#rs: pre | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

brunchable · 2 months ago

Text

Meet Me On a Midsummer's Night.

Pairings: beefy!Bucky x F!Reader [ pre-established rs ] Warning: MUTUAL PINING. FLUFF. BUCKY SMUG AND A TEASING MF. PDA. Summary: On a hot night, you can’t fall asleep thinking about this and that— you finally call Bucky. You didn’t know he'd come out to meet you but he did. A/N: I've been digging my playlist and I stumbled upon my old korean hip-hop playlist. It's summer here in Aus and the song is about meeting someone they like in the middle of the night and this is the product. I'll leave the song here, and if you know this song, you're awesome.

The ceiling fan creaked overhead, pushing the thick, summer air around your room without mercy. You kicked off your sheet for what felt like the hundredth time, staring at the faint glow of your phone on the nightstand. Midnight, it whispered, daring you to do something impulsive.

Your thumb hovered over Bucky’s name in your contacts, nerves coiling in your stomach. The sensible part of you begged you to stop. But the other part—the part that lingered on his laugh too long, memorized the exact shade of his smile—urged you forward.

Your thumb hovered over his name in your contacts for an embarrassing amount of time. You bit your lip, debating, until finally—finally—you pressed Call before you could change your mind.

It only rang once before his voice poured through the speaker, low and warm like honey.

“Hey.”

His voice was warm and a little raspy, like he hadn’t quite shaken off sleep. The sound wrapped around you, and your lips curled into a smile you were too glad he couldn’t see.

“Hey,” you whispered back, trying not to sound too breathless. “What’re you doing?”

“Not much. Just… chilling.” A faint rustle came through the line, like he’d sat up. “You?”

You pressed your palm to your forehead, silently berating yourself. What were you doing? What was this? And why did your heart feel like it was trying to climb out of your chest?

“I, um—can’t sleep,” you blurted before logic could catch up to your words. “It’s the heat. Thought maybe… you’d want to meet up?”

There was a pause on the other end, long enough that you bit your lip and cursed yourself for saying something so ridiculous. Then Bucky chuckled, low and warm, like he couldn’t quite believe you.

“It’s midnight,” he said, his tone teasing. But then, softer: “Sure.”

You blinked, your stomach flipping in a way that felt entirely too much for someone agreeing to meet you.

“Cool,” you said, trying for nonchalant.

“Cool,” he echoed. There was a pause, and you could almost picture the amused quirk of his lips. “Uh… so… we actually need a meeting place, if we’re doing this.”

“Oh, gosh, yeah,” you stammered, flustered. Your fingers curled into the sheets as you scrambled for an idea. “Um… your favorite bar? Death and Taxes? That’s still your favorite, right?”

He laughed, soft and deep, like he couldn’t help himself. “Still my favorite. Death and Taxes it is.”

You could almost picture him leaning back against the headboard, his lips quirking up at the corners.

“Okay. See you in a bit.”

“Yeah… see you.”

The call ended, and you pressed your phone against your chest like it could stop your heart from breaking free of your ribcage. For a moment, you just sat there, letting the giddy, reckless feeling take over. You stared at the ceiling, cheeks warm, a wild smile tugging at your lips.

Then you bolted out of bed.

Your closet door creaked open as you rifled through it, tossing rejected options onto the floor. Something light, something comfortable—it wasn’t like this was a date. But still, you didn’t want to look like you’d just rolled out of bed, even though you absolutely had. You finally settled on a loose, flowy top and shorts, tying your hair back with a lazy knot and slipping on your sandals.

The walk to the bar felt longer than it should have, every step only adding to the fluttery mess in your stomach. It wasn’t nerves, exactly—okay, maybe it was nerves. It had been so long since you’d seen him. Long enough that you weren’t entirely sure if you’d even recognize him.

He wasn’t big on social media, wasn’t one for selfies or tagged pictures. Sure, you had the version of him burned into your memory—the sharp jawline, piercing eyes, the way he always looked like he belonged in a leather jacket, even if he wasn’t wearing one. But people changed. What if he’d changed? What if he walked up, and you had to pretend to place him? The thought made your cheeks flush with secondhand embarrassment.

You arrived first, of course. The bar was quiet at this hour, the neon sign glowing faintly against the brick wall, casting soft red and blue hues onto the sidewalk. You stood just outside, rocking slightly on your heels, the night’s heat sticking to your skin. The air buzzed with crickets and the faint hum of cars in the distance, but all you could focus on was the wild beat of your heart.

Would he even look the same? Would it be weird? Would he—

“Y/N.”

The sound of your name cut through your thoughts, and you turned on instinct.

The world slowed.

It wasn’t just a turn. It was a pivot, a gasp caught in your throat as your eyes found him. And oh. Oh, Bucky.

He stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of dark jeans that fit him almost criminally well. The kind of fit that made your brain short-circuit. His shirt was simple, black, stretched over broad shoulders that practically dared you to look away. His long hair, slightly tousled, caught the faint glow of the neon light, framing his face like he’d just stepped out of a movie poster. And that face. God, that face. The sharp lines of his jaw softened only by the faint stubble that made him look rugged in the most devastating way.

Tall, solid, impossibly handsome—this wasn’t the boy you’d known. This was… something else entirely.

“Hey,” he said, his voice lower, richer than you remembered, like he’d spent the years perfecting it. His lips curled into a small, almost shy smile, but his eyes—blue and bright—were locked on you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You stood frozen, blinking up at him, every coherent thought scattering like confetti. It felt like the kind of moment people wrote songs about, the kind where the summer air turned into something magical just because he was in it.

“Bucky,” you managed, your voice embarrassingly breathy. “You… you’re here.”

“I am,” he said, his smile widening slightly. He stepped closer, and you swore you could feel the heat radiating off him even from a foot away. “You… okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Sorry,” you blurted, gripping the strap of your bag tighter. “It’s just… it’s been a while. And you—” You gestured vaguely at him, your face hot. “You’re… you look…”

His brows lifted, his grin turning into something teasing. “I look…?”

Like a Greek god. Like a walking, talking fever dream. Like you’ve ruined every other man for me.

“Good,” you finished lamely, your voice pitching up slightly at the end. “You look good.”

His chuckle was soft, but it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and you caught the way his gaze swept over you. Not hurried, not lazy—just deliberate enough to make your skin tingle.

“So do you,” he said, his tone casual, but the way he said it—low, like it was just for you—sent your heart tumbling into your stomach. “Better than good, actually.”

Your laugh came out nervous and breathy as you tried to deflect. “What, like you expected me to show up in pajamas?”

He shrugged, that teasing smile still playing on his lips. “Wouldn’t have minded. You could probably pull them off.”

It was impossible to tell if he was joking. It was even more impossible to figure out why your brain was suddenly turning into melted butter.

“Anyway,” he said, glancing toward the bar before looking back at you. “Shall we?”

“Y-Yes, let’s go.” you replied, your voice steadier now, though your pulse was still racing.

