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artficlly · 14 days ago

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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

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #thunderbolts*#marvel au #marvel #lessons in lovemaking

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pineapplepr1nc3ss888 · 6 months ago

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distracting yourself really works wonders, learn about the different states your brain goes into to help you achieve pure consciousness cos it really is that easy. just make sure you are relaxed first you want to enter this meditation with a clear mind so do some deep breathing first i promise it will help just do anything to take your mind off whatever u are stressing/thinking about when you feel more calm do your meditation!! ✨ i like to do alpha state first and i think the key (key for me anyway) is to set intention you are doing it for relaxation it will help you enter it knowing ur not trying to force it because you want instant manifestation that can be achieved ONCE ur aware ur in it, intend to yourself that you are doing it solely to relax that way you won’t keep focusing on your 3d or your senses you are purely focused on your mind. lie where you feel comfortable, personally i like to lie on top of my sheets i think it’s more of a subconscious signal if im getting into bed that im in there to sleep, i like to levitate my body against the pillows a bit to keep myself a bit more awake but not enough that it’s uncomfy for me🌟 have read many success stories about yoga nidra which first time i attempted i felt myself properly float it felt like i floated up to ceiling in my room was so freaky but i kept calm, second time i got to a point my heart accelerated so fast i couldn’t feel anything but my own heartbeat but i was also too tired to focus so fell asleep. but last night i purely did this for relaxation cos i already had the knowing i can manifest what i want when i enter, if i try to force it with the intention of manifesting i know ill keep focusing on my senses and 3d too much so i decided to just relax and not care which i think helps, reading upon your states help but delta state is probably the closest state to pure consciousness and yoga nidra helps with that. obviously you can do whatever you want, this is just what works for me, but don’t sit and read upon methods and methods i promise. you will know what works for you. do you prefer visualisation/day dreaming? is it something you’ve done since u were a kid to a point u forget about all ur surroundings? or do you prefer affirming? affirming to the point you focus on nothing but your affirmations? of you prefer just focusing on your breath? or do you like counting? point is you HAVE to find what works for you not trying to attempt what someone else did. i just happened to find yoga nidra really works for me cos i have adhd so i can’t focus on affirming for too long and this also just REALLY helps to relax my mind to a point anyway last night i actually forgot the video was even playing 😭 i was so relaxed i just started day dreaming, you know kinda how you fall asleep during a movie and wake up and realise you have missed part of the movie. yeah felt like that for me, i was so zoned out on imagining stuff i forgot the video was even playing and pretty sure i couldn’t even hear it either i also was sure i was in void state i just wasn’t aware of it i was only aware of my day dreams that i came back to my senses and was confused how it was near the end of the video it felt like i fell asleep for 5m but i wasn’t asleep i was aware. you all will be able to induce pure consciousness stop stressing, find a comfortable position, set your intention to do it for relaxation, breathe/affirm/daydream whatever u want and you’ll forget your surroundings completely! i was there last night i just wasn’t even aware of it i was too focused on imagining stuff lol and boom you will induce it!

the distraction method by @luckykiwiii101 works wonders as well omg 🤭

#void state #law of assumption #loa #reality shifting #pure consciousness #shifting consciousness #neville goddard #sammy ingram #manifesting #manifesation #void

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sttoru · 1 year ago

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𝝑𝑒 synopsis. tired of the continuous bullying you’re receiving from the other concubines, you finally decide to stand up for yourself. the tension dulls when lord sukuna breaks the fight up.

tags. true form!ryomen sukuna x concubine!reader. sfw - angst kinda, little suggestive. mentions of bullying. violence. fighting. vile language. reader gets referred to as a ‘bitch, slut, whore’ by the concubines. reader gets referred to as ‘brat, woman’ by sukuna. not beta read bcs im sleepy. @ohimsummer, thank you for the idea LOL

you’re tired. tired of being treated like less by the others in sukuna’s harem. they’re salty—jealous—because of the shameless favoritism sukuna shows. you’re his favorite, the one he can’t seem to get enough of.

that’s exactly why you’re on the floor right now. you’ve fallen to your knees after tripping over a concubine’s foot. you were passing by to go to your headquarters, though apparently such a mundane thing can’t happen in this place without some woman interfering in the worst way possible.

“oops,” the blonde one laughs as she sees you on the wooden floor. you’re covered in food and some. . . gooey beverage. you don’t know what it is, but it’s making everything feel uncomfortably sticky. your clothes, your fingers, your skin. it’s starting to itch.

“should’ve looked where you were going,” another girl chimes in. the brunette. she feigns pity and throws a handkerchief in your face, causing the other concubines to giggle. there are three of them in total. they always stick together to bully you.

the one with green eyes speaks up as well, “now now, don’t be so harsh to the poor slut! she’s got no brain to use after all.”

the other two laugh as you try your best to stay calm. you’re always telling yourself to be the bigger person in difficult situations. you’re clenching your hands into fists, your body basically trembling in anger. you want to swing. to show them that you’re worthy of respect.

“aww, she’s gonna cry,” the blonde one pouts—a mocking pout that gets on your nerves. the laughs sounding from the trio are like nails on a chalkboard. you want to make it stop. you’re tired of keeping it civil, when they have never tried doing the same.

your eyes land on the serving tray next to your hands. the one they emptied on your head ‘by accident’. you take a deep breath and try to remind yourself that it’s probably best to go wash up. they desperately want a reaction out of you and you refuse to give it to them.

despite it all, you’re mad. you’ve gone through enough of this. all because of sukuna’s favoritsm. all because you’re you.

they’re salty that they can never be you. you’ve seen their pathetic attempts to put you down yet simultaneously try and copy your entire existence. thinking that would somehow get them in your position as sukuna’s favorite.

you’re sick and tired of it. today’s the day you show them exactly that. you’re going to show those women that you can and will beat some sense into them.

“oy, dumb slut, answ—” the blonde is interupted before she could finish her sentence. a loud bang reverberates through the hallway and everyone falls silent.

she’s the one on the floor now instead of you. you’re up, the wooden tray in your hands, the one you just used to smack the life out of her. she’s whimpering and holding her red cheek. a nasty bruise is sure to form on her skin; deserved.

“i’ll answer you, alright,” you mumble under your breath. you’re panting as the adrenaline keeps pumping. you stand over her and lift up the serving platter in the air once more—bringing it down over and over against her head, which she’s trying to shield with her hands.

the other two concubines are frozen in pure shock. you’re not thinking anymore. you’re on autopilot. the woman’s yelps and screeches are music to your ears. “hah. you sound as ugly as you look,” you spit on her, watching the blood trickle down the corner of her mouth. you lift your arms up to bring the wooden platter down on her body again, but you’re stopped.

the green eyed concubine had moved first. she grabs your wrists with one hand and smacks you across the face with the other. “have you lost your mind?!” she yells and raises her hand to slap you again. the disrespect you’re showing clearly was not expected nor is it welcomed.

