#some of them are having more second thoughts than others

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

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

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

Word Count: 13.9k

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

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

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

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

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

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

Do you even care about me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hurt me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The words burned behind your teeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

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

“Bucky…”

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

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

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

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

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

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

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

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

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

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

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

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

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

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

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

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

And there it was.

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

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

“I’m not—”

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

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

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

“You remembered that?”

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

It left you a little breathless.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he did.

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

And then his lips met yours.

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

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

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

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

“Let them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

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

“Everything?”

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

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

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

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

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

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

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

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

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

“Careful, Bucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You paired us against each other—!”

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

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

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, can we not—”

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

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

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

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

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

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

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” you pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

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

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were good with that kid today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

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

Your pulse spiked.

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

“Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stilled.

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

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

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

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was obscene. 

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

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

---

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

[r1poffmyface]

The Sixth Redemption

Yandere! Beasts x Gn Reader

Inspired by @brittle-doughie and @yanderecookierunkingdom

Next

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The story begins when this very Silver Tree was only a small sapling... When the World of Desserts was at its infancy.

The Witches baked six Cookies to help them in their creation of the world.

"... Harness the radiance bestowed upon you for the betterment of this world..."

And the six Cookies imbued with absolute powers walked Earthbread as almighty envoys of the Great Creators. Knowledge, Volition, Happiness, Change, Solidarity and Redemption. The Dessert World bound by these six Virtues was nothing short of paradise.

Alas... The perfect age was short-lived.

Absolute power begets nothing but arrogance. It inevitably corrupts its wielder, bringing them to the most tragic of ends... A fate even the Witches were unable to foresee. One by one, Five of the Six, once regarded as saviours of the Cookie World, gradually turned to Darkness. And thus, the Five Virtues, too, became distorted, twisted. Reduced to:

Deceit.

Apathy.

Sloth.

Destruction.

Silence.

Now known as the Five Beasts, the apostles of evil began their dark crusade, and forth they brought great destruction and suffering.

The sixth Virtue, Redemption. Saw their friends fall from the pedestal of grace and went to their creators, pleading that the witches rescue the fallen heroes from the darkness, that they still had purity in them that needed and deserved to be saved.

But the witches denied their request and told them that there was nothing that could be done and fate was already set in stone.

The Witches punished the Beasts by sealing them away deep within this land. And planted the seed of the Silver Tree to ensure their evil power never sees the light of day again.

From then on, this land where the Beasts were put to sleep, was called Beast-Yeast.

Long since the sealing, the cookies spoke of the Sixth Virtue as a mystery, a myth lost to the drift of eras long gone by. Some said they had inescapably succumbed to their own corruption; others that the grief that weighed down their dough had crumbled the Virtue in a gulf of their own mourning tears.

Past

You stood under the outstretching branches of the Silver Tree.

Your expression an interweave of thoughtfulness and sorrow as you fixated on the glittering bark.

What is Redemption?

Hope? A chance for cookies to see the error of their ways and better themselves, forgive themselves and see that there is more to life than causing strife?

Was it a vain pursuit? Seeing good in cookies where there is none? Handing out second chances over and over again only to lose more than you gained?

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t have an answer when cookies used to call you weak for your constant, unwavering forgiveness, chanting that it was for the spineless who could afford to lose something, striving to guide the wrongful on the right path while bestowing them with leniency regardless of their continued morally depraved actions.

You didn’t have an answer when your dear friends collapsed under the pressure of their powers. When their adored glances your way didn’t vanish along with their righteousness but deformed to something…obsessive.

When they rampaged through the land, dispersing darkness and suffering — unlike anything ever seen before.

When the cookies cursed you for forsaking the world when you desperately tried to help your beloved comrades — when you offered consolation, concern, and sympathy — instead of purging their wickedness.

But how could you?

How could you possibly crumble the very cookies you held so dear to your heart?

Even if their own affection had twisted to something heinous, a death vine that suffocated your ability to take breaths, even if you didn’t reciprocate their love in the same extreme measure they did.

You would still be crumbling an essence of your very heart along with it, bleeding it out till your life force took its final breath of air.

Even if a part of you knew that this was for the greater good, sealing them away. It truly was — a means to an end — even if the end led you to walk in the muck and mire of past memories, vigorously trying to stay afloat in the ocean of grief that threatened to swallow you whole with each merciless wave of reminiscences.

The fluttering of wings landed behind your presence. “I figured you would be here…” You turn your gaze off the tree to meet the eyes of the faerie, his hair a light lavender with periwinkle eyes.

“Elder Fearie Cookie…”

Elder Faerie Cookie stands a few feet away from you. His poise as dignified as one would expect from the guardian of the seal, his silver crown shines in the glittering light.

“I came to see if you’re doing well, given that I am aware you get sad around this time of season.” His calm voice acknowledged. You grant him a glum smile, turning your heels toward the tree once more.

“You need not worry; i’m not sad… just reminiscing.” You explained. Your hand goes to hover over your chest, over your star-shaped souljam that was hidden under the fabric of clothes.

As the years had passed, you had resided in the Faerie Kingdom.

Dulling your appearance to not attract too much attention, camouflaging your former identity as a Primordial Hero named Stellar Powder Cookie, virtue of Redemption, under the guise of Reader cookie, a wingless cookie who has lived in the silver kingdom as long as time, helping the faeries with the prosperity of the kingdom.

The faeries had always been kindhearted to you, treating you as one of their own despite your lack of wings. Some did question the oddity of a wingless cookie living in the kingdom and where exactly your origin laid.

But no one ever demanded an answer, just curiosity that you couldn’t blame them for possessing.

Although there was one faerie who knew who you really were. Elder Faerie.

He knew the struggles you had endured. Sympathised with the loss of your loved ones.

But he also anchored you. Reminding you that if the day ever came that the Beasts were to escape, you needed to stop them for the sake of cookiekind. And you knew that; you understood, and you would. — Despite the pain that ached at the thought.

“Do you miss them?”

You snapped a glance at the question. “Pardon?”

Elder Faerie Cookie moved to stand beside you. His hands clasped behind his tucked-down wings. “Do you miss them? —The Beasts?” He repeated.

A beat of civil silence passed as you considered the question.

You sighed deeply.

“Yes.”

Elder Faerie Cookie cast an attentive expression your way.

“But I miss the cookies they were — not the ones they have become.” You muttered.

Elder Faerie creased his brow slightly, then redirected his attention back upfront. “That is understandable; Grief has no time limit. It’s understandable to miss memories held in good faith.”

You hummed at his reassurance.

Present

After some time you left Beast-Yeast.

You yearned for a new direction. You couldn’t stay glued to a past long bygone. Grief and sadness become comforting if you’ve lived in it too long, and you couldn’t do it anymore; you couldn’t stay chasing the fragments of blissful nostalgia.

So you said goodbye to the faeries, promising Silverbell Cookie you would come visit in the future.

Mercurial Knight Cookie wished you a safe journey, and Elder Faerie Cookie wished you would find what you were yearning for without straying off of the righteous path.

You gave him a knowing and understanding nod before setting off to the land of Crisipia.

And after years, you meet a group of cookies who ventured the land, and you joined their journey.

You meet the ancients. You were opposed to getting close to them at first. But they turned out to be honourable, kind and heroic. And so you became friends.

And it felt good. It felt right.

Now you were preparing for the announced expedition to Beast-Yeast.

You were nervous, terribly so; you did not know what to expect after all this time. Your nerves were pulsating out of your dough at the mere thought.

A sickening anxiety of sorts.

You organised your necessities in your bag to distract your racing mind.

It’ll be fine. You told yourself. Nothing’s going to happen.

“Reader Cookie! Are You ready to go?” The soft voice of Pure Vanilla Cookie came from the doorway.

His gentle smile met your eyes. Your gaze flickered down at his blue souljam for just a second as you reminded yourself of the dangers that were possibly waiting for them, then your gaze went back up with an equally kind smile. You showcased your wrapped-together bag with a prepared lilt in your voice.

“Yes, I am!”

You know this needed to be done. You needed to find White Lily Cookie; Cookiekind depended on it.

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WHOAAA my first tumblr post and crk story! I want to make this into a serie, but I'm new to Tumblr so I don't know how anything works, bear with me!! Anywhoo how was this writing? :>

[b1nary-wr1ter]

</> "I found it, just for you. " </>

Reader x 1x1x1x1

Your feet pound against the ground below you, your lungs burning from running for so long.

You were desperate to escape, avoiding anyone and everything. The rounds had only just begun for the day and you weren't ready. So now, all you can do is run.

You spot a generator off in a corner of the area. Slowing down you turn to see if your alone.

Not a single other person in sight. For now at least.

You kneel down to the generator, careful to not cross the wrong wires within the machine.

There are some sparks, but that is to be expected by now. Every few seconds you turn to see if anybody is near by, only to be met by nothing.

You hear the screams of another farther away, which means who ever the killer is for this round is busy. Which gives you time.

But that time turns out to not be enough.

The more you work on the generator, the more complex the wires get and you have to put all your focus into it.

You mess it up once or twice but that's fine. It's okay. You have time, no one is near by-

Your thoughts are interrupted by the snapping of a twig behind you. You jump and quickly turn, ready to book it again.

And you spot them.

Their white hair, red eyes, and exposed ribcage.

1x1x1x1....

At least you know who the killer for this round is.

The both of you stare at each other for several seconds, waiting for the other to move first. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ear.

They would make the first step, dragging her sword along the ground as he strode towards you.

Your feet stay planted to the ground, unable to run or look away from them.

He stops mere feet from you before crouching down to your level. She reaches behind her back before quickly pulling something out. You close you eyes, waiting for the inevitable stinging pain you were about to feel.

But it never came. You peak an eye open to see....

A flower.

Your favorite flower in fact.

Where did they get this?

You fully look at him and you notice she's holding the flower so very gently as to not harm it's petals.

They look at you, a small look of concern? Worry? adorns their face.

" I had remembered you talking about this flower last time we met. I found it, just for you. "

Her voice is small, and quiet. Your unsure if it's to keep hidden or something else.

You smile at him and gently take the flower from their hand, looking at it closely.

It's been well taken care of, not a single bit of damage has come to it's form other than where it's stem had been cut.

" Thank you- But why not wait until our meeting? " You ask them.

Watch as they glance away for a moment, almost in a bashful way. You find it endearing.

" I...simply wished to give it to you as soon as I could. I could not wait wait for tonight. "

He was excited to give it to you. How sweet.

You gently place the flower behind your ear, to keep it safe for now.

" Well, I love it. "

They smile at you, happy you enjoy their gift. They gently reach out to hold you hand, bringing it to their zipped mouth. He places a gentle kiss atop it as she looks up at you.

" I shall see you again tonight then. Stay safe, my Dear. "

1x stands from their crouched position to resume their hunt of the other survivors, leaving you with flushed cheeks and a new flower.

Oh how you love them.

[rosiesweets]

and i'd give myself to you (everytime) - one

synopsis: so turns out the way paige meets the love of her life is delirious at 1am standing in the front of some gaudy ass mansion. who would’ve thought.

a/n: thank you so much for the love on my prologue. my sweet little heart is bursting with love. kisses to each of you. i’m a little shy to respond to the anons in my inbox, but know that i read each one and smile. maybe one day i’ll get the courage. here’s part one. i’m fully aware the timing of this regarding the actual w season makes no sense but please suspend your belief for me thank you <3 not too long yet, we’re still in a place where short scenes make the most sense to me. once again, please share your thoughts, hopes, and dreams with me (about this fic or whatever else). xo, chiara

p.s. is now the time to admit i’ve never watched a full season of any bachelor franchise show?

p.p.s. in no way am i committing to any frequency of updates. please do not take any span of time i take in between them as precedent. apologies in advance. again i will return to edit when fuel returns to my brain.

-

and in your eyes i see forever (or something like that)

paige is going to kill dijonai carrington.

okay probably not, but she’ll switch all the caps on the lip liners or something of similar weight to the (natural) blonde. paige should be in her apartment in dallas right now taking a blissful break from going three years back to back in wnba and unrivaled seasons. paige already expended enough effort to last for months when making the decision to skip out on unrivaled this year. don’t get paige wrong, she loves basketball. she wants to be playing twenty-four seven. but she knows her body. knows the signs of when her knee is feeling more than just regular wear and tear. she wants to play everyday, but she wants to play for a long time more. so she’s making the smart (ridiculously painful) decision to skip unrivaled in pursuit of a basketball career that lasts until her forties.

so someone please explain to her how instead of laying on the couch (or on some beach in the carribean) she is sitting in a limo by herself, in a suit too hot for la in june, waiting for three hours to meet some girl from maryland that dijonai won’t stop calling the people’s princess.

she’s alone because the producers told her she had a “special spot” in the line up or whatever that meant. she surely does not feel special being forced alone with her thoughts instead of distracting herself by meeting five other people who she’ll have to share a bathroom with soon. she’s just here, sitting on squeaky leather twiddling her thumbs because she refused the prop the producers repeatedly tried forcing upon her.

