#the one on the right is mine and the one on the left belongs to my friend :]

[theonottsbxtch]

THE LOCKER NEXT TO HIS PT1 | LN4

an: the forth installment! i had a lot of fun writing this one as you can tell it is much longer than all the other ones, this one i am holding very dear to my chest and would die for this version of lando, following this one is med school!isack, i hope you enjoy this installment! i have to post them in two parts because its too long lmao

wc: 17.2k (both parts together)

warnings: mentions of death & trauma

summary: lando was just a tired firefighter in a flat that smelled like rice and regrets. then she showed up, quiet, sharp, accidentally charming. and suddenly things weren’t so routine. they flirt like it’s an olympic sport, but grief lingers like smoke. somewhere between post-it notes and midnight gelato, they start to save each other.

PART TWO uniformed hearts masterlist

LANDO HADN'T MEANT TO STAY IN THAT FLAT MORE THAN SIX MONTHS. A stopgap, that’s what he’d called it. Just somewhere cheap, close to the station, until something better came along. That was two years ago.

Now, the walls still had damp blooming quietly up the corners, the boiler made a wheezing noise every time someone flushed the loo, and someone, probably Isack, had blu-tacked a page of anatomy revision notes to the fridge like it belonged there. But it was cheap. And close to work. And, in a way he didn’t often admit, just familiar enough to feel like home.

He shared it with two others. Franco, a paramedic who was mostly never around and staying at his girlfriend’s place, and Isack, a med student who never spoke above a whisper and survived almost exclusively on rice. Lando saw more of their laundry than their faces.

The place smelt faintly of washing powder and leftover curry. The living room rug was half-singed from a failed candle experiment last winter. Still, at the end of a long shift, it was warm. And sometimes that was enough.

This morning, he was already late.

He jammed a half-eaten cereal bar into his mouth, slung his fleece over one shoulder, and locked the flat behind him with the usual three-jiggle twist it took to get the key to behave. The sun hadn’t quite committed to rising yet, that strange hour when the world felt like it belonged to delivery vans and joggers and no one else.

The station was only ten minutes away. Twelve, if he stopped to grab a tea.

He didn’t.

Inside, the usual morning buzz was just beginning, chairs scraping, the telly droning low in the corner, Zak already sighing like the day had personally offended him.

Lando was halfway through pulling off his jacket when he saw her.

Standing in the kitchen, back turned, sleeves rolled up, one hand on the kettle and the other flicking through a file. Hair up. Posture that said she wasn’t just passing through.

He paused, briefly, just taking her in. She wasn’t familiar. And he’d have remembered.

Not firefighter. Not one of the council types either. Too practical.

New.

He didn’t say anything straight away. Just stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame, casual as anything.

She noticed him. Didn’t look up. Just said, “If you’re here to ask when breakfast’s ready, you’ll be disappointed.”

Lando blinked. Then smiled, slow. “Right. So no full English then?”

“Not unless you brought your own pan. And cleaned it first.”

He chuckled, stepped further in. “Didn’t realise we’d hired a chef.”

“We didn’t,” she said, glancing up now. Her eyes were sharp. “I’m maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” he echoed. “You fix the boiler or the printer?”

“Neither. I answer phones, do inventory, chase you lot for forms you forget to fill out.”

“Ah,” he said, mock grin. “The real power behind the throne.”

She raised a brow. “Something like that.”

He offered a hand, out of habit. “Lando.”

She glanced at it, then shook it once, quick and professional. “I know.”

That caught him off guard. “You do?”

“You’re the one who broke the kitchen chair last week, left half a Kinder in the fridge with a post-it that said ‘mine’, and wrote your own name on the rota in capital letters. Twice.”

He blinked. Then laughed. “Alright. Bit of a fan, are you?”

“Not even slightly.”

Her tone was deadpan, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile, more the memory of one.

Lando tilted his head, watching her. “Well. If you’re going to be making notes on me, at least let me buy you a coffee first.”

She didn’t roll her eyes exactly, but the look she gave him was somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Do you flirt with everyone this early in the morning, or am I just the lucky one?”

He grinned, crooked. “Only the ones who remember the Kinder.”

That earned him nothing but the click of a cupboard door and the soft clatter of mugs being rearranged.

Still, as he turned to leave, she said, almost offhand, “Zak wants you to do a PPE check. Form’s on your locker.”

He glanced back. “You always this charming, or just for me?”

She didn’t look up this time. Just stirred her tea and said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But her voice had softened by a degree. And Lando, who had been through enough hell to know the difference between cold and careful, he just smiled to himself and walked away.

Lando grinned all the way down the corridor. He wasn’t sure if it was the tea fumes or the new girl’s deadpan delivery, but something about the whole exchange left him in a better mood than he’d started in.

He found Oscar in the mess room, hunched over a bowl of cereal like it was the only thing tethering him to consciousness. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a slight sway to the way he was sitting, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, which, to be fair, he probably hadn’t.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lando said, dropping into the chair opposite.

Oscar grunted.

“Alright, Eeyore. You look like you’ve been up all night getting emotionally waterboarded.”

“I have been up all night,” Oscar muttered, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Baby won’t settle unless she’s lying on me, and at some point I passed out with half a dummy stuck to my cheek.”

Lando winced. “Fatherhood’s so hot.”

Oscar gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk. Then went back to his cereal.

Lando leaned back in his chair. “Met the new girl yet?”

“What new girl?”

“Maintenance. Zak’s latest hire. Bit of an enigma. Possibly my soulmate.”

Oscar blinked. “You’ve known her five minutes.”

“Yeah, and I’ve grown emotionally in all of them.” He stood, gesturing with his mug. “Come on.”

Oscar stared at him, unmoving.

Lando sighed. “This is what happens when you don’t talk to adults. You forget how to do normal social things. Get up. This is your reintroduction to society.”

Oscar groaned, but stood anyway, carrying his cereal bowl with the slow resignation of a man who knew he wasn’t winning this.

Upstairs, the kitchen was still warm. A different kind of quiet now, more settled. She was sorting through a delivery box on the counter, frowning down at a set of mugs that looked suspiciously like they belonged in someone’s nan’s attic.

Lando leaned casually in the doorway, Oscar lurking just behind him.

She glanced up, caught them both staring, and narrowed her eyes. “Why am I being looked at like I’m on trial?”

Oscar, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry just… there’s usually no women here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right. First time seeing one?”

Oscar flushed slightly. “No. I just meant…”

“Mm.” She looked him up and down, then caught the glint of the ring on his left hand. “So it’s not your first time. That’s a relief. What’s Lando’s excuse?”

Lando, who was sipping from his mug just to appear casual, nearly choked. “I don’t need an excuse,” he said, grinning. “I’m a very supportive colleague. Just thought you two should meet. Oscar’s our resident domestic deity. Got a newborn and a soft spot for dad jokes.”

“Impressive,” she said, with a faint smile. Then to Oscar, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said, still a bit thrown. “She’s small. And loud. But I love her.”

That made her laugh, just a little. The sort of sound that caught Lando more than he’d admit. Light and fleeting, like something she didn’t let out often.

She turned back to the mugs, pulling one out with a small frown. “These are horrible.”

Oscar peered at them. “They look like they came from a charity shop in 1983.”

“They did,” she muttered, checking the box label. “Brilliant.”

Lando leaned in. “You know, we’ve got some pristine ones in the crew room. Untouched. We only use the chipped ones out of loyalty.”

She gave him a look. “You mean laziness.”

He shrugged. “Tomato, tomato.”

Oscar, sensing he was no longer needed, backed away slowly like a man escaping a wild animal encounter. “Right, I’m going to pretend I’m still on leave.”

“You’re literally in uniform,” Lando called after him.

Oscar held up his cereal bowl in vague farewell and disappeared down the hall.

That left Lando in the doorway again, her still half-focused on unpacking, but not quite not-looking at him.

He tapped the side of his mug with one finger. “So. No name badge. I’m still operating on mystery-girl settings.”

She didn’t look up. “That’s intentional.”

“Fair. Adds to the intrigue.”

“I think your definition of intrigue is ‘mild inconvenience’.”

He grinned. “Only when it comes with sarcasm and a file of health and safety violations.”

She glanced at him then, properly. The sort of glance that said she was still deciding what to make of him. Not in a rude way. Just measured.

“I’m here to work,” she said, tone light but firm. “Not get flirted with by every firefighter who forgets how to work a printer.”

Lando placed his mug down on the counter and gave her a small, mock-serious nod. “Right. I’ll keep it professional, then. Strictly toner cartridges and awkward eye contact.”

She snorted. “Please don’t make eye contact when discussing toner. That feels weirdly intimate.”

Lando laughed. “Alright. No eye contact. But I reserve the right to leave mysterious Post-it notes.”

She raised a brow. “You leave mysterious Kinders. Not the same.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Guilty.”

The radio crackled to life again in the background, some caller-in show about potholes, typically British. She turned back to the box and he lingered for a moment longer, just watching the way she worked. Efficient. Sharp. Like someone who’d been underestimated enough to turn it into armour.

Eventually, he straightened. “Well. Welcome to the circus.”

She didn’t look up. “Thanks.”

He paused just long enough to hear her say it.

Then headed back down the hall, still grinning, like he’d just been handed a puzzle he wouldn’t mind taking his time figuring out.

She’d been here a week. And no one had noticed.

Which, to be fair, was exactly how she’d planned it.

There was a certain freedom in invisibility, no questions, no expectations, just her and the never-ending list of things that needed restocking, reordering, or politely emailing the council about. The station ticked along with its own rhythm, and she slotted herself into the gaps. Fixed the printer. Made the tea. Carried on with the quiet efficiency of someone trying very hard not to be part of the story.

And then Lando had walked into the kitchen with his ridiculous grin and his even more ridiculous face, and now well.

She’d been noticed.

Not just glanced at. Not just nodded to. Noticed. Clocked. Eyed in that way she’d hoped wouldn’t happen. The way that said I see you, even if he didn’t know what he was looking at yet.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Well. She was. She just wasn’t sure she liked how she felt about it.

She turned back to the delivery box with unnecessary focus, tugging another mug out with a bit too much force. Her knuckles grazed the edge of the cardboard. She didn’t swear, not aloud, anyway.

The thing was, she hadn’t wanted to be here. At all.

After uni, she’d done what everyone told her to, took a gap year to "find herself", which mostly involved booking flights she couldn’t afford and having mild identity crises in hostels that smelt like socks. It was meant to help. Give her time. Clarity. A sense of direction.

It gave her a sunburn, two expired travel cards, and a vague dislike of anyone who said "manifest it" unironically.

So when she landed back home with no plan and even less money, her dad had said, kindly, firmly, with that look she knew better than to argue with, “You need to face reality.”

And reality, apparently, was a job at his fire station.

Maintenance, on paper. Odd jobs. Admin. Support. Nothing official. He’d even promised, hand on heart, that no one would know they were related.

And so far, he’d kept that promise.

They barely spoke on shift. Just passing nods and the occasional muttered “well done” when she managed to fix the kitchen tap with nothing but a spoon and a suspiciously old instruction manual.

Still. It was weird. Being there. Being her there.

The station had its own language, radio codes, nicknames, shorthand she hadn’t quite cracked yet. It smelled of gear bags and burnt toast and stale deodorant. The men were mostly decent, older, tired, still caught in the glory days of jokes from 2009. Some of the younger ones looked at her like she was either an intern or a misplaced delivery.

But none of them had really looked at her. Until this morning.

She rubbed the back of her wrist absent-mindedly, eyeing the last few mugs. The sound of Lando’s voice still lingered faintly in her head, bright, teasing, too quick for her to deflect without thinking.

She didn’t want to be flirted with. She didn’t want anyone to ask her name. She didn’t want to feel warm in the face just because some firefighter with annoyingly nice forearms and a crooked smile had noticed she existed.

She wanted to do her job. Get paid. Maybe disappear again in six months.

But now…

Now she’d been noticed.

She shoved the last mug onto the shelf, shut the cupboard a bit too firmly, and stood there for a second, palms flat on the counter.

Maybe he’d forget about her. Maybe it was just a one-off.

She opened her eyes and sighed.

It definitely wasn’t.

By midday, the station had settled into that familiar low hum, not quite quiet, but not buzzing either. She liked it best like this. Paperwork stacked into vaguely sensible piles, someone’s half-finished toast abandoned on a plate in the kitchen, and a dog-eared training manual lying face down on the sofa like it had given up on life.

She moved through the building with her usual rhythm, checked the rota board, confirmed the equipment delivery (which was, as always, three helmets short and labelled for a completely different station), replaced the loo roll in the women's locker room, even though she was still the only person using it.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. And she was good at it, the small, invisible things that made everything else tick along.

Around half three, she swung by her dad’s office.

The door was slightly ajar, as always, and the radio on his desk was turned low, some footie commentary murmuring away like background weather. He was hunched over a spreadsheet, glasses low on his nose, biro in mouth.

She knocked gently on the doorframe. “Delivery update. You’re not getting your flash hoods until Friday. And someone in logistics thinks we’re in Milton Keynes.”

Without looking up, he said, “Alright, princess.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “No.”

He looked up, blinked. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Yeah, well. Break it.”

He smiled, a little sheepish, a little smug. “Noted.”

She stepped inside, resting a hip against the edge of his desk. “Everything alright?”

He sighed. “Fine, mostly. Andrea’s chasing up the budget report. Something about overspending on vehicle maintenance.”

“Because the bloody ladder mechanism got stuck again and someone tried to fix it with WD-40 and optimism.”

He snorted. “God, you sound like me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a compliment.”

“Didn’t realise it wasn’t.”

She smirked despite herself, then nodded toward the open personnel files beside him. “Anyone actually fill out their updated medical forms?”

“Two out of fifteen.”

She made a noise of vague despair. “And you wonder why I threaten them with brightly coloured spreadsheets.”

He chuckled. “You’re good at this, you know.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I want to be here.”

His expression shifted, just slightly. “I know.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, just full of things they weren’t going to say.

Eventually she pushed off from the desk and nodded toward the hallway. “Alright. I’ve got to go and chase up the missing radio order.”

“Thanks, love.”

She froze. Gave him a very pointed look over her shoulder.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

She muttered something under her breath and stepped out into the corridor.

Only to walk straight into Lando.

He was leaning against the wall outside, arms folded, one foot propped up behind him like he’d been there long enough to get comfortable. He had that look on his face, the one people got when they knew something they shouldn’t.

“Princess, huh?”

Her whole body stilled. “No.”

He raised an eyebrow, far too pleased with himself. “Didn’t peg you for the royal sort.”

“Piss off.”

He stepped beside her, falling into step as she marched back down the corridor. “Do we curtsy now? Or is it more of a wave-from-the-balcony vibe?”

She didn’t look at him. “If you start humming God Save the King I will staple your rota to your forehead.”

Lando grinned. “Ooh, feisty. Bit of a Lady Catherine de Bourgh situation.”

She glared sideways at him. “You read Pride and Prejudice?”

“No. But I saw the film. The one with the pond scene.”

“Of course you did.”

They turned a corner. He was still going. “Alright, what about Duchess? Your Royal Highness? Madam?”

“You sound like you’re ordering off a weird menu.”

“Alright, alright. Something simpler. Love?”

“No.”

“Darling?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Babe?”

She stopped walking and gave him a look so withering it could’ve stripped paint.

He held his hands up. “Right, not babe. Got it. Bit strong.”

“Bit tragic.”

He smirked. “Fine. We’ll keep it simple. How about… Trouble?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me less than a month.”

“Exactly. And look how much damage you’ve done already.”

She shook her head and started walking again, refusing to let him see the way her mouth wanted to twitch.

He kept pace beside her, not saying anything now. Just humming. Badly.

Probably God Save the King.

She sighed.

This was going to be a long placement.

By the end of her second week at the station, she could walk the corridors without needing to look where she was going.

There was a comfort in routine, not the dramatic sort, not anything life-affirming, just the steady hum of predictability. Tom still started every morning with a groan and a tea he never finished. Andrea had taken to recounting the same three stories about her early days on shift, adding a new detail each time, like folklore. The back door stuck. The toaster was temperamental. The station dog, who technically didn’t exist, but wandered in most afternoons, had taken a liking to her boots.