“don’t you fucking touch me,” you kiss your teeth. you’re glaring at her with pure hatred. you push and slap her right back. you’re sure the blonde won’t be up for a while now—she’s done for.

you don’t know if you went a bit overboard with it, considering she’s barely conscious anymore, but you couldn’t care less at the moment.

you’re surprised when the third concubine yanks your hair. “oh, you little bitch!” the brunette grabs a bunch of your hair with both hands and tugs at it to drag you down on the floor. you wince in pain but quickly pull at her own brown locks. you struggle to keep your balance and your scalp aches.

you hate it when women go for your hair when fighting, though luckily you know your way out of it. you take a deep breath and bring her head down, lifting your left leg up at the same time. her forehead comes crashing down on your knee and she loosens her grip on your hair.

“disgusting,” you huff and take the opportunity to push her fragile body aside, making her trip over the blonde girl on the floor. you can’t help but think that your current state is quite similar to a certain someone.

the violence. the seething anger. you’ve seen this scene way too many times before. you’ve learnt it from him.

your thoughts are interrupted by someone pulling the back of your hair, causing you to stumble backwards. “a whore like you needs to be taught some manners,” the green eyed concubine sniffs and keeps a tight grip on your hair. she delivers a few punches to your face, which you actually struggle to block for a second.

the force hitting your nose makes it bleed. that only angers you further. you gather some saliva in your mouth before spitting it out right in the girl’s eyes. you take your chance and grab her hair, smashing her head against the nearby fusuma. the thin plaster the sliding doors are made out of breaks, and she falls right through into the other room.

“i think you all need to be taught how to act,” you pant and wipe the blood dripping down your chin with the back of your hand. you walk through the opening you made in the frail door, kicking the concubine right in the face as revenge for the nosebleed she gave you.

you crouch down, your fingers tangling into her hair. you yank her head up and stare her right in the eyes. there’s an eerie, dark look in yours. “why can’t you just accept that you’re nothing but trash in your lord’s eyes?” you sneer. you are pitying them instead of the other way around, like how it usually would be.

and they despise it.

“you fucking—” “bitch? slut? whore?” you finish her sentence for her with an exasperated sigh. you’ve heard those insults a thousand times before. it’s nothing new. it’s always the same nasty and repetitive comments. you slap the concubine in front of you again for good measure before standing up, “you should come up with something new. it’s getting boring.”

you walk over to the other two, who are still recovering. you add to your last comment with a shrug, trying to hit them where it hurts, “your repetitiveness explains why lord sukuna rarely calls for you at night. i bet your severe lack of creativity shows even in bed.”

“you’re just a boring and hopeless bunch,” you’re out for blood. the blonde and brunette are looking up at you with fear and the sight excites you for some reason. they’re crawling away, trying to go find someone who would save them. the servants are nowhere to be found. nor is uraume, who usually stops the petty arguments.

they’re terrified by how you’re acting right now. they’re clearly seeing sukuna in you. in your eyes and the aura you’re emitting.

you’re mirroring him, his merciless personality and all included. he’s subconsciously taking over your mind and it’s terrifying them.

your steps are heavy as you walk towards the concubines. you don’t pay attention to the blood trickling down your chin, nor do you care about the ache in your scalp from the earlier hair pulling. all you care about is getting revenge for yourself.

you could complain to sukuna and have him punish them in your place, but that wouldn’t be enough. you’re going to make sure that they don’t try you again any time soon. you grab the blonde by her arm, lifting your fist to punch her—

“oi, brat.”

your eyes widen and you snap out of your mad daze. sukuna’s voice shakes the floors with how loud it is. you whip your head to the side and see his tall figure standing at the end of the hallway—uraume being right behind him. it looks like they were the one that rushed to inform sukuna of the ruckus.

you drop the other concubine and look at the mess. the broken fusuma. the blood splatter on the wooden flooring. your disheveled hair and clothes. your bleeding nose. the crimson stained plate and spilt food that got everywhere.

it’s a complete mess.

sukuna doesn’t utter a word. he just glares right at you. you’re not sure if it’s because of your irresponsible behaviour or the mess you created. or both. he marches over to you and grabs you by the back of your collar with one big hand.

“m-my lord,” you whimper, nearly choking as you’re held up in the air like you weigh nothing, like one would do to a cat’s nape. one of sukuna’s hands keeps you up whilst the others hang limply by his side. his red eyes scan your body, moving up and then back down.

you don’t know what to say. you surely have overstepped a boundary - or multiple - with what you’ve done today. you’ve disturbed the peace in the estate and have caused damage to sukuna’s property. both to his women and the interior of his palace.

you cough up a bit of blood that was stuck in the back of your throat. you’re uncertain of how you should explain yourself. “i’m sorry, my lord. i didn’t know what came over me,” you apologise and look down at the floor below your feet. you’re too embarrassed to look the king of curses in the eyes.

sukuna stays silent. it’s nerve wracking since you have no idea what he’ll do in response to your outburst. his facial expression is blank, so you aren’t able to guess what’s going on in his head. it’s a complete mystery.

however, the tall man is secretly more amused than anything. what you’ve just done, is one of the most interesting things he has seen a human do. sukuna witnessed everything from the beginning to the end and thoroughly enjoyed it. from the way you used that serving plate as a weapon to the way you managed to get out of those concubines’ grasps each time.

it’s strange to sukuna; he felt something when he saw you in action like that.

pride? perhaps that’s it. sukuna can’t pinpoint the exact emotion, though if he were to describe it, the closest word would be indeed pride. he is proud to have discovered and witnessed that untamed side of yours. you’re always full of pleasant surprises that keep even a dangerous curse like him on his toes.

it’s why he will never get bored of you. he wishes to unleash your full potential one day.

sukuna finally breaks the silence with an amused snicker. one of his hands move to wipe the blood from your nose. you cringe when he slowly licks the red liquid from his fingers afterwards—clearly ravishing the metallic taste.