(eventually the producer, some girl named caroline, holding a basketball out to her quickly put it down when met with glare from paige’s ice blue eyes. there was going on national television and there was going on national television looking like a loser in the first ten seconds. paige didn’t need a prop, have you seen her jawline? she’ll walk out, give the girl a crooked smile bordering on smirk, lean in close enough to let her cologne linger and let the rasp of her voice as she says hello do the rest.)

the creeping dread of having to spend the next five to eleven weeks (let’s be real paige is not getting eliminated before week five at least) living with thirty people she doesn’t know and competing for the attention of this one girl is starting to set it in. and in her stomach there’s a feeling of more than just the typical “i’m going on national television” nerves. paige has never really needed to compete for attention before. she just always had it. on the court, in the bar, literally just standing on the street.

and paige doesn’t think she’ll fade in the background or anything but it’s still a new sensation. the knowledge that azzi doesn’t have to ever make eye contact with her. that she’ll have to scheme and smile better than the others whose entire brands rely on this working out for them.

on the other side of the nerves is guilt. paige isn’t really here to find love. she’s here to take the w, and the dallas wings, to potential new group of fans (the middle of a venn diagram between gays and people who love reality tv). paige wants women’s basketball to grow into something the world never expected. wants college park, and maybe one day american airlines center, to be packed every night. so she’s here. after one too many dirty shirleys while listening to dijonai convince her to spend her break on reality tv so not only this girl azzi, but america can fall in love her, and eventually women’s basketball.

but it feels wrong. to participate in the objectification of this clearly earnest (and stunning, paige has watched the tik tok compilations) girl. paige can’t really fathom it. how a girl so beautiful could be driven to find love like this. this insane spectacle. full of people who surely do not actually want to marry her, cameras around twenty-four seven, and the decision of a lifetime being made on merely hours with someone when you think about it. a person like that, has to in some ways hate herself no? to put herself at the center of a circus and beg for love. and paige knows she’s the one competing, but really is the bachelorette not the one asking america to validate that she’s lovable enough for thirty random people to compete for her? to be so unsure of yourself that you put yourself in a situation where you’re guaranteed for someone to pick you at the end? paige thinks a life like that must be lonely. and the guilt simmers stronger.

but paige swallows it. this girl an adult. she knows the game, the premise. she’s been given scouting report. paige won’t infantilize her with pity because she doesn’t understand how anyone could do this. azzi will be engaged to a random person at the end of this. and will probably be humiliated six to eleven months later when they “amicably split.” but that’s her choice. azzi gets to write her love story this way. on the other side paige will be charismatic and fun, but aloof enough to not trust forever in. she’ll walk away bringing new people to the game. and hopefully be remembered as unproblematic and a little goofy.

so paige sits. and sits. and sits. holy shit why did no one tell her that filming each episode took over ten hours. she has heard the same door open, the same heel or loafer click along the fake cobblestone enough to decide perhaps getting blown out by thirty in game three of the playoffs to the indiana fever of all goddamn teams, actually wasn’t that bad.

finally. after what feels like and is actually hours later. while paige is starving, slightly sweating, and so ready to go to sleep, the knock on her door comes. it’s her time. as she opens the door she thinks perhaps she should’ve rehearsed or prepared something to open with. something cool and memorable, just slightly cringe but it’s paige so it’s not really. oh well. she trusts her years of cd media training will carry her through.

she holds her hand over the single button of her blazer to keep its closed as she steps out. she’s gone with something simple yet still a statement. all black louis vuitton, black gems on the lapels. a moment of perfectly understated glamour. no shirt underneath. rings across her fingers. nails black and short. she knows what she looks like.

she looks up to meet azzi’s eyes and fuck.

paige has seen beautiful things before. the basketball as it swishes through just at buzzer. paige has seen beautiful girls before. some in her dms, some bold as they come up to her in bars and coffee shops. paige has seen this beautiful girl before. in photos as dijonai swiped through a haphazardly made power point titled “paige bueckers: bucket and now soon to be bachelorette contestant please it would be sooooo fun and funny.”

but nothing could have prepared her for this. azzi is so beautiful. paige knew this. was prepared for her wide eyes, deep dimples, and cheekbones. what knocks her out is the smile azzi has on she meets paige’s eyes. lips full, bunny teeth just catching the bottom one swiped with sheer gloss. paige has never seen a smile like this. pure and warm and perfect.

paige doesn’t remember walking up to azzi. doesn’t remember wrapping her arms around her shorter frame in a quick hug. paige doesn’t remember taking her hands in hers. all paige senses are soft palms and the slightly sweet scent of warm vanilla. and suddenly without her consent the words slip out of her mouth, “wow wore my favorite color just for me?”

literally paige needs to be sedated. because why the fuck did she just say that. this isn’t even about her. of course she says something the stupid big head athlete would say. she sounds like a guy. fuck the bar was so low and she still fucked it up.

before her thoughts can spiral even worse something cuts through. azzi laughs. and not to be hyperbolic or anything but paige’s world lights up. of course the most perfect mouth she’s ever seen lets out the sweetest laugh she’s ever heard. paige smiles. not the cocky one she had before. genuine. it takes up her whole face without her asking. azzi’s (surprisingly deeper than expected) voice returns “your favorite color is lavender?” and paige quickly goes “what? surprised?” azzi intertwines their fingers, shifting their hands from laying softly on top of each other grasping palms to fingers locked (and holy shit paige hasn’t felt this way from a girl merely holding her hand since she was fourteen), “honestly, yeah. you look like someone that would like something darker. bolder.” paige lets out a quick “i think you’ll be surprised by my depth princess," surprised by the small percentage of her brain still functioning enough to speak. “i guess i’ll look forward to being surprised by you then.” knowing her thirty seconds is probably up paige decides to leave it on, “i guess you will.” with a squeeze of azzi’s hands paige lets her smile grow even wider if possible and turns to make her way with the other contestants.

as she walks up the path to the mansion something in her mind shifts. and well shit. paige should’ve known. there’s never been a competition she didn’t want to win.

[mr2swap]

The incident: positive reinforcement training

-This time try to focus on my biceps, faggots like you love this stuff don't you?- I flexed my huge arms even harder, making my veins stand out, a spicy aroma wafted from my armpits and made my nose itch a little, But it seems I'm not the only one who could smell it.

I could feel how the real Kyle's huge, hairy belly was inches from my muscular back, But not only that I could feel how he was trying to disguise that he was actually floating his tiny, nasty cock between my firm ass. 

-Yes... sir we love it- Kyle said trying to pretend he wasn't doing anything kinky, I looked at our reflection in the mirror we both had in front of us and couldn't help but let out a smile at the thought that in just a couple of weeks I had bent in the mind of this arrogant gym coach.

-I thought to myself, “Kinky, I could let you rub your little cock in one of my armpits... when you finish the household chores of course- 

I'd like to say that I planned this body swap, but it was actually an accident, it was another one of those terrorist attacks with that experimental body swapping gas that was stolen some time ago from SwapCorp.

 One second I was almost passing out on the treadmill feeling like complete shit and the next I was posing in front of the bathroom mirror feeling as powerful as a Greek god, I thought I had passed out and right now my brain was creating the most erotic fantasy it could have created.

But as soon as I heard the screams coming from the gym I knew something wasn't right...at least to the rest of the guys out there, here everything was as perfect as the perfect powerful biceps I now had. 

Kyle worked at this gym as a trainer, although he spent more time talking to hot girls than helping me lose weight. So he was not pleased to end up in my fat, short, middle-aged body.

The government told us they were already working on a solution for this, but, there have been these terrorist attacks before and as far as I've known none of them have gotten their bodies back so I think it was just a lie so as not to scare people like Kyle. 

I thought it would be the last time he would look at my old greasy face, but it seems Kyle was attached to his body more than I imagined, The next day Kyle showed up at my apartment door to take me to the gym, in his own words “I'm not going to let a fat guy like you throw away all the time I've worked on MY BODY.”

It was easy enough to adapt to his routine, especially Because a week after we exchanged our bodies Kyle showed up again at my door With a couple of suitcases, “I can't trust a pig like you to neglect my diet, I'm sure you still have all that junk you like to eat around here...” But I knew the truth, Kyle had been fired from his job, who the fuck would trust him to train him now that he's the fattest guy in the whole gym? 

Later that night I found him on the couch sniffing my stinky gym shorts, It was so disgusting to see my body in such a pathetic position... but fun. 

I walked out of my room and with my big huge feet I stood in front of him, Kyle Faggot didn't even know what to say, he just lay there on the couch looking down at me with one hand on his dick and the other with my dirty boxers in the other near his face. 

Without saying a word I pulled my thick cock out of my shorts, which used to belong to the real Kyle and held it in front of his face, I could see how the spicy and dirty smell of my cock made him increase the rhythm with which he was breathing, He didn't even look me in the eyes, his gaze was totally fixed on the long and thick 10 inch cock that he used to use every day. 

-Come on pig... you are lucky that a stud like you let a pig like you suck my cock- Kyle held the base of my cock and slowly took it into his mouth savoring every drop of the pre seminal fluid, his face looked happy as if he had waited all his life for this moment.

I couldn't hold back any longer and grabbed him by what little thin hair he had left on his middle aged head and forced him to swallow my cock completely, I then began to fuck his mouth, my hips moved back and forth as Kyle jerked off, his cock was so pathetic he only needed 2 fingers to hold his little sausage. 

I had to admit that since coming in Kyle's body I had fucked so many women in such a short time that I had lost count, but there was something about my old, wet, dirty mouth that made me extremely horny. 

I pushed my cock deep into Kyle's mouth and filled it with my cum, then I pulled away from him letting him get some air, As soon as Kyle recovered he took my cock again and like a man lost in the desert Kyle cleaned my cock as if it were the last drops of water for miles.

I think something snapped in Kyle's head from that day on, The arrogant, cocky bodybuilder disappeared completely, He became more like a faithful dog that does what I tell him for a bone, I know Kyle would say it out loud, but I'm sure he likes his new life in my old body better. 

Maybe someday they will find a cure for this “incident” but I don't think Kyle will give up his new life at my side. 

------------

Heyo! Hello again, I hope you like this story as well as the other stories of the "INCIDENT", where again a small terrorist group has released the experimental body swap gas, which can slightly alter people's minds at the time of the exchange, and of course this group is not led by me (wink wink) anyway, if you want to see more experiences of more people when exposed to the gas you can take a look at my previous stories or if you want to see even more you can support me on my page and have access to my stories, I just published a new story about 2 stepbrothers affected by the swap gas.

[wandering-winchesters]

Nothing says love, like a black eye.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: a dumb argument over mugs, turns into a wrestling match that leads to a black eye.

You had forgotten how easy it was to argue with Dean Winchester.

And how infuriating it was, too.

It started over something dumb. Something like how you load the dishwasher, which was ridiculous, considering the bunker barely had more than three plates between the three of you, and none of them ever made it to the dishwasher anyway.

“You can’t just throw the mugs in,” Dean said, arms folded like you had personally offended the laws of physics.

“They’re mugs, not grenades,” you shot back. “And they’re ceramic, not bone china.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, gesturing at your arrangement. “That mug handle is sticking out. It’s gonna catch on the rack.”

“And?”

“And it’s gonna break. And then I’m gonna have to hear you whine about how that was your favorite.”

You straightened, a slow smile spreading across your face. “You broke it, you owe me a new one.”

“It hasn’t broken yet!”

“Because I have excellent placement skills!”

“Placement skills?” he echoed, laughing under his breath. “What are you, some kind of mug whisperer?”

You smirked, backing away from the dishwasher like you were defending a fortress. “Don’t be jealous because I’ve evolved beyond caveman dish stacking.”

Dean took a step closer, eyes glinting. “Caveman, huh?”

Your smirk widened. “You’re just mad I do it better than you.”

“I’m mad,” he said, cracking his neck, “that you clearly want a grappling match and are using dishes as a warm-up.”

You raised a brow, hands on your hips. “What, you think I can’t take you?”

Dean grinned, slow and dangerous. “I know you can’t.”

That was it.

Challenge accepted.

You lunged before he could finish the thought, catching him off guard and grabbing the collar of his flannel shirt. He laughed, twisting with you as the two of you stumbled into the center of the room. You knew you couldn’t take him down with strength, but leverage? Leverage and pure spite? That was your wheelhouse.

Dean managed to flip you once, half a second where you were suspended in air before he caught you and set you down with a smug, “Need a nap, sweetheart?”

You responded with a growl and swept his leg. It didn’t take him down, but it threw him off balance enough that he stumbled into the couch, and you used the opening to pounce again.

It devolved quickly into full-blown wrestling.

Hands slipping, limbs tangling, breath coming short with adrenaline and poorly disguised laughter.

You rolled across the rug, flipping him onto his back and straddling his hips. He smirked, grabbing your wrist and twisting with just enough force to flip you again.

“Oh, that’s how it is,” you muttered, breathless.

“That’s exactly how it is.”

The grin on his face was pure smugness and so stupidly pretty that for one second, you almost forgot what you were doing.

He went for your wrist again. You dodged, shoved, and turned, too fast, too sharp. His elbow came up at the exact wrong angle as you twisted to gain leverage.

You heard the thud before you felt it.

Deans elbow connected with your face.

His elbow didn’t give.

Your face did.

You cried out, stumbling back and clutching your eye, pain flaring behind your eyelid like a camera flash gone nuclear.

Dean’s whole body stilled.

“Oh, shit. Shit. Y/N…”

You waved him off with one hand while the other clutched your face. “I’m fine. I’m—ow. No. I lied. That hurts.”

“Let me see,” he said immediately, reaching for your hand.

You swatted him away. “Give me a second. I think I just saw God for a minute.”

Dean hovered, helpless and wide-eyed, hands twitching at his sides. “You’re bleeding.”

You groaned. “Wonderful. How bad is it?”

Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hey, did someone—”

Sam stopped in the doorway.

The scene in front of him must have been a lot to take in. You, on the floor, half-laughing and half-crying, holding your face. Dean kneeling beside you, shirt rumpled, looking guilty as sin and slightly terrified.

Sam blinked.

Dean opened his mouth.

“It’s not what it looks like!” you and Dean both blurted at the same time.

Sam raised a brow. “Okay, well it looks like Dean punched you in the face during foreplay.”

You barked out a laugh despite the pain. “You’re not completely wrong.”

“I didn’t punch her,” Dean said, horrified. “She ran into my elbow like a damn linebacker.”

Sam crossed his arms, trying not to smile. “So just a romantic injury, then.”

Dean shot him a glare. “She tackled me over a mug.”

“I was winning,” you added helpfully from the floor.

Dean looked down at you, eyes narrowing. “You were not winning.”

“I was on top, jackass.”

“You were distracted.”

You grinned through the swelling pain, and he caught it. Something in his expression flickered. Concern still hung in the air, but it softened with that twist of affection he had never been able to hide when it came to you.

Sam moved toward you, tilting your chin gently so he could get a look at the forming bruise.

“Gonna swell,” he muttered. “You’ll look like you lost a bar fight.”

“I’ll just say it was a demon,” you replied.

Dean groaned. “Do not tell people that.”

“I’ll say it looked like a demon. Talks like one. Smells like beer and leather.

“Alright,” Dean huffed, standing. “That’s it. I’m making you an ice pack before you start composing ballads.”

He stomped off to the kitchen.

Sam handed you a dish towel and lowered himself beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded, gently pressing the towel to your eye. “Yeah. I think I just forgot how to duck.”

Sam smirked. “Or maybe you forgot that Dean never knows when to quit.”

You let out a tired laugh. “That part, I remember.”

Dean returned with a lumpy bag of frozen peas wrapped in another towel and handed it to you with exaggerated care.

“For the record,” he muttered, “you fight dirty.”

“You had it coming,” you said, settling the ice against your face and sighing.

Dean crouched in front of you again, eyes flicking over your face like he was counting all the damage.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

You softened, just a little. “I know.”

You chuckled, winced, and leaned your head back against the couch. Dean hesitated, then reached out and brushed his thumb just under your good eye. His gentle touch, more of an apology than words ever could express.

Tag list : @hobby27 @roseblue373 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers @jollyhunter

[vunblr]

A Hand in the Dark (#7)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Fluff.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 5.5k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She woke up to an empty bed, the other side was faintly creased and already cool. It didn’t surprise her. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and padded to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. Everything was quiet.

He wasn’t there.

She pulled on a cardigan and opened the curtains, enough to let the morning light spill across the floor. The kettle went on. Bread into the toaster. She moved through the morning ritual without much thought.

Then the lock clicked.

She turned her head from the table as he stepped in, with the collar of his jacket pulled high and the cap low over his face. Paper bags dangling from one hand.

“Hey,” she greeted gently.

“Hey,” he echoed, murmuring, not quite meeting her eyes.

“You want coffee?”

A beat passed before he nodded. Once.

He pulled off his jacket and hat in silence and hung them carefully on the rack. Then he disappeared down the hall.

She stood up and went to the counter, pouring him a mug. Set a bunch of cookies on a plate and set it beside the beverage across her spot on the table.

When he returned, he was empty-handed and sat stiffly, with his shoulders slightly hunched.

“It would be too nosy of me to ask what you bought?” she asked, referring to the bags now hidden in his room.

His eyes flicked to her, then back down to the mug.

“Just… stuff I needed,” he said.

She hummed a little. “Aha.”. Then picked up her phone.

