"At a hotel."

"Temporarily, right? Do you have another place to stay?"

You pursed your lips.

Taking your silence as an answer, Bachira spoke, "That's what I thought! You're still the same hopeless girl I know!"

"Hey!"

"And that's why..." Bachira carried on, "You'll stay with me!"

You choked.

"Ex...excuse me?"

"We'll hold sleepovers every day! And we can watch movies on the weekends and go bowl--"

"Bachira. Stop." You cut in.

"Hm? What's the problem?"

At Bachira's oblivious tone, you let out an incredulous laugh. "Bachira, I haven't seen you in five years. I can't stay with you."

"Why not?"

"I just... I can't. You know why."

A sigh left Bachira's lips. "Is this about him?" He said, tone laced with poorly disguised disgust.

"I... yeah. I can't do that to him. I'm sorry, you shouldn't have called."

"Wah, wai--"

And without further ado, you pressed the end-call button, your phone falling down on your sheets.

You stared hard at the white blankets, thoughts in turmoil.

It had been five years.

Five years gone by with no contact, and you had been fine. Better than fine, even.

You clenched your jaw.

I'm fine.

Eyes glimmering with an unfounded trust, intense in the way only they could be.

You harshly pushed the thought away. It had been five years.

Five years of no contact, five years of not thinking about--

No. No. I'm fine. I'm fine.

But as you laid down in bed, you tasted salt on your tongue.

"As for this upcoming match, we'll need to haul in more sponsors." You folded your hands.

"Considering the high interest in both of the teams, we can say for sure that this match will attract a lot of attention. Thus, we'll need more resources to adequately provide for the game."

"How do you reckon we do that? We've already tried a campaign, but it just won't get off the ground." Your colleague, Miyu, chimed in.

You frowned. Acquiring funds and attracting sponsors was always the hardest part.

"I'll try to make a plan. But it'll certainly help if we have some connections that'll be able to put us through some sponsors."

Your other colleague, Rento, stroked his chin in contemplation. "That will certainly help kick-start the event. Thing is, do we have connections?"

"I'll introduce you to my friends, they're going to love you."

"I... you don't know that!"

A thumb rubbed the back of your hand softly, followed by a gentle voice. "I don't know, but I'm one hundred percent sure."

"Y/n?" Miyu waved her hand in front of your face.

Startled, you blinked as you were ripped out of your revery.

"Sorry?"

"Are you alright?" Miyu eyed you with a concerned look. "You look tired."

Well, with your home having been burned to the ground and the unexpected call of Bachira, relaxing hadn't been the first thing on your mind.

"I'm fine." You sighed. "Just you know, my house burned down." You joked weakly.

"Just my house burned to the ground, no big deal." Rento echoed sardonically.

You shrugged. "Well, I can get upset about it, but I still have work to finish."

Miyu let out a weary sigh. "You and your workaholic tendencies. Where are you even staying right now?"

You winced internally, before responding,

"...a hotel."

"WHAT?!" Rento exclaimed, pushing his chair back. "There aren't even any hotels available right now in the vicinity! Everything is sold out! Unless..."

Eyebrows pincing in suspicion, Rento inquired, "How long did you travel?"

"...Five hours." You conceded, bracing yourself.

"Five hours?!" Miyu shouted. "That's far too long! And what about your things?"

You hung your head. "Most of it got lost." You played with your necklace. "This necklace is one of the few things that I managed to save."

"Wow, it really is a beautiful one. Seems expensive." Miyu gushed, leaning in closer. "Fiancé?"

"Yeah."

"Where even is he? I thought you two would move out soon?" Rento raised an eyebrow.

"He's abroad. And the house isn't ready yet."

Well, actually, the house hadn't even been decided on. The house you'd been eyeing was reasonably up to your tastes, but your fiancé had a whole other idea in mind, so you two had been discussing a bit, resulting in not even settling with a general outline.

Miyu winced. "Sucks. I'd offer you a place to stay, but it's cramped at mine."

You nodded in understanding. You had visited once, and Miyu was in a similar situation as you; living in a temporary apartment before moving out in a bigger home.