“y’ finally did something, huh?” sukuna grins wickedly. he knows of the harassment you’ve been going through and he couldn’t wait to see you snap like this one day.

it’s sickening that he allows the bullying to continue just for the sake of creating drama, but it’s also worth it to him, since he’s got to unlock a side of you he knew you had buried deep inside. sukuna is a selfish bastard. you know that much, yet you like it when he looks at you with a prideful gaze and grin.

it’s so obvious that sukuna took pleasure in what he’s witnessed. he couldn’t believe how much you actually resembled him in a way.

if he were to be honest: it turned him on like crazy. seeing how you fought back against those women and how nearly deranged you became. the degrading words you spewed. . . sukuna cannot get enough of it. if it were up to him, he’d have let you continue. but for your own sake, he decided against it.

as much as he loves that untamed side of yours, sukuna knew that he couldn’t let you go too far. not because he wants to defend those other women, but because he still needs you to stay sane. going down that path of violence surely will do you more damage than good.

he’ll fully corrupt you - your body and mind - one day. just not today.

sukuna lets you back on your feet after you nearly fail to breathe. he cocks his head to the side, still having a menacing smirk on his face. he roughly pinches your cheek, “it was entertaining, i’ll give you that, woman.”

you wince as sukuna pinches the exact cheek you had a bruise on. he’s never done so before, therefore you don’t have a clue about the meaning behind that gesture. though the compliment told you that he was pleased by the ruckus more than he was annoyed by it.

sukuna still hasn’t bat an eye to the other concubines. they are waiting for their lord to punish you for hurting them, but it all seems to be in vain. they know better than to speak up about that to him. they’re easily replaceable. they know that by now. it’s as clear as day.

you’ve drilled that into their head today.

the king of curses pushes your small body towards uraume and you nearly bump against their chest with how easily he moved you around. uraume catches you in time and helps you stand straight, awaiting their master’s orders.

sukuna checks you out one more time in that disheveled state, before you go back to your formal and reserved self. his interest in you has been piqued by today’s events and he wonders when he can experience that side of yours again. he nods at uraume, “make sure she’s properly taken care of.”

uraume doesn’t waste a single second after being given an order. “understood,” they reply curtly and keep you steady so you could walk with them towards the physician’s quarters.

you look up at sukuna, trying to catch a glimpse of him before you’re taken away. he’s staring right back at you, the corners of his lips twitching into another subtle grin. he’s surprisingly pleased and content with your actions.

however it’s also not so surprising, considering that he loves it when you show any hint of resistance or stubbornness. whether it’d be to him or to his concubines.

sukuna’s facial expression turns cold the moment you’re gone and he’s left with the mess. “she took the words right out of my mouth,” he stares down at the three women on the floor who’re still unable to stand. he’s not helping them up—that’s their own problem, “y’re a pathetic bunch.”

the concubines flinch as they hear the inevitable from their own lord. hearing it from you was frustrating, but hearing it directly from the man that’s taken them in is heartbreaking. they don’t dare look up at him in such pitiful states.

“all three of you,” sukuna addresses them sharply. his arms cross over his chest, a ruthless tone to his voice. the concubines tremble in his presence, though it’s partially still because of the fear you’ve implemented in their systems.

he would’ve killed them off right then and there, though you’ve done enough damage to them both physically and mentally for now.

sukuna however, still couldn’t care less about their wellbeing. their wounds and bruises are something they’ll need to fix on their own.

he points at the floor and broken door with his head before turning around to leave the miserable trio. sukuna leaves them with an order that’s usually left to the servants;

“clean up the damn mess you caused. it better be taken care of before i return. ‘nd i don’t wanna hear a single squeak from any of you about this.”

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk x you #sukuna x you #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk angst #sukuna angst #bye this is also a crack fic to me

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everlastingserenitys · 4 months ago

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OFF SCRIPT! ☆

summ. after getting constant emails from a company sylus didn't want to work with, he finally gave in, and well...he might've went a little too wild on his first shoot with you.

pairing. sylus x f!reader cw. pornstar!sylus, pornstar!reader, p in v, masturbation, creampie, cumming inside, perv!sylus again yayy, he is practically in heat lol, kinda loving sex if u look closer a/n. sorry I love writing I dont mean to post so much !! anyway cool idea I thought of <3

It was often that Sylus would get requests by other companies to work with him.

Usually, he’d reject most of them and find other people on his own time and people that fit his standards.

But one day Sylus’ manager kept getting a bunch of emails from this company Sylus did not like, offering to do a shoot with him.

After the constant pestering for weeks and weeks, Sylus hesitantly agreed, it was just a little shoot with somebody, couldn’t be that bad right?

Well, both companies agreed on meeting up a week in advance so they could ‘get to know each other’ which was weird, because Sylus never did that before.

But a week passed and Sylus got ready at his studio to meet up with the other company. He sat in his chair, tapping a rhythm against his leg as he patiently waited.

A few minutes passed and the door clicked open, Sylus’ gaze averted from the ground to the figure walking in the room and…

Woah.

That was strange…for Sylus to feel like that with a person he just saw.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

As you were walking in, Sylus’ eyes were everywhere but on yours. His gaze darted from your tight dress, suffocating your beautiful figure, to your breasts, to your hair. Oh how he was already so captivated by you.

Sylus got up from his seat and headed towards you, lifting his hand in front of you. The second your frail fingers slid against his rough ones, Sylus had to hold back a grunt that almost escaped his lips.

Fuck, just what was that reaction? It's not his first time he’s touched a woman anyway?

Your voice echoed through the empty studio as you introduced yourself to Sylus and his manager, did he even catch your name? Whatever it was, he wanted to get on with the shoot soon.

A quiet sigh escaped Sylus’ lips when he remembered he still had one more person before his shoot with you, but all he had to do was finish quickly when he was with the woman before you, then finally have his shoot with you, couldn’t be bad right?

After the brief introduction and a few ground rules that Sylus didn’t listen to–it was now finally time for you to leave. Sylus wished you stayed just a little bit longer, but he knew he couldn’t ask you that. So the second you left his studio an annoyed groan escaped his lips and he headed back to the dressing room to get changed.

Hours passed and he was now home. Sylus was finishing up a few emails on his computer but for some reason a little part of his mind was a little distracted by you, and of course, out of curiosity he decided to search you up.

And, well…fuck.

You were pretty popular, and had a bunch of views. All your videos seemed to be doing very well and Sylus couldn't help but feel something inside him, it wasn’t jealousy, but something completely different.

So, instinctively, he hovered his mouse over the play button of one of your most viral videos. Sylus leaned back in his chair as he let the video play out in front of him.

He watched as this fuckass purple haired man fucked you like a slut. The man's fingers digging deep in your hips as his cock pummeled deep into you, Sylus somewhat felt annoyed, but his fingers were definitely not annoyed.

Cause after barely being five minutes into the video, Sylus already had his fingers wrapped around his hard cock, he stroked slow movements on it as his eyes continued to stay locked on your pixelated video.

Rage fueled his eyes and he couldn’t wait for the day he gets to do the video with you to come soon. The last few minutes of the video played and a grovelling moan escaped Sylus’ lips as the last few drops of semen dripped out of him.