He smiled again, the kind of smile that felt like a secret, like you were the only one who got to see it. Then he stepped aside, motioning toward the door.

“After you.”

You hesitated, glancing at him, then the bar. The thought hit you suddenly, startling and unshakable.

You hadn’t seen him in years, but in this moment—on this hot summer night—it felt like no time had passed at all.

× × × ×

The corner booth of Death and Taxes was quieter, tucked away from the hum of late-night laughter and clinking glasses. It wasn’t completely silent—the bar was alive in that effortless, summery way, the air buzzing with heat and conversation—but it was as close as you’d get. You slid into the seat first, leaving him no choice but to take the one directly across from you, where the glow of the dim light caught your face just right.

Not that he was looking too hard or anything.

Except he absolutely was.

“Two cold ones,” you told the waitress, already glancing at him for confirmation. Bucky raised a brow, smirking. “You remembered.”

“Of course,” you said simply, shrugging like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing. It was a beer at midnight in a corner booth with you. And he was about two seconds away from grinning like an idiot over it.

When the beers came, you both dove into the fries first—crispy, golden, hot—and he realized he’d missed this. You weren’t in a rush, just talking, the way you always had. The kind of easy, back-and-forth rhythm that made him feel like no time had passed.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, taking a sip of his drink before leaning back in his seat. “How’ve you been?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, your lips curving into a small smile. “Oh, you know. I haven’t really changed much. Still working hard.”

Your voice was light, but it made his chest ache anyway. He knew that look, the way you brushed off the weight of your own life like it wasn’t worth mentioning.

“I’m the same. Still working hard,” he replied. His eyes lingered on you for a beat too long before he asked, “You still dating that same guy?”

He shouldn’t have asked. He knew it the second the words left his mouth. But curiosity—or something else entirely—had gotten the better of him.

“Oh. Um, no.” You busied yourself with your beer, the glass cool against your hand. “We broke up.”

His heart gave a little kick, though he tried not to show it. “You guys broke up? Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He reached for a fry, half-smiling. “It’s good to see you anyway.”

“It’s okay,” you said softly, looking up at him again. There was something unreadable in your gaze, something he wanted to spend the rest of the night deciphering. “It was a while back. But it’s good to see you too.”

God, stop looking at me like that.

He leaned forward, his elbow on the table, watching the way your fingers idly traced the condensation on your glass. “Time goes by so fast, huh?” he mused. “We’ve already come all this way, but how come you haven’t changed at all?”

You raised a brow at him, playful but curious.

You tilted your head at him, your brow arching slightly, the corners of your mouth quirking.

“You’re still pretty,” he added, and though he chuckled, his words landed softer than he expected. Half-joking, yeah, but the truth was so clear it hurt.

Your reaction wasn’t what he expected. You looked down, your fingers brushing the rim of your glass as a quiet laugh escaped you.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said lightly, waving him off before quickly changing the subject. “So, what about you? Been up to anything exciting?”

Why are you changing the subject? The thought rolled through his mind, unbidden but persistent. His eyes lingered on your face, the way you avoided his gaze with that bashful smile. Is it because of the alcohol or because you’re shy?

He shifted in his seat, resting his chin on his hand as he leaned forward. “What, you don’t want me getting sentimental on you?”

Your laugh bubbled up again, the sound warm and easy, but you didn’t answer.

Yeah, he thought, watching the way you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, your cheeks just a shade warmer than before. It’s because you’re shy.

And god help him, it only made him want to say more.

Bucky took another long sip of his beer, the cool bitterness doing little to distract him from the way your smile lingered in his mind, soft and teasing. The overhead lights cast a warm glow on your skin, and he could see the faint sheen of summer heat clinging to your collarbones. You were leaning forward slightly, your chin propped on your hand, completely at ease—or so it seemed.

His thumb traced the rim of his glass absently, the thought bubbling up in his chest before he could push it down.

“I want to tell you something,” he said, his voice low but steady.

You tilted your head slightly, the curious quirk of your brow pulling his attention to the way your lips curved.

“Hm? And what’s that?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He swirled the beer in his glass once, then set it down deliberately, as if that might make this easier.

“I used to like you before.”

For a moment, he thought he’d miscalculated. That he’d said too much too soon. But then your reaction broke through his nerves like sunlight on water—a faint laugh, soft and disarming.

“I know,” you said, your tone light, but your gaze flicked to your drink, your fingers tracing the condensation on the glass like it might give you something to hold onto.

The simple words knocked the air clean out of his lungs.

You know? His mind stumbled over the implications. Had he been that obvious? Had you noticed the way he looked at you back then, the way he’d hovered just a little too long when you stood close, his fingers itching to brush yours?

He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.

“Guess I’m a little drunk. Don’t mind my ramblings,” he muttered, leaning back like that would somehow lessen the weight of what he’d just said.

You gave him a look, one brow arched, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You don’t get drunk.”

Shit.

“I—uh—” His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, heat creeping up to his ears as he tried for a laugh. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”

Your smirk grew, but you didn’t press him further. Instead, you took another fry, dipping it in the ketchup and nibbling on the end. His gaze followed the movement like he had no choice in the matter, his thoughts spinning helplessly.

You knew? He wanted to ask, wanted to make you spell it out, wanted to hear it in your voice. Did you really know? Or was this some casual observation, something you didn’t think twice about while it had consumed him for years?

But then you glanced up, your eyes meeting his, and the warmth there—gentle, a little shy—unraveled something in him.

He leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table, his beer forgotten. “If you knew,” he said, his voice quiet now, almost teasing, “why didn’t you say anything?”

You blinked, caught off guard, but the smile that followed was soft. “Why didn’t you?”

His laugh was quiet, rueful. “Touché.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar faded into the background, the space between you charged with something unspoken, something almost tangible. Bucky watched as you took another sip of your drink, your lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, your lips brushing the edge of the glass.

“Do you still?” you asked suddenly, your voice tentative, like the words had escaped without permission.

His heart stuttered, the question catching him off guard. He could lie, brush it off like he had before, but the thought of hiding how he felt—after all this time, after you—felt impossible.

Instead, he leaned forward, close enough that he could see the way your breath caught.

“What do you think?” he murmured, his voice low, his gaze fixed on yours.

And the way your cheeks flushed, the way your lips parted ever so slightly, was enough to make him think that maybe, just maybe, you already knew the answer.

You let out a nervous huff, the sound breaking through the air between you, as fragile as it was charged. His words hung there, lingering like they had weight, like they could change everything if you gave them room. But you didn’t trust yourself to stay in that moment—not when his gaze was locked on yours like that, steady and warm and impossibly deep.

“It’s getting hot in here,” you said quickly, your voice pitched higher than usual as you slid out of the booth. “We should, um… we should take a walk. Go someplace else.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond, and you dared a glance at him. He was leaning back in his chair now, his head tilted slightly, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. But then he nodded, standing with that same effortless grace that had always made him seem larger than life.