She moved quietly through the days, doing her job well enough to be useful, not so well that anyone got ideas. Printouts, forms, stock requests, phone calls. The small things no one else remembered to do, until they weren’t done.

She liked being overlooked. There was peace in it.

Or there had been, until Lando started paying attention.

It began on Monday, in the kitchen, where he appeared beside her while she was fixing the drawer runners. He held out a custard cream like it was a rare offering.

“I’m not bribable,” she said, not looking up.

“Not even for the superior biscuit?”

She glanced at him, expression flat. “That’s not the superior biscuit. That’s the beige one people pretend to like.”

He looked scandalised. She ignored the smile curling behind his scowl.

By Tuesday, she’d learned to brace herself.

Oscar passed her in the hallway holding what looked like the contents of a nursery in both hands, a car seat, a onesie, a muslin cloth draped over his shoulder like a war flag.

“Do you know how babies’ arms work?” he asked, bleary-eyed.

She blinked. “Not really?”

He nodded. “Didn’t think so. They’re too bendy.” Then wandered off in the direction of the kit room, muttering something about elasticated nightmares.

On Wednesday, Lando caught her crouched under the printer with her hand up to the wrist in toner powder.

“You always fix everything?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. “Someone has to.”

There was a pause.

“You good at fixing people too?”

She did look up, then. Not long, just enough to catch something unfamiliar in his expression, something quieter, more honest than she’d expected.

“People are messier,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. We are.”

He left her to the toner after that.

Thursday brought Oscar again, sat on the sofa in the mess room staring into a cup of tea like it wasn’t the correct colour.

“You alright?” she asked.

“I cried at a John Lewis advert this morning,” he said. “The penguin one. So lonely.”

She made him another tea, stronger this time, and sat beside him until he stopped sighing.

On Friday, she caught Lando standing in front of the noticeboard, staring at a tacked-up photo someone had left, a family barbeque, blurry and sunlit. His arms were folded, jaw tight. Still.

She almost said something. Almost.

But then he turned, saw her watching, and grinned like it had never happened.

Later, he called her handwriting weirdly attractive. She called him a walking HR risk. But the moment had stayed.

By Saturday, things had shifted.

She found a Post-it on the coffee tin.

Superior biscuit rankings:

Chocolate Hobnob

Bourbons

Rich Tea (if dunked properly)

Custard Creams (wrongly slandered)

Underneath, a line in smaller script: This list is legally binding. Debate at your own peril. — L.

She rolled her eyes. Smirked. Reached for a pen.

Chocolate Digestives or we riot. 

She didn’t sign it, but she knew he’d know.

On Sunday, Oscar appeared again, looking vaguely haunted.

“Why are you here?” she asked, eyeing the yoghurt on his jumper.

“I just needed to be near adults,” he said, deadpan. “I had a forty-minute conversation with a sock this morning.”

She made him coffee. He thanked her like she’d just administered CPR.

And just like that, another week passed.

She still didn’t have a nameplate on her door. Still hadn’t told anyone her dad ran the place. But the station had begun to feel less unfamiliar. Not home, not exactly. But somewhere in the region.

And Lando hadn’t stopped.

Still teased. Still turned up at inconvenient moments. Still leaned into conversations with that smirk like he was trying to distract her from something neither of them were ready to say.

But every so often, she caught him between expressions. When he thought no one was watching. And that was when she saw it, the quiet edge beneath the grin, the pause that lasted half a second too long.

She didn’t know what it meant yet.

Didn’t know if she wanted to.

But she’d noticed.

And it was becoming harder not to look.

It was nearly midnight by the time she reached the station. She hadn’t meant to come back  but somewhere around mile three of a run she didn’t particularly want to be on, she’d realised she’d left her charger under the printer desk. Again.

The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that only settled after eleven, not empty, just still. Streetlights hummed above. The air smelled faintly like takeaway and damp concrete.

She let herself in through the back door, not expecting anyone to be around.

The station at night was different. Softer. The fluorescent glare had given way to low amber bulbs in the corridors. The mess room telly was muted, casting a flickering glow over abandoned mugs and someone’s half-finished Sudoku. No shouting. No alarms. Just the odd creak of old floorboards and the distant hum of the boiler cupboard.

She padded towards the office, tugging her hoodie down over her hands. Her legs ached pleasantly, the ache that came from moving just to stop your brain spinning.

She was halfway through reaching under the desk when she heard it, the clink of a spoon against a mug, followed by a low, familiar voice.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the mystery admin gremlin.”

She looked up.

Lando was in the kitchen, sleeves of his fleece rolled to the elbows, tea in hand, leaning against the counter like he lived there. His hair was damp at the ends, like he’d just come back from a call and jumped through a quick shower. There was a streak of something, ash, maybe, along the hem of his shirt. He looked comfortable. Tired in a way that suited him.

“I’m not a gremlin,” she said, standing upright, her hoodie sticking slightly to her arms with sweat. “I came to get my charger.”

“Midnight charger rescue mission?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Very high stakes.”

“Not all of us have three spare at home.”

He took a sip of his tea. “And here I was thinking you just couldn’t stay away.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned.

She sighed and walked past him into the kitchen, opening the cupboard mostly to avoid his face. “Aren’t you on night shift?”

“Mm. Just me, for now. Everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be.”

She nodded, pulling a glass down from the shelf.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here at this hour,” he added, watching her with quiet curiosity. “Out for a jog?”

“Run,” she corrected. “Jogging implies I enjoyed it.”

He smiled around his mug. “You always run late at night?”

“Helps clear my head.”

He nodded, slowly, like he understood.

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward, just full.

She poured herself some water from the tap, the metal clinking gently as she set the glass down.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

He didn’t push. Just sipped his tea again, eyes not quite meeting hers.

“You always here this late?” she asked, turning the question back on him.

“Not always. Just got back from a call.” He shrugged. “Small fire. Washing machine went rogue.”

She smirked faintly. “Those bloody washing machines. Menace to society.”

He laughed quietly. “Tell me about it. Once helped my friend Max who got his cat stuck in a washing machine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t ask.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet settling between them like an old jumper. Comfortable. A little frayed.

She leaned back against the counter. “Always the joker when you’re tired, huh?”

“I always joke,” he said simply. Then added, “Tired just makes it more dangerous.”

She looked at him then, really looked. The easy grin, the slouched shoulders, the way his fingers wrapped around the mug like he didn’t quite trust his hands to be still otherwise.

And there it was again. That flicker. That pause, right before he spoke. Like something inside him was louder than the words he let out.

“You alright?” she asked, the question returned, quieter this time.

He looked up, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Just been a long shift. You know how it is.”

She nodded, but didn’t move.

He tapped the rim of his mug once, twice, then glanced over. “You ever feel like you’re running just to stop your head catching up with you?”

She looked at him. “Yeah.”

His eyes softened a fraction. “Yeah. Me too.”

That was all. Nothing more than that. But it sat between them, heavier than silence.

She finished her water, set the glass down gently.

“Well,” she said, already moving toward the door, “I’ve got my charger now. Gremlin duties complete.”

He stepped aside, holding the door open like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Night, princess.”

She paused mid-step. Turned slowly. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “What was it? Force of habit.”

“Fuck off.”

He grinned. “Sleep well, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off, hoodie sleeves shoved down to her knuckles, face warm in a way she refused to examine.

Behind her, the door creaked shut. The corridor hummed.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be invisible after all.

Lando waited until he heard the back door click shut before moving.

The corridor hummed faintly behind him, that low, electric buzz that stations all seemed to have at night, like the walls were holding their breath.

Lando set his mug down in the sink, rinsed it, left it to dry on the draining board with the others that no one ever put away. His hands were still damp when he pressed the button for the gym lights.

They flickered once. Came on low.

It wasn’t much of a gym, just an old weight bench, a knackered treadmill, and a punching bag that swayed too much when the heating kicked in. But it did the job. Kept the edges off. Let him move until his brain shut up.

He slipped off his fleece, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and started with push-ups. Nothing fancy. Just movement. Repetition.

Down. Breathe. Up.

Again.

The floor was cold beneath his palms. The air tasted faintly of rubber matting and leftover adrenaline.

He kept going.

Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.

It wasn’t about numbers. Wasn’t about anything, really, just the act of it. The quiet. The ache. The way it drowned everything else out.

When his shoulders started to burn, he switched. Pull-ups, then bag work. Let his knuckles sting. Let the punchbag sway too far and hit him back. Maybe he deserved it.

After a while, he didn’t count.

He stopped when his arms wouldn’t quite lift the way he asked them to.

The sweat cooled quick. It always did in here. He wiped his face on the bottom of his T-shirt and didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed his fleece, still warm from before, and walked back into the corridor like nothing had happened.

Except something had.

It always did, when she was around.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly. She was sharp, sure. Funny, in that dry, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. But it wasn’t just that.

It was how she looked at him sometimes. Like she hadn’t decided yet if she trusted him. Like she could see the cracks before he even made them obvious.

And that scared the hell out of him.

He wandered back into the mess room, lights still low. The telly was off now. Someone had left an empty tea bag on the side, like a promise they’d come back and clean it up later. They wouldn’t.

He sat for a minute. Let the quiet settle. Tried to ignore the way his chest still hadn’t caught up with his breath.

Then he stood. Walked to the noticeboard.

The photo was still there.

It always surprised him how no one seemed to mention it. Like it had just become part of the wall, pinned between rotas and fire safety posters and that one printout about mental health support that no one had taken seriously since 2014.

It was a family photo. Slightly curled at the corners. Dad, mum, two boys, one lanky, older, arms folded like he thought he was hard. The other younger, round-cheeked, grinning with the sort of abandon you only ever saw in children.

He didn’t know who they were. Had never asked. Probably someone’s cousin’s cousin, a story passed along the chain and forgotten.

But every time he looked at it, his stomach twisted.

Tonight, it didn’t twist. Tonight, it dropped.

He stared at it for too long. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just breathed.

And there it was, the flicker. The corner of memory he spent every day trying not to walk past. The echo of a voice. A smell he couldn’t quite name.

He reached out.

Fingers didn’t touch the photo. Just hovered.

Then the alarm went.

That shrill, familiar sound that sliced through everything.

Lando flinched.

He grabbed his fleece, shrugged it on, and ran.

No time to think.

Just the job.

Just keep moving.

It was Monday, which meant the station was technically quieter, fewer calls, fewer people, fewer distractions. But admin didn’t stop just, it kept coming, and her dad had casually dropped a teetering stack of paperwork on her desk that morning with a cheerful, “No rush, but yesterday.”

So she’d parked herself in the corner office, the one with the drafty window and the chair that wheezed when you leaned too far back, and resigned herself to a day of forms, phone calls, and sighing.

She was halfway through reformatting a log sheet when she heard the unmistakable squeak of a wheeled chair being dragged down the corridor.

Not rolled.

Dragged.

She didn’t even look up. “If you break that, you’re paying for it.”

The noise stopped in the doorway.

“I’ll have you know this is a tactical relocation,” came Lando’s voice, far too pleased with himself.

She looked up, unimpressed. He stood there with a chair from the meeting room, one hand still gripping the backrest like he might ride it into battle.

“You’re not on shift,” she said.

He shrugged. “Franco’s got his girlfriend round and Isack’s studying for some terrifying anatomy thing. He offered to show me the flashcards. I ran.”

“And you thought this was the better option?”

He rolled the chair in beside her desk, flopped into it like a bored teenager, and stretched his legs out with a dramatic sigh. “I figured you missed me.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Just kept typing.

He watched her for a bit, not in a creepy way, just with the sort of idle curiosity that came from having nothing else to do and nowhere else to be.

“So,” he said eventually, “what’s the most thrilling form on your desk today?”

“Incident review,” she said. “From two weeks ago.”

“Scandalous.”

“I can feel your sarcasm from here.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, spinning slowly in the chair, “this room could use a bit more sparkle.”

She side-eyed him. “You’re not sparkle. You’re disruption.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Wasn’t one.”

But she didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t move.

She kept working, and he kept gently spinning in that way people do when they’re fighting the urge to fidget. After a while, she slid a stack of blank forms across the desk.

“If you’re going to loiter, make yourself useful.”

He blinked at them. “Am I being put to work?”

“You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s enough for me.”

He picked one up and held it like it might bite. “You know this is against the Geneva Convention.”

“Welcome to admin,” she said, dry.

They fell into an odd rhythm. She typed, answered the occasional radio call, scribbled notes. He asked questions with the sincerity of someone who had never willingly filled out a form in his life.

Somewhere around the fourth page, she glanced over at him properly. Really looked.

He was slouched, legs long in front of him, head tilted back just slightly as he read a line for the third time. There were faint shadows under his eye, darker than usual. His jaw was less tight, somehow, like he’d run out of energy to hold it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in ages,” she said, casually.

He looked up. Smirked. “I’m good.”

She frowned.

He looked away, back at the form, pen twirling between his fingers.

The thing was, he said it like a reflex. Not like it was true.

She didn’t press. Just went back to her own work.

Time slipped on, slow and quiet, the clock ticking somewhere behind them. The room was warm, soft with sunlight filtering through the blinds.

At some point, she reached for the stapler. When she glanced up again, he’d gone still.

Proper still.

Head tilted against the back of the chair, mouth slightly open, pen still in his hand, but asleep.

Deep, unbothered sleep.

She stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to be annoyed or concerned.

Then she sighed. Rolled her chair back. Opened the drawer, pulled out an old fleece someone had left behind, and draped it gently across his chest.

He didn’t stir.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

But she didn’t wake him.

Not yet.

Hours went by and he didn’t move once.

She checked twice, just to be sure, once by glancing over the top of her monitor, and again by quietly sliding her chair back and standing, careful not to disturb the creaky floorboard by the heater.

Still out cold. Head tilted slightly to one side now, jaw slack with sleep, hand resting lightly on the folder he hadn’t managed to finish. 

She left it there.

It was the most still she’d seen him since arriving at the station. No smart remarks. No grin. Just quiet.

She sat back down and tried to work. Tried being the operative word.

Ten minutes later, the corridor outside creaked under the weight of heavier boots, and then—

“Ah, just the person I’m looking for.”

Max’s voice, authoritative and a bit too loud. She’d been introduced to him last week when he came back after a garage fire.

She stood quickly, holding a finger to her lips. “Shh. Please.”

Max blinked. Oscar, just behind him, squinted into the room.

Then both of them spotted Lando.

“Oh,” Max said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Is he asleep?”

She nodded. “He came in a couple of hours ago. Wasn’t on shift, just, turned up. Said he was bored.”

Oscar sighed. “Sounds about right.”

Max stepped a little closer, peering at Lando like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take a photo.

“He looks twelve like that,” he said.

“He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in days,” she said quietly. “Just let him be.”

Oscar gave her a look. Not mocking. Just knowing.

Max nodded, stepping back again. “Right. I’ll be quick. I only needed him to sign off on a joint report from that garage fire. Insurance flagged something weird. It’s just a formality.”

“I’ll sort it,” she said without hesitation. “Leave it with me.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it signed and sent over first thing.”

Oscar was still watching her. She didn’t meet his gaze.

Max handed over the folder, gave her a grateful nod, and turned to go.

Oscar lingered for half a second.

“He probably doesn’t sleep, otherwise,” he said, soft.

Then he followed Max down the hall.

She stood there for a long moment after they’d gone.

Then turned back to Lando, still dead to the world in that chair that couldn’t have been comfortable, and whispered, “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

But she didn’t wake him.

Instead, she pulled out a new form, clicked her pen, and quietly got to work.

Lando didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t mention the fact he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, slumped in a borrowed chair in the corner of her office like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t apologise. Didn’t make a joke about it. Just vanished.

She’d only stepped out for five minutes, a quick detour to her dad’s office to hand over a supply order and get cornered into a discussion about rota gaps.

When she came back, he was gone.

The chair had been returned to the meeting room. The admin folder he’d been working on was neatly stacked, signed and dated. Her pen capped. The desk tidied.