"Well, you can have my couch." Rento offered.

"Dude!" Miyu punched his arm. "No way is she going to stay over at your crusty place. Your roommates are horrible!"

"Hey!" Rento huffed, affronted. "At least I offered!"

Miyu tilted her head up, huffing, "You know my place is too small to house guests! We'd have to share a bed and..."

Rento crossed his arms, "Yeah, no one wants to share a bed with you."

Now it was Miyu's turn to be indignant. "Excuse me?"

"Guys." You cut in before it could escalate in a full-on battle of the wits.

The both of them turned to you, wearing similar sheepish expressions.

Miyu narrowed her eyes. "But what about--"

Rento slapped her arm, "We promised not to mention him!" He hissed in warning.

"But as far as I know, he lives near! And our work is even intimately intertwined with his, so you don't have to worry about covering your expensive commuting costs! And... oh!"

Miyu's eyes glimmered. "He has connections, doesn't he? He's a hot commodity, after all. We'll be able to fix the whole funding for the match. Two birds with one stone."

Your lips slanted. "Yeah, that's true. But..."

Picking up on your unspoken worries, Rento spoke, "But after all that has happened..."

You made a face. You'd rather not be reminded about that.

Coming up to you, Miyu slung an arm over your shoulders. "At least think about it. If only so those eyebags of yours can go away."

Laughing, you shoved her off. "I don't have eyebags!"

Rento made a debatable noise. "Sweetie, even your eyebags look like they've been working overtime."

Letting out a scandalous gasp, you retorted, "I'll have you know that my overtime working is for good ends!"

"I'm not saying that." Rento said, his tone becoming serious. "But on top of your overtime working, which is already," he made a face, "Yuck," He eventually settled on.

You gasped in mock-offense. Rento stuck his tongue out before his expression morphed back into his solemn one.

Rento eyed you. "Commuting every day for ten hours, you won't be able to hold that up."

You sighed. "I know. But I'll figure something out."

Miyu ruffled your hair affectionately. "You always do. And if not, I'll always bring food to my favourite stray dog."

"I'm not going to live on the streets!" You guffawed.

Eyeing you with a mischievous glint in his eyes, Rento sassily retorted, "You sure? Those eyebags tell me otherwise--"

"Stop with the eyebags!"

Having finally finished up, the three of you walked out of the building, the cool breeze hitting your faces.

It was already nigh 8 pm, so the sun had already set, replaced by the moon and the shimmering stars.

Back to the project, you had made progress with the funding for the match. Discussing ideas that ranged from crazy (holding a photoshoot with the star players of the match to lure in people) to even more crazy (go and start Blue Lock Project 2.0 and lure in money).

Though, it was still not in the clear how everything would be set into motion. And the match was due in two months.

Time was running out.

You fidgeted nervously with your necklace. If this funding would be executed well, then perhaps you'd get a raise or, even better, a promotion.

Maybe you'd even be put in charge of the national matches, which would mean you could travel abroad.

That had always been your dream, to see the world, and to come in contact with different cultures, going on outings with your friends from the team--

You fisted your necklace. No. Nope. Nuh uh. Don't think about the team, because then it would be inevitable to think about--

"Isagi?"

You abruptly stopped walking, thoughts screeching to a halt, as you noticed a figure standing in front of you.

The figure pushed himself from the car he'd been leaning against, the moonlight casting him in a soft sheen.

Your eyes locked.

You swallowed, the intensity of his eyes causing your throat to run dry.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Y/n."

------------------《▪︎□▪︎□▪︎□▪︎》--------------------

Next part

Masterlist Olive Branch

Masterlist

------------------《▪︎□▪︎□▪︎□▪︎》---------------------

If you want to be tagged for the next part, just comment! :)

#isagi yoichi x reader #bllk #bllk fanfic #blue lock #blue lock x reader #isagi #yoichi isagi #isagi x reader #isagi yoichi #bachira meguru #ocs #x reader #fluff #seperation arc #estranged friends #fic #fanfic #future fic

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