“Sure,” he said simply, his voice easy, as if he hadn’t just made your heart feel like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. He nodded, standing with that quiet ease of his, reaching for his wallet before you could protest.

You jumped up quickly, your excitement spilling over as you moved toward the door without waiting for him. The cool night air hit your skin as soon as you stepped outside, a welcome relief from the stuffy warmth of the bar. You breathed it in deeply, the summer heat still clinging to the pavement, but at least the air felt freer out here.

“We’re walking, huh?” Bucky said from behind you, his voice teasing but warm. “Got a specific destination in mind, or are we just wandering?”

“Wandering,” you said brightly, not slowing your pace. “Who needs a plan, anyway?”

You felt light, like your feet barely touched the ground as you walked ahead of him, your sandals clicking softly against the pavement. The streetlights cast golden pools along the sidewalk, your shadow dancing playfully as you moved. You threw a glance over your shoulder to see if he was keeping up, and the way he was watching you—his hands stuffed in his pockets, his lips curved into a soft, crooked smile—made something inside you flutter wildly.

“You’re gonna leave me behind,” he called, his tone mock-scolding.

“Then hurry up!” you called back, laughing as you skipped a few steps ahead, your movements careless and free.

For a moment, it felt perfect. Like something out of a summer dream, the hum of crickets filling the quiet spaces between your laughter and his easy steps.

And then—oh god.

A shadow darted near your face, too fast and too sudden, and you froze in the middle of the sidewalk. It took you half a second to process it—a beetle, its shiny wings catching the light as it buzzed straight toward you.

“AH! GO AWAY.” The words tumbled out as you flailed, stumbling backward and nearly losing a shoe in the process.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, his brows shooting up. “What the—?”

“BUG!” you yelped, pointing wildly at the air around you. “It’s flying! Do something!”

The beetle buzzed again, its wings making a high-pitched hum as it veered closer. You squeaked, ducking dramatically and running behind Bucky like he was a human shield.

He turned, his expression somewhere between concern and disbelief. “Are you serious right now? It’s just a beetle.”

“It’s not just a beetle!” you hissed, gripping his arm like your life depended on it. “It’s a flying. Look at it!”

He glanced at the beetle, then back at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re freaking out over that? It’s like… half an inch.”

“It’s not the size that matters!” you shot back, still cowering behind him. “It’s the intent! Look at it—it’s coming for me!”

That did it. He broke, his laughter spilling out in soft, rich waves that vibrated through his chest.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, but he stepped forward anyway, waving a hand to shoo the beetle away.

When it finally buzzed off into the night, you peeked over his shoulder cautiously, still clutching his arm.

“Is it gone?”

“Yes, it’s gone,” he said, still chuckling. “You can come out of hiding now.”

You straightened, brushing imaginary dirt off your top as if that might restore some of your dignity.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Don’t mention it, bug magnet.” His voice was full of barely concealed laughter, and you turned to glare at him, but he only grinned wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Not funny,” you muttered, though you couldn’t quite keep the smile from tugging at your lips.

“Oh, it’s very funny,” he countered, and the warmth in his gaze made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the beetle.

And when his hand brushed against yours as you both started walking again, your heart skipped so hard you thought it might give out entirely.

× × × ×

The hill wasn’t far—just a short walk past quiet streets and through a small park. The city stretched out below like a sea of twinkling lights, the soft hum of distant traffic blending with the chirping of crickets. The air was still warm, but up here, a slight breeze brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of grass and something faintly sweet.

You spotted the bench first, nestled beneath a tall tree, its silhouette just visible against the glow of the city below. Without waiting for him, you made your way over, plopping down with a contented sigh and stretching your legs out in front of you. The wood was cool against your skin, grounding you after the walk.

Bucky followed, his steps slower, more deliberate. When he reached the bench, he hesitated for a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched. Almost.

“Nice spot,” he said, leaning back and resting an arm along the back of the bench, his fingers just brushing your shoulder. His voice was low, casual, but there was a softness to it, like he wasn’t just talking about the view.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your gaze fixed on the skyline. The city lights flickered like a million little stars, stretching endlessly, but you couldn’t help feeling like the real magic was sitting next to you. “I used to come up here a lot.”

“Alone?” His voice tilted just enough to make the word feel heavier than it should.

“Sometimes,” you said, glancing at him. His profile was sharp against the faint glow of the streetlights, his hair falling in soft waves that caught the breeze. You looked back at the city quickly, your heart tripping over itself. “It’s peaceful. Helps me think.”

“Think about what?” His voice was closer now, like he’d leaned in just a little. You felt the weight of his gaze on you, like he could see through every answer you wanted to give and straight to the truth.

“Stuff,” you said vaguely, feeling the heat crawl up your neck. “Life. Work.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, and when you glanced at him, his lips were curved into that crooked, teasing smile that made your chest ache.

“I’m not lying!” you protested, though your voice betrayed you, the words coming out more flustered than you intended.

“You’re thinking about me,” he said, so casually it took you a second to realize what he’d said.

Your head snapped toward him, your mouth falling open in protest, but the look on his face stopped you cold. His smile was soft now, his blue eyes steady and full of something you couldn’t quite name.

“Admit it,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower. “I take up way too much space in that head of yours.”

You scoffed, trying to sound indignant, but the laugh that followed betrayed you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m right,” he countered, leaning just a little closer, his arm still stretched along the back of the bench. His fingers brushed your shoulder again, light and deliberate, like a dare. “And you know it.”

You rolled your eyes, looking away, but your lips twitched into a smile. “You’ve got a big ego, you know that?”

“Maybe,” he said, and when you glanced back, the grin he gave you was pure trouble. “But I’m not wrong.”

The moment stretched, the silence between you filled only by the faint breeze and the hum of the city below. His gaze never wavered, steady and unrelenting, and you felt yourself drawn in despite every effort to look away.

“You still haven’t denied it,” he pointed out, his voice quieter now, softer.

Your heart pounded, your hands fidgeting in your lap. “What’s the point? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

He laughed softly, the sound rich and warm.

“You’re right,” he admitted, his smile tilting into something almost sheepish. “I wouldn’t.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back your own laugh, but it slipped out anyway, light and breathless.

“Ugh.”

“I mean who did you call to meet you out here? At midnight?” he shot back, his tone lighter now, teasing but full of warmth.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, the way the light caught in his eyes, the faint crinkle at the corners of his smile.

“Maybe I should’ve called someone else.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up, his lips twitching into an incredulous grin. “Someone else?” he repeated, leaning in slightly, the faintest spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. “You wound me, doll.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I’m serious. Maybe Sam—”

“Sam?” he cut in, a laugh slipping out before he could stop it. He leaned back, spreading his arms along the bench like he was getting comfortable for the show. “You think Sam would leave his comfy bed and perfectly air-conditioned apartment to meet you at midnight? Please.”

“Well—”

“And don’t even say Steve,” he continued, cutting off whatever rebuttal you had. “You know he’s asleep by nine. The man’s practically a grandpa.”