And on top, stuck at a slight angle, was a yellow Post-it note in familiar handwriting:

might steal your job — L

She smiled, helplessly. Rolled her eyes. Folded the note in half and slipped it into her notebook like it didn’t mean anything.

She’d just sat down again when Oscar appeared in the doorway, knocking gently against the frame like he wasn’t sure if she was mid-email or mid-breakdown.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

She looked up. “I haven’t broken anything. Yet.”

“Not here to scold. For once.”

He stepped inside, holding a bright pink envelope that had clearly been carried by someone under the age of ten, it was covered in butterfly stickers and glittery stars, and her name was written on the front in purple gel pen, all curls and extra hearts all over the place.

She blinked. “Should I be worried?”

Oscar grinned. “Aurelia’s birthday party. This weekend.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to sound normal. “She’s turning…?”

“Nine,” he said. “Going on nineteen.”

She smiled. “Big deal, then.”

“Massive. There will be pizza, games, some kind of pinterest inspired cake situation I don’t fully understand. She made invitations herself. You’re on the guest list.”

He handed it over.

She took it carefully, trying not to dislodge the glitter.

Inside was a folded card covered in felt-tip doodles, unicorns, a suspiciously buff firefighter, and a massive ‘YOU’RE INVITED’ across the top. Inside, written in big letters with no regard for spacing:

dear fire girl,pls come to my birthday on saturday. there will be cake and silly games and my stepdad said you’re cool even tho you look serious all the time.also mum says you have very nice hair.love,Aurelia :)

She stared at it for a second, something warm catching in her throat.

“I’m not fire crew,” she said, not really to him. “I just do paperwork.”

Oscar shrugged. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

There was something about the way he said it, like it was obvious. Like she didn’t need to prove anything.

“I’m not trying to crash anything,” she added quickly. “I know it’s a family thing.”

“And you’re part of that,” he said, simple as anything. “Like it or not.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak straight away. Just nodded, pressing her thumb against the edge of the envelope to keep her hands busy.

Oscar gave her a soft smile. “Don’t overthink it. Just show up. Eat some cake. Let a small child judge your dancing.”

“Terrifying,” she muttered.

“Welcome to the family.”

And with that, he wandered off down the corridor, humming something that might have been the Cha Cha Slide.

She sat there a little longer, staring at the card, glitter catching the light like it had something to prove.

Maybe this place was becoming something after all.

On Sunday, she’d spent far too long standing in front of her wardrobe.

It was just a kids’ birthday party. Not a job interview. Not a first date. Not anything that required this level of internal debate. And yet there she was, trying on her fourth outfit and wondering if she looked like she was trying too hard.

Eventually, she landed on something simple: a pair of high-waisted jeans, a cropped top that was just on the right side of casual, and an oversized cardigan that made her feel less exposed. Soft trainers instead of boots. A touch of lip balm. Nothing dramatic.

Still, when she looked in the mirror, she barely recognised herself. No station polo. No cargo trousers. No practical ponytail scraped back like she was heading into battle.

Just her.

She carried the small gift bag in both hands as she walked up the stairs to Oscar’s apartment. She could already hear the laughter from inside, music playing low, the sound of kids squealing in delight, someone shouting over everyone else. Warmth spilled out through the letterbox.

She paused at the door.

And stood there.

She wasn’t sure why. She’d been invited. Welcomed, even. But something about the sound of everyone already inside, the ease, the familiarity, made her hesitate.

She was the outsider, after all. The one with the clipboard. The one who wasn’t quite in the group, even if she was starting to circle the edges of it.

She was just reaching for the doorbell when a voice behind her said, “You planning on standing there all day, or?”

She turned.

Lando stood a few feet away, arms full of gift bags, three plastic ones stuffed with boxes, tissue paper, and what looked suspiciously like a giant inflatable unicorn. He was in jeans and a black hoodie, hair still slightly damp like he’d only just got out the shower. He looked stupidly relaxed.

“You’re late,” she said, folding her arms.

He grinned. “Fashionably. Also, I had to stop at three different shops because apparently nine year olds don’t like books anymore unless they come with glitter slime.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of presents.”

“Got to maintain my title as favourite uncle, haven’t I?”

She smirked but didn’t reply.

He shifted the bags in his arms and looked at her properly then, the way her cardigan sleeves covered her hands, the way she was still angled slightly away from the door.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. Then nodded, once. “Just forgot how loud kids can be.”

He didn’t push. Just smiled, easy and warm.

“Well, lucky for you, I brought reinforcements.” He nodded toward one of the bags. “One of these is a karaoke microphone. Battery operated. No volume control. We’ll have them begging for bedtime by six.”

She laughed, quietly, but genuinely.

Then he noticed the gift bag in her hand. “Ooh. You got her something?”

“It’s just a little art kit,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Some pastels. Sketchbook. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed.”

He tilted his head. “You softie.”

“I’m not,” she muttered.

“She’s gonna love it,” he said, firmly. “She’s been drawing all over the walls at home. Oscar’s nearly wept.”

She smiled again. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Obviously,” he said. “How else am I supposed to win her eternal loyalty?”

“Bit competitive, aren’t you?”

“I don’t play to lose.”

He winked, then shifted the bags again and nudged the door open with his hip. “Come on, let’s make an entrance.”

They stepped inside together.

Warmth hit her like a wave, fairy lights strung up around the bannisters, balloons in chaotic clumps, the smell of party food and cake and sugar. Someone had put on a kids’ playlist. The room was full of colour and laughter and far too much glitter.

“Uncle LanLan!”

Aurelia came barrelling down the hallway like a tiny whirlwind, tutu bouncing, face painted with lopsided butterflies. She launched herself at Lando with absolutely no hesitation.

He caught her with ease, bags dropped in a heap at his feet, arms lifting her like she weighed nothing.

“Hey, monster,” he said, grinning up at her. “Happy birthday!”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re late!”

“I brought offerings.”

“Are they sparkly?”

“The sparkliest.”

She squealed and clung tighter.

And she just stood there, watching.

Something about it, the way Lando held her, the way he laughed without holding back, the way Aurelia fit so perfectly against his shoulder, it pulled something strange and deep in her chest.

He was so good with her.

Natural. Effortless. Kind in a way that didn’t ask to be noticed.

He glanced sideways then, catching her watching, and gave her a small smile.

She looked away, suddenly shy.

Maybe he wasn’t all jokes after all.

The party unfolded in a swirl of noise and colour.

Aurelia ruled the lounge like a glitter covered queen, directing games with the authority of a small dictator and demanding cake before the candles were even lit. Oscar played referee with the vague desperation of a man outnumbered, while his wife laughed from the kitchen doorway, half-horrified, half-proud.

She kept mostly to the edges, helping carry plates, passing around napkins, ducking flying balloons. Not invisible, exactly. Just quietly present.

Then came gift time.

Aurelia sat cross legged in the middle of the floor, hair wild and face flushed with sugar, tearing into bags like her life depended on it. Lando sat beside her, grinning as she pulled out gift after gift with increasingly dramatic reactions.

When she got to her bag, the one with the pastels and sketchbook,  she paused. Slowed.

Lifted the tissue paper carefully.

And then beamed.

“OH,” she said loudly, holding the sketchbook aloft like it was a trophy. “THIS IS COOL. LOOK AT ALL THE COLOURS.”

She turned, without hesitation, and flung her arms around her.

For a second, she froze, not expecting it. Then returned the hug, awkward but warm.

Oscar celebrated from the kitchen. “We’re never going to have a clean wall again.”

His wife laughed. “Just let her draw on the windows this time.”

“I like the windows.”

“Then maybe don’t have a creative daughter.”

Aurelia was already flipping through the sketchbook, muttering about what to draw first.

Lando stood, brushing glitter off his jeans. “I’ll take it all up to your room,” he offered, scooping up the rest of her opened presents. “Keep the chaos contained.”

“Don’t touch the purple slime,” Aurelia warned. “It’s cursed.”

“Noted.”

He disappeared up the stairs with a wink in her direction, arms full.

The party swelled again, music, cake, someone trying to teach a dance move that looked vaguely illegal. She lost track of time for a bit, swept into the strange domestic warmth of it all.

But twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.

And Lando didn’t come back.

She tried not to overthink it. Maybe he’d been cornered by a child with a puzzle. Maybe he was helping clean up. But then what if he wasn’t.

She slipped away from the noise, up the stairs, quiet.

Aurelia’s room was at the end of the hall. Door ajar.

She pushed it gently open.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still and upright, staring at the chair in the corner.

Aurelia’s school uniform was draped over it, blazer, shirt, tights folded on the seat. Nothing dramatic. Just a chair with clothes. Ordinary.

But he was frozen.

Not in a relaxed sort of way. In a locked sort of way. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

She stepped in, careful not to startle him.

Then, slowly, lowered herself beside him, not too close. Just enough to be felt. Her hand came to rest lightly on his thigh, not firm, not pressing. Just there.

The reaction was instant.

He flinched, grabbed her wrist, not hard, not mean. Just automatic.

His eyes snapped to hers, wide. Then dropped to her hand. Realisation hit.

He let go immediately.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Sorry. I—”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

He ran a hand over his face, looked away.

“I didn’t mean to—” He shook his head. “I’m usually better than this.”

She let the silence breathe. Let him breathe.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He hesitated.

Then stood.

“I think I’m gonna head out.”

She didn’t try to stop him. Just watched him walk to the doorway, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with himself.

As he reached for the door, she said, “Wanna go get ice cream?”

He turned.

She shrugged, casual. “I’m craving gelato. Figured you looked like someone who doesn’t know how to say no to pistachio.”

He stared at her, like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

Then his mouth twitched, just a little.

And he said, “Yeah. Actually. Yeah, alright.”

They made their way downstairs together, the party still in full swing. Someone had started a conga line. The cake had reached its messy, dismantled stage. Aurelia was attempting to teach Andrea how to floss and was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

She hovered in the doorway, unsure how to make an exit without interrupting.

Lando didn’t seem to have that issue.

He clapped Oscar gently on the shoulder. “We’re off.”

Oscar turned, eyebrows raised. “Both of you?”

“Giving her a lift,” Lando said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Oscar looked between them, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Something almost knowing.

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “Well. Drive safe.”

She offered a little wave to Aurelia, who was too busy pelting someone with wrapping paper to notice. Oscar’s wife mouthed thanks for coming, and she mouthed thanks for the invite back.

And then they were outside.

The air was cooler than she expected, the sort of late sprint evening that carried the smell of grass and someone else’s barbecue. Streetlights blinked on above them. 

They walked in comfortable silence for a bit, side by side, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Then Lando jerked his head toward the kerb. “That one’s mine.”

She looked.

A black Mercedes, quietly sleek, parked under a tree. Her eyebrows shot up.

“You drive that?!”

He shrugged. “Prefer to walk.”

She gave him a look.

He grinned. “Swear. It was my sister’s old one. I kept it after she said she needed a family car but couldn’t be bothered to sell it. Everyone in my flat’s insured on it now. Isack uses it more than me. Says the bus gives him migraines, but I think he’s trying to impress girls.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m basically the custodian of luxury transport for stressed out medical students and over committed paramedics.”

She laughed.

He opened the passenger door for her with a slight bow, which she ignore, but stepped in anyway, frowning when she heard the word “princess” slip from his lips.

Inside, it smelt like lemon air refresher and whatever shampoo Lando used.

They drove without music. 

When they pulled up outside the gelato shop, she nudged him gently with her elbow. “You going to order something ridiculous?"

“I’m a purist,” he said, feigning offence. “Chocolate and hazelnut. Two scoops. Waffle cone. No frills.”

“Liar.”

He grinned, pulling out his card from his wallet, before she could even open her mouth to argue, he gave her a look that silenced her as she plucked the card from his fingers.

She returned a few minutes later with her own ice cream in one hand, card in between her lips.

He started the engine as she looked over, “Let’s go to the park.”

His nose scrunched. “No.”

“Oh,” she said quickly, covering. “Alright. Sorry I just thought—”

He nodded to the dashboard. “Let’s sit in the car.”

She blinked.

He added quieter, “It’s warm. And I don’t really do parks after dark.”

She didn’t ask why.

Didn’t need to.

“Okay,” she said, nodding.

And so they stayed, engine off, parked on a quiet road under the amber streetlight, two people sitting in a luxury car with melting gelato and too much unspoken between them.

The gelato was starting to melt, running slowly down the side of her cup. She let it. Neither of them seemed in a rush.

They sat in companionable silence, the soft hum of a late evening pressing gently against the windows. The street was quiet, one of those sleepy little residential corners where everything felt paused.

She glanced over at him.

He was leaning back in his seat, one hand curled around the steering wheel even though they weren’t going anywhere. His other rested on his leg, thumb idly brushing back and forth.

His cone was untouched in the cup holder.

She didn’t say anything. Just waited.

And eventually, he spoke.

“That room,” he said quietly. “The chair.”

She looked at him properly now.

“I know it was nothing,” he went on. “Just clothes. Just… normal. But it looked exactly like—” He stopped. Swallowed. “It looked exactly like how my brother’s uniform was, the night he died.”

She didn’t move. Just listened.

“I was eight. He was fifteen. We shared a room. He was, he was everything. You know? Tall, loud, never took anything seriously. Used to wind me up with something rotten. But he always made sure I had the warm side of the blanket. Always said he’d look out for me.”

Lando stared out of the windscreen.

“There was a fire. At home. Faulty plug socket. My mum had been nagging about it for weeks. I didn’t wake up properly until there was shouting. Smoke everywhere. I got out.”

He paused again. His voice was low, steady, but every word felt carved.

“He didn’t.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t know if he was looking for me, or if he’d already passed out. I don’t know. I just remember standing on the pavement, watching the house go. And waiting for him to come out.”

He blinked, hard.

“And he didn’t.”

She reached for him, but he kept going.

“My parents” He exhaled. “They never forgave me. Said I should’ve woken him. Said I should’ve done something. I was eight.”

She felt her stomach twist.

“After that, it was just cold. Silent. I got blamed for everything. Started staying with my friends. Skipped school. Didn’t talk about it. Not once. Not for years. Parents didn't care where I was."

He looked at her now. Eyes bright, jaw tight.

“That’s why I froze. In Aurelia’s room. It was just a stupid chair. But for a second it felt like I was there again.”

She opened her mouth, but he held a hand up gently.

“I want to tell you,” he said. “Not because I want pity. Just because I trust you.”

The words landed like a stone in her chest.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he added, quieter still. “Like, properly told. Not in bits. Not like a joke.”

She didn’t know what to say.

So she put down her cup, reached awkwardly across the centre console, and gave him the most ridiculous, bent-arm, middle-seat hug in history.

His body tensed at first, surprised, then relaxed into it.

He chuckled against her shoulder. “This is the least ergonomic hug I’ve ever experienced.”

She huffed a laugh, face half in his hoodie. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird.”

She pulled back slightly but didn’t move far. Their faces were still close, breath mingling in the warm car.

There was a moment. Soft and still and entirely theirs.

She didn’t say I’m sorry. Didn’t say that’s awful or you’re so strong or anything else that people say when they don’t know what to say.

Instead, she whispered, “Thanks for telling me.”

And that was enough.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, limbs tangled awkwardly across the centre console, faces close, the air warm with words not spoken.

Eventually, she eased back into her seat, reaching for her rapidly-melting gelato. “We should eat this before it becomes soup.”

Lando hummed in agreement and started on his own cone, finally. He took one bite and immediately winced.

“Brain freeze,” he muttered, clutching his forehead.

She snorted. “Serves you right for inhaling it.”

“I panicked,” he said. “Felt like the right thing to do in the moment.”

“Very brave of you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be expecting a medal in the post.”

She rolled her eyes and took another spoonful. “You know, for someone who had an emotional breakthrough five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly annoying.”

He grinned. “Can’t have you getting too used to me being serious.”

There was a beat of quiet again, but this time it felt easier. Lighter.

She glanced sideways at him, fiddling with her spoon. “You don’t have to answer this,” she said, softly. “But what brought you to the fire service?”

He didn’t look surprised. Just thoughtful.

Then he leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car.