After he got himself cleaned up, he decided to watch your other videos, without getting off at them.

He was just going to watch them.

It was already the next morning and Sylus went through each and every one of your videos from that night, he didn’t get a wink of sleep since and his mind that had a faded memory of you was now completely filled with you.

As much as he tried to get you out of his mind, it was impossible for him to do so.

But while the days progressed, there was still a week until you and Sylus were supposed to have a shoot.

And each day, Sylus was asking the same question to his manager.

The first day he limped to his manager and played a dramatic act before he asked, “my leg hurts…is it possible we skip this person and i do my next shoot next week?”

“No.”

Okay, that didn't work out.

On the second day Sylus showed up to the studio later than usual, when he finally walked in, his manager was already bombarding him with a bunch of questions, asking where he was and such.

“My voice hurts a little and I lost my script, can we just skip this person?”

“Nope, I have an extra script if you want, also this script is for the person next week? So get on with it and make sure you’re ready tomorrow..” His manager pulled out some papers and shoved them towards Sylus, who groaned in response and walked away.

On the third day–also the day he had to shoot with the woman before you, he tried to make every possible excuse to avoid the filming but no one was listening to him.

And now, there was just an hour left before he had to start the shoot, so he decided to give in and just get it over with, and hope he’d just finish quickly. An hour passed and the woman showed up on set. His manager got the cameras ready and in a quick second the three second timer ended and the cameras started rolling.

Sylus’ fingers snaked around the woman’s waist as he aligned her pussy with Sylus’ cock, he pushed her down on it and rocked his hips against her ass, the sounds of his unrhythmic thrusts filling the room was getting him nowhere to release.

Sylus kept his eyes shut as he continued to pummel himself deep into the woman. He tried to think of anything that would get him to cum any quicker, then…ever so suddenly he winked open an eye and glanced at the woman's breasts, and then a memory of your cleavage appeared in his mind.

A whine slipped from Sylus’ lips and that's how he knew he was close, so close. Sylus’ fingers gripped tighter on the woman's waist and he pulled and pushed her, up and down, up and down, his eyes were locked onto her pussy that was clenching his cock in a respectful manner, now all Sylus needed to do was imagine it was your–

Shit.

A loud moan escaped Sylus’ lips and he pulled the woman out of him and sighed against the bed. Now that hack definitely worked out. A minute or so passed and Sylus’ manager walked towards him, a surprised look appearing in his eyes as he helped Sylus get cleaned up.

“That was… way too quick, don’t ‘cha think?” His manager chuckled awkwardly, patting Sylus down with a warm wet towel, but Sylus just shrugged and rested the warm towel against his eyes.

“I just need four more days to pass,” he said in the lowest voice he possibly could.

And finally, those four long, excruciating days passed and Sylus pranced around his studio as he waited for you to come as soon as possible. He bit his finger and sat on the bed as the seconds passing felt like minutes, and then hours, and then day–

The click of his door awoke Sylus from his stressing and he perked up on the bed, looking as the door opened up to reveal you walking in, a couple of papers in your hands as you glanced around the studio, and finally making eye contact with Sylus.

The faintest smile appeared on Sylus’ lips as he watched you walk towards him, his eyes quickly looking you up and down before you spoke up, “did you practice your lines?” your beautiful voice made Sylus stammer before he nodded.

“Mhmm, let's start now. Aye get the cameras ready f’me?” Sylus directed to the manager, who obediently listens to his orders and gets the cameras ready. As both of your managers were getting things ready, Sylus glanced at the busy workers before his fingers snaked around your waist, pulling you closer–

What was he doing? He didn't even know why he pulled you close like that…

Sylus cleared his throat before slightly pushing you away. And before either of you could speak, the managers hollered that they were ready. So you step away from Sylus and get in position.

The cameras started rolling and you walked towards Sylus in a seductive manner. Was that even a part in the script? Sylus was so dazed by you he patiently waited till you reached him. And so the final second you were just a few inches away from him, Sylus wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto his lap.

His large fingers cupped the sides of your face and Sylus pulled you in an intense, needy kiss. His tongue darted towards your closed lips as he sought entrance, wanting–needing, to savour more of you.

A quiet gasp left your lips and you obediently parted your lips, letting his tongue slide right through, tasting everything. He slid his fingers through your hair as he pushed you down on the bed. Fuck, he might as well had forgotten the whole script, might as well wing it.

Sylus continued to devour you, acting like he hadn't eaten for a year. Moments later he pulled away to catch his breath and stare at your flushed face beneath him. Now, comes the fun part. Sylus grabbed onto your knees as he spread your legs apart.

His eyes darted at your bare pussy on display for him, you weren't even wearing anything under that dress and that just turned on Sylus even more. His hungry gaze lingered there for a few minutes before he removed his belt and his pants in a quick movement.

Sylus’ hard cock was on display for you, he wrapped two fingers around it, slowly stroking himself before pressing his tip against your drooling cunt.

“Ready?” Sylus asked, teasingness laced in his voice. You let out a desperate whine and he pressed himself inside you, his cock was stretching out your pussy and that's when his whole mood took a whole 180.

Sylus grabbed onto your hips, his short nails dug deep into them as he rocked you and him back and forth in an indescribable pattern. Moans filled the studio and he already forgot what he was supposed to do next, he just continued ramming himself into you.

“Fuck..” Sylus moaned, pushing himself balls deep inside you.

“S-slow down!” you whine, trying to slow down the pace he was rocking you in but Sylus’ grip tightened even more, his cold gaze, filled with lust was glaring down at you, he looked like he was trying to hold back his release, and that's clearly what he was doing.

But of course, he couldn't hold himself back. After his eyes mistakenly went to your bouncing tits, he immediately felt a wave of pleasure splurge through him. Sylus groaned, but that didn't stop him from continuing.

He flipped you over and continued pummeling his cock deep inside you, the creamy mixture was pooling out of your tight cunt on every thrust and your moans grew louder and louder on each one.

“You’re taking me in so–ngh good.” he moaned, quickening the pace even quicker, a whiny answer escaped your lips but Sylus was too much in a horny daze to even decipher what you said, this was probably the best sex he had.

“Sy! ‘m gonna cum!” you whine, arching your back and spreading your legs further apart as you felt the pleasure deep down you. Sylus let out a shaky response and tried to pull away, but he was so addicted, you felt way too good and he needed more.

You thought he had pulled out by the time you came, but when your flushed face turned to his large figure shadowing over behind you, and noticed he was still inside you, you knew you were done for. Pleasure blinded Sylus’ eyes as he pulled himself out of you, just to watch the mess pool out of you.