He stared at her fingers moving over the screen, and something inside him felt wrong. He owed her the answer, more than this, probably. She’d dragged him, soaked and broken, from the alley. Sat outside the tub and scrubbed him while he sat there like an alienated person at a fucking mental asylum. Held him as he sobbed like a child and offered him her bed as if it were no big deal. He was pretty sure that normal "roomies" didn't have to do that kind of thing for someone who shared their roof with them.

So, he straightened in the chair a little. Cleared his throat.

“I’ve been remembering things,” he said, fixing his eyes on a scratch in the wooden table. “Some clearer than others. Some I’m not sure I want to recall.”

Her phone went still in her hand. Her full attention shifted to him, tilting her body slightly forward.

“Things from… before. And things I did.” His mouth twisted around the last word. “Stuff I can’t always tell apart yet.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes for a second. “It’s all mixed up. Comes and goes. So I bought some notebooks. To write it down. Try to make sense of it.”

She nodded slowly, not interrupting.

“I need to see it written… separate the things I did because of them, and the things that were just me. To figure… things out.”

She reached across the table and touched his wrist gently. “That’s a really good way to start.”

His arm went still under her hand, then relaxed.

Then she sat back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and gave a small, nervous smile.

“Well… since we’re being honest,” she said, glancing toward the hallway, “we need to talk about your accommodations.”

He went still.

“You’re sleeping in my hauling room,” she went on, watching him carefully, “and I think it’s time we tidy it up a bit. Make it more yours.”

He blinked. “It’s fine. I don’t need-”

“You deserve a real bed, not something that folds like a deathtrap,” she interrupted gently.

He stared at her like she’d suggested pulling out the floorboards.

“I- I prefer that cot,” he said stiffly. Too quickly. The words left his mouth before he could decide if they were true or just reflex.

She didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Still, I’m going to get rid of the clothes I’m not using and a few other things too, so you have room. If you’re writing now, you’ll need at least a little table.”

His fingers twitched on the side of his mug.

“I know it’s been kind of your bunker until now,” she added gently, “but you have to admit it’s a little… cluttered.”

Cluttered. That was one word for it. The room was layered in tension, items stacked with purpose, defense options mapped, and shadows at bay. It hadn’t been organized so much as fortified. Like a shell around his frayed mind.

“I put things the way I need them,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant. Almost uncertain.

“I’m not gonna move your stuff… much. But if you want a table, if you want shelves, I can help you make space.”

His chest rose and fell, too shallowly.

“I just… It’s the only part that’s mine,” he admitted, barely audible.

“And it stays yours,” she said immediately, calmly. “I’m not trying to take it away. Just making sure you can breathe in it. And besides, there are things there I have been meaning to sell for a while now, to make extra cash. I doubt you have a use for women's clothes and footwear," she quirked a brow. “Let me get rid of my old clothing, and the rest of the things stay there, unless you want to put something in the room."

His jaw flexed. He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the mug between his hands.

She had a point.

It was her stuff. Her clothes. Her shoes. Her boxes. He’d been sleeping on a cot in her storage room, surrounded by things that didn’t belong to him. He just had nested there like a traumatized stray.

He could still hear her voice, calm, without pressure:

“Let me get rid of my old clothing, and the rest of the things stay there, unless you want to put something in it.”

Did he really have the right to argue? He’d been using her home. Her food. Her quiet. Her patience. And now he was using her time and her money, too. No matter how much he tried to contribute, no matter how many groceries he bought with Hydra cash, he knew it wasn’t evening out. The extra meat. The extra heat at night. The laundry items.

All of it, bleeding slowly from her wallet into his care.

So if she wanted to sell a few clothes she didn’t wear anymore to make up the difference...

How could he tell her no?

He hated it. Hated that every instinct said guard the den, don’t let anyone touch it, don’t lose the only safe place you’ve had in years. But this wasn’t a bunker. It was her guest room. And she was offering to make space, not erase him.

His fingers drummed once against the mug. Then stilled.

“Take away the clothes and…” he muttered, “maybe I could put a shelf.”

Her eyes lifted immediately, and for a breath, she didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just looked at him, like she saw all of that war playing out beneath his eyes.

Then her gaze softened.

“Deal.”

He nodded once, tightly and mechanically. Told himself to breathe. Told himself this was fair. She wasn’t taking the space. She was clearing it for him.

“If you need help lifting anything,” he added, forcing the words through his lips, “I’ll do it.”

This time she did smile. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He ducked his head again.

“Probably I'll start sorting the clothing when I come home from work, so I can go to a second-hand shop the day after tomorrow." She commented, stretching her arms.

He stilled.

She was moving fast. Like she’d made a decision and wasn’t going to leave it floating in the air, vulnerable to his retreat. No room for him to squirm out of it, to backpedal.

He didn’t look at her. Just chewed. The cookie felt like chalk in his mouth.

It was happening. The sorting, the clearing. He’d said yes. He meant yes.

But still, that lurch of old panic curled low in his stomach. That urge to protect the corner he’d turned into a shelter, even if it was built with someone else’s things.

His nod was tight. One flick of his chin, like a box being checked.

"Okay," he said, hoarse. Still not looking at her.

She didn’t tease him. Didn’t say “don’t get too excited” because of his demeanor, or “look at you, being useful.” Just sipped her coffee and added, casually-

“There’s a shop near the building, so I’m taking you up on your offer. Maybe you could come with me, help with some boxes.”

The phrasing was wiser than she would ever know.

It wasn’t a “I need you to.” It wasn’t a “You have to.”

It was “maybe you could.”

He could. He would.

“Sure,” he said quietly, brushing crumbs from his fingers.

And this time, he managed to look at her. Not long, but just long enough to see her nod.

She trusted him with this.

He’d carry the boxes. Damn, he’d carry them all.

----

When she came home, she just dropped her bag by the door, took off her coat, and rolled up her sleeves. Walked purposefully towards the spare room and greeted him, opening the closet and beginning to tug hangers free in swift motions. Skirts, blouses, a couple of old jackets she hadn’t worn in years, some pairs of jeans she knew won’t fit her again, the hope has been in vain. She moved like she knew exactly what had to go. Then went to the boxes, some of them empty, some of them not.

Bucky sat silently on the cot. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. His eyes followed the motion of fabric piling on the bed, but he didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really.

It wasn’t his place to touch any of it. It wasn’t his to decide what stayed and what didn’t. He felt like a guest at his own eviction, even if that wasn’t what this was.

Could’ve left the room. Gone to take a shower. Waited in the kitchen. But something in him… didn’t want to. Couldn’t, maybe. Not when things were already shifting. Not when his nest, the space where he’d collapsed those first nights, door locked, body curled tight in the smallest corner, was being breathed open by someone else's hands.

He watched her, fidgeting. Picked at a thread on the seam of his pants. His prosthetic fingers tapped quietly against his thigh in a slow, erratic rhythm.

“You okay?” she asked once, glancing back at him with an armful of sweaters.

He nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”

She then just kept going, folding, sorting into stacks. Keep. Sell. Somewhere near the bottom of one of the boxes, buried under a winter scarf and a tangled phone charger, she pulled out a wrinkled plastic bag and furrowed her brows.

“God, what even is this…”

She didn’t think much of it. Just tipped the contents onto the cot beside him.

Something crimson and lacy spilled out across the rumpled blanket.

She groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked sideways before he could stop himself. He hadn’t caught the full detail, just movement -color- and then it was there: red lace bra, crinkled suggestively on the cot’s edge. Delicate, impractical, and obviously meant for anything but support.

He blinked. She snatched it up immediately with two fingers and a scoff, like it burned.

“Can you believe this crap?” she said, holding it up. “My ex gave it to me for my birthday. Two sizes too small.” She shook her head, frowning. “Should’ve been a warning sign, huh? Probably he was already cheating me by then.” With a quick flick of her wrist, she chucked it into the garbage bag. “Don’t know why I still had it.”

Bucky looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. His back stiffened slightly. He tried to act unaffected, but his ears were red. So was the back of his neck. His hand crept up to scratch just beneath his jaw, an old, nervous tell.

Right. This was the twenty-first century.

He cleared his throat. “Is… is that a common thing now?” he asked stiffly, gesturing vaguely toward the trash bag with an awkward flutter of his fingers. “For… uh. Sweethearts to give each other those kinds of…” He trailed off, eyebrows knotted like he’d stepped into unfamiliar terrain with no map.

She paused, half-smiling as she turned to face him properly.

“Well,” she said, considering, “depends on the couple, I guess. Some people love that kind of thing. Some don’t.” She sat back on her heels. “But that was the first birthday we spent together. I mean, come on. A slutty red bra that doesn’t even cover your nipples? Not exactly the most thoughtful gift.”

She wrinkled her nose and reached for the next pile like that conversation hadn’t just torched the edges of his comfort zone.

She huffed, pushing the offending bra deeper into the trash bag like it might crawl back out. “And! I couldn’t even return it,” she added, offended all over again. “He’d bought it on clearance. No receipt. Probably got it for her, whoever she was, and when my birthday rolled around, went, oh right!”

She trailed off with a bitter little scoff, shaking her head.

Bucky blinked. Then again. His mouth opened slightly, then closed.

This was- this was too much information. On several planes.

First, the idea that it was normal now for a fella to buy his girl some racy lace contraption as a birthday gift. Not a brooch. Not a novel. Not perfume. Underwear. Bright, indecent underwear. On clearance.

Second, the mention of her ex. An abstract concept until now, but suddenly real, a guy with hands and a voice. A man who had touched her and laughed in her kitchen. Somehow, it irked him.

And third… the lace itself. That wasn’t the lace he remembered. Back then, lace was demure. Something a girl might wear under her Sunday dress, not on purpose for display.

He was spiraling in soft silence when her voice broke through.

“What would you have gifted to a girlfriend, you know… before?” she asked.

He shifted on the cot, and one hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his fingers digging into tense muscle as he considered. Not a comb. He wasn’t some wide-eyed schoolboy chasing girls with pigtailed dreams.

“Depends on the girl,” he said finally. “But I- I remember once I dated this… nurse. Annie. Real smart. She loved going to the movies.”

His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile.

“I bought her a pair of gloves,” he said. “White leather. Real soft. She worked nights at the hospital, her hands were always cold. Got ‘em monogrammed with her initials, too. Classy stuff.”

He cleared his throat and looked away.

She blinked at him, then smiled.

“That’s… really thoughtful, I bet she loved them,” she said.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. It was ages ago, and it felt like… no, it didn’t feel like. It was another man. With a whole other life. One with warmth and windows and streets he knew by name. If he could even call himself a man now. Most days, he still wasn’t sure.

She cleared her throat, breaking the silence.

“Well,” she said, dusting off her palms and eyeing the three remaining boxes. “I guess I did most of the work today, so tomorrow I’ll sort the rest and we can go to the second-hand shop.”

Then, a careful pause.

“Are you sure you want to come?”

He didn’t look at her right away. His metal thumb rubbed absently against his fingers, tracing lines that weren’t there anymore. The memory of white leather still remained in his brain, the ghost of a smile from a nurse who smelled like antiseptic and powder.

“I said I would,” he mumbled finally.

His voice wasn’t sharp, just tethered to something he didn’t quite want to examine. He shifted on the cot and glanced toward the small stack of notebooks he had put near the wall.

He should write about it. About the gloves. About Annie. About how the man who gave her that gift used to mumble Peggy Lee under his breath and knew how to make a girl laugh without trying. Maybe if he wrote it down, he could figure out whether any of that man was still in him.

“I was thinking we could order pizza tonight,” she commented as she dragged some of the boxes to one side.

His ears perked at that, subtly, but unmistakably. The way his head tilted slightly, the faint flicker of attention lighting his eyes.

Pizza.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a slice. Couldn’t say he even remembered the taste clearly, but the idea of it… warm, cheesy, greasy comfort, it sounded enticing. Familiar, somehow. Safe.

“You up to it?” she asked, picking up on his silence.

“Yeah,” he said, after a second’s pause. His voice was low but sure.

She turned to him, half-smiling. “Anything you fancy? Just… nothing with some sort of charcuterie on top. I draw the line at mystery meats.”

He gave a small shrug. “Um… cheese?”

She laughed softly. “Of course it would have cheese, Bucky.”

Another shrug, a bit more pronounced this time. “Then… cheese.”

“Margherita, it is,” she declared, walking over to grab her phone. “Simple, classic. Can’t go wrong with that.”

He watched her as she scrolled through the delivery app, with one knee propped on the edge of the cot like this -this choosing of pizza- was something they’d always done.

“Well, I’ll take a shower while it arrives,” she said, stretching her arms over her head with a small sigh. Then, turning back at the doorframe, “Where do you want to eat it?”

He glanced up from where he sat, quirking one brow in mild confusion.

“It’s pizza,” she added with a little grin. “We can be creative.”

He seemed to genuinely consider it. His eyes dropped, and his brows knitted faintly like she’d presented him with a puzzle. Then, carefully, measured, “I… enjoy the table. As any other food.”

She almost teased. Almost told him he sounded like a man giving a military report on acceptable dining zones. But then she thought better of it. Of course, he’d choose the table. He would cling to something solid, familiar, structured. He needed that. A surface. A chair. A clear place and purpose.

“Table it is,” she said, gently. “Can you set it while I shower?”

“Yeah,” he said, already standing up from the cot, glad -maybe even relieved- to have something to do. His eyes flicked to hers for just a second, then away again as he moved toward the door.

----

The ring of the doorbell traveled through the apartment.

Bucky stiffened where he stood at the kitchen counter, a dish towel still in his hands. His eyes darted toward the hallway, toward the faint sound of water still running in the bathroom. She was still in the shower.

He froze for a beat -just a second- and then drew a slow, deep breath. It’s probably the pizza. He didn’t like the sound of the buzzer, didn’t like unknown voices through static, or anyone unexpected near the door. But this had a name. A reason. A purpose.

He walked over to the intercom and pressed the button. “Yeah?”

“Pizza delivery!” came the muffled reply.

He hesitated -still felt the pressure of old instincts, the demand to verify a hundred unseen variables- but finally said, “Be right down.”

The stairwell smelled faintly of old cleaner and warm cardboard. Bucky descended quickly, hoodie up. The guy waiting at the bottom looked young, early twenties maybe, bored and holding the insulated bag like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Apartment two?” the guy asked, already pulling the box out.

Bucky nodded and reached out.

The kid hesitated, then handed the pizza over, eyeing him up and down like something didn’t quite click. Bucky nodded his thanks and turned to go.

“Hey,” the delivery guy said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Bucky paused, looked back. Blank. “No.”

“Seriously, dude? No tip?”

“She- it was paid online.” He answered stiffly.

“Yeah, but-” the guy scoffed, already irritated. “Everyone tips, it’s decency, man.”

Bucky’s brows drew in, unsure. He hadn’t known. No one had said anything about an extra payment. Where he came from -when he came from- food just didn’t appear at your door like this.

The silence stretched awkwardly, then the guy huffed and turned away, muttering loud enough to be heard.

“Fucker.”

Bucky blinked. His grip pressed harder on the pizza box. But he didn’t say anything. He just turned, shoulders squared a little more rigidly now, and walked back up the stairs.

----

The smell was rich, warm, and damn near intoxicating. Cheese, tomato, oregano, familiar, yet distant. Bucky set the box on the counter but didn’t lift the lid. Not yet. His fingers twitched with the urge to peek, but he just stood there, with his arms crossed, waiting.