You laughed, unable to help yourself, and the sound only seemed to spur him on.

“Face it,” he said, leaning forward now, his voice dropping just enough to make your breath catch. “I’m the only one you could call. You wanted me here.”

Your mouth opened, a half-formed protest on the tip of your tongue, but his expression stopped you cold. The teasing curve of his lips was still there, but his eyes—they were steady, intent, like he was daring you to deny it.

“I…” you started, faltering when you realized he wasn’t going to look away.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice soft but full of challenge. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you managed, your fingers twisting in your lap.

“That you wanted me here.” His smile turned into something softer, warmer, but no less devastating. “That when you couldn’t sleep, I was the first person you thought of.”

Your breath hitched, and you could feel your face heating under his gaze. You tried to look away, to laugh it off, but he leaned in closer, his elbow resting on his knee, his face just inches from yours.

“C’mon,” he coaxed, his voice dropping even lower. “Admit it. It’s only fair.”

“Fair?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah. I already told you I used to like you.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips for the briefest second before finding your eyes again. “Your turn.”

Your heart pounded, your hands freezing in your lap, and you swore the city had gone completely silent around you. His eyes searched yours, his expression soft but unyielding, like he was ready to wait forever if he had to.

And god help you, you couldn’t decide if you wanted to run—or pull him closer.

“Pft—it’s not like it’s going to change anything,” you reasoned, though your voice betrayed you, soft and unsteady. You looked away, focusing on the skyline instead of the man sitting far too close, his presence making it impossible to think straight.

Bucky didn’t move for a moment, letting your words hang in the air between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, quiet—dangerously deliberate. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Your breath caught, and you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back at him. He was leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely together. But his eyes—they were locked on you, piercing, like they were unraveling every carefully constructed excuse you’d ever made.

“How is that wrong?” you challenged, though your voice wavered, giving you away.

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that felt like it had been pulled from deep in his chest. “Because,” he said, leaning back again, his arm stretching across the bench behind you, his fingers just brushing your shoulder. “It changes everything.”

Your stomach flipped, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he shot back, and there was that teasing edge again, soft and warm but dangerous because it was him. “Tell me, doll, what happens if I kiss you right now?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you froze, your hands gripping the edge of the bench like it might keep you grounded.

“You wouldn’t.”

Bucky tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—didn’t waver. He was studying you like you were some sort of puzzle, his gaze tracing every line of your face, every small movement you made.

“Wouldn’t I?” His voice was low, rough, like gravel smoothed over by honey. And god, it wasn’t fair, the way it made your skin prickle, the way it sent your heart into a dizzying spiral.

You turned your head sharply, staring out at the city like it might save you from whatever this was. But it wasn’t saving you. Not with the way he leaned just a little closer, his arm still draped casually over the back of the bench, his fingers now brushing against your shoulder. The heat of him was impossible to ignore.

“No,” you said, your voice firmer this time, but it still wavered at the end. “You wouldn’t.”

He let out a soft laugh, the sound so low and intimate it curled around you like smoke. “Why’s that?”

“Because—” You faltered, your brain scrambling for a reason, for any reason. “Because you’re all talk.”

Bucky’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, his lips curving in that maddening way that made your stomach twist and your chest tighten.

“All talk?” he repeated, his voice a low murmur that slipped over your skin like silk. “That’s what you think of me?”

You swallowed hard, refusing to look at him, even though you could feel his gaze on you—hot, heavy, and completely unrelenting. Your pulse thundered in your ears, a wild, uneven rhythm that made it impossible to think.

“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat because suddenly, he moved.

He shifted closer, the bench creaking softly under his weight. His arm stretched further along the backrest, and when you finally glanced at him, he was right there. His face hovered just inches from yours, his blue eyes impossibly intense, locked onto yours like he was daring you to look away.

“How about,” he whispered, his voice low and rough enough to send a shiver racing down your spine, “you kiss me, and I’ll show you.”

You inhaled sharply, awareness flaring through every nerve in your body. Kiss him? God, he wanted you to kiss him? He was so close, his lips so close to yours, his warm breath whispering across your mouth. His warm breath ghosted over your skin, and the faint scent of beer and something unmistakably him made your head spin.

“Kiss me,” he said again, his voice low and almost hoarse. He was hovering near you, so tantalizingly close, but decidedly not kissing you. He was waiting for you to press your lips to his, but coming as close to you as he could. Tempting you, encouraging you, pulling you in.

Do it. The thought whispered through your mind, reckless and insistent. He was so close. So impossibly close. One small shift forward, and—

Instead, you faltered, glancing down at his lips. “You’re bluffing.”

His lips twitched into a small, infuriating smirk. “Try me.”

You felt drawn forward as if by a magnet. Lightly, delicately, you pressed your lips to his, feeling how much you trembled, how insubstantial and frail your kiss felt but unable to do anything more. You lingered for just a moment, and then pulled back, uncertainly.

Bucky remained still, not moving, so close, his chest now against yours. He didn't kiss you, he didn't smile, or say anything, and you felt an unfamiliar tremor of panic rise in you.

“I thought you said you'd show me,” you said ruefully, your cheeks beginning to burn. Had you done it wrong? Could a kiss be wrong? You could barely remember your name right now, let alone how to kiss someone.

Especially this someone.

“Oh I will,” Bucky whispered. “I'm just waiting for you to really kiss me.”

Something in the timbre of his voice, something in the drowsy desire of his words emboldened you. You leaned forward and kissed him more sensuously, taking his lips with yours, opening your mouth and savouring the fullness of his. And with only the slightest of pauses, Bucky took over.

He leaned against your heavily, almost surging into you, his mouth roaming over yours with a heady, sensual slowness that ignited you. His lips moved over yours possessively, with a slow, languid rhythm as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste you. When his tongue met yours, you let out a little cry of pleasure, feeling an arrow of desire shoot right down to your core.

He groaned at the sound and dipped his tongue into your mouth and out again rhythmically, as if making love to you. One hand slipped around your back and held you while the other slid up to your breast and felt you, owned you, roamed over you like you were a longed-for prize. He groaned against you, and his kiss deepened into a hot, sensual exploration.

You felt weightless, boneless, all but liquefied by the heat of his mouth on yours and the strength of his hands caressing every part of you. His sounds of pleasure, his soft groans and heavy breathing, every male expression of pleasure made you even more desperate for him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down into you, kissing him with abandon.

There was no time for words, no breath to be stolen for the little flirtations of new lovers, there was simply this kiss. You fell into each other, seeking, needing, as if making up for all the years you had denied yourselves this pleasure. It was never enough, there was never a moment when it seemed right to part, never the need to break and bring lips to skin, or to fumble with clothing. It was all consuming, and erotic enough, this deep, soulful kiss, this meeting of mouths and breath and sounds.

You weren't friends...not now, and not ever, you suddenly knew. You had always been this to each other, always one breath away from this, always one kiss away. . one breathless, soulful, beautiful kiss.