Sylus’ fingers pressed against your puffy folds and he slowly stretched them out as his eyes watched the mixture stream out of your tight cunt, a quiet whine escaped your lips when you felt his fingers dig inside your walls as he pulled out every last drop.

“Shit.” he muttered, pulling his fingers out to look at the dripping mess dripping from his digits. You pant heavily, not having any energy for an answer. Before Sylus could continue any further both your managers yelled out ‘cut!” and Sylus snapped out of daze and sighed. Hopping off the bed and helping you out too moments later.

“Sylus! Did you even read the script?!” His manager poked on his biceps and Sylus shook his head.

“Sorry.”

“Whatever, no retakes. We will just upload this and see where it goes, but…Good job today.” His manager patted his back and walked away to grab some towels and extra clothes. Sylus quietly chuckled, his gaze lingering on your figure beneath him.

He wouldn’t mind doing this again, in fact, he wanted to do another shoot with you, this time, with nobody around.

part 7 of untamed desires | sylus -> next work

#love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus smut #love and deepspace smut #sylus #lads smut #qin che #sylus love and deepspace #lads sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #qin che smut

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velmiraa · 3 months ago

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Synastry Notes-II

Disclaimer: These are just my observations. If they don't resonate with you, simply read and move on. Additionally, most of what I’m saying here is based on straight relationship patterns. That’s because, in my experience, certain planets and points (like Mars, Venus, Eros, etc.) tend to act a bit differently depending on whether they show up in charts for women or men. That being said, the astro tea can still apply across all kinds of dynamics—it just might look a little different depending on the people involved. Let's start then!

Juno-Moon conjunctions usually point to marriage. Doesn’t really matter if it’s the guy or the girl who has Juno. Even if the conjunction is up to 8 degrees apart, it still seems to count. Honestly, sometimes just having Juno and the Moon in the same sign is enough. I don’t get why some people insist it has to be under 5 degrees…

I also notice Lilith conjunctions show up a lot in long-term relationships. People have a hard time letting go of that Lilith person. But it needs to go both ways—if both people have Lilith connections with each other, it works. If only one person does, it usually turns into a one-sided obsession.

One more big thing for lasting relationships: positive Saturn aspects in synastry. Especially Venus-Saturn. Those can make things last way longer than you’d expect. But here’s the catch—if the Saturn aspects are only positive, it can start to feel like you’re stuck in the relationship. Like, even if it’s time to move on, it’s hard to let go. That’s why it’s actually better to have a mix of good and bad Saturn aspects. But yeah, more good than bad if you want to stay together and not lose your mind.

Chiron-Mars conjunction sucks—especially if the guy is the Mars person. You know how women usually expect the guy to take action or make moves? Yeah, well, when the woman’s Chiron is conjunct the guy’s Mars, his actions—or lack of action—tend to hurt her a lot. And when the guy gets angry, the woman will get hurt a lot by his actions/lack of actions during the fight. Great times.

Sun-Venus aspects in synastry are super important in relationships. It’s better if the aspect is a positive one. Also, progressed charts count too—but just for a limited time. Once the conjunction vibe fades, so does the magic. And in progressed synastry, keep the orb tight—3 degrees max. Here’s a an example: say your partner’s progressed Venus is conjunct your natal Sun. That means their taste, what they find beautiful, and what they’re drawn to... it all lines up with you. Like, you’re literally their type. In this dynamic, the Sun person (aka you, probably) kinda takes the lead, and Venus is like “yes king, shine your light.”

When Mars and Sun conjunct in synastry, it’s hot—but if the woman is the Mars person? It’s like she sees the guy and thinks, “Yes. Him.” And everyone else is like, “...Really?” lol She’s drawn to his core vibe, his essence.

Asteroids are often underrated when it comes to synastry, but honestly? Eros and Psyche aspects hit different. Especially when Eros is the guy and Psyche is the girl. It’s giving “the body finds its soul” energy. When these two connect in a positive way—like a sextile, trine, or even a conjunction—it creates this deep, almost spiritual bond. Personally, I’ve only experienced the sextile, and even that felt more meaningful than any of my other relationships. I can’t even imagine what the trine or conjunction would feel like. Couples who have these aspects are very lucky.

When Saturn and Moon connect in a positive way, it’s like emotional stability enters the chat. Saturn, the responsible one, steps in and says, “I got you,” and Moon believes it. Saturn brings that “I’m not going anywhere” energy, and the Moon loves that. This is seriously one of those aspects that helps a relationship stay solid when things get messy.

12th house Venus experience is interesting. It’s always like “Does that person like me or not?”. You cannot be sure about their true feelings towards you. Even when they try to show affection, it just creates more confusion. You’ll be sitting there like, “Okay… he brought me coffee… but does that mean he loves me? Or is he just polite? Or is this coffee a metaphor for rejection?” Lol That person can’t show you his love to you in a clear way. Either you just feel that they love you deep down… or you’ll never fully get it on a conscious level.

If you’ve got your South Node sitting in the 7th house and someone’s personal planets conjunct it… buckle up. That person is gonna feel like home, a soft hoodie for your soul. It’s so cozy and familiar. Letting go of them? Not happening. At least not in your mind. You might know it's not perfect or even healthy, but the connection hits that nostalgic part of your brain that makes you think, “They came back for me. Like we planned.”

That's it for today, guys! Hope you like it, see ya!

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starchaser667 · 4 months ago

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WHY did Motherspore target Jimmy out of everyone else??

First of all, let me tell you, I had been thinking of making this post for a while, and it was originally going to be me sharing my thoughts and going crazy with theories hehe

But it turns out there's ALREADY an answer to this question, that was hinted at in Maruu and Doody's streams a couple of times, which I found out extremely late because I can never catch those live.