She came out a few minutes later, her damp hair pulled into a messy knot. Soft cotton sweatpants, an old tee. Comfortable. Her gaze landed on the pizza box instantly.

“Oh,” she said, a bit surprised, “they must not have had many clients tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted on his feet.

“You… did alright with it?” she asked, eyeing the box.

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Didn’t know I was supposed to give the guy some money. You paid on your phone, so I thought… that was it.”

She grimaced. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to tell you because I figured I’d be the one getting it. Was it very uncomfortable?”

He gave her a look, blank but pointed.

“Right,” she winced. “Okay, fair. I’ll take that as a yes.”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck, a little sheepish but mostly frustrated. “The guy looked at me like I’d pissed on his boots.”

“Well… now that we’re at it,” she said, moving to fetch a cutter, “every time you order food, it’s expected to… tip the delivery guy.”

He frowned at that. “Isn’t he an employee of the shop?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Technically. But they make shit money, so tips are kind of how they survive. Think of it like… standard courtesy.”

“Hm,” he muttered, clearly not sold. “That wasn’t a thing back then.”

“Nope. And neither was pineapple on pizza, but we all have to make peace with modern horrors.”

He snorted quietly, surprising even himself. She grinned and handed him a plate with a slice.

“Come on, sit. Here is your margherita.”

He took the plate and followed her to the table, still chewing on the whole tip situation like it was stranger than the idea of a pizza arriving hot at your door.

----

The next day, just like they’d agreed, they headed to the secondhand shop not long after she got back from work. She dropped her bag, changed into something more comfortable, and they began the careful balancing act of getting all the sorted boxes to the door without tripping over themselves.

The way her schedule rotated still threw him off. Some mornings she was gone quickly after breakfast, and other days she didn’t come in until the moon was up. When he’d asked, she’d explained it was something her boss had set up so employees could actually have real lives: plan appointments, errands, family things. Mornings off, afternoons off. Rotating freedom. It sounded nice. Too nice. Structured and unpredictable all at once. Made sense in theory, but it still left him uneasy.

He’d insisted on carrying most of the boxes, stacked awkwardly in his arms. She only took one, guiding him carefully with a hand around the sleeve of his jacket so he didn’t walk blindly into street poles or mailboxes.

She knew there was a lot, hell, there were even clothes from her granny in there, some other untouched since her last move, and she doubted she’d get much for it. A few bucks, maybe. The real goal was to clear the room out, but she didn’t tell Bucky that. He already walked around like any effort she made on his behalf was tipping the scale too far. He didn’t need to know it was more about making space than making money.

The secondhand shop was warm and smelled faintly of old denim, wooden hangers, and lavender sachets, trying to do their best. The clerk behind the counter looked up at the bell above the door, gave them both a once-over, and quirked a brow at the armfuls they were hauling in.

“Spring cleaning?” she asked, dry and unimpressed.

“Something like that,” she replied, shooting Bucky a look and a half-smile.

He stood stiff, scanning the place like there might be a Hydra agent crouching behind the dress rack. But he said nothing, and didn’t shift the boxes even once. Just waited for her to lead.

----

As she haggled gently with the clerk. Bucky let himself drift from the counter. Just a slow, careful wander meant to stay out of the way.

The store stretched deeper than he expected. A side-room opened off the main space, cluttered with more than just racks of clothing, there were tables covered in brass trinkets, crates stacked with mismatched kitchenware, and shelves crowded with lamps that hadn’t lit a room in decades.

They didn’t just deal in clothes, then.

He stepped over the threshold, letting his fingers skim the edge of a chipped enamel basin.

Some of the things he couldn’t place at all, odd plastic gadgets with tangled cords, neon-colored toys that looked radioactive, piles of things that he couldn’t imagine a use for. They seemed old and well-used, but clearly, they weren’t as old as him.

But then, he saw the corner.

A dusty table with a few shaving kits stacked in a wire basket, old double-edged razors, the kind he used to have in the barracks. A hand mirror with silver leaf peeling from the edges. A transistor radio with the RCA Victor logo faded but still visible.

His breath hitched, his brain assaulted with a memory.

One of the shelves held what looked like the skeleton of a mixer, bulky, steel-bodied, the kind his ma used to keep in the pantry, only hauled out for Christmas or when someone died and the neighbors brought over casseroles. It still had the same round dial, the chipped paint around the base.

And next to that, a battered box marked Vinyls - 10 each.

He crouched and let his hand travel over the stack. Things that once played on jukeboxes and radios before he was-

Well. Before.

He must’ve been crouched by that crate longer than he thought, because she showed up at his side eventually.

“Anything that caught your eye?” she asked, resting her hands on the edge of the table.

He gave a small shake of his head, his eyes still on the covers. “Not really.”

Most of the names meant nothing. Maybe they once had. A couple looked vaguely familiar, but it was more like spotting a stranger who reminded you of someone you used to know. And the few he did recognize… Well. He didn’t have a record player. Didn’t know if he even wanted one.

“Jus’ lookin’,” he muttered, clearing his throat. His knuckles brushed over a worn cardboard edge before letting go. “Are you done?”

“Yup,” she replied, stepping beside him. She picked up something from a cluttered tray, a silvery, chrome-toned brooch shaped like a curling vine. The lines were smooth, elegant, the way things used to be made when details mattered. Nestled between the swirling leaves were three tiny blue glass stones, imitation sapphires maybe, catching the light like dew.

One of those little coquetry items women used to pin on their blouses. Not flashy. Not cheap either. Just... feminine. She turned it in her hand, smiling faintly, brushing her thumb on the back where the pin mechanism still held.

He glanced at it, then at her.

And thought -unbidden- that it suited her.

Like it had been waiting there this whole time just for her to pass by.

He looked away before she caught him staring, and swallowed.

“Want me to carry the boxes back?” he asked.

“Oh no, the boxes stay here, we have no use for them,” she declared, setting the brooch back on the tray with a soft clink of metal against metal.

Bucky’s jaw twitched, his eyes remaining on the cardboard stacks near the counter. He didn’t like the idea of leaving them behind. Had stacked them against the walls like a shield when he first got to the apartment. They made the space feel contained. Like a perimeter he controlled. Maybe he had thought unconsciously that he could put them back. Reinforce the nest. Hole up again.

But they were staying. She was right. There was no point. They were just clutter now.

“Want to linger a little more or…?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

He dragged his eyes off the boxes, idly rubbing his thumb at the seam of his sleeve, and gave a small shake of the head. “No. I- I’d like to go home.”

Her eyebrows lifted, a smile pulling at her mouth, soft and surprised. “Home, huh?”

He ducked his head slightly, ears pink.

“Alright, big guy,” she said, patting his metal arm as she passed. “Let’s go home, then.”

He followed her out, keeping close as always.

----

“Oh!” She stopped just outside the second-hand shop, hand catching his sleeve lightly. “Wanna check if they have a shelf? Since you mentioned putting one up.”

He shifted his weight. “Not right now,” he muttered, glancing past her. “I- I’d really like to go back.”

She looked at his face for a moment, then gave a silent nod. “Alright then.”

She didn’t press.

He followed her down the street, this time consciously keeping his pace beside her instead of falling into step behind like a silent guard. But the shift didn’t come easily. Every few strides, his eyes flicked to the buildings, the parked cars, the strangers walking ahead. Always scanning. Always searching for a threat.

His mind drifted as they walked. To the room. Emptier now. He couldn’t think past that, not really. Not yet.

Even if the apartment felt safe now -even if he’d called it home- he still needed the perimeter. The foxhole. Some corner that felt like a fallback position. Somewhere to retreat if things tilted sideways again.

God, he thought. It’s so fucked up.

He exhaled through his nose, scanning the sidewalk again. A man with a too-long stare. A car slowing too close to the curb.

Whatever was broken in him, fine. He could live with it.

But if something touched her?

No. Not on his watch.

----

The hallway light flicked on as they stepped inside the apartment. She shrugged off her coat and tossed the keys in the bowl by the door, glancing at the clock.

“Think I’ll put on some MasterChef UK,” she said casually, already walking toward the couch. “The British one’s better. Less screaming. More actual food. I think you might like it.”

He offered a small nod but didn’t follow. His eyes followed the space ahead -warm and lived-in- before passing straight to the back instead.

“I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely toward the hall. “Gonna be in my room for a bit.”

“Sure,” she said, not pushing. “If you want snacks or something, I’ll be out here.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he closed his eyes.

His room felt bigger now. Not better. Just emptier. Exposed. The absence of the boxes made the walls feel farther apart, the corners darker somehow. Bucky stood in the middle for a moment, with his arms loose at his sides, and then moved.

He dragged the cot to a new wall. It didn’t scrape much; he’d lifted it slightly, mindful of the floor. Then the laundry basket, tucked beneath the window, now. The old lamp, once half-hidden, stood upright in the far corner. The chair, the mirror, both repositioned like he was setting pieces on a board, trying to define the space again.

It had to do. It wasn’t the bunker anymore, not really. But it had to be something. Something his.

He exhaled through his nose, sat on the edge of the cot, and reached for the notepad. The one he’d already started to write in. The cover was creased from where he’d gripped it too hard earlier that day.

He opened it and began scribbling. A list, a few half-sentences, and then fuller ones. Observations about the second-hand shop. The record sleeves. The appliance that reminded him of his ma. The radio knob, exactly like the one in his neighbor’s kitchen back in Brooklyn.

None of it hurt to remember. Not yet.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404@lil-riddle-kiddle@maryevm @yindoesstuff @shaheea @maladaptive0romantic @cricket-reader @nynxtea @justalittlebitbored @icefox8155 @gloriousvariant @hiraethmae @ixopod @moth-mortuary @belladonnadarksshade @infinitepersuasion @frog-fans-unite @littlesuniee @sebastians-love @icantblink @stillnotsatisfied-blog

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Yes, Professor

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.7k

Warnings: smut with very little plot

Summary: Things spice up when you get a new professor for your criminal justice class, and your thoughts grow dirty when you see the desire in his eyes.

Square Filled: college au (2020) for @cm-kinkbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3

x

Intro to Criminology is boring enough, but to have a professor who has a monotone voice and no passion for the subject makes you want to claw your own eyes out. Before, you didn’t have any joy coming to class and would often look forward to leaving it. It’s a requirement for your future in law enforcement, so you have to suck it up and hope that the next class has a professor worth listening to.

However, Dr. Fitch recently had a heart attack and was whisked away to the hospital. You hope he’s going to be okay, of course, but the man kind of had it coming. He was nearly eighty years old. He did his time in law enforcement and only took this job so he wouldn’t sit at home, bored.

Instead of cancelling class or splitting up the class to the other two professors that teach the same subject, the school is having someone from the FBI come in and be your new “substitute teacher” for the rest of the semester. It’s only for a month, maybe a bit more, but you’re excited. For the first time, you want to come to class. It’s not that the subject in itself is boring; it was the professor.

Word around the block is that the new professor is young, a lot younger than Dr. Fitch. He has a young child, but his wife died several years ago. He loves running and participating in marathons, and he’s run a very successful BAU unit for well over a decade. That’s, at least, according to your best friend Cherry, thanks to social media and a quick Google search. Seriously, she’d be a good hacker for the FBI. With merely a name, she can find out if someone ate toast for breakfast. She’s scary good.

This class has seen some FBI agents from the BAU before. Spencer Reid was cute, but he rambled on a lot. He wasn’t that confident, even though he knew what he was talking about. Rossi taught a class once, but he seems too intense for you. The one coming today is older than Spencer but younger than Rossi.

You arrive at class early for once and make sure to get a seat up front. Cheery walks in seconds later, and she pushes past a group of girls to grab the seat next to you.

“I was about to start fighting girls to keep this open for you,” you joke.

“I’m here. Has he arrived yet?”

“Does it look like he’s here?” you laugh.

“I hear he’s a real Daddy, and not in the literal sense.”

I guess we’ll find out in,” you check your watch, “five minutes.”

Five minutes later, Professor Hotchner walks in. The entire class is chatting and messing around, but the room falls silent upon seeing him. Fuck what Cherry heard. None of it compares to what he actually looks like.  This is a man if you’ve ever seen one. Dark hair, strong build, impeccable suit, and a sharp jawline. Cheery nudges you, but you don’t take your eyes off Professor Hotchner.

You slouch down in your chair and widen your legs a bit, unaware that you’re wearing a skirt. All the girls immediately start whispering to their friends while the boys grumble in jealousy. Professor Hotchner puts his briefcase on the desk before addressing the class.

“Hello. My name is Aaron Hotchner, but please, call me Hotch. I know the situation isn’t ideal, but I hope Dr. Fitch makes a full recovery. It’s been a while since I’ve done an intro class, so please bear with me.” His eyes immediately lock with yours, and it’s like everyone else disappears. His eyes are chocolate brown, but there’s something else in them. Something primal. “While I get familiar with your course studies, you’ll be watching a documentary on serial killers.”

Hotch gets the documentary going and turns down the lights. He walks back to his desk with every intention of going through Dr. Fitch’s notes, but his eyes move to you. You’re trying your best to watch the documentary, but you can’t focus when you feel his eyes on you. You dare look at him, and you almost blush from his intense gaze. His eyes slowly rake down your entire body, eyes locking on your legs. His jaw ticks, and he immediately looks away. You know it’s because of your skirt.

The thought makes you smirk.

By the time class is done, he has looked at you for a total of twenty times. Yes, you counted. There’s something about you that he can’t look away from. You’re packing up your things when you hear him speak.

“Miss Y/N, please see me before you leave.”

“Good luck,” Cherry smirks.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and walk over to his desk. “Yes, Professor Hotchner?”

“Please, call me Hotch. I was looking through the recent homework assignments, and I can’t help but notice your paper. I’m not an expert on this class, nor am I familiar with the details of the course, but even I can tell that most of your answers are wrong. I don’t know how Dr. Fitch ran things, but you’re going to have to work hard if you want your grade to increase.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my very best.”

“Bye, Professor.”

Hotch watches you walk away, and his jaw ticks again. All he could focus on were your pretty pink panties peeking out from under your skirt. How completely inappropriate. Thoughts of what they would look like on the floor invade his mind, and he quickly tries to shake them out of his head. This would not bode well if the faculty knew what was running through his head right now.

You knew exactly what Hotch was thinking when he was watching you yesterday, so you made sure to show up to class wearing an even shorter skirt. Still to the school’s standards, but this skirt is slightly shorter than the one you were wearing yesterday. Your shirt is tucked neatly into your waistband like a proper schoolgirl. Cheery, upon seeing this in class, almost busts out laughing.

“Girl, you are going to make him have a heart attack.”

“That’s the point,” you smirk. Maybe it’s all in your head, but you saw desire in his eyes. If you’re lucky, then you might be able to do something about it. “I’m sure he has office hours, right?”

Cherry giggles and gets her things out. Hotch walks in minutes later, and his eyes immediately go to you. They briefly drop down to your legs before they look away, and his jaw ticks in irritation. Mostly at himself for letting himself look. It’s too late. He already saw them. White panties. Lace, to be exact. He shouldn’t have taken this job. He’s trying to cut down on his time with the FBI, so he wanted to take on something else that might fuel his passions. It’s not that he doesn’t love the BAU; he does, but he is looking for something else to do. His time at the BAU has run its course.