“I think I thought if I became a firefighter, if I saved enough people, did enough good, maybe I could balance it out.” He glanced at her. “Make up for losing my brother. Like I owed the world a life.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let it land.

“I know it doesn’t work like that,” he added. “But that’s what it felt like. Like maybe if I pulled enough people out of fires, it’d stop mattering so much that I didn’t pull him out.”

Her chest ached for him.

He took a slow breath. “I still can’t go into kids’ bedrooms, during house fires. Not if I see the uniform on the chair. Doesn’t even have to be the same colour. I just freeze.”

His voice faltered slightly.

“And the thing is, I’d hate, really hate, to ever be the reason someone didn’t make it. Because my stupid brain decided it was time for a panic.”

It wasn’t self-pitying. Just honest. Raw in that quiet way grief gets, when it’s lived inside you long enough to soften its edges.

She reached over, without thinking too hard, and ran her fingers lightly through his hair, ruffling it with a mixture of fondness and frustration.

He blinked. “Did you just mum me?”

She smirked. “You may be an idiot, but not stupid.”

“High praise.”

“Although,” she added, straightening up, “I still don’t agree with your biscuit ranking.”

“Ah. And there it is.”

“You lost me at custard creams.”

“You’ve got no biscuit integrity.”

“Says the man who has a soft spot for Hobnobs.”

“They’re classic,” he said, mock-affronted. “They don’t need your approval.”

She laughed, properly this time, and for a moment it felt like the weight had shifted. Not gone. But lighter. Carried together, even just for a while.

part two...

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[dontrllycaretbh]

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Title: Mine to Know (pt.1?)

Pairing: Paige bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary:

Azzi, a tough basketball player, notices a mysterious girl, Paige, following her. Paige admits she’s been obsessively watching Azzi. Though Azzi feels uneasy and angry, a tense connection forms between them.

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Azzi wasn’t the type to spook easy.

She’d walked home after late practices since high school, earbuds in, shoulders squared, hoodie up. Nearly six feet tall, built like the game she loved, and with a face that didn’t invite small talk — no one followed her. If they did, they didn’t keep up long.

So when she noticed the pattern, it wasn’t fear that hit first. It was irritation.

At first it was just… presence. Background noise. Someone behind her on campus taking the same turns a few too many times. Too close in the mirror of a shop window. A flash of movement outside the gym exit, there and gone when she looked again.

Then it started to tighten.

The same girl at three different pick-up games. Always watching, never subbing in.

Always there early. Never stayed after.

Azzi noticed.

The girl was tall — six foot maybe. Long legs, blonde braid swinging out of a hoodie. Blue eyes that didn’t flinch when Azzi caught her looking. The kind of girl you notice twice: first because she’s pretty, second because she doesn’t blink when you do.

Azzi didn’t say anything. Yet.

But she started checking behind her more. Switching routes. Not because she was scared — she just hated unknowns. And this girl? This quiet shadow with a staring problem? She was starting to piss her off.

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The first message came after practice.

Azzi was stretching out on the locker room bench, sweat still drying on her collarbones, when her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Unknown:

“Left-handed crossover into the pull-up midrange? Filthy. You cook when you’re mad.”

Azzi froze mid-reach.

She reread it. Once. Twice. Jaw clenched.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t block it either.

She walked home that night with her hood down, headphones off. Eyes sharp. Shoulders set.

Two blocks from her house , someone behind her laughed.

Low. Female. Familiar.

She turned — fast — but the street was empty except for the hum of streetlamps and a fox darting into an alley.

She made it upstairs without breaking pace.

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The next note wasn’t a text.

It was waiting in her locker. Folded once, plain white paper.

“You lead with your left but lie with your eyes.”

Azzi crushed it without reading it twice.

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She wasn’t scared. Not exactly. Just on edge.

She still shot hoops solo after dark. Still took solo walks when her thoughts got too loud. But now, sometimes, she’d stop mid-shot and turn like someone was behind her — and half the time, there was movement. The other half? The air just felt wrong.

It was like being full-court pressed by someone who wasn’t touching you yet — but you felt them. Inches off. Reading you too well.

And the worst part?

Sometimes she liked it.

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It came to a head the night she saw her again — the blonde.

Campus café. 11:43 PM. Almost empty. Azzi had posted up in the back, scrolling through scouting reports, long legs kicked up on the second chair.

That’s when she saw her. Across the room. Hoodie half-zipped, blonde braid tucked under a cap, nursing a coffee she clearly didn’t order. Sitting like she belonged there — but watching Azzi like she was reading her stat line.

Azzi stared.

And the girl smiled.

Not big. Not threatening.

Just calm. Too calm.

Azzi stood. Crossed the café in three strides.

“Okay,” she said flatly. “What’s your deal?”

The girl’s smile widened, subtle and amused. She didn’t move.

“Azzi, right?”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just waited.

The girl sipped her coffee and blinked slowly, like Azzi was right on schedule.

“I’m Paige.”

Azzi’s pulse didn’t spike — but her jaw did lock.

“I didn’t ask.”

“No,” Paige said, voice low. “But you’ve been wondering.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

Paige leaned back slowly, eyes trailing up Azzi’s frame like she was sizing her up — not with fear, but curiosity. Interest. A smirk flickered, lazy and sharp.

“Problem?”

She tilted her head.

“What makes you think I have a problem, huh?”

“How’d you even get my number?”

Paige laughed softly. It wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t normal either. It was the kind of laugh people do when they’re already two steps ahead.

“Oh, Az, you’d be surprised how easy it is to find someone when you’re looking hard enough.”

She sipped her coffee. Calm. Measured.

“A little digging, a few favors here and there… voilà. You were mine.”

Azzi blinked, but didn’t back down. She’d been guarded since the moment she picked up a basketball — you had to be, when people only noticed you after your points went double digits.

Still, something about this girl — this cool, unbothered, too-present Paige — got under her skin.

“Why are you doing this?”

The question landed. Paige’s smirk dropped, but not out of guilt. She just shifted.

Her voice lowered, like they were alone in a confession booth.

“Why?”

She studied Azzi’s face like she already knew it by heart.

“Because you’re not like the rest of them. You’re sharp. Quick. You think no one sees what’s behind your eyes, but I do.”

Her fingers tapped against the side of the mug. Same rhythm Azzi used to use dribbling in the hallway as a kid, just to feel something steady.

“I want to understand you. Watch you. Get inside your head.”

Azzi stood.

“Fuck off and leave me alone.”

She turned and walked out. No hesitation.

But before the door closed behind her, Paige called after her — voice light, teasing, cutting through the dark like a thread.

“Aw, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. We were just getting to know each other.”

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The next few days were quiet — surface-level quiet. The kind that almost tricks you into feeling safe.

But Azzi wasn’t fooled.

She felt it in the shift of air behind her neck. In the near-silent footsteps she sometimes heard but could never trace. The way every reflection — storefront, bus window, dorm glass — looked wrong.

The texts came back.

From different numbers now.

They weren’t threatening. That would’ve been easier. No — they were worse. Familiar. Intimate. Like Paige was narrating her day from three feet behind her.

“Blue hoodie again today. You wear it when you’re trying to disappear, huh?”

“You skipped lunch. Don’t starve on my account.”

And then, one night at 2:03 AM:

📱 Messages

2:03 AM

Unknown

Unknown:

can’t sleep huh?

tossing & turning

trying to shut your thoughts off?

adorable.

⸻

Azzi:

wtf

⸻

Unknown:

language, darling.

it’s late.

you should be asleep.

me? wide awake.

and bored.

⸻

Azzi:

are you outside my house

⸻

Unknown:

wouldn’t you like to know?

maybe i am

maybe i’m not

either way…

you’re not imagining me

⸻

Azzi:

bro go home

it’s literally night time

and ur a girl

⸻

Unknown:

awww you’re worried about me?

that’s so cute

don’t worry, darling

i can handle myself

besides…

you’re still awake, aren’t you?

⸻

Azzi:

i’ll block you

⸻

Unknown:

ohhh

so it’s like that?

do it.

i dare you.

⸻

🛑 Number blocked

⸻

5 minutes later

Unknown

Unknown:

nice try sweetheart

but you can’t get rid of me that easily love

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She got up. Walked to the window. Opened it.

There.

Leaning against the tree outside her building — Paige. Hoodie low. Arms crossed. Same relaxed stance like they were mid-conversation. Like this was normal.

That smile was still there.

“Miss me?” she called softly.

Azzi clenched her jaw.

“…Come inside,” she muttered. “It’s 2 AM. You’re still a girl, and we’re both barely twenty. You’ll get jumped or something.”

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Paige sat on Azzi’s bed like she’d been there before.

Leg crossed over knee. Calm. Eyes trailing the posters on the wall, the cluttered desk, the basketball wedged between a laundry pile and a backpack. Everything about her said: I belong here.

Azzi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“What do you want from me?”

Paige looked at her, slow and deliberate — like she was watching a highlight reel only she had access to.

“Oh, az. Everything.”

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.

“I want your attention. Your time. Your thoughts. Your heart. Every little piece.”

Azzi shifted, uncomfortable for the first time in weeks.

“And since when?”

Paige’s smile deepened. Not playful. Not kind.

“Since the first time I saw you.”

Her voice wasn’t teasing anymore. It had thinned out — stretched between obsession and honesty, like she didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

“It was like a switch flipped,” she said, quieter now. “Like something in me just… chose you.”

She stood. Her movements slow, deliberate. Like she was trying not to scare Azzi — or like she knew she already had, and it didn’t matter.

She crossed the space between them in seconds. Bare feet soft against the floor, posture loose but eyes sharp.

Stopped just inches away — close enough that Azzi could see the faint ring of darker blue around her irises. Close enough that her breath hit Azzi’s cheek, warm and steady.

“You’re my favorite story,” Paige whispered. “And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She felt it — that heavy, awful ache in her chest. The kind that comes when you want to run, but some sick part of you also wants to stay. Just to see how far someone like Paige is willing to go.

Azzi swallowed hard, jaw flexing. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” Paige said. “You talk shit on court but never mean it. You pretend not to care but watch everyone closer than they realize. You wear that blue hoodie when you’re overwhelmed. You get quiet when you’re angry, not loud.”

She stepped even closer. Her voice dropped.

“And you sleep with your window cracked open. Even in the cold.”

Azzi flinched.

“Stop.” Her voice came out sharp. Too loud for the quiet.

Paige didn’t move. She looked at Azzi like she was memorizing her — every muscle shift, every flicker of fear or defiance.

“I see you,” she said simply. “That’s all I’ve ever done.”

Azzi turned her face away, breathing hard through her nose. The heat in her throat burned. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was something uglier. Shame, maybe. Or recognition.

Because part of her — the part she hated — believed her.

She felt Paige watching her.

Waiting.

“You don’t get to claim me,” Azzi said eventually, voice low and tight. “You don’t get to decide I’m yours just because you’re… lonely. Or sick.”

Something flickered behind Paige’s eyes. Not anger. Not hurt.

Grief.

“You think I wanted this?” she said, barely above a whisper. “You think I like feeling like this? Like I’m starving every time you walk away?”

Azzi turned to face her fully, heart jackhammering. “Then stop.”

“I can’t,” Paige said. “I tried. I did. You think I don’t know this is wrong? That I’m wrong?”

Silence.

Azzi hated the part of her that was still standing there. The part that hadn’t thrown her out. The part that remembered every glance Paige gave her across the court, every time their elbows brushed going for the same rebound. The part that wanted to ask why me? and hated that she cared about the answer.

Paige exhaled shakily. “I don’t need you to love me back. I just need you to see me.”

“I see you,” Azzi said, voice flat. “That’s the problem.”

And then Paige smiled. Not her usual grin. Something sadder. Defeated.

“I can work with that.”

Azzi’s back hit the wall.

She didn’t remember moving — just needed distance. Something solid behind her. Her arms were crossed again, not for protection, but because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Paige stayed near the bed, watching her.

“You followed me,” Azzi said, her voice low. Firm. “Not just once. Not for fun. This was… deliberate.”

Paige didn’t deny it.

Azzi blinked at her. Hard.

“So how far did it go?”

Paige tilted her head slightly. Said nothing.

“I’m serious,” Azzi pressed. “How long were you tracking me? What did you do?”

Paige looked like she wanted to say something clever — something smug and deflective — but Azzi cut her off.

“No games. You want me to see you? Fine. Show me. All of it.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Paige’s smile fell away. She sat again, hands in her lap, fingers tangled tight.

“Two months,” she said finally. “Give or take.”

Azzi’s chest tightened. “Two months of what?”

“Watching. Figuring out your schedule. Checking your socials. Walking the same route home a few times to see if you noticed.”

Azzi flinched. “Jesus.”

“I never touched your stuff,” Paige said quickly, eyes wide. “I didn’t break in. I didn’t go through your things. I just… wanted proximity. I just needed to know what kind of world you lived in.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know.”

Azzi studied her, jaw clenched. “So what else?”

Paige hesitated. Then, like a breath she didn’t want to exhale:

“Sometimes I followed you to practice. Sat in the stands. Pretended to scroll while watching you run drills. I even came early to one of your games. Bought the same energy drink you always carry.”

Her voice softened, almost embarrassed.

“I liked knowing things no one else noticed.”

Azzi’s stomach churned. “That’s not knowing me. That’s collecting me.”

“I know,” Paige whispered.

Azzi stepped closer, her tone sharpening. “Did you ever touch yourself to me?”

The room went still.

Paige didn’t look surprised. Just… exposed.

“Yeah.”

Azzi swallowed, hard. “While following me?”

“No,” Paige said quickly. “Not while I was near you. But… after. When I’d remember things. How your shoulders looked in that grey tank. How you wiped sweat from your lip. The way your voice sounded when you yelled for a switch.”

Azzi’s heart thudded painfully in her chest.

Paige looked down, ashamed — for the first time since she got here.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” she said quietly. “I’m just being honest. You wanted to know.”

Azzi pressed her palm to her forehead, tried to breathe.

There was nothing romantic about this. Nothing safe. But it was real. Brutally, disturbingly real.

“You’re not well,” she said.

Paige met her eyes.

“I know. But you’re the only thing that makes me feel like I could be.”

Silence.

Azzi hated how much that sentence hurt.

She should’ve screamed. Should’ve kicked her out. Called someone. Done something that made sense.

Instead, she stood there, letting the truth bleed out between them like smoke.

“Why me?” she asked. “Out of everyone. Why me?”

Paige’s voice broke. Just a little.

“Because you were the first person I couldn’t figure out.”

“Since the first time I saw you.”

Her voice had shifted — softer now, conspiratorial. Intimate in a way that made Azzi’s throat tighten.

“It was like a switch flipped. Like something inside me decided you were it.”

Then Paige stood.

Closed the space between them without hesitation, until she was just inches away. Close enough that Azzi could feel the warmth rolling off her, close enough to count the pulse at her neck.

“You’re my favorite story,” Paige murmured. “And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Her body had gone still in the worst way — not frozen with fear, but with something heavier. Hotter. Her skin felt tight, flushed. And that was the worst part.

She should be pissed. She was pissed. But her body was betraying her — heart racing, breath shallow, heat pooling low in her stomach like something she didn’t want to name.

She backed up, finally — not far, just enough to breathe.

“You followed me.”

“Yes.”

“You watched me.”

“I still do.”

Her mouth went dry.

Azzi narrowed her eyes, trying to keep her tone sharp. “You ever do anything… else?”

Paige tilted her head, knowing exactly what she meant.

“To you?” she asked, innocently.

Azzi’s jaw clenched. “Don’t play dumb.”

Paige didn’t.

Her voice dropped — hard and strict.

“No. I never touched you. But I touched myself. Thinking about you.”

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, unsure what they wanted — to shove Paige out the door, or pull her even closer just to make it stop.

“You’re sick.”

Paige didn’t argue.

Azzi took a step forward. Too close now. She didn’t know why she did it, just that something in her wanted control back — and maybe wanted to see how far Paige would go.

“Tell me what you thought about,” Azzi said, low.

Paige blinked. Her voice came out breathless, but steady.

“You. At practice. In those compression shorts. The way your jersey rides up when you stretch.”