Still, I thought so long and hard on this, that I decided I would share my thought process anyways! Show you how deep I went before ever knowing if I was delusional or not hwjsjwjs

So here goes nothing!

~~~

For starters, I wanna say I was initially under the impression that Jimmy's involvement in the Motherspore incident had been, for the most part, COLLATERAL DAMAGE. Like it was mainly a mix of negative factors, and maybe also Jimmy's infamous bad luck lol, that got him in that situation.

I imagined he'd been one of the many people to have fainted at the start of the whole mess, and having probably done so in his office (a more isolated place than a classroom or a break-room where most people were), he had been the easiest target; secluded enough that Motherspore had managed to capture him without any trouble or interference from anyone.

That sounded like a likely scenario! And considering it probably wasn't very important, I didn't dwell on it too much...

That was, until we got to Chapter 15, and most importantly, HOTGUY'S INTERROGATION.

Because Hotguy brings to attention that Jimmy's position in all this is actually quite suspicious. He remarks that Jimmy had been the only person to remain in the building, when everyone else had been evacuated, which then led him to be the most difficult one to find and rescue. He wonders if there's a possibility that he stayed behind ON PURPOSE.

And while it's important to note that all of this is stated with the ill-intention of triggering Grian and forcing him to talk, it is undeniably TRUE that Jimmy's situation had been unlike anybody else's.

In fact, once I started thinking about it, I realized there's something actually odd that happened, that didn't see anyone mention and was particular to Jimmy's case... and that is that Motherspore actually fought to GET HIM BACK.

Think about the way Motherspore acted when everyone was evacuating the building, or rather, how she DIDN'T ACT. Sure, people were fainting, which I don't know if it was an intentional move on her part or simply a side-effect of the spores in the air, but with some help they were all able to get out safely.

And she let it happen, and not because she lacked the power to stop it. She could've had people trapped in the fungus like Jimmy was, she could've covered the exits in it so people wouldn't be able to escape, she could've attacked Hotguy the second he stepped in to help, yet she didn't.

But when JIMMY was the one being taken away?? She willed the fungus to grab at him and drag him back towards her, proceeded to literally pounce on Hotguy. And judging by the shocked look on his face, we can assume and confirm that was the first time he was met with resistance and hostility on this foe's end.

So after pondering all this I suddenly went HOLD ON. What if Jimmy being captured wasn't just an unfortunate coincidence? Because it's starting to look as if he was intentionally singled out... OMG what if he was actually TARGETED???

And oh boy did that set me off.

I rapidly started coming up with quite a few ideas as to why that could've been the case. Could it have simply been because he's related to Grian?? Or because he's also a witch?? Maybe specifically because of his mind-reading ability?? And so on.

BUT, as I said before, there's already a kinda answer to this question, as to why Motherspore went after Jimmy, that was revealed in one of Maruu and Doody's streams, which might be the reason why lots of people like myself hadn't heard about it.

Doody responded that the one thing she could say about the matter is that it was important to remember that Motherspore is fundamentally STILL GRIAN, just taken to a more primal, slightly fucked up level. They mentioned that this version of Grian is guided primarily by instinct, and I quote, "is protecting the things that are dear to him and attacking what seems like a threat."

And OMG do you know what this MEANS??

It means that yes, Motherspore did target Jimmy, but not exactly for the reasons I first suspected. It wasn't because she had wanted to hurt him or use him in any way, but because she had wanted to PROTECT HIM!! That's why she hid him away from everyone else, and why she went to greater lengths to keep him there!!

And dude I just think that's so sweet 😭 that even in a corrupted state of mind, Grian was able to recognize his cousin and still strived to keep him safe no matter what <3

And I think this is very important information to have, because it makes their interaction in Chapter 14 even MORE heartbreaking than it already was.

Because we know Grian was DEVASTATED to see Jimmy hurt, and even more horrified at the notion that he had likely been the cause of it. And I just know that guilt is part of the reason why he denied his offering to stay, why he decides to push him away. He believes it would be safer for Jimmy to keep his distance, even if it breaks both their hearts.

And this is so incredibly sad because Grian DOESN'T KNOW. He doesn't know that Motherspore never wished Jimmy any harm, that in her own messed-up way, she tried to defend him from everything.

He has no idea that caring for Jimmy is such a core part of him, that any version of himself can't help doing the same...

Anyways they make me sick <3 can't wait to read and find out more!!!

~~~

TLDR: Found out Motherspore didn't capture Jimmy for malicious reasons, but because Grian was unconsciously trying to protect him, and now I'm emotional :'(

#ddvau #desertduo vigilante au #double hearted #grian #jimmy solidarity #motherspore #goodtimeswithscar #mcyt #life series #hermitcraft #the brothers ever #bird duo #birdbrains #star post #can you tell i'm insane

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all-my-love-for-harry · 13 days ago

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❧ Almost Eden (part three)

pairing; jake seresin x childhood friend!reader

summary; Jake comes face-to-face with the years he missed—and the version of you he was never there to protect.

word count; 3.4k

warnings; terrible mothers. it gets kinda dark at some point lol but nothing too bad

a/n; we finally get to know a little more about bambi and her life, as well as the long awaited reunion :') so far it has been a lot of inner dialogue but oh boy there is some drama coming!! also, this chapter is way longer than the past two, let me know if i should keep them short or would you like them a little longer?

series masterlist

Your mother didn’t like the way you dressed, said you looked sloppy, or like you were trying too hard. She didn’t like the way your hair fell messily over your shoulders, or how your nose wrinkled and your eyes disappeared when you smiled, like joy itself was somehow unflattering. She criticized the way you laughed too loudly, spoke too softly, and dreamed too big. And the older you got, the clearer it became: it wasn’t just your clothes or your choices she disapproved of. It was you. She didn’t like you very much at all.

When you were little, you used to curl up on your daddy’s lap, crying over the sharp words your mother threw like stones. He’d wipe your tears with the soft pad of his thumb and whisper that it was only because she loved you. That she saw so much of herself in you, and wanted you to be better than she ever was. And back then, you believed him. You believed that being compared to her was something to be proud of—that her harshness was just love in disguise.

But now, without your father’s hand on your back and his sweet, soothing words to bridge the space between you and her, it’s harder to believe that love is what’s behind her coldness. Harder to pretend that being like her was ever meant to be a gift.

You stopped chasing your mother’s approval the moment she sent you halfway across the world. Thirteen was far too young to be separated from your parents, but the distance brought a strange kind of freedom. You missed your father terribly, but being away also meant living without your mother’s cold, disapproving stare shadowing your every move. And that, in its own way, was a relief. Boarding school gave you space to breathe. You made friends from every corner of the world, studied hard, and slowly began to grow into someone who almost believed in themselves. But then your father died, and everything that had started to feel steady collapsed beneath you.

Sometimes, your life felt like the universe had a personal vendetta against you—like it had spent the last decade throwing every possible challenge your way just to see how much you'd take before breaking. The losses, the disappointments, the endless uphill climbs—it all began to feel less like coincidence and more like cruelty. But then again, the universe had nothing on your mother. Between the two of them, you were never sure who had it out for you more. All you knew was that you were tired of fighting battles you never asked for.

Anyone else in your shoes might have given up by now, raised the white flag and let it all fall apart. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Somewhere deep down, you made a quiet promise to yourself: that no matter how hard things got, you’d stay the person your father believed you were. The girl he was proud of. The girl he loved. Holding on to her became your way of holding on to him.