“Alright, settle down, everyone.” He waits for the class to go silent. “Now that I’ve caught up with your course, it’s time to introduce you to the project that will be worth sixty percent of your grade. You will be creating a profile based on a serial killer of your choice, along with analyzing crime scenes, offender behavior, psychological motivations, and victimology. You will need these skills if you’re serious about advancing in this field. You will be in partners for this, and no two teams will have the same serial killers. You have the rest of the class to get into groups and figure out a game plan.”

Cheery immediately slides to your side, a silent gesture that she is your partner. Fitting, seeing how she’s your only friend in this class. You two are going with H.H. Holmes since he’s America’s first known serial killer. It’ll be fun diving deep into his history. The entire time you plan with Cherry, you can feel Hotch’s eyes on you. That feeling doesn’t go away until the end of class.

“Y/N, please come see me before you leave.”

“Girl, if you don’t fuck him, I will,” Cherry whispers as she packs her bag.

“I shouldn’t be long. I’ll meet you at the cafeteria.” Once most of the class is gone, you walk up to his desk and put on an innocent facade. “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“What have I said? Call me Hotch.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod.

He waits until the last person has left to speak. “Listen, I don’t appreciate the choice of clothing you decided to wear today.” You look down at your skirt and shirt, pretending not to see how it’s wrong. “I think it’s a bit inappropriate for school, don’t you think?”

“Am I distracting, Professor Hotchner?”

His jaw ticks. “No, but there is a dress code for this university, and I expect you to follow it, or else I’ll inform the Dean about this.”

“Of course, Professor. Anything else?” He shakes his head, not trusting his voice right now. “Goodbye, Professor.”

You walk back to your desk and bend down to retrieve your bag, knowing full well he can see your white panties on display. They’re cheekies, and they show off your ass well. Hotch grips his desk to keep himself from going over there and reddening your ass. Before he can move, you’re gone from class, and he releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He needs a drink.

Luckily, Rossi is still at the BAU when Hotch gets there, and he walks into his office with a tired look. Rossi already has a drink out for him, and Hotch takes it gratefully.

“Class not going well?” Rossi asks.

“It’s not that. The class is fine.” Hotch hesitates. He knows Rossi won’t judge him, but he still doesn’t know if he should tell him what’s going on. The alcohol decides for him. He tells Rossi everything that’s happened since the first day. “She’s driving me crazy, Dave. I shouldn’t do anything. It’s against the rules. Plus, she’s younger than I am.”

“But legal.”

“I’m serious, Dave.”

“So am I. Look, I’ve never been the one to stick to the rules. Hell, I’m the reason we had this ‘no fratinzation’ rule here. As long as you’re both consenting adults, what’s the problem?”

Hotch shakes his head. “It’s not going to happen.”

It’s definitely going to happen. No, it’s not. Don’t think with your cock, his alter ego says to him. You and Cheery are together working on the project, and Hotch can’t help but take in what you’re wearing. You have on a dress that’s longer than the skirt you were wearing yesterday, but it’s sheer. Not sheer enough to make it obvious, but Hotch can see the black panties you have on underneath. The top of your dress has a deep V that shows off your breasts in a flattering way.

He’s fucking losing his mind.

The teasing doesn’t stop there. Over the next couple of weeks, you’ve been teasing Hotvch with your outfits. Once Cherry caught on to what you were doing, she opted to help. With both of you dolling yourself up, Hotch had no shot. He’s this close to snapping. Hotch waits for everyone to come into class before gathering the tests in his hands.

“Alright, as I pass out the tests back to you, please remember that there is only one more test before the project is due. If you fail that, you’ll have a hard time passing this class. I highly encourage you to use the university’s library to study.” Hotch passes out the tests, not really paying attention to you. When he gets to you, he stops when he sees a fat lollipop in your mouth. He can’t focus on anything but the way you’re sucking on the treat, and his cock twitches in attention. “Ms. Y/N, please see me after class.”

He hands you your test, and you see you’ve missed ten questions out of thirty. That’s sixty-six percent. It’s still passing, but if you don’t bring your grade up, then you’ll never pass this class. It’s not like it’s hard, you just need the right motivators.

“Girl, this is your chance,” Cherry whispers to you.

“He won’t know what hit him,�� you smirk.

This time, you wait until after everyone has left the class. Whatever is going to happen needs a locked door. You subtly lock the door before returning to your desk.

“Y/N, I’m kind of disappointed in your test answers. I know you by now. I know you can do better than this.”

“I’m sorry, Professor. I guess I need a little extra help. What are your office hours again?”

Hotch has had enough. In the beginning, he wasn’t sure if these feelings were one-sided. However, if your behavior tells him anything over the past few weeks, it’s that you’re interested in him as much as he is in you. If you say stop, he will, no questions asked, but he thinks he’s going to take a page out of Rossi’s book for this one.

“No, there’s a much better-suited punishment for girls like you.”

You purse your lips. “Girls like me?”

“Bad girls like you.” You bite your lower lip. This is happening. Fuck, you didn’t prepare for this, but you’re excited. “Come here.”

There is no room in his tone for arguments. You leave your desk and walk slowly over to him, your insides tingling with anticipation.

“What’s my punishment?”

“How many questions did you miss?” he asks, ignoring your question.

“Ten.”

“That’s how many times I’m going to spank you.”

Your breath hitches. “But sir--”

“Come over here.”

Again, there is no room for argument. Your pussy grows wet at the thought of his hand marking your ass red. You walk to the other side of the desk, and you’re about to turn to face him when he moves so you’re forced to keep your back to him.

“Raise your dress and bend over.” You hesitate a bit too long. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You could say no and walk away. He’s not going to force you to do anything. You could give yourself an out. You don’t. Instead, you grab the hem of your dress and lift it over your ass, showing off your black thong to him. You bend over his desk, pressing your chest flush against the cool wood.

“I want you to count.” He brings his hand down onto your ass, causing you to yelp in surrpise. “If you don’t count, we start all over.”

“One,” you pant.

Smack! You squeak out the second number, already losing focus. Spanking is a big turn-on for you. Hotch rubs your sore cheek with one hand, bringing his other hand to your other cheek.

“Three!” you gasp.

Smack! Smack! Smack! They come in quick bursts, and you do your best to keep voicing the number you’re on. Only four more. Hotch presses his obvious bulge into the crack of your ass while kneading your cheeks. Fuck, he even feels big. He pulls away and slaps both cheeks at the same time, and you count out number seven and eight.

“Fuck, you’re doing such a good job. Two more. Can you handle it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Hotch grins and smacks you twice more, satisfaction running through his body when he hears how needy you are in your voice.

“What a good girl. Fuck, you’re soaked, and I’ve barely begun.”

Hotch sits back down and runs his fingers along the tiny fabric between your legs. He hooks his finger and pulls your panties to the side, and he almost groans at how wet you are. You whine when you feel his finger tracing your entrance, gathering the wetness that sits there.

Without warning, he shoves a finger inside of you, and your back arches. At this point, you’re wet enough so that Hotch slips right in without resistance. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your reddened skin, and you moan when he curls his finger in you. He slowly pulls it out, only to put two into you when he pushes forward.

“Fuck, please, Professor. I’ve been a good girl,” you beg.

“You have, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good things come to good girls who behave.”

Hotch pulls his fingers out of you and sticks one of them into his mouth. Fuck, he’s never tasted anything like this. So tangy yet with a hint of sweetness. He leans over you and puts his middle finger to your mouth.

“Taste how wet you are.”

You don’t think twice about taking his middle finger into your mouth. While you lick and suck your juices off his finger, he undoes his pants with his other hand. You moan and push back into him, impatient for his cock. He pulls his finger out of your mouth and stands up straight, pulling his cock from his briefs.

“I have condoms with me, unless you prefer not to have them.”

“I’m clean, and I’m on birth control,” you pant.

“I’m clean, too. You want me bare? To feel every inch of me as I slide into this pretty cunt?”

“Yes, Professor. Please, fuck me.”

He grabs your hips with one hand and pumps himself with the other hand. “Well, when you beg like that, how can I say no?”

Hotch runs the tip of his cock through your folds before pushing in. You gasp at how big he is, and it takes everything in you not to push back against him. In one quick thrust, he seats himself in you.

“Fuck!” you gasp.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs so that your head is off his desk. He stays like that for a moment, just allowing you to feel how full you are, and allowing himself not to come right there and then. It’s been a while since he’s had sex, and he doesn’t want this moment to be over before it’s even begun.

He starts off slow, pulling out and watching himself slide right back in. What a sight to behold. So wet for him. He can see his cock is shiny with your pussy whenever he pulls out. He wonders what you’d look like on your knees sucking him clean. Another fantasy for another day.

Then, he starts to pick up the pace, watching as your red ass jiggles whenever he slams into you. You’ve never been quiet during sex, and while he’d love to hear every single moan, this place isn’t soundproof. He’d hate for someone to try and come in while he’s fucking you. The door is locked, but that doesn’t mean they won’t get someone who has the keys.

He lets go of your hair and snakes his hand to your mouth, muffling your moans. He presses the front of his body to your back, pinning you flush against the desk. His soft grunts fill your ears as does the sound of his cock slamming into you. Fuck, this is so much better than you could have hoped for.

The spanking got you halfway to an orgasm, so you’re close without him touching your clit. Normally, you need that to come, but you’re so caught in the moment that you can’t think of anything else but coating his cock with your cum.

“Does my student want to come?” he grunts out.

“Please. Let me come,” you beg with his hand still over your mouth.

“What was that? You have to speak up if you want me to hear you,” he smirks.

Pleasure spikes your entire body as he quickens his thrusts. He’s close, whether he wants to admit it or not. He seems like the kind of man who wants his women to come before him, so you try something to bring him closer to the edge. You clench around his cock, making it slightly harder for Hotch to move.

“It’s like that, huh? Fuck,” he curses. “Are you close?” You nod rapidly. “Come for me. I want you to fucking soak my cock with your cum.”

Fuck, he even talks dirty well. His thrusts get deeper and hit a spot you never knew existed. Stars explode in your vision as you’re brought to orgasm. Your body jerks as your pussy spasms around his cock. Hotch moans softly and thrusts once more before shooting his load inside of you. He removes his hand from your mouth, and you drop your head to the desk.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

Hotch looks down and sees a bit of your mixed cum leaking out of you. He slowly pulls out, making you wince from the pressure. His cum leaks down your thigh, but he’s quick to catch it. He scoops up whatever he can and pushes his cum back into you.

“Now, when you walk out of here, I want you to feel me running down your thighs.”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper.

Hotch puts your panties back in place before lowering your skirt. You try to stand, but your legs wobble slightly. You turn to see him tuck himself back inside his pants. A sense of uneasiness settles over you. Not for what you two just did, but for what you should do now. Should you suggest he come over? To dinner? Just leave without a word? You can’t come to this class and not think about what you two did.

“Here, I want you to have this.” He reaches into his briefcase and takes out a small business card. His business card. It has his name and phone number on it. “When you get home tonight, and your pussy weeps for me again, call me. Maybe this time, I’ll properly fuck you.”

Oh, shit. You take the card with a shaky hand and grab your bag. He sits down at his desk and fixes the papers to be more organized. He doesn’t look up again. His cum slowly leaks out of you as you hurry away, and the thought of doing this again brings a smile to your face.

Maybe this won’t be a one-off thing. Maybe you might have the affair of your fantasies.

x

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[formulafanfics13]

can u please write something for ollie and yn being teamates and childhood rivals . they 'hate' each other but when someone insults her he almost puts them in the hospital . she saw it obviously. later they smeet at the hotel , tension is suffocating and they finally give in and have sex

Break Point - OB87 🔥

Masterlist

Summary You and Ollie Bearman have been rivals since you were twelve — fast, feral, fiercely competitive. Now you're teammates at Haas, the youngest pairing on the grid, and the paddock eats up your tension like candy. But when a sleazy comment is thrown your way after FP2 in Austria, Ollie loses it. He nearly knocks the guy out without thinking, then storms off like it meant nothing. Except it did. Later that night, when you follow him into his hotel room, the truth unravels. Ollie admits he thinks about you constantly. What follows is years of anger, tension, and desire combusting into the kind of sex that leaves bruises, shakes walls, and rewrites everything you thought you knew about hate. You don’t talk about it — not really — but it’s too late. You’re already his. And he’s already yours.

Warnings hate-to-love dynamic, intense rivals-to-lovers tension, explicit sexual content, oral (f receiving), choking (light and consensual), aggressive language, praise kink, rough sex, possessiveness, enemies with history, unresolved emotional tension, hotel setting, jealousy, implied dom/sub dynamic, first time between characters with shared past, no protection, mild violence (Ollie throws someone), emotionally charged confrontation leading to sex.

You’ve hated Ollie Bearman since you were twelve. Not the real kind of hate, not the kind that burns. No. Yours is sharper. Colder. Competitive. The kind of hate that stares too long. That knows how fast he is in the wet. That remembers what he said to you in Italy three years ago and still holds onto it like a grudge in your chest.

You're teammates now. Haas' prodigy pairing. Two of the youngest on the grid. Two rising stars with more podium predictions than social skills. And the paddock fucking loves it, the tension, the attitude, the passive-aggressive post-race interviews.

They don’t know the half of it. The day it breaks, it’s hot. Austria. Friday. FP2 just wrapped. You’re walking back to the hospitality tent with your helmet in your hand and sweat down your spine when it happens.

Some mechanic from another team, you don’t even register who, makes a comment just loud enough to be heard. Something about your pace. Your body. Your mouth.

It’s disgusting. Blatant. And you laugh it off because you always do.

But Ollie hears it. And he doesn’t.

He turns so fast you don’t even have time to react. Doesn’t say a word. Just grabs the guy by the collar and slams him back against the side of the garage so hard tools rattle.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Ollie-” you start, wide-eyed, frozen.

“Say it again,” he snarls. “Say it again, I fucking dare you.”

His fist is already cocked. Jaw tight. Breath ragged. And the guy, pale now, voice cracking, doesn’t say a word.

Ollie shoves him once more for good measure, then steps back, storming past you without a glance.

You stand there stunned. Because that wasn’t performance. That wasn’t rivalry. That was something else.

It hits you an hour later in the elevator.

You’re both staying at the same hotel. Of course you are. Of course you get in at the same time.

He’s leaning against the mirrored wall, hoodie thrown on, knuckles still red. You step in. Silence.

You press your floor. So does he. Same one. “Thanks for the whole… murder attempt thing,” you say lightly.

He huffs. “Didn’t do it for you.”

You turn your head. “Bullshit.”

His jaw tightens. You’re watching him in the reflection now. He’s not looking at you.

But his hands are clenched. His breath’s off. And the second the elevator doors open, you both move. His room’s to the right. Yours to the left. But you turn the same way. No words.

He unlocks the door. Leaves it open. And you follow.

The room is dark. Quiet. He throws his hoodie to the floor and doesn’t look at you. Just stands there. Back to you.

You close the door. “Ollie.”

Still nothing. You step closer. Until you’re right behind him. “Why’d you do it?” you ask. Soft.

He turns. And that’s when you see it.

The look. Raw. Unspoken. Feral.

“I don’t want anyone talking about you like that,” he says. “Ever.”