Finally—finally—when the need for air had peaked, when the thundering of your hearts needed calming, he reluctantly pulled away, his chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. He smiled at you, a soft laugh escaping through his breathing.

“Now that,” he said, bumping his nose against you as his breath finally began to slow. “Is kissing back.”

Your fingers brushing against your own lips as if to confirm what just happened. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks, and you suddenly couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

“I—I should probably get home,” you stammered, your voice higher than you intended. “It’s late.”

Bucky’s brow lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he straightened slightly, his hand lingering at your elbow for just a moment before dropping away. “Alright,” he said softly, his voice warm and steady. “I’ll walk you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“You think I’d let you walk home alone?” His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone shifting to something more serious, though the teasing lilt never fully disappeared. “Not a chance, doll.”

Before you could protest again, he was already on his feet, reaching out a hand to help you up. His grip was firm but gentle, his fingers warm around yours, and when you stood, the faintest squeeze sent another ripple of heat through you.

The walk started quietly. The soft noise of crickets filled the summer night, the distant glow of the city lights casting a faint halo on the horizon. The air was thick with unspoken words, every glance and sidelong look charged with the memory of the kiss you’d just shared.

Bucky fell into step beside you, his pace unhurried but purposeful. You noticed it immediately—how he positioned himself closer to the road, his body a silent barrier between you and the passing cars. It was such a small thing, something most people might not even notice, but it made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the lingering taste of his kiss.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy, the kind that made you acutely aware of everything—of the way his shoulder brushed yours every now and then, of the soft scuff of his boots against the pavement, of the way your heart hadn’t quite settled back into its normal rhythm.

And then, without warning, his hand brushed against yours. It was fleeting, accidental, but the spark it sent through you was impossible to ignore. You glanced up at him, your pulse quickening as you caught the way his lips quirked into the faintest smile.

He didn’t say anything—just slipped his fingers through yours, his grip warm and steady, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. The gesture was so simple, so natural, but it felt monumental, like crossing some invisible line you could never return from.

You couldn’t help but glance at him again, your lips parting to say something—anything—but the words died on your tongue when you saw the way he was looking at you. His expression was soft, almost shy.

He didn’t look away, and neither did you. The streetlights flickered as you walked beneath them, their glow casting golden pools on the sidewalk, but all you could see was him.

“Are you always this quiet after a kiss?” he asked suddenly, his voice low and teasing, though there was a softness to it that made your heart flutter.

Your face heated, and you looked down at your joined hands, your laugh shaky. “Are you always this smug after one?”

He laughs.

“Depends,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles again,“Was it good enough to be smug about?”

You shot him a look, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “Wow, you’re already smug anyway. . .”

“And yet,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make your breath catch, “you’re still holding my hand.”

You didn’t have an answer for that. Or maybe you did, but it was lost somewhere between the heat of his gaze and the warmth of his palm against yours. And somehow, you didn’t mind one bit.

The walk to your door felt like it ended too soon. One moment, the quiet streets were stretching ahead of you, your hand warm in his, and now, here you were—standing on your front step with no excuse to linger.

Your fingers twitched reluctantly as you let go of his hand, the cool night air rushing in where his warmth had been. You caught the faintest flicker of something on his face—hesitation, maybe?—but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a soft, crooked smile.

The faint glow of your porch light cast soft shadows across his face, making the lines of his jaw and the curve of his lips seem even sharper, even softer all at once.

“I had so much fun today,” Bucky said, his voice quiet but steady, the kind of low timbre that seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “It was so good seeing you.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, your lips curving into a smile even as your heart ached. “Me too.”

He shifted slightly, the smallest movement that still felt impossibly significant. “Good night,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, almost hesitant.

You nodded, your own voice barely above a whisper. “Good night.”

But he didn’t turn to leave. Instead, he lingered, his gaze holding yours like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

“You have a sweet dream,” he added, his words softer now, gentler, and they hit you like a warm breeze. His lips tilted into a small, almost bashful smile, and the tenderness in his expression stole whatever breath you had left.

You barely managed to nod, your throat too tight to speak. But before you could even think about what to say, he stepped forward, closing the space between you in one unhurried movement.

His arms wrapped around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him without hesitation. It wasn’t hurried or awkward—it was grounding, steadying, like he’d been waiting all night for this. The scent of him—faintly woodsy, clean, and musky—washed over you as his hands settled lightly on your back, and your face pressed against his chest. You could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing, the strength in the way he held you as though he didn’t want the moment to slip away.

“Good night,” he murmured again, his voice rumbling softly against your hair. His arms tightened slightly before he finally, finally let you go, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary before dropping to his sides.

You stepped back, your heart thundering as you looked up at him.

You swallowed hard, your lips curving into a smile as you opened your door. “Good night, Bucky.”

As the door clicked shut behind you, you leaned against it, your chest rising and falling as you tried to calm your racing heart. On the other side, you imagined him standing there for just a moment longer, smiling to himself the way he always did when he thought no one was looking.

And somehow, that made everything feel perfect.

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fynnwolff @veronicapaula

488 notes · View notes

ohimsummer · 7 months ago

Text

✎ . . .❝ DO YOU MIND? ❞

— minors dni, suguru x gn! reader (established rs), ft. satoru, voyeurism, oral [ m. receiving ], pining?, some stsg if you squint at the end :3, barely proofread 🫣

gojo tends to show up at the most inopportune moments.

…like now, when suguru is balls-deep in your mouth.

your boyfriend watches, utterly flabbergasted, as gojo settles into the other patio chair and then blinks at him with a casual, blue-eyed stare. it’s nonchalant, careless…as if this is all normal.

you begin to pull off of suguru’s length before he stops you with a steady hand on the crown of your head. your eyes widen, lashes fluttering for a quick second before a strange sense of normality washes over you, and your body relaxes. whatever gojo is up to, you’re confident suguru will handle him with ease, as per usual. after all, this wouldn’t be the first time his best friend has walked in on you two during activities like this, though he usually doesn’t take a seat with the apparent intent on staying throughout.

suguru takes a long, thoughtful drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowing. “…do you mind?”, he asks and quirks a brow.

gojo just smiles at him. “huh? oh, no, i don’t mind.”

a couple seconds pass and suguru has to wonder if he’s actually having this conversation. “are you actually insane—“

“god, what’s the big deal?” gojo groans, interrupting the once-hushed, midnight serenity in his typical, obtrusive fashion. shifts in his seat and suguru finally notices the bulge between his spread legs. his jaw just goes slack in utter disbelief.

suguru is not distracted for long. with a flick of your tongue, you bring forth a grunt from your boyfriend’s lips, back to bobbing along his length in a craving for his creamy release down your throat. suguru can’t and wouldn’t bring himself to stop you. the situation is far past strange but, if you’re determined to continue, and gojo being a fucking weirdo doesn’t bother you, then that’s fine by him.

he sighs. “whatever.”

not even a second passes before there’s a clink of metal, and suguru watches as gojo begins pulling his own cock from his pants.