Azzi’s breath stuttered.

Paige noticed — of course she did.

“I thought about your hands. How strong they are. What they’d feel like around my waist. On my hips. How rough you’d be if you ever let yourself stop pretending.”

Azzi’s chest rose and fell — too fast.

She hated this. Hated her.

But her thighs were tense, her pulse was climbing, and she didn’t stop her.

“I thought about your mouth,” Paige went on. “How serious it always looks. I wanted to ruin that expression. Make it soft. Messy. Loud.”

Azzi turned away — but didn’t tell her to shut up. Didn’t kick her out.

“You want me to say I’m sorry?” Paige asked. “I’m not.”

Azzi dragged a hand over her face.

“God, what is wrong with me…”

“You feel it too.”

“No, I don’t.”

Paige smiled, slow. “You’re breathing like you do.”

Azzi’s hand hit the wall beside her, hard — just to do something. Just to let the air out.

“I don’t want this.”

“But you do want me,” Paige whispered.

Silence.

Azzi turned her head, just slightly — met Paige’s gaze, eyes burning.

“…Say it again.”

Paige stepped in, soft and sure, voice like a match to dry skin.

“I touched myself to you.”

Azzi closed her eyes.

And didn’t move away.

Didn’t speak.

But her eyes stayed locked on Paige like she was trying to burn her out of existence — or pull her closer. Maybe both.

The words came low, tight, unrecognizable in her own mouth.

“Show me.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

Azzi’s voice dropped.

“Show me how you touched yourself.”

The air in the room shifted — like all the oxygen got sucked out at once and left heat behind.

Paige didn’t speak at first. Her lips parted, then closed again.

Her eyes flicked to Azzi’s face — searching. For a joke. A trap. A flicker of regret.

There wasn’t one.

Just Azzi, flushed and furious and breathing hard, like she hated herself already for asking.

Paige stepped back once. Just enough to sit on the edge of the bed again.

Paige’s hands moved to the hem of her hoodie.

Azzi didn’t stop her.

The fabric peeled up slowly — deliberate, quiet — revealing pale skin, ribs that moved gently with breath. Paige let the hoodie drop to the floor. Sat there in her sports bra, her eyes locked on Azzi’s the entire time.

Azzi’s chest tightened. Her arms crossed — not out of defiance now, but to keep her hands to herself.

“You always do it this slow?” she asked.

Paige’s mouth curved faintly. “Only when I want it to last.”

Azzi looked away, then back again. Her voice lowered — curious, taunting, dangerous.

“What do you even use?”

Paige blinked, just once. Her posture didn’t change — but her eyes sharpened.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Azzi’s tongue flicked across her bottom lip before she caught herself. “When you think about me. What do you use?”

Paige didn’t smile.

Didn’t smirk.

She leaned back on her palms, slow and graceful, like she wasn’t the one being watched.

“Depends on the night.”

“Pick one.”

“Sometimes my fingers,” Paige said, voice like warm honey. “Just enough pressure to pretend it’s you.”

Azzi swallowed.

“And sometimes…” Paige looked down at herself, then up again, steady. “Sometimes I use the toy I keep under my bed. Thick. Heavy. I imagine it’s you — rougher than I deserve. Not saying a word. Just using me ‘til I forget my name.”

Azzi’s breath caught.

She hated that her thighs pressed together instinctively. Hated the warmth curling low in her belly. Hated that Paige could feel it.

“That what you want from me?” she asked, hoarse. “To watch you get off?”

Paige tilted her head, slow. “I want everything from you.”

“And if I don’t give it?”

Paige stood.

Now in just her bra and shorts — tall and soft and terrifyingly calm.

“You already are,” she whispered.

Azzi stared at her. Every nerve lit. Every wall she’d built cracking.

Paige leaned forward now, hand still frozen just at the waistband of her shorts.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

Azzi stared.

Long enough that Paige’s confidence almost cracked.

But then Azzi said, voice low and strained:

“…No. I want you to stop.”

Paige froze.

Azzi pushed off the wall and walked over, until she was standing in front of her again.

“Because I’m the one who’s thinking about it now.”

Silence.

Then, without touching her, without giving her the satisfaction of a kiss or even a whisper — Azzi turned her back.

“I’m getting water,” she muttered. “If you’re still here when I get back, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

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[jeonette]

claimed — jjk 18+

In which Jungkook isn’t a fan of the pictures y/n keeps posting on Instagram, so she posts even more to tease him — but it quickly turns into a steamy situation.

genre : possessive love, social media au

ratings : angst, smut 18+

a/n : there is a story continuation after the LAST text scene between jungkook and y/n so make sure to click out! The social media au idea was inspired by @girlygguk! <33

---

Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. Your breath catches.

He’s here.

“Take that fucking story down,” Jungkook growls as he storms into the room, jaw tight, black hoodie slightly unzipped and hanging off his shoulders like a warning.

You blink, playing dumb. “What story?”

His eyes are molten.

“The one with my shirt… your rules? You knew exactly what you were doing.”

You shrug. “They liked it.”

“They?” he hisses, stepping closer. “You mean your little followers? Guys thirsting in your DMs thinking they have a chance with what’s mine?”

You stay silent. It drives him insane.

“You think this is a joke?”

And suddenly his hand is around your jaw — not harsh, but firm, thumb dragging slowly across your cheek.

“You wanna act like you forgot who you belong to?”

Your voice is quiet. “Remind me.”

That’s all it takes.

He crashes into you like a storm, mouth bruising yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and fury and want. You stumble back into the wall, gasping as his fingers grip your hips, pulling you against him like it’s the only way he can breathe.

“You do shit like that, and then look at me like you don’t know what you started,” he mutters against your neck, biting down just enough to make you arch.

Your hands slide under his hoodie, tugging at his shirt. He rips it off without hesitation, and then he’s hoisting you up with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist like muscle memory.

“Didn’t like seeing the comments, huh?” you whisper against his ear.

He growls low in his throat. “I don’t give a fuck about the comments. I care about how every guy now thinks they’ve seen what’s mine.”

“And have they?”

“No,” he says darkly, carrying you into the bedroom. “But they’re about to know they never will.”

He throws you on the bed and peels off the rest of your clothes like he owns your skin — because he does, doesn’t he? At least in this moment.

“You do this to me on purpose,” he mutters, crawling over you, inked hand trailing up your bare thigh. “Make me jealous. Make me crazy.”

Your smirk disappears as he pushes your knees apart. “I like you crazy.”

He leans in, breath hot against your mouth. “Careful, baby. I’ll ruin you.”

“Then do it.”

And he does — with everything in him.

There’s nothing gentle about it. The way he kisses you like he’s trying to brand you. The way he talks while he moves inside you, calling you his, making sure you hear it, feel it, know it.

“You like this? Like knowing you’re the only one I lose my fucking mind over?”

“Yes, Jungkook—”

“That’s right. Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Jungkook!”

He doesn’t let up until your voice is hoarse, until your fingers claw down his back, until there’s no doubt left in either of you that you belong to each other — messily, toxically, undeniably.

Later, tangled in sheets and the remnants of obsession, he kisses your shoulder softly. Whispered words replacing growls.

“I hate how much I love you,” he murmurs.

You turn to face him, exhausted and flushed. “Then keep hating me, baby.”

He smirks. “Not a chance.”

He strips off the last of his clothes, all smooth inked muscle and heat, eyes dragging down your body like you’re something forbidden he’s about to devour. His gaze darkens as it settles on your thighs, your chest, your flushed lips — like he’s already planning what he’s going to do to every part of you.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, crawling over you with a slow, sinful smirk. “You know that?”

Your heart pounds. “And yet here you are.”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, before he grabs your chin again — tilting your face up to meet his eyes.

“I should be mad at you.”

“You are mad at me.”

He leans in, voice a rasp. “Not mad enough to stop.”

Then he kisses you — deep and punishing, all teeth and tongue, like he’s angry and in love and addicted to you all at once.

His hand slides down your body, fingers brushing along your bare hip before gripping your thigh and pulling you closer until you feel the hard press of him against your core.

“You’re already wet,” he mutters in disbelief, dragging the head of his cock against your entrance. “Is this what teasing me gets you?”

You whimper. “Jungkook—”

“I saw the way you looked in that post. All soft and ruined in my shirt. You knew what it’d do to me.”

He slides in all at once, and your head falls back with a gasp — body arching, hands clutching at his arms, nails digging into the taut lines of muscle.

“F-Fuck—”

“I want you to remember this,” he growls. “Next time you think about tempting me like that.”

Then he starts moving — slow at first, grinding deep, each thrust possessive and punishing, his hands pinning your wrists above your head.

“You belong to me,” he says between thrusts, voice low and lethal. “Say it.”

“I do—” you pant.

“Say it louder.”

“I belong to you, Jungkook—fuck—only you.”

His grip tightens, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, soft and reverent — a contrast to the way he’s completely unraveling you.

You’re already close, your body wound tight, and he knows. He always knows.

“Come for me,” he whispers against your throat, teeth scraping skin. “Let me feel how mine you are.”

And when you do — shaking, crying out his name, clenching around him like your whole world is splintering apart — he doesn’t stop.

Not even after.

He flips you, presses your chest down into the sheets and drags you back against him, filling you up again. You’re wrecked, overstimulated, but he needs more — needs to make sure you feel it tomorrow, every step you take.

“Too much—” you whimper, breath hitching.

“No such thing, baby,” he pants, hair messy, sweat beading along his brow. “You made me crazy — now take it.”

His hand slips under your waist to hold you up for him, and he keeps going, pushing you past every edge, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillows.

He finally comes with a low growl of your name, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, burying himself deep with a final, broken thrust.

Then silence.

Just heavy breathing. Tangled limbs. The scent of sex and sweat and whatever love smells like when it’s wrapped in obsession.

He collapses beside you, chest rising and falling.

You blink through the haze. “You… you’re insane.”

His laugh is hoarse and wrecked. “You made me this way.”

You grin, dazed. “That’s toxic.”

He pulls you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No, baby. That’s love.”

[emsromanoff]

The view from up here | N.R.

Summary: after a sleepless night haunted by nightmares, you find comfort in Natasha. It turns into a late-night motorcycle ride, and a quiet moment that finally turns into something more.

Content warning: mention of nightmares, Insomnia, comfort, fluff, mutual pining, (Nat on a motorcycle!)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Word count: 2k

a.n. To everyone who deals with sleeplessness and self doubt late at night <3

You were sitting on the balcony of the quiet Avengers compound, knees pulled against your chest. It was the middle of the night. The smoke from your cigarette filled your lungs, trying to soothe the lingering weight of the nightmare still stuck in your chest.

You were still a new Avenger—barely a year in—but it didn’t feel like enough time to handle the pressure that came with the job. The nightmares weren’t always the same. Sometimes they were flashbacks from failed missions. Other times, they reflected your worst fears. They changed shape, but the feeling they left behind never did. That emptiness always stayed. And every time it happened, you found yourself here.

You were caught in a spiral of racing thoughts, fidgeting with your favorite knife, when you heard the balcony door creak open. You turned your head and saw her.

Natasha.

She stepped outside slowly, like she already knew you’d be here. She looked like she hadn’t slept either. Her green eyes were sharp, awake, and fixed on you. It didn’t surprise you. Since you joined the Avengers, the two of you had shared a lot of sleepless nights. Sometimes on the rooftop, other times curled up in the living room in comfortable silence.

Natasha was the one you trusted the most. There was something between you two—something neither of you talked about. A quiet understanding that lingered beneath the teasing, the sarcasm, the shared looks that lasted a little too long. God, the looks. The ones that made your chest tighten and your breath catch before either of you looked away like nothing had happened. Whatever it was, it had always been there. You’d never said it out loud. Never dared to name the feeling. But it was always there.

“Well,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “looks like I’m not the only one losing a fight with insomnia tonight.”

You gave her a tired smile. “Didn’t expect company.”

“I could say the same,” she replied, walking over and settling beside you on the couch. “This spot’s supposed to be mine, you know.”

“Oh, sorry,” you said, flicking ash from your cigarette. “Didn’t see your name engraved on it.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “I’m slipping. Normally I’m more territorial.”

You nudged her gently with your shoulder. “We can share. I promise not to take up the whole brooding corner.”

Natasha’s lips curled into a small smirk. You felt her gaze on you while you stared up into the night sky. “Rough night?” she asked, a slight hint of concern in her voice.

You shrugged. “Nightmares. Thought the balcony might help.”

Natasha didn’t say anything right away. She just nodded, like she understood what that meant.

“They’re not just nightmares,” you murmured. “It’s everything. The pressure. The expectations. Feeling like if I mess up once, someone could die.”

Natasha leaned beside you, silent.

“Some nights, it’s flashbacks. Others, it’s just… voices in my head. Doubts. Fear. Like I’m waiting for someone to figure out I don’t belong here. I keep wondering if it ever stops.”

Natasha’s voice was quiet, almost lost in the breeze.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, and I still have those nights. But you learn to keep moving. And you learn who you can lean on when it’s too much.”

You looked over at her, the corner of your mouth twitching in a faint, almost-sad smile. “I’m not good at leaning on people.”

“I know,” Natasha said simply, like it wasn’t a judgment—just a fact. “Neither am I.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment. It wasn’t heavy. Just honest.

“But I’m trying,” you said softly.

Her eyes met yours. “And that’s enough.”

You felt her hand reach out to rest on your shoulder. Silent reassurance. Natasha was never good at doing that, but she was trying. You were more important to her than she would ever admit. You glanced at her, your expression softening.

A moment of silence passed.

“Come on.” She stood up. “Let’s go.”

You blinked, confused. “Going where?”

Natasha smirked a bit. “Clearing our minds. You ever sat on a motorcycle?”

“Uhh… no, never.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“What can I say? I had un-cool teenage years.”

Natasha let out a quiet laugh. “Well, lucky for you, you’re hanging out with a professional bad influence.”

————————————————————————

You followed her through the quiet compound, the only sounds your footsteps echoing softly in the halls. Everything felt still—like the whole world had gone to sleep, except for the two of you.

When you reached the garage, the lights flickered on automatically. Rows of sleek vehicles sat in perfect formation, but your eyes were drawn straight to the black motorcycle parked near the far wall—a sleek, black Harley-Davidson LiveWire.

Natasha walked over to it, grabbed a second helmet hanging from a hook, and turned to you, holding it out.

You hesitated for just a second before taking it. “You sure about this?”

She smiled teasingly, raising an eyebrow. “You fight Hydra agents and fly Quinjets, but you’re scared of a bike?”

You took the helmet from her with a mock glare.

“I like my adrenaline rushes with a seatbelt, thanks.”

Natasha chuckled, clearly enjoying this.

“Relax. I don’t go that fast with passengers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh good. So just mildly reckless.”

She smiled as she slung a leg over the bike. “You’ll be fine.”

You both pulled on your helmets—your hands slightly shaky—and climbed on behind her. You weren’t entirely sure where to put your hands.

Natasha glanced over her shoulder. “I’d suggest arms around me, unless you want to fall off.”

You gave a nervous laugh and wrapped your arms around her waist, more hesitant than you wanted to admit.

The engine rumbled to life beneath you, loud in the quiet of the garage. You felt the vibration in your chest—a strange mix of nerves and something… freeing.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Not even a little.”

Natasha grinned. “Good. That’s the fun part.”

And with that, she rolled out of the garage into the night. She took a sharp turn into the busy streets of NYC and you held even tighter onto her waist. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and it wasn’t only because of the adrenaline.

“You good over there?” Natasha called out in a teasing voice, well aware of the physical closeness. “You’re holding on like I’m about to launch us off a cliff.”

“Can you blame me? I’ve seen how you drive…”

Natasha let out a low chuckle in response.

The engine roared beneath you as Natasha took the next turn. You held on tight at first, shoulders tense. The speed, the wind, the unfamiliar weight of the helmet—it all felt just a little out of control.

But Natasha didn’t rush. She rode steady, her movements almost calming. She stopped at a red traffic light and took a brief glance behind her.

“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be.”

You answered half-joking, half-serious:

“Trying not to scream.”

“What a shame. You’ve got a nice voice.”