You blink. “Why?”

He stares at you. His throat bobs. Then. Quietly, brokenly, “Because I think about you like that every fucking day.”

The kiss is violent. No build-up. No warning. Just teeth and heat and years of tension combusting in the space of a breath.

He pins you to the wall like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Kisses you like he’s trying to win. Like every race, every podium, every lap time has led to this.

Your clothes vanish in pieces, shirt yanked up, jeans shoved down. He pushes your panties aside like he can’t be bothered to wait. “Say you hate me,” he growls.

“I do,” you gasp.

“Liar,” he snaps, dragging his fingers through your folds. “You’re soaked.”

You moan, nails digging into his arms.

He lifts you with zero effort, carries you to the bed, drops you onto the mattress, and spreads you open with his hands on your thighs like he’s claiming you.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “God, I’ve wanted to wreck you for years.”

He dives between your legs with no hesitation. Licks you like it’s his last meal. No finesse, just hunger.

Your hands fly to his hair. “Fuck, Ollie-”

“That’s it,” he pants, fingers replacing his tongue. “Come for me. Come like you’ve hated me your whole fucking life.”

You scream. Legs shaking. Hips twitching. Back arching. He doesn’t stop. Slides up. Lines himself up. Pushes inside in one hard, desperate thrust.

“Fuck.”

You both freeze for half a second, panting, stunned. Then he fucks you. Hard. Deep. Fast. The room echoes with every slap of skin, every curse, every ragged, furious moan.

“You’ve always wanted this,” he grits. “Don’t fucking lie.”

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nails down his back.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Tell me.”

“I wanted you,” you gasp. “I always wanted you.”

He kisses you like he’s drowning.

You come again with his hand on your throat and his name in your mouth. He follows seconds later, groaning into your neck, body trembling.

And still, neither of you speak.

It’s quiet after. He doesn’t move. Just lies there, still inside you, head on your chest. You run a hand through his hair. “You gonna hit someone every time they talk about me?”

“Only if they’re not me.”

You laugh.

He lifts his head. Looks at you. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

You nod. “Completely.”

And then he kisses you again.

[bewitched-hours]

Hey!hello, I liked one request from one user about a reader - a peasant and royalty of that two time and azur, can you please the second part, where someone from another kingdom tried to kidnap the reader?:3

Oooo, I remember that one, it was pretty fun to do so yeah, let's get a part 2 in this!

Once again, the reader will get they/them~

You never questioned the lack of backlash or confrontation from other kingdoms... Not that you should, of course~

But wasn't it a little strange? You were treated like royalty without any hesitation or malice from others. You tried to shrug it off as you being royalty now but there was always this nagging feeling whenever you noticed Azure and/or Two Time looking... Almost disgusted?

It was usually for the case of another kingdom attention to negotiate a way to get you away from their sight for too long, which you didn't blame your lovers for. They were worried about you and ever since they allowed you to help them in taking care of the kingdom, it seemed that the lives of the peasants greatly improved and they were much more devoted to you three as a result.

Two Time wasn't necessarily one to care much about such devotion but Azure was stoked! Thanks to you, living in the kingdom became more enjoyable and they didn't even have to do much. You made it seem to simple and in your mind, it really was.

But it wasn't surprising that more kingdoms were getting interested in you. More rulers from far out wanted your help in their kingdoms but you were strongly against the idea of leaving your kingdom for so long and your decision made your lovers greatly happy.

After all, this meant they could keep you to themselves longer and didn't have to sit by and watch you assist another ruler in their kingdom affairs...

You were their spouse! Your time should ideally only be spent with them and not another ruler who might try to get their slimy little hands on you... Not that Azure and Two Time would shy away from starting a war to stop that...

But as it just so happened, one of these supposed 'visitors' had taken a particular interest in you.

A prince who was notorious for never being denied his will. A bit too young for your tastes and you were already married so he was sent off to talk with his father on further matters.

And as luck would have it, you happened to disappear that same evening while taking a stroll through the garden. The knights who were meant to protect you were completely knocked out and it looked like a battle took place.

Safe to say... Your lovers were less than happy about this stupid stunt that was clearly orchestrated by that damned Prince...

You were trapped in a dungeon by that spoiled rat... Kept quiet with a rag in your mouth and tied together with ropes that would inevitably leave marks on your skin...

But you stayed calm. You trusted Azure and Two Time would get you out in no time because why wouldn't they? You've heard them threaten wars with kingdoms that wanted to persist on dragging you away from them, it was no secret they're... Protective.

And true to their nature, they arrived just a day later to negotiate your freedom.

Except, it wasn't much of a negotiation and more of a threat. You could hear muffled shouting from them both and couldn't help but feel an odd sense of warmth at the knowledge that they were going to such lengths for you.

Their love was true and genuine. Not once did they try to meddle with your decisions unless they had actual reason to and they took you seriously. Your life was blissful with them and you weren't just some trophy like this naive prince thought.

Surprisingly though, their shouting served more as a distraction as one of the royal knights managed to sneak into the dungeon and carry you away. You were snuck into the royal carriage and freed from your restraints as you were hidden from view.

Now you couldn't know what was happening with your lovers but it seemed to have gone according to plan when they entered the carriage and had you sit between them on the way back, each with one hand around your waist and the other holding your own.

You were just happy to go back home. Even though you knew war would still break out to avoid this prince trying anything else.

"There's no talking you down, is there?" You chuckled softly that evening as you caught Two Time and Azure discussing plans to invade the kingdom in a way where the peasants could be spared but the royal family would have no chance of surviving.

You just knew leaving the peasants alive was Azure's doing. "Talking us down?" Azure questioned with a slight smirk. "They've taken you from us, the only punishment that is fit is death." Two Time added, earning a nod from Azure.

You just sighed with a slight smile still on your face, giving them both a kiss before heading back out the door. "Well, try not to stay in here too late. Sleeping without the two of you is a bit bothersome." You spoke gently and with the company of a personal guard, you returned to your shared bedroom and wrapped yourself in blankets for warmth. The guard had to be inside the room to watch over you until Azure and Two Time were back but without them your body simply refused to sleep properly.

You were trapped in a state of being half-asleep and couldn't do anything but wait.

It could've been minutes or hours, you weren't really sure when they returned to you but you did hear the door opening and closing with the Guard being ordered away before the two took their places on either side of you and gently unwrapped you as to not wake you up.

Before you knew it, the three of you had formed a loving cocoon together with both Two Time and Azure whispering praises about you while they fell asleep.

War was tomorrow. Tonight was just love in its purest form as their shared warmth and praise helped you settle into the land of dreams...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[gali-vue-la]

do y'all ever think about what happened after the third movie.

i dont, often, because i dont like the third movie. ive only watched it once, so i could be wrong about some things, but i was just thinking today about how things would've gone on in the days and weeks and years after.

mostly, about hiccup, because all i ever think about these days are hiccup and toothless. i was thinking about how, for a large part of his life, everything about hiccup has revolved around toothless and dragons. how it was, really, the first thing he'd ever done that got more than a glance from someone else. more than a "get back inside before you mess everything up more" from his father, from anyone.

we see two of hiccup's inventions in the first movie: first, the mangler, which was built, designed, and operated with the intent to help his village, to hunt dragons, to be like everyone else. it is dismissed outright, he is dismissed outright, and later, it is crushed under the foot of a monstrous nightmare that intends to kill him. we don't ever see it again, it is never thought of or acknowledged again, and i can just picture the wood rotting apart, the metal sinking into the earth until no trace remains.

then we see toothless's tailfin. everything it represents is contrary to what the mangler was; it does not help the village, it does not hunt dragons, it makes hiccup even more of an outlier than he already was. it is the only of hiccup's inventions thus far to have been taken seriously, the only thing anyone else has ever put value in. we see gobber, at the end of the first movie, with a tailfin he constructed for hiccup, for toothless, from hiccup's destroyed design and what must have been his notes, because it is the only invention that they have ever cared about, the only one they have bothered to take a closer look at. it comes, in turn, with the arrival and acceptance of dragons.

following that, we see so many, countless, of hiccup's creations. i wont even delve into the shows, because i could be here for hours.

in the second movie, we see his glide suit, his sword, his leg. even little things, like where he stores his map, his little compass, and the tailfin, which carries over from the first movie, with improvements—every single one of these once again revolves around toothless and dragons. every one is important when it comes to saving berk and the dragons from drago's clutches.

his glide suit, we later see, is furthered in the third movie, and by then, each of the "main gang" has their own flight suit. it's vital in defeating drago and outsmarting/outmaneuvering him. it is something hiccup so clearly adores, something he needs toothless to use and something that furthers the connection between them. he uses it to fly alongside him, he uses it to soar the skies, he uses it like a pair of prosthetic wings.

his leg, too, is so entangled in what has become him-and-toothless, that it is specifically designed to be different to the walking attachment when he's flying with toothless. there was no need to make it different, and yet, flying and dragons and toothless are so important to him that they have their own spot, their own design, their own piece of themselves in something hiccup cannot live without. it's like a key in the lock that is toothless's tailfin; they cannot fly without this specific, unique design of hiccup's prosthetic leg. this specific, unique design of hiccup's prosthetic leg that serves no purpose other than flying with toothless.

this brings me to my original thought: his sword. Inferno.

It is a blade, yes, but like everything else hiccup has made since the first movie: it is so entangled in everything that makes dragons dragons that it is almost inseparable. Zippleback gas and Nightmare gel are what make it Inferno and not a mere skeleton of a sword. except it's not infinite, and it's not forever, and with no dragons around after the third movie, he will run out of gel, and he will run out of gas, and inferno will become a skeleton of itself. something that no longer works like it should, like hiccup designed and built it to.

what do you think happens, when that day comes?

hiccup is so entangled in everything that makes dragons dragons that they are almost inseparable. what do you think became of him, in those days and weeks and months and years after? do you think he broke down every time he had to give up one of his creations? do you think he became numb, despondent, as he watched so much of his hard work become unusable? useless, once more, like he had been? do you think he fell back into the boy he once was, before dragons? do you think he felt worthless? Hiccup, the dragon master, without dragons? do you think he struggled?

I do. I think it was horrific, and excruciating, and enough to break a lesser man.

i think he used that blade until the day he ran out of gas and gel. i think he couldn't bear to use it after, strong as it still may be, because it didn't work right. it didn't work like he intended it to. i think he hides it away, because he can't bear to look at it, but he keeps it close, under his bed, maybe, or in a chest that's always closed, because he can't bear to be apart from it, either.

I think he used his scale armour until it broke apart, reached for shedded scales to grind to paste and fix it and instead scraped fingernails against the bottom of an empty bucket.

i think he ran his fingers over his glide suit, over every one of toothless's prosthetic tailfins over and over and over again until he realized they were wearing beneath his touch and the oil from his hands, and then i think he hid them away, so he'd never be tempted to touch them again. so he could never lose them, so he could never ruin them. so they'd last forever, even though they'd never be used again. i think he can picture them, perfectly, in his mind, every single detail and every single second he spent making them, but he's terrified that if he touches them, if he ruins them, he'll forget, and he'll have nothing left.

i think he did the same with his notebooks and designs, filled to the brim with sketches of not only his inventions, but of dragons, of toothless, of his tailfin, of every gear and mechanism he used, because he's terrified of losing them. he's terrified of forgetting how he made it, of just how long each metal boning had been, of how he fastened the leather, the angle of the curve it needed to be to fit perfectly against toothless's tail without chafing or being too loose. i think that it stays in him, in his hands and in his bones and in his mind, instinctively, that even five or ten or one-hundred years later he could still make that tailfin with his eyes closed and his hands behind his back and i think that it would be perfect, but i also think that he is more terrified than anything that he will forget how to. i think his breath stutters when he works with pulleys, and i think he has trouble wrapping leather around metal for the rest of his life.

i think that one day, with the wear, and the tear, and the strain of use, that his leg breaks. i think it shatters apart as he gets out of bed one morning, because his hands shake when he tries to check on it, when he tries to maintain it, and he hasn't been able to do more than oil it in quite a while. i think it breaks apart like glass, with metal strained and torn and weak, and i think that he falls apart when it does. i think he doesn't move, for a long, long time, fallen to the floor without anyone to catch him like there used to be, and he holds the pieces in his hands like they're more precious than gold, than anything else, because to him, they are. i think he tries to piece it back together, but the important parts are shattered, and it keeps falling apart and he doesn't have enough hands or fingers to keep it from doing so. i think that he stays there until someone finds him, and i think it takes hours even then, while someone holds his hands in their own to stop them from shaking, until they get gobber, and I think gobber makes his new leg for him, because hiccup can't.

i think gobber makes his new leg with a flight attachment, i think he makes it exactly the same as the previous one, because he can't imagine anything different. i think he does it because he's scared of what it'll do to hiccup if he doesn't.

i think that at the end of the third movie, so much has been taken from the village, from the people of berk, and from the dragons, but i think it takes and takes and takes even more from hiccup. how many things, do you think, he has made, that he holds and sees and touches after, that are rendered useless? how many things was he working on? how many designs are in his notebooks that will never become real? that he will never get to test and try and experiment with? how many ideas do you think he had, waiting for the right moment, that he now can't even bring himself to write down?

how many ideas does he have, after? how many times do you think he starts reaching for his notebook, for a piece of metal in the forge, for a hammer, before he realizes, what for? What's the point?

how many times do you think he realizes that so many of his ideas are useless once more?

pt 2 cuz im a loser

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Nine (3PO) 1 of 2

@lostinsixam, @igglemouse, @simstagramsomeone, @daedriyth, @ashubii, @simscici - Sim creators, co-writers, costume/makeup department and fashion photographers

Bright and early, the household wakes up. Room order was randomised, Jerrica and Lara spun the ground floor rooms. A wheel was spun for type of shower the contestants would have (opportunity for energised, flirty or inspired moodlet) and whether they would brush their teeth (possible confident moodlet). Once they are finished getting ready they're sent to breakfast. Autonomy is toggled on and room doors are locked.

The order the contestants arrive at breakfast matters a little. Deanna compliments each of them in the order they arrive. Those who are talked to early seem to have more chance of fitting in autonomous socials with Deanna. They might fit in a joke, flirt or gossip between her complimenting others.

Deanna: I've probably said it before but I do really love that top

Jerrica: *smiles* I debated whether to pack it or not, it's not very glitsy glam

Lara: What made you decide to pack it

Jerrica: It's just so damn comfy!

The women laugh as everyone piles into breakfast, seemingly in a good mood. That's right, Abby is NOT gloomy for now!

Kay: You look bright today Abby

Abigail: Thanks Kay, I feel it. I think doing well at rock climbing really boosted my mood

Kennedy: Aww, that's sweet to hear

Callie: Think we're ready for today's mystery?

Kennedy: I hope I'm ready. I really wanna a date

Deanna: You and me both

Jerrica: Can't you just like... tap production on the shoulder? Tell them to make a certain person win?

Kay: Not likely. Her pa seems like he has strong ethics, I'm sure he wouldn't condone cheating

Deanna: He would not

Lara: Abby, when you start one of your campaigns, how do you do it?

Callie: Oh I've been wondering that to

Abigail: Are you sure you want to know? Once I start to geek out it can be hard to stop

Jerrica: Is it like regular fantasy writing? Where you have to build the world first?