“satoru, what in the f—“

“shhh.”, gojo hisses at him, and suguru raises two astonished brows. “i’m trying to enjoy the show.“

the dark-haired man is genuinely stunned into silence. it takes a moment before he catches his bearings, tossing gojo an unamused look and leaning back to rest in his own chair. “fine, whatever, just shut up while you do it.”

suguru rolls his eyes at gojo’s victorious grin, before pulling his dying cigarette back up to his lips and billowing out another cloud of smoke. whatever. with everything going on, it’s easy for him to block out any trace of gojo, anyway, and just focus on you.

a bold smell of tobacco wafts through the air, filling suguru’s nostrils as the nicotine finishes off any remnants of stress in his body. the sloppy, wet noises of spit and pre, of you eagerly sucking him down your throat. the curious feel of your hand massaging his balls while the other twists and jerks off whatever can’t fit in your mouth. yeah, it doesn’t take a single drop of effort for suguru to forget that his best friend is jerking off to the sight of you.

someone else is properly taking the time to admire every detail of the view before him. the moonlight rays gleaming off of you and his best friend, casting a gentle glow on the lewd scene. suguru’s head tossed back with locks of black framing his face, a red blush visible across his handsome features even with the limited lighting. and you, god, you. gojo eyes the hand on the back of your head, threading through your hair. suguru has a gentle grasp for the most part, sometimes shoving you down to his base, and gojo’s cock throbs longingly at the gags you let out before being released again. so cute, so pretty, doing your best to take his friend’s fat cock all the way in, only to come up a few inches short every time. it’s obviously a struggle, and yet you still try your best, so keen to swallow every inch. so eager to please.

globs of clear precum dribble out and over gojo’s tip, making for slippery strokes as he gives his bobbing cock a squeeze. though it’s hard, difficult, excruciating—especially with suguru’s own grunts and moans calling out into the night—gojo doesn’t want to risk interrupting this moment. it feels improper and rude, akin to shouting during a performance.

as he admires you both, gojo begins to feel this abrupt sense of jealousy. whether it comes from wanting to be in your place or suguru’s, he cannot decide.

💜: @anthoosies @staryukis @teddybeartoji @lxnarphase @satoruxx @hellkaiserinphoenix @astral-hydromancy @bookswillfindyouaway @rosso-seta @sugurubabe @soraya-daydreams @bubblez-blop @arthurschneider @venzlenes @khaothick @haruchiy0 @sillysushi @risuola @hobarihope @crocodilethesir @starlightanyaaa @reodiaries @spicana @lovley212 @katharinasdiaryy @ninikrumbs @imaniitheoneee @luvr-exe @snackeyalleyjuice @apatauaia @trafalgarrattata @sataraxia @elleflying07 @toptierbunny @purplegemadventures @whokilledvivi @getouolgy @exinqiu @flvffybunny @leilalilox @babytoshiii @idkluvv @froggkat @princ3ss-juicy @starsharkz @zzzlevislothzzz @sugu-love @peachyaone @squishies0102 @ivy-vivii @mynahx3 @ratedrrrr @ha-zel-art @hongsxn @tryn-ity @rubyredish @higuchislut @mochi-islive @shhinigamii @insanebiitch @shinninglightning

#in my suguru college bf au that I have been daydreaming about for a while now :3 #I’ll write how he and reader met soon :33 #satoru is a little fuckboy-esque with a gf but he’s never beating the ‘in love w his best friend and bsf’s partner’ allegations #stsg x reader #stsg imagine #satosugu imagine #suguru x reader #suguru geto imagine #jjk imagine #jjk smut #⋆｡ﾟ☁︎ summy is thinking . . . ｡⋆

962 notes · View notes

rinnstars · 3 months ago

Text

just right!

you think youre too much for rin, and rin thinks hes too little for you

itoshi rin x reader: pre-rs, friends to lovers, mutual pining, angst w comfort, fluff at the end!!!!, not proofread + likes n reblogs are appreciated <3

its fate you think for things to remain the same with rin. after all, why wish for more? the hands that lay beside each other as you sit on the bench eating your lunch that seems to almost touch to start an electric shock that course through your body, the conversations that tiptoe the line between just friends to something much closer to soulmates the way yours and his brain seem to sync perfectly as one, the way the universe seem to put you two in the same orbit from going to the same school, to moving to the same neighbourhood, to sitting next to each other every class every semester - you should be satisfied, no you should be thankful for the luck that you must have gotten from finding a four-leaved clover the same day you met rin at the playground you think.

to anyone else, hell even to you, you two are no peas in the same pod. youre the polar opposite of him - you make friends easily like its second nature (but in your heart, they just don’t merge as well as you do with rin), you smile at every single thing, laughter bursting out of you without a single hesitation (but with rin, you think its your real laughter that flows out rather than out of politeness or awkwardness), you dress a little too eccentric with different and contrasting colours against the plain and boring uniform that seems out of place. and he’s the polar opposite of you - he practically hangs out with out because he has no one else (that makes you wonder if he’s just here because he has no one else), he has a resting frown on his face (that you think makes him even more adorable from the side of your peripheral vision), and he always wear that boring black bag that matches perfectly with the plain old school uniform.

sometimes you wonder if youre too much - you talk a little too much that you think his lips hide a grimace when it moves just a little from the frown that is always held tightly on his face, you ask too much, always wanting to hang out after school right before he has to run to football practice, you think too much, always asking questions that seem to make his face scrunch up in confusion during class or at the bench as you are right now. to anyone, this would be ideal right? its practically the dynamic being pushed in mangas and online - golden retriever with a black cat, that tiktok trend of okokok and lalala, yapper and listener dynamic. yet, you can’t help but to realise you two really don’t seem to belong in the same world - you long to stay here right in this neighbourhood that you practically memorised each and every store and their owners by heart, you long to just be another face in the crowd writing for the rest of your life but one that brightens and blooms others with your presence, and you long to live in a little cute house opposite that convenience store that you go to school everyday after school with rin, and you know he longs to spend his life overseas being a football stars, he longs to be the new football genius and prodigy in the entire world, and he longs to live anywhere but this town that seems a little too small for him. its ironic, you think, that your ambitions and personality are totally opposite, yet the world chose to put you and him right next to each other, even temporary.

and sooner or later you think, your feelings, that you know are too much for just another friend of yours, will burst - you might yell at him, hidden emotions kept away at the burning frustrations with each hint that lingers a little too long, you might cry and sob one day at one of your regular sleepover and become inconsolable as he realises that youre really too much, or one day you might really unconsciously confess your love for him and ruin this perfect dynamic that has already been served to you on a silver platter. and so you keep a lid on your feelings, you rather write and tear up papers in your room and clean up the mess before he comes over, you rather spend nights alone crying and cursing the world for not making you a little more like him so you could at least have the ambitions that rivals and chases after his, and you rather throw away countless of love letters that you wrote every valentine you spent with him. but for now, you’ll keep quiet, you’ll sit down here with your hands so close that you might just get a electric shock either way, you’ll eat your sandwich that matches with his, you’ll look at him with the same smile that he’s gotten used to as he chews on the sugary-sweet fruit sandwich that leaves a little white cream stain on his lips.