The unexpected comment made the tension crackle, and you chuckled, shaking your head slightly.

“Oh, shush.”

Natasha joined your laughter and placed one hand briefly on top of yours—a silent gesture of comfort. You were glad the helmet was covering the blush on your face. The traffic light turned green, and her hand left yours as she kept driving. Little by little, your body relaxed. You let your cheek rest against her back, the warmth of her steady and real beneath your hands. The noise in your head dulled. No fear. No pressure. Just the road and the fresh air. Just her.

The road curved gently upward as Natasha guided the bike up the hillside. The city lights behind you faded into soft glows, replaced by trees and open sky. You held on tight, but this time it wasn’t from nerves—it was just part of the ride now.

“You’re taking me somewhere to kill me, aren’t you?” you called over the wind, half-laughing against her shoulder.

Natasha laughed back, her voice sharp with amusement. “No promises. Depends how annoying you get.”

“Oh wow. That’s comforting.”

“Hey,” she called, leaning slightly into the next curve, “I could’ve ditched you back at that red light. You should feel flattered.”

“Oh, I do. Nothing says trust like handing my life over to someone with a known history of morally questionable decisions.”

She barked out a laugh, louder this time. “Keep talking like that and I’ll hit the gas.”

“You would,” you shouted, laughing—the wind catching your voice.

The last few minutes of the drive were filled with laughter, and it warmed something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

The road straightened out and the city came back into view—tiny and far below. The motorcycle rolled to a stop at the top of the hill. Natasha cut the engine and removed her helmet with ease, shaking out her hair as she exhaled.

You followed suit, your heart still racing—not from fear anymore, but from something warmer. Lighter.

“That was…” you started, “both terrifying and amazing.”

Natasha smirked. “You didn’t scream once. I’m proud.” She held her hand out for you, helping you hop off the bike.

“Only because I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.” You smiled smugly, holding her hand a bit longer than necessary.

She chuckled and set her helmet on the seat. “Please. You were clinging to me like I was about to drive us off a cliff.”

“Hey, I was just saving my life. You took very… sharp curves.”

Natasha laughed softly—a sound you didn’t hear often. But it was real. She stepped forward to stand beside you, gazing out at the view. Her shoulder brushed yours, and neither of you moved away from the contact.

“Seriously though,” you said more quietly, “thank you. I needed… this.”

She looked over at you, her smile softened. “You don’t have to crash alone when things get heavy. I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a pause. Not an awkward one—just thick with something unspoken.

Natasha’s voice dropped a little. “You’re different when you laugh. Lighter.”

You tilted your head toward her, eyes meeting. “So are you.”

Another pause.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe both of you did, just a breath apart. But suddenly she was closer, her hand ghosting along your jaw, and her eyes searched yours—checking, waiting.

And then she kissed you.

It wasn’t urgent or dramatic. It was soft. Careful. Like a question. Like something that had been waiting for the right moment to exist.

You kissed her back.

When you finally pulled away, you both lingered close, her forehead brushing against yours, your breaths still caught between you.

“Well,” you whispered, heart pounding, “that was… unexpected.”

Natasha smiled, just a little. “Not really.”

———————————————————————

Time slipped by after the kiss, but neither of you seemed to be in a rush. You and Natasha sat on an old bench near the edge of the hill. You spent every minute talking and enjoying each other’s presence—so far away from everything—that you didn’t even notice the sun starting to rise. Your head rested on her lap, your gaze fixed on her: the strong line of her jaw, the way her lips curled slightly like she was still thinking about the kiss too.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, not looking away from the skyline.

You smirked. “Glad you’re noticing it now—after one year of me constantly staring,” you teased.

“You did? God… how did I miss that?” she asked, amused, realizing what had been right in front of her the whole time. “But I was just as hopeless.”

“Guess we’re both idiots, huh?”

She let out a low huff of laughter, moving her hand to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. A thought crossed Natasha’s mind—one she wasn’t sure she should say out loud. Her voice was quieter now, a little vulnerable.

“I think I was too scared to admit how much I like you. I—” Her voice faltered for a moment. “I’m not good at this. Feelings and stuff.”

You looked at her with softened eyes, full of understanding. “I know. Me neither.” You took her hand in yours, fingers intertwining naturally.

“Are you still scared?”

She shook her head, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Terrified. But it turns out, I like terrified—with you.”

You laughed softly. “One terrifying step at a time,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss her again.

And from now on, you knew you wouldn’t hold back anymore.

[formulafanfics13]

Mine Until You Break - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

You should have left him months ago. Everyone said it. Your friends. Your sister. The soft-spoken girl from PR who caught the way Max looked at you like a wolf eying blood.

They didn't get it. They couldn't. Because Max Verstappen didn't love like normal people did. He consumed. He carved you out from the inside and filled you with him, his rules, his voice, his hand between your thighs at 2AM when you said no and he growled, "You mean yes."

And you did. God help you, you did.

He was sick in the head and you wanted more. It was always like this. You'd say something stupid. Something innocent. Smile too long at a waiter. Reach for your phone before answering him. And Max would spiral. But not loudly.

Max didn't shout. Max didn't hit. He just watched you. Quiet. Dangerous. Until your heart stuttered in your chest and your whole body remembered exactly who it belonged to.

Tonight, it was a comment. You'd said something about Lewis. Just a compliment. Just a joke. But Max heard it.

He didn't speak during the entire flight home from Baku. Didn't speak in the car. Didn't speak as he opened the door to the Monaco apartment, grabbed you by the back of your neck, and shoved you inside.

He only spoke once your back hit the bedroom wall. "You wanna fuck him?" he asked, voice dead.

Your breath caught. "What?"

"Lewis." His mouth curled, venomous. "You want him?"

"No-"

"You want anyone who isn't me?"

"Max, I was joking-"

"Say it again," he growled. "Say his name again and I'll make you crawl to him naked and sobbing."

You flinched. His body pressed into yours, hard, unforgiving. His hands slammed to either side of your head. You could smell the fury on him.

"Max-"

"Take your fucking clothes off."

You didn't move fast enough. He spun you around, yanked your dress down your back, grabbed your wrists and tied them together with his belt like he'd done it a hundred times, and he had.

"You know what the problem is?" he hissed, dragging you to the bed. "You think I won't break you." He shoved you down. You landed face-first, wrists pinned, body trembling.

"Max-"

"No. You don't get to speak unless I ask you something. Got it?"

You nodded.

"Words."

"Yes, Max."

"Good fucking girl."

He grabbed your chin and forced your head to the side. You saw it in his eyes — that wild, unblinking need to hurt and own in the same breath. He kissed you once, teeth catching your lip hard enough to sting. Then he bit your throat. Hard. You whimpered. He yanked your panties down and spat on your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers.

"So wet already," he sneered. "Is that for me? Or are you thinking about him?"

"For you," you gasped.

"That's fucking right it is."

He pushed inside in one brutal thrust. You screamed, not from pain, but from how fucking deep he went. How he didn't stop, didn't let you adjust. Just fucked you into the mattress like you were nothing but a hole to claim.

"You like this?" he hissed. "You like when I fuck the attitude out of you?"

"Yes-"

His hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed. "Louder."

"Yes, Max-fuck-please-"

"Please what?" His hips slammed into yours over and over, the headboard crashing against the wall, the room echoing with skin and sweat and gasping breath. "You want me to stop?"

"No."

"You want me to ruin you?"

"Yes-"

He pulled out. You sobbed. "Max-please-"

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, breathing hard into your ear. "You don't fucking get to come until I say."

"Please-"

"You think I don't see how you look at the other drivers?" he snapped. "You think I don't see how they look at you? Like they've got a fucking chance? Like I wouldn't slit their throats for touching you?"

You moaned, sick, twisted, drunk on it. He slammed back inside you. You cried out, shaking, begging, needing.

"I'll leave marks on every fucking inch of you," he snarled. "Let them see. Let them know."

He flipped you over mid-thrust, untied your wrists just to pin them above your head with his own hands. "Open your fucking mouth."

You obeyed.

He spit into it. "Swallow."

You did.

He groaned. "Good fucking girl."

His mouth found your neck again, biting. His cock drove into you fast, ruthless, punishing. You felt it build, that overwhelming swell in your stomach, the spark in your spine, the way everything blurred except him.

"I'm gonna cum," you cried. "Please-please let me-"

"You think you deserve it?"

"Yes, Max, please-"

"Then beg."

You were already sobbing. "Please let me cum, Max, please, I'll be good, I'm yours, I'm only yours-"

"Fucking say it."

"I'm yours-no one else-no one-"

He growled, an animal sound, and his hips stuttered, cock twitching inside you as he came, hard, deep, breath ragged.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "Now."

You shattered. The orgasm ripped through you like an explosion, violent, shaking, wet. Your whole body trembled under him, tears running down your cheeks, hands still pinned, throat bruised, mind blank.

When you could breathe again, he was still over you. Still inside you. He leaned down and kissed the tears off your cheeks. "Mine," he whispered.

You nodded.

"Say it."

"I'm yours."

He kissed your lips. Soft, now. Almost loving. "You better fucking stay that way."

And you would. You always did.

[charliedawn]

Can you write how the vampires of sinners would take care of you when you are having a really bad day? Please? I love your writings for the vampires🦇🥹❤️

Remmick

You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway before he was on his feet.

Remmick had been in the armchair, flipping through a battered poetry book when the subtle shift in the air changed everything. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest before he saw you. You didn’t say anything. You just stood there, the light from the hallway casting shadows under your eyes, shoulders slouched like you were carrying a stormcloud no one else could see.

He stood up slowly, book forgotten.

“Mo chuisle…”

Your head dropped, just slightly, at the sound of his voice. Like the last thread holding you together was beginning to fray. Remmick reached you in two strides. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t demand explanations. He just wrapped his arms around you, one hand pressing the back of your head to his chest, the other curling tightly around your waist.

“I’ve got ye,” he whispered, angry with the world for failing you. “You’re here now. You’re safe.”

You didn’t cry. You were too tired for that. But you held onto his shirt, your fingers twisting into the fabric like it was a lifeline. And for a long time, that was enough. Eventually, he pulled back, just enough to cup your cheeks and study you. His blue eyes softened, lines of concern tugging at his brows.

“Bath. Then food. Then me.”

You nodded—barely. He took it as gospel.

He ran the bath himself. Warm, slow, full of lavender and mint. He undressed you carefully, reverently, murmuring soft Irish phrases against your skin as he kissed your shoulder, your forehead, the top of your spine. He sat beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves to run his hand through the water and over your arms. You could barely keep your eyes open, but every time you did, he was there. He smiled at you and gave you this warm look of pure adoration.

Afterwards, you found yourself tucked into one of his shirts—soft, smelling like cedar and something older, something ancient. He brought you a cup of tea, but only after feeding you bites of toast with honey and soft boiled eggs. You barely tasted it, but he smiled with every bite you took. And when he finally settled beside you in bed, he pulled you into his arms and let you rest against his bare chest.

His fingers traced your spine slowly, up and down, up and down, like he could calm your soul by touch alone.

“Mo ghrá,” he murmured against your hair. “I love ye. I want ye to be safe and happy. I have no remorse whatsoever about killin’ whoever made ye unhappy. Me heart belongs to ye—this rotten and putrid heart o’ mine. It is all yers. Command me. And I swear to obey.”

You felt his fangs graze the back of your shoulder lightly—not to feed, but to make you feel his will to defend you against the darkest of enemies.

“I’d drain the stars if it meant you’d smile at me again,” he admitted softly. “But for now…I’ll hold ye. As long as ye need. Rest…Rest and lemme take care o’ ye this night and every night ‘till end o’ time.”

And when you finally fell asleep, cradled in his arms, his gold chain now looped around your neck—Remmick stayed awake just a little longer and looked at your sleeping face. He kissed your cheek and knew that he would always belong to you…

Mary

You were quiet. Not the good kind.

Mary could always tell the difference.

The way you walked in, shoulders slumped and eye bags. The way you gave her a tired little “hey,” like it was all you had left. She didn’t push, not right away. She just looked up and watched you sink onto the couch beside her, hands folded tightly in your lap.

“Baby…” One word, soft and slow. You didn’t meet her gaze. She reached out gently and brushed a thumb under your eye, checking for tears, but you didn’t have the energy to cry. “Who did this to ya?”

You let out a shaky breath. That was the thing with Mary—she always made it sound like she was ready to track down the whole world for hurting you. And maybe she was. She pulled you into her lap with ease, wrapping you up in her arms. You didn’t resist. You never did with her. There was something about the way Mary held people—like she’d take away all the pain and sadness by just holding you.

“There you go, sugar. Just let Mama Mary do her thing.” She rocked you a little, humming low in her throat—some half-forgotten southern lullaby she used to sing to herself in the dark. Then she tilted your chin up.

“You been carryin’ somethin’ heavy, haven’t you?”

You nodded, slow. Your voice cracked when you tried to speak. “I don’t want to bother you.”

Mary’s eyes flared with disbelief. “Sweetheart, listen to me real good: you are never a bother. Not when you’re smilin’. Not when you’re cryin’. Not even when you’re screamin’ at the wall ‘cause life’s a mean old bastard. You hear me?”

You blinked fast, holding back tears.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I hear you.”

She kissed your cheek, then your forehead, then your nose, peppering you with so much warmth it started to chip away at the cold inside. “You wanna talk? We’ll talk. You wanna cry? I’ll be right there with ya. You wanna just sit here and hold hands and let the silence do the talkin’? Baby, I got all night.”

You managed a small, teary smile. That was all she needed. Mary reached behind the couch, pulled out a blanket she’d stashed for you, and tucked it around your shoulders before wrapping her arms back around you like a safety net.

“Listen here. You’re my heart,” she said softly, rocking you again. “And even when it’s heavy, I’ll carry it for ya. Every damn time.”

And when you finally started to drift, your head tucked under her chin, she murmured something soft against your hair. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world that’s gonna break ya—not while I’m here to love ya through it.”

Stack

Stack didn’t say much when he first saw you.

He could smell it on You—stress, exhaustion, that tight-breath panic you were trying to stuff down like it didn’t matter. You weren’t crying. You weren’t screaming. That would’ve been easier. No, you were just…shutting down.

And that? That scared him more than anything.

You barely glanced his way when you walked past him in the hallway, shoulders hunched, hoodie pulled too far down like it could shield you from whatever the day had done to you. But Stack wasn’t about to let you disappear into yourself. So he followed you. When you collapsed onto the cot in your room, face buried in the pillow, he crouched beside you and stayed there, just watching. You didn’t flinch when he placed a hand over your back. You didn’t move when he leaned closer.

“Bad day?” His voice was soft. Slower than usual. No teasing, no sarcasm. Just concern, low and warm.

You nodded into the pillow. “Everything hurts.”

You didn’t mean physically—but he got it.

He laid down beside you, didn’t say a word for a long time. Just stretched out and pulled you into his chest, your back to his front, his arms wrapping tight around your waist.

“S’okay,” he murmured into your hair. “We gonna find a solution, baby. Whatever ya need…I’ll get it for ya.”

And then—just to coax something out of you—he nuzzled your neck and muttered: “Want me to bite someone’s ass for ya? Just say the word.”

That got a tiny snort out of you, which made his arms squeeze tighter.

“There’s my baby girl/boy.”

He reached into his hat and, like a magician, pulled out your favorite snack. You turned, finally, looking at him with the wet corners of your eyes.

“You remembered?”

He gave you that crooked smile—the one he only gave to you. “’Course I did. I ain’t the best at words, baby, but I got ears.”

You took the snack and leaned into him. “Thank you.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered: “Ya don’t gotta thank me. Just lemme hold ya. Let me hold ya and make ya forget all that shit ya goin’ through for a while.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t pull away either.

He smiled again. Soft. Tender. “Ya got a mean world out there, but ya got me too. And I’m scarier.”

That night, he didn’t leave your side. And even if the next morning felt just as heavy—at least now you weren’t carrying it alone. You knew Stack would always be there to help you.