Abigail: Yes and no. I mean there are several established campaign settings you can choose from but I also have a homebrew campaign setting I use sometimes with my best friends

Callie: Pardon my ignorance but... that's not just a world full of beer right?

Lara: My guess is it means she made it herself, so it has it's own world rules

Abby nods.

Kennedy: But your setting has horses? Tell me it has horses

Kay: What would the fantasy characters ride without horses?

Deanna: I mean yes but can orcs ride horses?

With the conversation taking a very geeky turn some of the ladies break away. Kennedy goes to sunbathe... in the nude... because autonomy? Kay lights and sits by the fire pit outside, while Callie practices simbles.

Abby is just in the middle of recalling an encounter with a giant when she gasps! It would seem I didn't toggle on somewhere in my ww settings to dress up after sunbathing because Kennedy comes back in side... less formally attired than when she left.

Lara: *awkwardly* I'm going to see what food is in the fridge

Kennedy: We just had breakfast

Lara: As a glutton I really don't need much reason to eat. Excuse me

Luckily Kay and Callie outside miss the whole ordeal.

Deanna: Kennedy... you do realise you're uh... undressed?

Kennedy: I thought there was a campaign to free the nipple

Jerrica: Not at the dinner table

The contestants enter a costume department of a local film company.

Luna: Guten Morgen. You haven't met me yet but I'm Luna Villareal. Before I fell for Deanna's older sister I was an active member of the paragons, a group that loves to dress up. So for this challenge to win a date with my sister-in-law, we're going to be doing some dress up. Drumroll please

*group taps a drumroll*

Devin: Ta-da!

Devin appears from one of the doors dressed in a vintage outfit.

Devin: My wife loves fashion, and I basically play dress up to pay the bills. Today we have some of my friends coming in to help you dress up. Our themes are earth and land, wind and spirit, water and sea as well as fire and light. We'll be picking themes randomly, then you'll have the help of Luna, me, some paragons and some of my co-stars to pick your outfits. Once you're decided Rudolphous, who does all my film make-up, will apply the finishing touches and we'll get you in front of a camera

Watchers Note: Since art is subjective I did not want to choose the winners myself. They will be decided by charisma skill levels. That is coming in the next part, this part is all about celebrating the creativity of simmers. Don't forget you can post your own creations on your page once they've debuted here, I would love to make sure people can see them! This challenge is inspired by the dress up challenges @cawthorntales does for his BC's.

On with the show.

Jerrica's Theme - Water & Sea

Jerrica: Finally, an excuse to get my old costumes from drama club out

Sailing on the sea you'll see a flash of silver. Yes, it may just be a fish, but if you were to follow… The ocean holds many secrets, and mermaids are just one. They live in harmony with ocean, so the ocean keeps them hidden.

Lara's Theme - Wind & Spirit

Lara: Oooh, I can’t disappoint! My mind is buzzing with possibilities, and I’m also really curious to see what the other participants will come up with.

Some say we are all in this world alone. But in some corners… there are whispers of angels. Beings so stunning they had to calm anyone who saw them, least their brilliance dumbfound. While time moved on and good deeds can be carried out by all, the original angels must have been breathtaking.

Kay's Theme - Water & Sea

Kay: *happy squee* I love getting dressed up!

Kay chooses to honour the famous mermaid Ariel. Disney doesn't always make the right choice but not restricting themselves to a white Ariel was a right one. Halle Bailey embraced the spirit of Ariel, and so does Kay in this outfit.

Abigail's Theme - Earth & Land

Abby: Fashion is not exactly my forte, but the themes intrigue me. I'll see what I can come up with

Abby has chosen to pay tribute to one of her own creations, an elf druid in the world of Llamas and Lairs. Elara Evergreen. The theme made Abigail think of many beloved campaigns she has run with the character. She's a proud nerd from beginning to end.

Callie's Theme - Wind & Spirit

Callie: Ermmm, yeah, I'm not that much into fashion but I will try my best

Callie has opted to pay tribute to both the wind and spirit by celebrating the pioneers of air flight. Those initial daredevils traveled solo over great distances, embracing the winds with strong spirits.

Kennedy's Theme - Fire & Light

Kennedy: Well.. this might be fun! Dunno how good I'll be, but I'll try to have fun!

Kennedy and her mythical companion. Fire may quiet to embers but the bond between steed and rider cannot easily be snuffed out.

[glitteredbubbles]

Something I noticed rewatching DPS that I feel like I’ve never really seen talked about before: when the Poets wake up Todd to let him know that Neil is dead, Cameron isn’t with them. He isn’t in that scene at all. Sure, maybe Charlie told him and he grieved privately in their room, but I honestly think he was an oversight and wasn’t alerted until later on.

I think this is one of the strongest explanations as to why he rats on Keating and goes so easily with authority: this is the final straw to make him feel like an outsider. As much as people like to say that Cameron is a rule follower through and through, I don’t think that’s the case. After all, he was the second person to officially join the Dead Poets Society behind Charlie.

I think Cameron has always looked for acceptance and structure, hence why he tends to be a teacher’s pet. If he can’t make friends, then he can at least find his value in being a good student. But then Neil and Keating spark something in him, a want to be accepted not for just the rules he follows but for who he is. So he hesitantly breaks the rules he found comfort in, finds community with his friends, relaxes enough to joke with them and chant and rough house.

Of course there are the small comments Charlie in particular makes to alienate him, but he’s finally doing it, he’s finally becoming a part of the friend group and valued for who he is, even if it required Charlie becoming his roommate and breaking some rules to get it.

He bristles slightly when this guy, Todd, who so clearly doesn’t want to be involved gets accepted into the group with open arms. Cameron had to fight his way in tooth and nail, provide help for homework and force jokes where he saw the others would naturally, yet here comes this silent kid who begrudges everyone yet still has the same standing as him. But he brushes it off since they’re all friends.

What serves as his breaking point is waking up the day after the play to sullen friends and tear stained faces to realize that Neil is dead, and not only that, but everyone has been told before him and have already processed it somewhat while he’s still reeling. And the worst of it all is that they even told Todd before they thought to ever wake him up, the kid who, in his eyes, had just met the guy.

Neil was arguably the Poet Cameron was closest too, and with the betrayal of his delayed announcement on behalf of the others, he trusts no one now. Not only that, but he is scorned. Why do they get a say in who gets to know first? Why does the new kid get grounds to mourn more than him?

So he turns back to the constant which has never failed him other than making him albeit a bit hollow: authority. And in his young and betrayed mind, it becomes believable that this really was all Keating’s fault, that this weird and different authority figure who made them rip up textbooks had some kind of part in disrupting the normal he had gotten used to. And this way, he really believes he’s getting justice for Neil while also saving all of the Poets from being expelled because despite the betrayal of being left behind, he still cares about them.

[sonieeslov]

Mask party

summary: The party isn’t a celebration anymore, it’s a whole performance. A parade of masks, power games, and cruelty dressed up in elegance. Every gesture has a price, and Han Su gang who’s always been the one pulling the strings, notices the second you dare to step out of the role he gave you.

pairing: Han Su gang x fem!reader.

genre: established relationship / manipulation / fear / angst / psychological.

tw: nsfw, sexual intimidation, bipolarity, psychological violence, explicit language, bullying.

The house is stupidly huge, the kind that wasn’t built to live in but to built to impress.The air smells like a mix of overpriced perfume, imported alcohol, and inflated egos.

It’s Hyungwoo’s birthday party. One of Su gang’s closest friends. Just another rich kid with more money than empathy and more sports cars than principles. He smells like brand new leather, black cards, and that kind of privilege that comes inherited.

The music is loud enough to drown out your thoughts, but not so loud that people can’t whisper poison into each other’s ears. There are U-shaped white couches buried under designer coats that look like they’ve never seen actual cold, and tables lined with bottles that probably cost more than a teacher makes in two months.

It all reeks of vodka, arrogance, limitless nights, and rotting youth.

You never liked them, not a single one. Hyungwoo, Haeun, Minseok all cut from the same golden, filthy mold polished on the outside rotten underneath.

But there’s one who turns your stomach more than the rest.

Han Su gang.

You’re bad at pretending. The disgust shows in every move you make. And pretending… that’s what pisses Su gang off the most.

Especially when you don’t bother pretending for him.

He is lounging right next to you. Leather jacket slipping off his shoulders, glass half full, lips curled into that usual smirk, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. He moves like the world owes him space. Like even the air has to ask permission to exist around him.

Everyone else is too busy laughing at Youngsoo.

The new kid.

The scholarship kid.

The “social project” Hyungwoo brought along like some twisted charity case turned public spectacle. One of those situations where everyone is laughing except the victim.

Su gang is laughing too. Of course he is.

You catch it out of the corner of your eye, him kicked back with that same damn glass in his hand, grinning while Youngsoo walks around nervously carrying drinks on a makeshift tray like he’s just another server. They toss him trays, call him over like he’s staff, ask for drinks with mocking little smiles.

—Scholar~ssi boy!! scholar~ssi boy!!—one of them shouts— Tsk… I don’t even remember your stupid name.

—Whatever. If you don’t do your job right we’ll take that scholarship away with a snap.

—Are you stupid or something? I asked for a gin and tonic, what the hell is this? —adds Su gang, raising his glass— This is ice water, bring me another and with less ice, you useless piece of shit.

The laughter explodes around him like firecrackers bursting in your chest.

YoungSoo just tries to endure it. He keeps his head down, mutters a “yes” and moves fast. But every so often, his eyes look for yours. As if you were the only kind face in the middle of this circus.

You hate this whole dynamic. That need to humiliate the weakest one, as if that somehow validates the rest.

—Do you want me to bring you something? —he asks, voice trembling, the tray shaking in his hands.

—No —you reply, voice firm— Thank you YoungSoo, you don’t have to do this.

He looks at you with eyes that shouldn’t carry that much sadness at his age.

But someone else notices too.

Su gang.

He sees it.

He sees you.

────

Twelve minutes.

That’s how long you last before giving in.

You get up to go to the bathroom, not because you need to, not out of urgency. But because if you hear one more laugh at YoungSoo’s expense, you’re going to lose the composure you’ve fought so hard to keep tonight.

You stand without looking at anyone.

Walking past them feels like crossing a thick fog cigarette smoke, hollow laughter stabbing at you like pins. Every step echoes in your chest. Every glance weighs on you. But there’s one in particular that burns more than the rest.

His.

You know he is watching you.

You feel his stare on the back of your neck, like a chain tightening. He doesn’t have to tell you he doesn’t like it when you move without his permission.

You know it.

You’ve lived it.

You reach the bathroom and try to close the door. Or at least, you try.

Because the moment your fingers graze the lock, he barges in after you. Not violently but with that dry, cutting decisiveness that steals the air from your lungs.

He pushes you inside.

His fingers find your waist in a flash.

The door slams shut behind you with a brutal thud. The lock clicks by reflex, trapping you both in that suffocating room.

There’s steam on the mirror, as if someone or something was here just before.

—What are you doing?—you ask, voice barely a whisper, still finding your balance.

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you. From your eyes to your ankles.

Like he’s stripping you without touching you.

Like he’s studying a stain he can’t scrub out.

—Do you think I’m stupid? —he says at last, voice low, dangerous.

—I don’t understand why…

Su gang raises a hand. He grabs your face just tight enough to hurt. His fingers press into your jaw, digging into your skin.

—Shut the fuck up. I’m sick of you —he hisses between clenched teeth, with a calmness that hurts more than anger— Always with your cheap ass morals.

His body cages you against the sink. You feel the cold marble on your back, the heat of his breath on your face. His gaze drops shamelessly scanning your chest. His hand grabs the fabric, crumpling it with restrained rage.

—Look at you…—he spits— You think you are better than everyone. You talk like you are different… and I still don’t get how you do that when you look like a slut in that dress.

He says it with no rage.

No judgment.

Just the cold certainty of someone who thinks he has the right to define you.

It hits like a bullet. You cross your arms, as if you could shield yourself from what’s already struck.

You shrink.

—I don’t get why the hell you defend him so much. What? You like that fucking scholarship boy?

His eyes lower.

They roam over your torso.

—I’m not like you—you say, voice trembling.

He lets out a low laugh.

Empty.

Cruel.

—No… You’re worse. Because you fake it. Because you stay right here next to me. Looking all pretty for me. Swallowing all the shit you claim to hate… and doing it all for me.

His fingers crawl up your cheek.

No tenderness. Just pressure. Control. A twisted game. Su gang smells like tobacco and alcohol.

His voice turns into a blade.

—You know why you’re still here? Because you’re just like me, just as rotten. The only difference is you are a fucking coward. You’d rather watch and keep that pretty mouth shut.

You don't answer. Because you can't.

Because the answer doesn't fit in your mouth without overflowing.

And then, he kisses you.

As one who punishes, not as one who loves.

His tongue penetrates you violently. His teeth scrape. He pushes you against the sink. The marble digs into your back as if he wants to leave physical scars to match the other ones.

His knee makes its way between your legs.

His hands go down to your waist. He squeezes you hard, as if you are something he wants to break and keep the pieces.

Your trembling hands don't know what to do.

Hold on to you.

Push it away.

Or just give up.

Your body is trapped between his and the cold ceramic. The kiss lasts too long. Just long enough to break you. You taste saliva mixed with blood on your lower lip.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless.

Not from desire.

From control.

He looks at you.

There’s no guilt in his eyes.

Then he touches your face.

As if he weren’t the same one who just hit you with words.

Just for a second. To look at you. To hold your face in both hands possession disguised as tenderness.

—Don’t challenge me again —he says, that voice low, deliberate, almost gentle, like he’s explaining table manners— Don’t embarrass me. Got it?

The warning doesn’t need to be loud.

It cuts sharp without raising its tone.

You barely nod, but your eyes betray you.

You tremble under him.

The tears are right there, at the edge.

And he sees it.

He leans in, with that tilted smirk, almost amused.

Cruelty always suits him.

—Ahh… don’t tell me—he whispers, feigning surprise— Did I make you cry, sweetheart? Did I scare you again?

He strokes your cheeks with both hands, a tenderness that feels like punishment.

—Aw, honey… don’t cry, okay? —he says like he’s about to embrace you— You’re making me look like a bad guy and you know I hate that.

—All you have to do, —he adds, pressing his forehead against yours like lovers do— is sit that pretty ass right next to me and smile. Sound fair?

You just lower your gaze. You wipe your face with your fingers without looking at him.

—I didn’t mean to embarrass you —you whisper.

And he laughs like he didn’t actually find anything funny.

—No, of course not —He pauses— I know you, I know exactly what you are.

He helps you down from the sink with a fake gentleness that barely masks the pressure in his fingers.

He places you right in front of the mirror, like he wants you to finally see yourself clearly.

But not you.

You, through him.

Your reflection, under that warm, decaying light, doesn’t look like you.

It looks like a distorted version.

He stays behind for a moment, watching you through the mirror. That half smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

And then, with dangerous slowness, he slides his fingers along your side until they wrap around the curve of your waist.

He turns you slightly. Just enough to get a better view of you in the reflection.

—Look at you —he says, voice low, barely a whisper— Do you understand why I have to be this way with you?

His eyes drop unapologetically to the small of your back.

To your dress.

To what’s underneath.