So you did your part. You kept your clothes pristine, your hair perfectly styled, and your mouth shut. You attended the parties and the charity events; you smiled politely and kept your back straight, but that one came as a second nature after so many years of hearing her hiss, "Did I birth Quasimodo?"; you stayed in Texas and became the doll-like socialite as if you didn't attend the most prestigious boarding school in the world and then went and got your degree in Languages and Linguistics in one of the best universities in England. As if it didn’t hurt that your mother had cast you aside, only to come reaching back once she realized you were learning to be happy without her.

You told yourself it was fine, you were used to it, you had been living under your mother's thumb for twenty-eight years. The pills helped a lot, though.

Pills. Dozens of them. Antidepressants, antipsychotics, anti-anxiety meds, antihistamines—if it existed, she probably had you on it at some point. It was as if she'd made it her mission to convince every doctor that you were a danger to yourself if left unmedicated. And they believed her. They always did. That’s how it had been since you turned twenty—your life managed by prescriptions, as if survival depended more on chemistry than on choice.

You knew you weren’t crazy. Flawed, maybe. Angry, definitely. But never once, not even at your lowest, had you thought about ending your life. Not when you spent your first Christmas alone at thirteen. Not when your father died and the world went quiet. Not even when your mother had you committed after the funeral, convinced you were a danger to yourself. And certainly not during the years that followed, when she tore through every relationship you tried to build, hunting down anything that resembled love and burning it to the ground before it could grow.

God, your early twenties were bad.

Now, at twenty-eight, you’ve learned how to keep the peace. You follow the rules, offer quiet little “Yes, Mother”s, and bite your tongue when you want to scream. Because talking back comes with consequences, always has. Her favorite punishment? Cutting you off. Credit cards canceled without warning, allowances frozen mid-month. She didn’t just control the day-to-day—she held the keys to everything your father left behind. The trust, the inheritance, all tied up in paperwork with her name stamped at the bottom. And she never lets you forget it.

She removed people from your world the way one plucks petals from a flower: carefully, deliberately. You've found a friend in the people working in your home. Your driver, the chef, the housekeeper. Anyone who would talk to you, you couldn't really allow yourself to be picky, since a lot of the friends you once had now resided miles away from you, unaware of it all.

The friends you used to have in your hometown were also all gone. They moved out, grew out of the place they once called home. You thought of them often, wondering what would happen if you reached out. You weren't forbidden from it; you simply didn't know how to do it. One thing you forbade yourself from doing was thinking about Jake Seresin.

Although sometimes your brain betrayed you and made up fantasies about him coming back, reaching out, saving you. You'd wake up in a cold sweat the moment you saw his face in your dreams.

You were many things, but a masochist wasn’t supposed to be one of them—or at least, you hadn’t meant to be. You’d done your best to forget the boy who broke your heart before you even knew what heartbreak really was. Told yourself childhood friendships weren’t meant to last, and that it was foolish to think he’d wait for you to catch up. You were younger, smaller, always trailing behind. The crush you nursed had to be nothing more than proximity, the natural result of spending so many days in his shadow. You told yourself all of that. And some days, you even believed it.

But you still wondered.

Will you always wonder?

[…]

Jake wasn't supposed to be outside the house. He was supposed to be resting, healing the wounds from his accident. But a man could only take so many naps before losing his mind.

So, like a teenager, he sneaked off. He wasn't allowed to drive, so he walked under the Texan sun until he got downtown. Unlike his family's state, which appeared to have been frozen in time, the town he grew up in was nothing like he remembered. There were glimpses of his childhood hidden in the modern buildings that housed equally modern businesses. Long gone were the family-owned restaurants, the local boutiques, and the cozy cafes he once thought would stand there forever.

Jake was no stranger to unfamiliar places; he’d moved enough times to know how it felt to be the outsider, the drifter, the face that didn’t belong. But this was different. This was home. Or at least, it had been. He kept expecting to turn a corner and see someone he used to know. It didn’t even have to be you.

Still, that didn’t stop him from searching. Every crowd, every café window, every sidewalk held the quiet hope that your face might suddenly appear. He chased your shadow like it was the only thing left tying him to this place.

It pained him to admit it, but he was tired. Exhausted, even. No amount of painkillers could numb the ache he's been feeling in his heart since the moment he arrived back home. His mind has been spiraling, running a hundred different scenarios in his head on what on earth had happened to you.

What was so bad that it couldn't be spoken about at the dinner table? What happened after your father's funeral? Or was it before? Maybe it was during your time abroad. Was it about your mother? He wouldn't doubt it. Or perhaps you got married? No. Divorced? Maybe. Widowed? Perhaps.

Okay, he needed to calm down.

He's been here for less than a week, and he has already let his mind drift back to you more than he had allowed it to in the past ten years. Pull it together, man. He was a fucking naval aviator, goddammit. He wasn't the same seventeen-year-old asshat who was incapable of keep his emotions on check and tended to word-vomit things he later regretted.

He stopped being that person the moment he became the reason your eyes—your beautiful, hopeful, crystallized before him. He still remembered the way your bottom lip trembled and your hands dropped to your side. The way you stopped trying to chase after him and how he didn't dare to turn back around, leaving you alone on the sidewalk like everyone else in your life had.

Yeah, Jake has been thinking a lot. About what he would say if your paths dared to cross again. Would you remember him? Or could you pass right past him in this town and not even spare him a second glance? He wasn't sure which one would hurt more.

He always knew karma would catch up to him eventually, but it still landed like a punch to his already cracked ribs when his eyes happened to flick toward the window of a hipster-looking café, and there you were. Alone in a corner booth, head tilted down, hair falling across your face. But it was you. He knew it instantly. He could’ve picked you out in any crowd, in any city, on any day. Because no matter how many years had passed, his eyes still knew how to find you.

His feet moved before his consciousness reminded him he didn't deserve to approach her. Not after what he did.

He entered the place and carefully moved to order something, anything, while still looking at her from his peripheral vision. She didn't notice him. Her head didn't move a single millimeter when the little bell on the door rang and announced his presence. He couldn't make up what she was looking down at, not from where he stood.

His heart pounded against his bruised ribs, each beat louder than the last as his thoughts scrambled in two directions—go to you, or turn and get as far away as possible. Charlotte hadn’t been lying. You looked good. No—you looked beautiful. Had you always been? He remembered you as a cute kid, always tagging along, all wide eyes and bright smiles. But this—this wasn’t a child standing in front of him. This was a woman. Grown. Composed. And for the first time, he realized he didn’t know when that change had happened… only that he’d missed it. Completely.

The barista calling your name snapped him out of his thoughts. He blinked, brows furrowed, turning to her in confusion. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like they were old friends sharing a secret. "The girl you’re staring at? That’s her name," she said, nodding toward you. "Comes in every day. Never talks to anyone. Her bodyguard freaks me out, though—total statue, never smiles."