Bo

Bo found you sitting on the porch, your arms crossed over your chest, legs pulled up tight, face blank in a way that made his stomach twist. The stars were just starting to come out, and you didn’t even glance up to greet them. He leaned against the doorframe behind you.

“Y’ain’t smiled in hours,” he finally pointed out, voice low and familiar, Southern drawl a little slower than usual. “And I’m startin’ to get offended.”

You didn’t answer. Just curled tighter.

Bo didn’t push. He came down the steps instead, sitting beside you without a word. He cracked open a beer, took a swig, and then offered it wordlessly. When you shook your head, he shrugged.

“Suit yerself.” Another pause. Crickets chirped. A warm breeze moved through the trees. Then, Bo spoke again. “When I have days like that, y’know what I do?”

You looked at him finally, eyes dull. “…What?”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded photograph. Old. Black-and-white. Worn edges. He handed it to you. It was a photo of him and a woman—a little girl standing between them. They were smiling.

“I look at this. Remember that once, life didn’t suck so hard. And that maybe—just maybe—it won’t always suck this much again.”

You stared at it for a moment, fingers trembling. He saw that. So, slowly, Bo reached over, wrapped his arms around your shoulders, and pulled you into his chest. You let yourself fold into him, finally letting go of the tension that had been knotting up your chest all day.

Bo held you, one hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, the other shielding your head against his neck. “You’re safe here. With me. Always will be.”

When your breathing slowed and your hands unclenched, Bo pressed a kiss to your temple. “We’ll get through it. Together. And when ya feel better…I’m takin’ ya dancin’. Even if I gotta carry ya there myself.”

And for the first time that day, you almost laughed.

Bo grinned before kissing your temple. “There’s that sound I love.”

Annie

She noticed it right away. Annie might be quiet, maybe a little withdrawn compared to the others, but she had an uncanny talent for reading people—especially you. You hadn’t said much all day. Your eyes didn’t sparkle. You didn’t make a sound at dinner, or lean into anyone’s shoulder like you normally would. And when you passed her in the hallway without so much as a look, Annie’s heart clenched.

She waited until the others were distracted. Until the house had quieted, and the stars were out. Then, she found you—curled up in bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers you didn’t.

She stepped in carefully, barefoot, and shut the door behind her with a soft click.

“Hey there, sweetheart. What’s goin’ on?”

You didn’t answer right away. She moved slowly, climbing up onto the bed beside you, facing the ceiling like you were. She didn’t try to force eye contact. Didn’t push. She just stayed close. After a few moments, she reached out and gently touched your hand. Her cold fingers barely brushed your wrist, like she didn’t want to scare you.

“You don’t have to talk. I just…wanted to be here. If that’s alright.”

She lay beside you for a long time in the quiet. And then, slowly, softly, she began to hum. It was some old lullaby—vague and sweet. When you finally turned toward her, eyes glassy, mouth trembling—Annie gently took your hand in both of hers.

“I know you’re tired. And I know the world’s been heavy on ya. But you’re here. And I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” She leaned forward, brushed a soft kiss to your temple. “When you will be ready to talk, I will still be here.”

Annie lay with you until you started to drift. And when you closed your eyes, she stayed awake, watching over you—her hand still in yours, her thumb gently rubbing over your knuckles.

Cornbread

You didn’t even have to say anything. The moment Cornbread saw your face—tired eyes, heavy steps, that worn-out look—he paused mid-sentence, turned to the others, and simply said: “I’ll catch y’all later.”

No explanation. No hesitation. He followed you back into your room, closing the door behind him with one hand while the other gently tilted your chin up.

“Hey, sugar…What happened?”

You opened your mouth, trying to explain—but nothing came out.

Your eyes burned.

Cornbread didn’t push. He just wrapped you up. He pressed your face into his chest and just held you. Big, slow, steady breaths while his hand rubbed gentle circles across your back.

“You don’t gotta say a thing, baby,” he murmured. “Not a single word. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with fallin’ apart every now and then.”

Cornbread didn’t let go. He sat down on the bed and pulled you into his lap like you were the most precious thing in the whole damn world. One of those big, calloused hands rested protectively at the back of your head, the other wrapped tight around your waist.

“Y’know what ya need?” he whispered against your hair. “A real meal. Some somethin’ warm, heavy, greasy, and made with love. S’the only cure I know for days like this.”

He carried you—literally carried you—into the kitchen. Sat you on the counter. Put one of his big shirts over your shoulders. And then he got to work. Cornbread didn’t just make food. He cooked. The kind that fills a room with smell and soul. Fried chicken, hot cornbread with honey butter, and sweet tea on the side. Real Southern comfort food that steamed up the windows and soothed the ache in your chest.

And the whole time? He stayed close. He told you dumb jokes. Whistled. Danced a little in place to make you laugh. And when you finally smiled—tired, cracked, but real—he grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

“That’s my baby,” he said, placing a kiss to your forehead. “There’s that smile.”

Later, when the food was gone and you were stuffed, he carried you back to bed. Let you curl up on his chest while he played with your fingers. He kissed your crown and held you tighter.

“Now sleep. I’ll be right here.”

And he was. All night.

Bert

Bert isn’t always the first to notice feelings—not unless you say it outright. But that day? That day, the moment he saw you standing in the hallway, quiet, eyes unfocused, something in him stilled.

“…Baby?” He called you.

You didn’t answer, just gave him a weak shrug.

And that was not your usual shrug. You barely met his eyes before heading into your room and shutting the door—softly, politely even, which made it feel worse. Because you weren’t mad. You were hurting.

It took Bert about three seconds to decide what to do.

First, he knocked.

“Sugar…‘m comin’ in, alright?”

No answer. He came in anyway.

You were sitting at the edge of your bed, shoes still on, coat bunched in your lap like you didn’t even have the energy to hang it up. You didn’t even look at him. So he dropped to one knee right in front of you. Gently took your shoes off.

“Look at me, baby,” he cooed, voice soft and raspy. Your eyes finally met his, watery and dull. And it hurt him. You didn’t have to say a word.

“Alright. You ain’t feelin’ good. That’s okay. We ain’t gotta fix it right now. But what we are gonna do is make sure you get somethin’ in your belly, somethin’ warm, and then I’m gonna hold you so tight not even your sadness is gonna wiggle away.”

He kissed your knuckles and stood up, guiding you under the covers.

Then came the real Bert magic.

He made grits and eggs—yes, the real Southern kind, with butter, cheese, and love. Brought it to you on a tray with a little candle on the side like it was a 5-star restaurant.

“I know it ain’t a steak, but it’s all comfort, sugar.”

He sat beside you while you ate. Then, when you’d eaten as much as you could, he put the tray aside and wormed himself underneath the covers with you.

“M’right here. Gotcha. Not lettin’ you go.” He said and kissed your forehead. “You’re the best thing in my whole afterlife, y’know that? This old heart don’t beat, but it sure aches seein’ you hurt. Gimme all your worst days, baby. I’ll still be here when they’re over.”

Joan

Joan didn’t need to hear the words. She saw it in the way you walked past her without a smile, didn’t even meet her eyes. You brushed past her with a muttered “Sorry” when she tried to stop you—polite, distant, closed off.

It was like someone had pulled the sun from her sky.

And she was having none of that.

She found you curled up on the couch in your softest hoodie, hood drawn halfway up, face blank. You didn’t flinch when she sat beside you. You didn’t even blink.

“You’re having one of those days, aren’t you?” she asked gently.

You gave her a quiet nod. She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t push.

Joan just…got to work.

First, she left you with a blanket and came back with your favorite drink—didn’t matter if it was tea, soda, or something a little stronger…She offered it to you with both hands, then sat beside you again, cross-legged and quiet.

You tried to say “I’m fine.”

But she cut that off real fast—with a look. A gentle but firm Joan look. “Ya don’t have to pretend around me. Ya hear me? Just tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

She curled herself around you on the couch, letting your head rest in her lap, her fingers instantly combing through your hair with expert tenderness. She smelled like warm vanilla and clean sheets. You closed your eyes and didn’t even notice you started crying until she wiped your cheek with her thumb.

“There you go. Let it out. That’s what I’m here for.”

Later, she ran you a bath—candles, dim lighting, soft music from a speaker tucked away. She sat on the tile floor beside the tub, back against the wall, humming and chatting softly while you soaked in silence. And when you got out, wrapped in towels and fresh clothes she’d picked out, she held her arms open wordlessly.

You collapsed into them without a thought.

“You wanna talk?” she murmured.

You shook your head.

She nodded understandingly. “That’s okay. We can just cuddle for now…”

[ray935sworld]

happier than I have ever seen

marcmarc

Cw: allusion to sexual content

“You have been absolutely incredible.” With those words, Marc pulled his boyfriend into the safety of his motorhome. He grinned wildly, his hands immediately reaching for the younger one’s face before he half made it through the door.

“You're the one to talk.” Marco replied, his Italian accent more dominant after the race. He was exhausted and his Spanish was suffering under it.

It made him even more hot in his boyfriends eyes.

“I saw – your launch in turn one. You were there – next to me on the grid and suddenly – psssuuuuuuuh” he made a flight noise, his head moving from left to right as he laughed. “You were gone! It was so god damn hot.”

The Italian was being dragged down to the smaller mans height.

He felt Marc’s lips on his. He was greedily kissing him, sucking his lips in and slightly biting him.

He was rewarded with a loud moan from his younger boyfriend that he half swallowed. He smiled. It scratched a certain part in his brain to know that he was the one making Bez react like this. That he was the one making him make those sounds. That only he got him like this.

“Mmhh… Oh baby you have no idea” he whispered, he took a step back, finally trying to navigate the kissing from the hallway to his bed.

Marco immediately step closer again. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his chest, letting his head fall down so he was resting against Marc’s shoulder while he spoke.

“You were right there next to me.” He whispered. “Sprayed me with champagne and on that podium - I could have just kissed. Just right there in front of your whole team and the whole world.”

“Yes. Yes please” “Yeah? Would you have liked that? Let everyone know your only mine?” he directed the younger to the bed and pushed him down. He felt marco’s hands still on his body as he let himself fall down.

The Italians hands were still resting on Marc’s side, eagerly letting his fingers slip on his shirt. “Yeah” he breathed out. He touched the slightly sweaty skin. Caressed it. And then let his first finger wander under the hem of the shorts.

At the same time, Marc took the one and only place that belong to him. On Bez’s lap.

He sat down, moving his ass a little more than necessary just to feel the bulge under him more clearly. He smiled. He liked knowing he could do this to the other one.

“So eager” he muttered. “Such a good boy… Now be my good boy and get ride of that shirt so I can look at you properly”

Within a second Bez hand disappeared from Marc’s body and instead he pulled his oversized shirt from his torso.

“Bello” Marc whispered as he got a good look at the younger one’s naked chest. “Such a beautiful man and all mine” He felt Marco twitch under him but he ignored it, knowing how the Italian reacted when Marc suddenly switched to his mother tongue.

It had been one of the many advantaged and new tricks he learned at Ducati.

He let his hand feel all over him, starting at his shoulders and slowly making his way over his chest and his stomach. “Maaaarc” the younger one whined. He decided to have mercy and leaned in to kiss him.

He kissed him hungrily, letting his tongue slip in between his lips without a warning. He claimed the wet heat of his mouth while his hand rested on his chest, slightly squeezing his skin of his tits.

The responds was Marco losing the last bit of grip on himself and therefore exactly what he had wanted. He let the Italian moan in the kiss, let his head fall back, muttering things under his breath while Marc kissed his neck.

He tasted the salty sweat. The rest of champagne that was yet to be washed away and he took it all as his little glory.

It tasted like winning because it meant he had Marco. It tasted better than any win.

He kissed his whole body. He kissed his chest, leaving bite marks around his nipples. He felt the younger man starting to twitch, his hard cock already pressing against the Spaniards thigh, begging for attention.

He let Marco move his hips under him, slightly moving up and down while he was still focused on his upper body. In his mind he was thinking about his next steps. He knew Marco had to ride tomorrow so he couldn’t do too much. And his own cock still hurt.

He grinned. But he was sure he could handle some pain so a little hand-

Suddenly the door was loudly pushed open. The door hitting the back of the small room. A voice accompanied the sound. Both flinching. Heads bolting up.

A voice broke through their bumble. “Marc, you are-“

Marc turned around with wide eyes, his hand still resting on the younger ones naked chest as if he wanted to cover his nipple up while he stared at his father.

Bez stared over his shoulder with even wider eyes at the older Spaniard while his hands already tried to find his shirt to at least try to pretend they weren’t making put like horny teenagers.

He looked around, his cheeks more red than Marc’s ducati but he had to realize his shirt was currently laying on the ground. In between Mr Marquez, his son and Bez who was sitting under said son. Rock. Hard.

“Hi Dad” Marc pressed out.

Julia stared at him. His eyes blinking. Mouth frozen in the middle of his word. Then he turned to look at the Italian who was currently brushing away the spit that had been running out his mouth and down his chin.

Suddenly his mouth twitched and his confusion broke into a loud laughter. It had a hint of the same crackling sound that the brother’s shared. “Your mom owns me 20€.” He said crossing as he shook his head.

“Teenagers” he sighed with a fake annoyance before he turned around. “Marc – when you guys are done – Ducati still wants some picture! See you, Marco!” “Se-See you!” the Italian managed to say as the door fell shut.

The two man however were still stuck in that moment. Marco stared at Marc while Marc still stared at the door.

The moment between them was ruined.

“What – Did your dad just –“ “Well – so much about telling my parents about you” he said with a chuckle. “What?!” “Yeah, trust me if he knows, my mom knows too.” “But. No. I… I wanted to be perfect” he said, his voice showing his annoyance.

“I wanted to be the perfect boyfriend and not – the P3 that your dad caught making out with after the sprint” he whined frustrated. Marc looked at him, he saw that it was actually upsetting him.

So he took his cheeks in between his hands and made him look up at him.

“You are my perfect boyfriend. Whether they find out while we are making out like teenager or with a proper suit introduction. You are my perfect boyfriend, because you are you. Okay?” “Okay” he whispered before Marc kissed him again.

“And that you are my P3 boyfriend with who I can celebrate is even better. My star” he whispered before getting up from his lap. He stretched, feeling Marco’s eyes on him.

“I gotta go. See you tonight… But maybe at your motorhome, less people” “Yeah” he replied with a chuckle and a last kiss. “I love you” “Love you too”

With that, Marc was gone.

Bez took a deep breath. He let a few seconds pass, his eyes scanning the room. Then he stood up as well, lifted the shirt from the ground and threw it back on. He brushed it off, making sure it looked as smooth as possible.

He let his hands go through his curls, trying to make them look as good as possible and he decided that this had to be acceptable.

He closed his eyes before exiting the room. He prayed he would be alone but as he expected he wasn’t. He spotted his boyfriends father just 2 steps in his try to sneak out. And worst – he saw him too.

He felt himself stiffen up as their eyes met.

“Hola Senor Marquez” he said quickly, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Ciao Marco” Julia replied, his voice soft, a smile on his face. “I should apologize. I really didn’t mean to intrude.” “I – Ehm…” he said, the red shooting back in his face. “Yeah, sure. No problem”

“Next time I’ll knock.” Next time. The words were hollowing in his head. Did he assume or know the two were…

Bez wasn’t sure if he could ask but his question got answered. “Marc mentioned you two are dating…?”

“Yes Sir” he nodded. “We -  We’ve been dating for a few months now and – I love him a lot. Really. Really much actually.” He wasn’t sure what to say so he just decided to say what he felt he should say.

“And I – I – I know that in the past- I wasn’t so… Kind. To him. But I am very sorry about that. I really, really love Marc and I want to be with him and make sure he is okay. I’m sorry that I didn’t always see that”

“Marco” The man said. “I appreciate that. Really. And it’s okay. You make my son happier than I have ever seen him.”

He gave him an honest smile. “Don’t think we didn’t notice he had been happier when he snuck back in. Or when he was just a little longer in Italy than usual. Or when he banned everyone from coming over”

Marco chuckled a little, feeling a lot more at ease now. “As long as Marc is happy, everything is fine. You seem like a good man, Marco. I am glad you two finally got your shit together.”

“Me too.” He said grinning.