His body is completely pressed against yours. His hard bulge pressing against your ass.

You feel his breath on the back of your neck.

—By the way… —he whispers in your ear, like he’s sharing a dirty, intimate secret with you, not a threat wrapped in desire— this dress is driving me crazy.

He pauses.

His mouth brushes your skin as he speaks.

—I don’t know if I can wait until we get home to take it off.

His fingers trail down to the hem of your dress. He doesn’t lift it, he just adjusts it. Smooths it out like someone carefully setting the table for tonight’s meal.

He leaves a kiss on your neck.

Right where it burns.

An invisible burn the kind that lingers long after it’s gone.

And just before walking out, he drops the final comment with a softness that stings more than a slap.

—Fix your face, honey. Don’t take too long.

The door stays half open.

The hallway air creeps in like the world itself wants a glimpse of you broken.

You’re alone for a moment.

You press your palms against the sink.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

Split lip.

Smudged mascara.

A version of yourself you don’t recognize but pretend to control.

You adjust your dress.

That black dress that now feels smaller. Cheaper.

Like it shrank under the weight of shame.

You smooth your hair.

And you smile.

Because if you don’t, they’ll notice.

Because that's what you do in this world.

You go on.

You pretend.

You take a deep breath.

You step out of the bathroom.

The house is louder now, more alive than before. YoungSoo walks by with another tray, he sees you. Says nothing. Just looks away.

And there he is.

Su gang sitting on the same couch, one leg crossed, glass in hand, like nothing ever happened, like five minutes ago he didn’t rip your soul out of your chest.

He looks up.

He watches you.

And in that gaze is everything left unspoken: the threat, the possession, the command.

Look pretty, look mine.

You walk toward him.

He opens one arm with that ease that looks like affection but isn’t.

You sit beside him.

Your body returns to the place it’s occupied for months.

—You took your time —he says softly. His voice is sweet for those listening but to you it’s something else entirely.

—Sorry honey, there was a line —you reply, looking at no one. Just him only for him.

—Mmm… I love it when you lie. When you do that for me, —he murmurs near your ear—. You’re getting so good at it. It suits you so well it makes me love you more.

His arm wraps around you.

Too tightly.

As if you were something someone else might try to touch.

And on your thigh right where it hurts, he starts tracing circles with his fingers.

His hand moves as if to soothe you.

As if to protect you.

As if he didn’t know exactly what he did.

And you, just keep your mouth shut.

Just like he told you to.

Lee Seo shows up with another fresh bottle of tequila, wearing that irritating plastic smile.

—Oh my god, you two are perfect! Seriously! I want what you guys have —she says, like she doesn’t know. Or worse, like she does and she enjoys it.

And you smile.

Because that’s how the game is played.

Here, everything is performance.

You take his hand.

You caress it.

And then he, with a voice barely above a whisper, leans in and murmurs into your ear.

—See? That wasn’t so hard. Good girl.

You nod.

And you smile.

And it’s clear.

Because from the outside… you look perfect.

Because in this world of rotten parties and fake smiles, appearances will always matter more than the truth.

Inside, you’re falling apart.

Slowly.

Silently.

Like everything that breaks without making a sound.

And still, even with a thousand reasons to leave him, even though you should’ve walked away long ago.

You keep choosing him.

Author’s note

guys first of all tysm for the love on my last post like, I seriously didn’t expect that I appreciate the spam and reposts so much. 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

this one shot was originally written like this, then I tried to tweak it for Seongje but let’s be real all the vibes scream Han Su gang. Bro has me on my knees and NO ONE is talking about himmm

sooo I’ve seen y’all’s requests and I am working on them I swear. It’s just I’ve got like a million drafts I’m juggling rn but that doesn’t mean I’m ignoring your stuff!! I just wanna make sure everything turns out good and actually worth reading.

So yeah, feel free to keep sending your requests 📮🫰🏻

[perhapspenelope]

first off, im sorry if anything that I say makes you that angry and upset. I didn’t call you or anyone pro death, I didn’t know if that was a name any of you guys go by, if you want I can get rid of that. second, I feel like you have very different opinions about a lot of things, like everyone does. However, opinion isn’t fact and maybe the pro life people you’ve met seemed to not care about what happens to the babies afterwards, but that definitely doesn’t mean every pro life person is just like that. I’ve met quite a few pro choice people, and they were all different. The ones that I’ve met in person are pretty kind, just because they agree with something different than me doesn’t mean that either of us have to be rude to the other. The pro choice people online that I’ve met are usually pretty rude, though, but I assume it’s because it’s a lot easier to express your opinions online than face to face with someone. It’s really easy to just think that they’re some random person or maybe even a bot: it’s really easy to think they’re not real because you can’t physically see them. And just because you don’t like what position you’ve been put in on this planet doesn’t mean everyone has to die, you could work to make your (or other peoples’) situation better. From what you’ve described so far, it seems like you’ve had a pretty rough life, and it takes a lot to get through hard things. But you can move on from those things and really work to make things better. From what I gather from your previous statements, you really had been through some pretty horrible things, and it takes a lot of work and effort to be able to persevere through those things, and then be able to pay for technology advanced enough to be on tumblr and probably other stuff that you do on it. If you don’t change your mindset, though, things will never get better. I’m sorry if I was wrong about some things or if you don’t want me to talk about this, or if this just made you even more mad. But I would like to clear up that if you think that you’d rather have your kid be aborted (killed) than to put them up for adoption and give them a chance at a family who’s ready for a kid? It seems that you have very strong opinions which can be a good or bad thing depending on how you talk about them. But I’m not sure if saying you want everyone dead really helped your argument much. I do appreciate that you actually read through everything, even the tags, though. It means that you’re not just speed reading through what I wrote and that you want to understand what I’m saying, and I really appreciate that. I know that everyone on both sides of the pro life/pro choice battle has their own views and opinions and thoughts, no one’s the same, so it is risky to assume that something one person says is true for all of them, or anything like that. Just because one person in a group acts one way doesn’t mean the whole group is like that, I’d like you to know that.

y’all know, most people don’t even know what goes down during an abortion. it’s horror movie level graphic, and it’s to a baby, an itty-bitty child who’s DNA will never be replicated.

[starlostjisung]

you could call me babe for the weekend

last chapter: epilogue

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“you have everything ready?”

“yeah”

“charger?”

“yeah”

“food for the car?”

“yep”

“condoms?”

“chris!”, you hit his chest playfully

“sorry sorry, i was joking”

you turned around laughing

“unless…”

you turned around again to hit him one more time but he caught your wrist, kissing it softly.

“okay let’s go, we have some people we need to impress again”

chan and you packed your things in his car and left your apartment.

it was crazy to think that you and chan had already been together for a year. you couldn’t believe how different things were now compared to how they were just twelve months ago.

it was safe to say that it had been the best years of both of your lives.

however, a new year comes with new birthdays.

and yes, that included your aunt’s birthday party.

again.

that’s how you found chan and yourself, on your way to your aunt’s cabin one more time. to the place where everything started twelve months ago. but this time, no lies between each other. there was no need to pretend.

you were together. and you couldn’t be happier.

instead of going the first day of the trip - you and chan couldn’t make it because he had some promo to do that day - you were going on saturday, the day of the actual party. that meant you would only have to survive a day and a half this time. that was something.

but the best thing was that you had chan with you one more time. and you knew you would have him forever, for everything you needed. you were the same with him. he would always have you.

“okay, second trip, second year. what can we expect this time?”, he asked you at some point during your karaoke session in the car

“mmmm, i’m not sure. last year i snapped at my aunt a bit but we haven’t seen each other since then, so i’m sure she must have forgotten about that. maybe something along the lines of “how i’ve kept you for so long” or “how great of a human you are because you’re still with me after a year”, you know, the usual stuff”

he grinned at that, “well as your real boyfriend now, you have to know i will protect you and no insults or snarky remarks will be allowed under my watch”

“oh, so you’re my knight in shining armor now?”, you smiled at him

“of course”, he grabbed your hand and kissed it, “don’t worry, everything will be alright”

you nodded your head while squeezing his hand delicately, “don’t try to get out of this you idiot, i’m still bitter that you didn’t go blonde after i told you last year”

he snorted at your answer, “you still remember?”, the exact conversation you both had had in this same car, exactly one year ago

“of course i remember, you should know by now that i don’t play with blonde chan”

he laughed again and kissed your hand another time, “okay, i promise i will think about it for the next comeback”

“pinky promise?”

“yeah, pinky promise”, you two laughed together

these were your favourite moments. when the noise outside didn’t matter. what was ahead of you didn’t matter either. because you had each other.

and that was enough. it had always been enough.

the day had been going… fine. bearable. you could manage.

was going to your aunt’s cabin to celebrate her birthday and spend time with her and your cousin on your top 10 of favourite things to do? no, but this year it wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be.

yes, there had been some snarky comments, some jealousy looks from your cousin aimed at you - it was the first time she was single during her mom’s birthday party - and some out of place comments aimed at chan. but, you two survived.

chan and you decided to spend most of the day with your parents and grandparents, who were more than happy to have you and chan with them that day. during the year, chan and you had seen them sometimes when you had dinner together or it was one of your birthdays, but still, it was nice to be with people who really appreciated you and your boyfriend and would treat him like a normal human being. you were thankful for that.

before dinner time, the children at the party had decided to steal chan from you again and went to play some games with him. and chan, being the perfect boyfriend, human and everything, went with the kids - not without giving you a short and loving peck before he left you with your parents.

“you two seem really happy together”, your mom told you while she saw you looking at him from afar

you sighed, feeling completely relaxed and happy for the first time that day, something you never thought you would feel in this kind of party.

“yeah, we’re really happy. everything’s going great. of course we hate whenever we have to be apart from each other for too long but we knew what we were signing for when we got together, so we just try to make it as easy as we can. but yeah, we’re happy”, you let out what your mom thought was the biggest smile she had ever seen in your face. or at least in a long time.

“i’m happy for the both of you, you deserve it. and i’m so grateful that you have someone that will be there for you whenever you need it. i will always be thankful for that. chan is a good person and i’m happy you have him”, your mom told you

you could feel your eyes watering, so in order to stop the tears, you hugged her. happy that she was happy with chan. with your decision.

happy that after a year, chan and you still chose each other.

you hadn’t seen chan in a while and the last thing you had heard was that the kids and him were playing hide and seek. again. so you went out to find him but this time, you were almost completely sure where to find him.

you went straight to the wine cellar. you opened the door quietly and descended the stairs.

“chris? hello?”, nothing, “come on babe, i know you’re here, you can’t fool me”, still nothing

you walked around the stairs, towards the nook.

“okay, should i act surprised when i get closer to the nook and you grab my hand and then you-“, as you had predicted, you felt something grabbing your hand and pulling you down towards the nook.

just like you had found yourself exactly one year ago, you were in chan’s lap, with his hand covering your mouth once again. you saw him smiling at you and you couldn’t help but laugh against his hand.

“hi, baby”, he smiled at you while moving his hand to your neck

“found you”, you smiled

he laughed and put his forehead against yours, “i knew you would”

“why did you hide here again? they’re going to find you”

“maybe i wanted you to find me first”, he wiggled his eyebrows at you while looking at you seductively

you snorted at his answer, letting your head fall against his shoulder, “you’re an idiot, you know that?”

he raised your head to look at you, “yeah, but i’m your idiot” he moved his head closer to yours and then, he kissed you.

a kiss that was both for your present you and for the past you. for the chan and y/n that had been in the exact place one year ago, trying to cross the tightrope. the chan and y/n that had been too scared to move forward. the chan and y/n that had almost lost each other.

the present chan and y/n were proud of them for all the things they had gone through. and they would go through them again if that meant you would be together at the end. like it was meant to be.

you broke the kiss but put your foreheads together again, not wanting to break the moment completely.

“are you okay? is everything alright?”, he looked at you more serious this time, making sure that you were fine, that nothing had happened while he wasn’t with you and that you weren’t lying to him

always checking on you.

“yeah, everything’s perfect, really”, you smiled at him

he smiled back. he placed both of his hands on your face, and traced your skin softly. you lent into his touch and looked at him. enjoying this peaceful moment. the quietness. the calmness. you could live in this moment forever.

he must have been feeling the same, because he got closer to you to whisper against your lips, softly only for you to hear, “i love you”

“i love you too”

he went to close the gap between you, your breathes entangled in each other, lips almost touching when-

“i found bang chan, he’s here! guys i found him”, a kid left the cellar, screaming at the others, happy that he had found chan. again.

chan let our a frustrated sigh and let his head fall against the crook of your neck.

you laughed at him and placed your hands on his hair, “i told you they were going to find you, love”

most of the people had already left the party, only your parents, uncle, aunt and some friends were still in the garden celebrating, so you and chan took this opportunity to go upstairs to your room.

once you both washed yourselves and changed into comfortable clothes, you went to sit in the outdoor lounge chairs that were in the balcony of your room. chan sat in one of them and you went to sit in the other one when he grabbed your waist.

“what are you doing? no no, you sit here with me”, he placed you between his legs, with your back against his chest

he placed his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him, and kissing the top of your head. you intertwined your hands together, entangling your bodies impossibly closer.

“you okay?”, you asked him

“mmm, and you?”

“yeah, i’m good”

you let out a content sigh, when you felt him kissing the top of your head again.

“today wasn’t as bad as we thought it was going to be, right?”, he asked you after a while

“no, it was… tolerable, we survived”, you laughed softly

“that’s because we make a great team, love”, you high-fived each other while laughing softly

you turned around to look at him, “the best team”

he traced your hair with his fingertips, and put a lock of your hair behind your ear. he closed the gap between you two, and kissed you softly, to remind you that he was really there.

that he would always be on your team.

you two broke apart and he looked at you, “your lips still look lonely, would they like to meet mine again?”

“oh christ, for fuck’s sake, not again”, you hit his chest playfully, and pulled away from him while you two laughed.

the truth was that you would never change this part of chan. you would never change anything about him. you still couldn’t believe how lucky you were to have him in your life.

“do you remember last year when we talked about the shooting stars? when i asked you what would you wish for?”, he asked you while you looked at the starry sky that covered you both

“yeah, i remember”

you felt a soft smile growing in your face, thinking about everything that had changed within a year. everything you had ever wished for. and now you had it, wit his arms around you

“i know you lied to me when you said you didn’t know what you would wish for, so come on, tell me please”, he nudged you with his nose. bumping it to your temple softly

“i wished that we didn’t have to pretend. that us together was real, and none of that was a lie”, you told him honestly. there was no point in keeping it a secret anymore.

“really?”, he asked curiously

you nodded against his chest.

“you wanna know something?”, you felt his lips on your ear, brushing with every word, “i wished for the same thing”

you turned around to look at him, ”did you?”

he nodded his head and placed his hands on your face, tracing your skin with his fingertips, “yeah, i did”

you smiled at him, “what would you wish for now?”

he put his forehead against yours, his lips close to yours but not quite touching. not yet.

“to stay like this forever with you”

you smiled against his lips, “me too”

you closed the gap. filling this promise with a kiss. wishing to be together like this forever.

knowing there was no better wish you could ever ask for.

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the ending of the story is here my loves ��

once again, thank you for all the love for this story, i hoped you liked it as much as i loved writing it

see you in my next stories 🩷

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