She said it like gossip, soft and casual, but it landed heavy in his chest. So you were real. You were still here. And suddenly, he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

"Word is she’s a little unhinged, but when your family’s got that kind of money, people tend to look the other way."

His jaw clenched. The girl had no idea who she was talking to—didn’t know that he knew you, or at least, used to. Somehow, that made it worse. The way she spoke so casually, so carelessly about you to a complete stranger—it didn’t sit right with him. It felt practiced, like she’d said it before. Maybe more than once. And that thought twisted something in his gut.

Was this how people talked about you now?

Like you were a story. A warning. A punchline.

“You didn’t ask, but want my advice? Spare yourself the drama—her mother’s just as crazy as she is.” Why was she still talking?

“You’re right,” he said at last, voice calm but sharp. “I didn’t ask for your advice.” He tossed a bill onto the counter, grabbed his overpriced black coffee, and walked away—before the heat rising in his chest made him say something he’d really regret.

You're sitting alone in the booth, stirring a cup you've barely touched. A designer bag is slouched on the seat beside you, gaping open just enough to show a handful of pill bottles inside—amber plastic, white caps, names he doesn’t recognize.

He freezes mid-step. Then, breathes in. Out. And walks up.

He said your name carefully, like he was trying to approach a wounded animal, and he didn't know how it would react. He hated it.

You look up slowly, like she’s been underwater and just surfaced. Your expression flickers—confusion first, then disbelief. Your fingers tighten around the mug.

"Hey." He continued softly.

"...What are you doing here?" You finally said. Not hostile, not angry. Just flat. But the surprise in your eyes gave you away.

"Mind if I—?"

"I’d rather you didn’t."

The words aren’t cruel. Just tired. Flat.

"Right. It’s just been a long time." He looked down at his coffee, starting to lose the courage he once had when he approached you first. "Bambi, I'm—"

"Don't call me that." Suddenly, your words weren't so flat anymore, and your eyes darkened in a way he's never witnessed before. "Don't act like we're old friends catching up, Jake. If you’re here to dredge up old memories, save it. I’m not that girl anymore."

"I know it's been a long time," His throat felt dry. “I didn’t know how to come back.”

“Then maybe you should’ve stayed gone.”

The woman standing before him wasn’t his Bambi. She had the same golden hair, the same wide, doe-like eyes, the familiar curve of her nose and lips. It was you—yet not the you he remembered. This version was quieter, heavier, with shadows lingering beneath her gaze. Somber. Worn. Exhausted. What the hell had happened to you?

"Can I help you with anything else?" Your voice snapped him back to reality.

"I'm... No. Sorry for bothering you." With his tail between his legs, he walked away. His eyes met the barista's, and she gave him a knowing look, like she was telling him I told you so.

He threw his untouched cup in the trash can and left the place.

He wasn’t lying to himself—he’d run through a hundred scenarios in his mind about what seeing you again might be like. But this? This was never one of them. He knew all too well he didn’t deserve a grand, emotional reunion. Hell, he didn’t even deserve a simple glance in return. But the way you looked at him... it was ten times worse than any coldness he’d faced all those years ago.

The one thing that echoed that day was the silent scream in your eyes. Back then, he hadn’t recognized it—but now, it was as clear as daylight.

Question remained, was he going to do something about it, or was he going to leave you hanging again?

[…]

Seeing you again rattled him to his core—and that didn’t happen often. He was a highly trained, battle-tested fighter pilot, used to pressure, to danger, to keeping his emotions locked behind steel. But the moment your eyes met his, he wasn’t Lieutenant Jake Seresin anymore. He was seventeen again—reckless, uncertain, and entirely unprepared for the weight of you.

The feeling haunted him. He hated it.

And yet, deep down, he knew—he deserved every second of it.

Still, he felt like he was going crazy. It was hard to breathe, and he knew it wasn't because of his wounds. He felt numb, and it wasn't because of the sling on his left arm.

He wanted answers, needed them. But he couldn’t go straight to the source. It wouldn’t be fair to barge back into your life and demand explanations he had no right to. So instead, he went to the one person who’d kept him in the loop all these years, feeding him carefully curated versions of the girl he once knew and the woman he’d just seen in that café.

His mother.

"I saw her today." No explanations, no dancing around the subject. Jake knew she knew who he was referring to. "Why did you lead me to believe she was the same girl I used to know?" He didn't shout, he wasn't angry. He was desperate.

"Oh, Jake." Her tone was sad. Not condescending, but knowing. "I don't expect you to understand."

"Then try." He practically begged. The lump in his throat was killing him. He wasn't used to feeling this way, yet it seemed like all his emotional control went out the window ever since he came back.

Caroline let out a quiet sigh. “I know what happened between you two, sweetheart,” she said gently. “And no matter how hard you try, you’ve never been able to hide how you feel from me.” She paused, her eyes soft with something like guilt. “I knew you already carried enough regret for the things you said back then. I didn’t want to add to it. I wanted you to hold on to the version of her you remembered—the sweet, innocent girl you knew. I thought if I kept the truth from you… Maybe you’d stop punishing yourself for something you did when you were just a kid.”

"What happened to her, Mom?

She stared back at him for a moment. "I'll put the kettle on."

Jake sat at the kitchen table, hands clenched around his cup of tea, fighting the urge to rush his mother into speaking. His thoughts spun in relentless circles, moving faster than he could catch them. Every time he blinked, he saw your eyes staring back at him—dark, distant, and filled with a sadness he couldn’t unsee. And underneath it all, something worse.

Disappointment.

"Her life hasn’t been easy, darling," Caroline said gently. "Elizabeth was always difficult, but with her daughter… she was brutal."

Jake didn’t need to be told. He’d grown up watching it unfold—your mother’s sharp words, the cold disapproval, the way she seemed to chip away at you day after day.

"It got worse after William died," Caroline continued, her voice quieter now. "It was like something in her snapped, and instead of holding her daughter closer, she shoved her straight off the edge—then acted shocked when she broke." Jake’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as his mother went on. "Elizabeth never told me much, but not long after the funeral, she came to me rambling about how she was afraid Bambi might hurt herself. Next thing I knew, she had her committed."

He clenched his teeth so hard that it sent a sharp ache through his jaw.

"Six months," Caroline said softly. "She spent six months in that place. Came back with a pharmacy’s worth of prescriptions. She tried to leave again—not just the house, but the country. Finished her degree in London, tried to build something new. But Elizabeth never let her go. Not completely. I’m fairly certain she had the state appoint her as Bambi’s legal guardian. Which means…"

Jake swallowed hard, fury and disbelief burning in his chest.

"…she controls nearly every part of her life."

❧

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