rin thinks that he really should thank whatever god there is out there as he sits here with you beside him, your hands so close to his that he practically has to physically hold himself back from moving a little closer until his and yours merge and fit perfectly like a puzzle piece, your unconcious hum that seem like music to his ears practically relieve him of all the stress that was unconsciously held even after mediation, right on the bench that is practically yours and his the way you and him come to eat here every lunch without any exceptions.

hes aware of lingering glances by his classmates on you and him - and he knows its judgemental and nothing kind to him. the whispers when you come to his table every time class ends as though on instincts whilst all he does is sit down there and do nothing but listen to you, the whispers when he sees you waiting at the library quietly before you brighten up when your eyes meet his, the whispers when you’re with him. maybe its insecurity, but he knows he’ll never be enough. he thinks youre better off with anyone but him - better off with your club members who understand your passion for writing and share with you their favourite writings compared to him who writes simply in order to one day move overseas as a professional football player, better off with your other classmates that actually pay attention in class unlike him who can better help you and do your homework with rather than sitting down at his table whilst he reads another football magazine, better off with even those guy classmates that he cant stand because of their loud voices because at least they seem to match your energy. even more, he thinks hes really a terrible friend, not even considering his crush on you, when he hears you chat about something excitedly only to trail off whenever youre with him, when he feels you pull yourself a little too fast from the hug you initiate compared to anyone else, when he knows youre terrified to say something but he can do nothing but stay here.

on some days, he wonders if you’ll eventually leave him too. he knows its for the better - you’ll get to know other people that can actually care and love you the way he knows he can’t with how bad he is at expressing himself, you’ll get to chat and talk someone’s ears off much happily without any judgement the way that you seem to be unable to do so with him, you’ll no longer have to hold your own personality back anymore. but deep down, he doesn’t want that. he doesn’t want to be left behind again - alone on the park bench with a ghost of you as he bites into the now bitter-sweet fruit sandwich that he deep down doesn’t really like but eats for you, alone on the table as you move about excitedly all cheerily to talk to anyone but him the one beside you, alone in his room having to play horror games all alone listen to the playlist he made for you all alone. now that he knows what it feels like to have someone, he doesn’t want to be alone anymore especially after he finds out how deep it can hurt - feeling as though his corpse sometimes still lay in the winter snow right where his brother left him.

and as he feels the red strings around yours and his finger pull harder and harder as though youre about to run away, he slowly feels more desperate to hold onto whatever little of this relationship is left. he knows logically, all friendships comes to an end, but he has always defied whatever the universe has set up for him - holding onto an impossible and thrown away dream of being better than his genius of an older brother, holding onto am faraway dream of being the world’s best striker right by his brother side and now holding onto a crumbling dream of staying right beside you for the rest of his life. he knows hes too little, and he knows there’s someone else better in this world than yours, after all youre only teenagers and nothing more than that could come out it. he knows he cant give you the world that you deserve, cant give you everything you want right now or maybe even in the future, but hes selfish. and of course its on another boring school day he gets this realisation, when he sees you peek at him without a word, as though you two are no longer in the same orbit anymore.

“you said you had something to tell me right?” a conversation starter, he tries, even though he normally doesn’t start the conversation, and he knows its still not enough, it’ll never be enough in his eyes.

“um… right… i..” and god, did you curse yourself. making it awkward, overthinking it - was that stuttering too much? did it annoy him?

its silence that follows afterwards - you don’t want to be too much to just confess your feelings, its just another day to him and you wouldn’t want to ruin it all selfishly. and in contrast, he no longer wants to be too little, he grips onto the plastic that leaves a little cream stain on his fingers.

“you know.. you can tell me anything.” and god, now he thinks he sounds pathetic and desperate, but your expression doesn’t seem to change from that expression that doesn’t suit your face at all - in contrast to the cheery expression you should always be sporting, you’re biting your lips nervously as though you two are in an examination room instead of at the park bench as per usual. has he messed up?

“i.. wait.. don’t freak out first.. promise?” an warning - because you know once you say it, there’s no going back. a risk you should take, a risk that you’ve seen taken right below this tree too ironically by classmates who profess their immature and yet undying love to their partners. would you be too much? you think ruin has rubbed off you a little too much when your mind tells no yells at you to be a little more selfish.

“promise.” he thinks he sees you smile a little, and he thinks hes gone back to his childhood where you and him first met - making a pinkie promise after you two fell down together to always stay together because it was fate to meet as you both fell down from the parkour part of the playground.

“.. i like you. a lot.” and of course youre too much, youre just a little too dramatic to add the additional bit that seems to slip off your tongue so naturally with countless of practice and failed attempts in front of your mirror in your room before collapsing on your bed kicking your feet and yelling against your pillow.

“i like you too. romantically.” and he thinks hes too little, such an anticlimactic return of love in contrast to all the love mangas you’ve talked to him about - no flowers, no necklaces, no nothing in his hand. but he sees your face bloom into a flower like as you grin, he thinks its alright.

you think youre too much and he thinks hes too little - but together, you’ll be just enough for each other - you both think, your hands and his moving together as electricity flows through yours and his body as though its the world way of telling you that both of you are made for each other, your face and his linger so close before finally you two cross the line as your lips merge with his perfectly as though you two are truly soulmates, and you think perhaps that the two four-leave clovers wasn’t just for you two to be friends for the rest of your life but something more as you tie it to his and yours wrist all those years back, it brushing against each other.

#rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi rin fluff #rin x reader #rin.<3 #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk fluff

438 notes · View notes

ikkyfics · 1 month ago

Note

hiii, could you maybe write a dave lizewski x reader where the reader is also a huge comic book nerd like dave? and he comes over to her place to help her organize all her comic books + action figures into her display shelves + they yap together abt comic stuff or something

it can be established rs or pre relationship, i think either way would be still be so cute!!! it would also be rlly cool to see a more sarcastic reader utilized here, its cute to see that dynamic with dave!!!

i rlly hope this makes sense! i hope it didnt seem too rambly 😭😭😭😭 thank uuuuu

Supreme Sarcasm Power

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: "I knew you had an impressive collection, but… this is practically a nerd sanctuary." "You only say that because you want to marry me and get half of the assets in the division," you retorted. The teasing tone made Dave flash a crooked smile, nearly dropping the action figure. "I don't need a comic collection for that," he shot back, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Just you."

Warnings: just fluffy

A/N: honey, yeees I understood, don't worry. I feel like I made a mistake with the nerdy references(so sorry), but I hope you can like it <33

Masterlist

The room was a perfect reflection of your personality: half Disney princess, half intergalactic warrior. Cute plushies shared space with incredibly detailed action figures, and shelves full of comics contrasted with delicate pastel-colored lamps. Dave was in the middle of the organized chaos, holding a Captain America action figure in one hand and a Watchmen comic book in the other.

"I knew you had an impressive collection, but... this is practically a nerd sanctuary," he said, trying not to sound too impressed—and failing miserably.

"You only say that because you want to marry me and get half of the assets in the division," you retorted, not even looking up as you stacked some issues of Saga. The teasing tone made Dave flash a crooked smile, nearly dropping the action figure.

"I don't need a comic collection for that," he shot back, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "Just you."

"Aww," you replied, turning to face him with an arched eyebrow. "But if you drop my Captain America, forget it."

Dave chuckled, slightly flushed, as he carefully placed the action figure on the designated shelf. "Seriously, how did you get this? This limited edition costs a fortune."

"Connections," you replied mysteriously, crossing your arms. "And what I did was sell part of my soul. Totally worth it, don't you think?"

Dave laughed, still eyeing the action figure in his hands before carefully returning it to its proper spot on the shelf. You could feel his gaze lingering on every detail of your room, as if he was absorbing it all. It was the kind of attention he gave to everything he loved, and, well, you knew that included you. But you weren’t going to admit that out loud, at least not without making a sarcastic comment right after.

"So, what's next on the organization list?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips in an awkward but absurdly adorable way.

You pointed to the stack of boxes in the corner of the room. "That one. But be careful with the one at the bottom, it has glass. And if you break something... well, let's just say not even the Hulk will protect you."

"Got it," he responded with a serious expression that lasted two seconds before giving way to a nervous smile. "No ruining my entrance to the Avengers, noted."

As he bent down to grab the next box, you returned your focus to organizing the comics alphabetically—because, of course, it had to be alphabetical. It didn’t take long for the comfortable silence to be broken by a strange sound coming from Dave: a mix of a sigh and a stifled laugh.

"What’s up?" you asked, not turning around. The casual tone was a clear attempt to ignore the little wave of concern that hit you. After all, that kind of sound coming from him usually meant he'd found something... compromising.

He didn’t answer, which only made your anxiety worse. When you finally turned around, your heart practically dropped to your stomach. There he was, holding a Quicksilver poster with a lipstick mark strategically placed on the character’s cheek. The bright red contrasted with the worn paper, clearly loved too much during its glory days.

"Oh, God," you muttered, bringing a hand to your face. "Dave, give me that."

He held the poster above his head with a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in half. "I didn’t know you were such a big fan of Peter Maximoff."

"I’m not!" you shot back, already crossing the room toward him. "It was a teenage thing. Give it to me before I die of embarrassment."

"Teenage?" He raised an eyebrow, as if processing a revolutionary discovery. "You used to kiss posters as a teenager?"

"I didn’t kiss posters!" you exclaimed, trying to jump and grab the paper, but he had the height advantage. "It was just... I had a crush, okay? And that’s none of your business!"

He laughed, stepping back. "I think it is. After all, I’m the one who’ll have to compete with Quicksilver now."

"Dave Lizewski, I swear I’ll..." you began, but he interrupted, holding the poster even higher.

"What are you going to do? Summon your supreme sarcasm powers? Because, as far as I know, that’s not going to help you get this," he teased, his eyes gleaming with pure amusement.

You sighed, trying not to show how defeated you were in your own specialty: keeping composure. Dave seemed to be enjoying every second of this role reversal, holding the poster like a freshly won trophy, his dark curls slightly messy on his forehead, and his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. It was hard to stay truly mad at him when he had that expression—a half-smile, half-mischievous grin—that made your heart stumble before you even realized it.

But you weren’t going to give up that easily.

"Do you really want to turn this into a battle?" you shot back, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. "Because, as far as I know, you’re not exactly known for winning."

He laughed, a low chuckle that seemed to reverberate in the space between you. "Oh, sure. This coming from the person who’s literally turning red just because I found out she kissed posters."

"I didn’t kiss posters," you repeated, even though the evidence was incriminatingly clear.

Dave raised his hand even higher, the poster swaying dangerously above you both. He wasn’t exactly tall, but he was strong in a way that didn’t seem obvious at first glance—not until you noticed the muscles in his arms, visible even under the sleeves of his T-shirt. You tried again to grab the poster, but he leaned back, laughing once more.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," you muttered, stopping your jumping and placing your hands on your hips. "I can't believe I’m losing to you."

"That’s what makes me a genius, right?" he responded, still with that teasing tone. "I finally figured out your weakness: teenage embarrassment."

"No way," you said, your voice firm, even though the back of your neck was still warm.

You knew you needed to change strategies. Jumping and trying to grab the poster clearly wasn’t working, so it was time to do what you did best: turn the tables in your favor.

Straightening your posture, you took a step closer to him, closing the distance until you were almost invading his space. Your gaze deliberately moved from his eyes to the poster, then back to him, your lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile.

"Okay, you won," you said softly, your voice dropping to a low, almost melodic tone. "But, if we’re talking about kisses..."

Before he could process what was happening, you placed your hands on his torso—heat and firmness under the thin fabric of his T-shirt—and took another step closer. Your fingers lazily running along his sides.

"...maybe you want one too?"

You saw the instant transformation in him. The confident smile faltered, his eyes widened slightly behind his glasses, and color rose on his cheeks with almost comical speed.

"W-what?" he stammered, his voice faltering like someone had pressed the wrong key.

You seized the advantage, tilting your head slightly as if considering the idea seriously. "You heard me. Just tell me, Dave. I’m generous like that."

The poster started to drop—finally—but by this point, you didn’t even care about it anymore. All that mattered was the growing heat between you, the way his eyes couldn’t decide whether to look at yours or your lips, and the way his breath had become slightly irregular.

"I... I mean..." he tried, but the words tangled in an adorable way.

"Dave," you interrupted, your voice a little firmer, but with a hint of tenderness.

"Hm?"

"I don’t want the poster," you admitted, letting your hands slide a little higher up his chest. "I just want you."

The silence that followed was thick, but in a way that made the air feel electrified. He finally let go of the poster, letting it fall to the floor carelessly, while his arms came around your waist, pulling you gently closer.

"You don’t play fair," he murmured, his voice husky, but with that mischievous smile still present.

"I know," you replied, leaning in his direction until your lips finally met.

The kiss was slow but full of intention, a mix of quiet laughs and a passion that seemed to overflow with every touch. It was a little clumsy, as always, but that only made you fall for him more.

When you finally pulled apart, he was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling in a way that made everything around you feel lighter.

"You won this time," he said, with a theatrical sigh.

"I always win," you retorted, giving his chest a little push before turning to grab the forgotten poster.

But as you crouched down to pick it up, he spoke again:

"Just so it’s recorded... I definitely wouldn’t mind being defeated like that more often."

And in that moment, as you laughed and tried to look indifferent, all you could think about was how Dave Lizewski was your favorite victory.

199 notes · View notes