Julia smiled at him. He was grateful that his son had found someone that made him smile. He wanted to protect his boys smile, especially after seeing him hopeless and frustrated for years with seemingly no end.

And the Italian seemed to be the perfect fit for him.

“Good. And I should tell you from my wife that you are welcome to join us for dinner any time. I’m sure Marc would be very happy.” Oh!” he blushed. So Marc had been right. “I – I’d love to, Mr Marquez. Thank you.”

“Always. Just... it’s Julia. Okay?” “Yes… Thank you”

[mobius-m-mobius]

I can rewrite the story.

Loki 1x01 // 2x05

[aggro-cucco]

The familiarity

Of Home

@oc-tober2023

[eremes]

👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

[maryse127]

I got the new Mario Party as well so I dug up the red and blue joy con that came with my oled switch that have literally never been used because I have the really pretty Skyward Sword ones. But I am not risking my pretty joy con on something as chaotic as Mario Party. Honestly I play pro controller 99.9% of the time anyway but I dont think you can do all minigames with a pro

[fromdove]

you find him in your apartment. again. window cracked. boots still on. jacket slung over the back of your chair like it belongs there.

he’s sitting on your couch like he owns it, flipping through a half-read paperback he definitely didn’t bring. probably something you left lying around — some crime thriller he’s already tearing apart in his head.

“make yourself at home,” you say, dropping your keys.

he doesn’t look up. “already did. your lock’s still crap, by the way.”

“you say that every time you break in.”

“because it’s still true.” he finally glances at you, eyes tired but sharp. “what if i was someone else?”

“then you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.”

his mouth twitches. “cute.”

you toe off your shoes, drop your bag, move toward the kitchen. “what do you want, jason?”

“wow. straight to the point. no hi jay, how was patrol? want something to drink? here, take my couch and trample my boundaries some more?”

“you don’t drink anything that isn’t ninety percent caffeine or eighty proof.”

“true,” he says, stretching his legs out. “still rude.”

you eye him from the kitchen. his holsters are off, but the rest of the suit’s still there — the compression shirt, scuffed boots, scraped knuckles. he’s vibrating under the surface like he hasn’t slept in two days and isn’t planning to.

“you get hit again?” you ask, softer.

he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “nothing important.”

“so yes.”

“do you want a play-by-play? i can act it out, real dramatic. throw myself against a wall. bleed on your furniture.”

“you already bled on my rug last month.”

“and it really tied the room together.”

you exhale through your nose. grab a glass of water, bring it over. he takes it without comment, drinks half in one go.

“why are you here, jason?”

this time, he doesn’t have a joke ready. his fingers tap the side of the glass, jaw tight.

“quiet,” he mutters. “it’s quiet here.”

you sit beside him. not close. not far.

“you ever gonna just ask to stay?” you ask.

“don’t need to.” he leans his head back, eyes closed now. “you always let me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i know.”

the silence stretches. his foot nudges yours, casual, like he didn’t mean to. like he did.

“you gonna yell at me if i fall asleep here?”

“depends.”

“on what?”

“if you do that thing where you mutter weird half-words and twitch like you’re being electrocuted.”

he opens one eye. “that’s called trauma. look it up.”

“ever heard of therapy?”

“yeah. didn’t vibe with being psychoanalyzed by someone who’s never been shot in the face. weird, right?”

you huff a laugh. he shifts a little closer, not quite touching.

“you still smell like gunpowder,” you say.

“better than blood.”

“barely.”

he doesn’t look at you right away. just stares ahead like he’s watching something you can’t see. then, like it costs him, he says,

“couldn’t sleep.”

that’s all he gives you. not can I crash here? not I don’t want to be alone. just that.

but with jason, that’s enough.

you don’t ask. you just nod toward the blanket on the armrest.

“you want that, or are you gonna steal mine like last time?”

“wasn’t stealing. it was strategic heat distribution.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you say that a lot,” he murmurs, already leaning back into the cushions.

and still — he doesn’t leave.

not for hours.

[satoblue]

“RESEMBLANCE” — gojo satoru

to satoru’s surprise, his first-born looks nothing like him. | wc: 1.0k+

f!reader, established relationship (you are mrs. gojo), pregnancy mention, you’re in the hospital after giving birth to your beautiful baby girl who looks a lot like you, satoru is a menace to society (and you), talks of sex (so may be a bit suggestive) | star divider by @/cafekitsune, swirl divider from pinterest + edited by me

the first few stages of emotions satoru feels upon seeing and holding his healthy, newborn baby girl in his arms are 1) relief, 2) joy, 3) surprise, and 4) confusion.

as he stares down at the child in his arms, that big mouth of his opens once and all havoc wreaks loose.

“this baby isn’t mine.”

the words are simple but not in meaning as it invokes such a reaction out of the nurses and you.

with a few, shocked gasps ringing in the air, you feel all eyes in the room aside from satoru’s (whom is still fixated on your newborn) come onto (the both of) you.

the heat on your cheeks in that moment is nothing compared to the utter rage brewing within you at his audacious behavior.

disbelief written all over your features, you try to ignore the avoidant side eyes of the medical staff. of all the times to spout some ridiculous nonsense, your husband chose now? — what the hell was he playing at? was this bastard accusing you of cheating?

“excuse me?! have you lost your mind?”

“i mean —” he licks his lips as if choosing his next words carefully (which he doesn’t). “she looks nothing like me. are you sure we got the right one?”

you can hear the whole world go silent aside from the beeping monitors in your hospital room. the nurses quickly (and wisely) hurry out.

“looks nothing like you?”, your eyes narrow, repeating his words dangerously low as if you were about to combust. he could practically see the steam coming out of your ears and holds back a chuckle.

“gojo satoru,” he winces at his full name. “that is your daughter — your daughter that i carried inside my stomach for months!”

and it was no easy feat.

perhaps it has something to do with satoru being the strongest, and in that way he has a mutant’s sperm — but your pregnancy was more difficult than the typical one which left you bedridden at only four months. and that is without even mentioning how your child felt the need to come earlier than her due date.

there should be absolutely no doubt in his mind that this is his child, one who is full of surprises right from birth.

“i know… but she doesn’t even have my hair or my nose or my lips! not even my big ears,” he pouts as he inspects the baby, turning her all sorts of (safe) ways to get a better look.

“all that there is, is you.” he finishes, gaze softening with a double meaning to his sentence, and he finally looks up at you sitting on the hospital bed.

“is this what this is about?”

“yes!”, a pitiful whine leaves his lips. “she should’ve come out looking exactly like me — my twin!”

“why does it even matter, ‘toru? she’s still yours in every way but appearance.”

“because, i want everyone to know i did this to you, that we made this child together — but my genes didn’t even put up a fight! how else will everyone who sees us together know you belong to me in such an irreversible way?”

then his sights dart to your stomach, hidden behind your thin hospital gown, his white brows furrowing. “maybe i didn’t fuck you hard enough…” he ponders, lips pursed.

his tone is low, but you hear it. your hands fly over your tummy to shield it from his piercing gaze, heat returning to your cheeks as you let out the scandalized gasp of the century.

there is a certain gleam in his eyes at your reaction — and you don’t like it one bit!

you think about hitting his head with the pillow to knock some sense into him (though it’d likely prove fruitless since his head is so big and boneheaded), but you’d save his beating for later when he isn’t holding your precious girl.

“you—”

with a sudden gasp, he reaches out a hand to you, waving it slightly to satiate your temper. he shushes you gently, whispering, “wait wait — she’s opening her eyes!”

quieting down, the both of you lean in, curious and in anticipation as your little one’s lashes flutter open slowly.

at what stares up at you, your lips part in sheer awe — and your husband stays uncharacteristically silent beside you.

“oh, satoru,” you absolutely melt.

with a coo, you whisper, “she has your eyes.” the very cerulean color you fell in love with once before and have again right now for the second time.

noticing how he hasn’t uttered a single thing, you look over next to you, before your eyes widen at the sight that greets you.

satoru, your husband, is crying. salty tears slip from his ducts and down his flushed cheeks, cute brows scrunched, blue clashing with blue for the first time.

“aw, baby. are you okay?” your own eyebrows knit together in worry and in contentment, noting his tears are of happiness.

all you get in response is a nonsensical blubber and a sniffle.

satoru’s heard it over a hundred times — how his eyes are pretty, beautiful, ethereal — even from you. he’s never cared much for it. to him, they were just eyes and the only value he saw in them is the power they gave him over others.

but now, he understands. and he thinks he’s starting to fall in love with them too.

“she’s so beautiful…” his lip wobbles, voice shaky and quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“i know,” you breathe.

putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, you smile. “happy now?” you’re barely able to conceal the amusement in your voice.

“mhm.” he hums, eyes still shimmering and glassy, lips in a pout.

“wanna go home?”

“yes, please.”

there’s nothing more that he wanted to do in that moment than take his baby girl to the loving sanctuary he deems the closest thing to heaven, his paradise — and he’s never letting her go.

extra:

“i can’t believe she only has my eyes, though. i guess i’ll just have to try harder next ti — ow! that hurt!”

[buckyseternaldoll]

all mine, baby

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: You crossed a line to finish the mission. Bucky saw it. Now he’s going to remind you who that pussy belongs to—with his mouth, his cock, and his name on your lips.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v (doggy + missionary), oral (f receiving & m receiving), facial + cumplay, overstimulation, marking, possessive!bucky, jealousy sex, creampie, shower aftercare, dominance (non-degrading), soft switch tension

Word Count: 5.9k

Author's Note: Hope you'll love my take on Bucky's more dominant side too. Thanks for reading 💜

“Just get the intel,” Bucky muttered, catching your wrist before you could step out of the SUV.

His grip wasn’t hard—but it stopped you. That said everything.

You turned, your eyes dropping to the flesh fingers wrapped around your wrist, then rising to meet his face. His jaw flexed. Tension rolled off him, held back behind stubble and armor and a soldier’s discipline he wore like a second skin. But it was more than that.

He knew how this worked. You both did. Sometimes missions blurred into seduction. Sometimes flirtation was the weapon.

Still—he breathed out, voice dropping. “I know what this is. I know you’ve gotta flirt. Play the part. That’s fine.”

You held his gaze, silent.

“But I’m gonna be in that room too,” he added, quieter now, almost like it hurt to say. “Watching him look at you. Listening to every word you say in my goddamn ear. And I can take a lot, but I’m still a man, alright?”

His thumb brushed across your pulse—gentle now. “Just don’t overdo it. Don’t give him more than what’s needed. Don’t make me sit there and hear you moan in his ear like it doesn’t fucking ruin me.”

The last part nearly broke in his throat. It wasn’t anger. It was something else. Something hot and human, coated in restraint.

You softened.

“I know,” you said, quieter. “It’s just a means to an end, Bucky. You have my word. I’ll do just enough.”

His eyes searched yours like he needed to be sure. Needed it anchored.

You gave him a small nod.

But deep inside, you knew.

These missions never stuck to plan. Sometimes the target needed a little push. Sometimes—when the drug took too long, when the man was strong, when timing burned too fast—you had to exaggerate. Make it look real.

And maybe, just maybe…

tonight would cross that line.

—

The club slammed into your senses—bass pounding through the floor, lights slicing in deep violet and strobe white. The air smelled like sweat, spilled liquor, and desperate heat. You walked in wrapped in that second-skin black silk, your dress clinging to every curve like it had been poured on. Short. Low-cut. Slick with sin.

You didn’t head to the target right away. You let yourself exist first—moving through the room like your heels wrote every beat of the music. You knew the asset was watching. You felt his eyes from the second you crossed the threshold.

Two tables behind, you knew Bucky was watching, too. Close enough to cover you. Far enough to let you work. His voice echoed in your head even now: “Don’t make me sit there and hear you moan in his ear like it doesn’t fucking ruin me.”

You swallowed it down. Focused.

The asset looked exactly as briefed—ex-military bulk softened by money and whiskey. Sharp eyes. Thick hands. Smiling like he already owned the room.

His men came to you, one leaning in just enough to graze your hip. “He’d like to meet you.”

You smiled. Innocent. Deadly. “That’s sweet. But I like to make the first move.”

You crossed the space, hips swaying. His gaze never left your legs.

In your hand: a glass of vodka, clear as a lie. Laced. Fast-acting. Measured.

You slid into the booth beside him, placing the drink between you.

“Didn’t think a man like you would have to send others to flirt for him,” you said, voice like warm smoke.

He chuckled, slow. “I like efficiency.”

You stirred the vodka with your finger—smooth, teasing—then pulled it back and offered the glass with a smirk. “So do I.”

He took it. Drank. Eyes never leaving the curve of your mouth.

You leaned in, just close enough for your perfume to do the talking. “This kind of attention you always get, or am I just special?”

He let his gaze drop, soaking in the cleavage framed perfectly by the dress. “You’re not like the girls I usually see here.”

“I’m not a girl,” you murmured. “And you’re not just some guy, either.”

You let it linger in the air. Heavy. Coded.

He shifted closer. “You speak in riddles?”

“I speak in trades,” you said, voice low. “You look like a man who deals in things that shouldn’t be touched.”

He smiled, drunk on you—but not drunk enough. The serum should’ve hit harder by now. Should’ve softened his eyes, loosened his tongue. But he was sharp. Solid. The clock was ticking.

You glanced toward Bucky’s table.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your skin burned under the weight of his stare.

You knew what you were about to do would hurt him.

But this wasn’t a game anymore.

So you swung a leg over the asset’s lap and settled down, smooth and slow. The hem of your dress barely covered your ass now, riding up just enough to reveal the snug stretch of your tactical shorts—black, skin-tight, regulation-issue but cut scandalously high for mobility. His eyes dipped lower, breath catching as the illusion unraveled.

Your shorts pressed flush against the bulge already forming beneath him, the fabric thin but secure—barrier, not invitation. His breath hitched. His hands landed at your waist, eager and clumsy, fingertips brushing the edge of nylon instead of skin. You let your hips roll once, slow, deliberate—not to tease, but to extract. Mechanical. Controlled. Just enough friction to fry his brain and loosen his tongue.

“What are you guarding so tight?” you whispered in his ear. “Where does it sleep? Who tucks it in?”

He groaned, breath hitching. “Red Hook… basement level… old biotech clinic—front’s shut down. Back entrance behind the deli. Third keypad to the left… code’s three-nine-alpha…”

You tilted your head to let him nibble your earlobe while he spoke, your hands running lazily over his chest. You hated it. Hated every second. But your face didn’t show it.

Not until his words slurred. His grip slackened. And his head dropped back.

Out cold.

The drink finally worked.

You climbed off slowly, fixing your dress with careful fingers.

And when you stood?

You didn’t need to look.

You felt Bucky’s stare drilling into your spine. Hot. Furious. Silent.

You’d done what you promised.

Just enough.

Barely.

But the line had been razor-thin.

And the aftermath?

It was coming for you.

—

Bucky didn’t say a word when you stepped away from the asset.

Didn’t look at you.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t even breathe your direction.

He just turned. Shoulders drawn tight. Vibranium fist clenched. He moved fast, controlled, vanishing through the back exit of the club like he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as you one second longer.

The comm in your ear clicked off.

That silence hit harder than any slap.

You stood there for a breath—dress still slightly hiked, heart hammering against your ribs—before forcing your legs to move. Every step down the hallway felt heavier. Guilt wrapped around your spine like ice. You hadn’t wanted to go that far. But you’d known the second the serum lagged that it was either that grind… or let the op slip through your fingers.

You pushed through the alley door into the night.

The air outside was sharp and sour—wet asphalt, exhaust, the dull hum of street noise. The black SUV waited by the curb, engine already running. Bucky sat behind the wheel, face cast in the glow of the dash lights. Vibranium hand flexed once on the wheel. Then again.

You approached carefully, like he might shatter if you spoke too soon.

You slid into the passenger seat. Closed the door softly.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak.

Just stared straight ahead, jaw locked, teeth clenched so tight it looked painful. The city passed in silence as he pulled out onto the road, hands steady, eyes burning holes in the traffic.

You glanced down at your lap, fingers fidgeting. “I had to get him talking before the serum kicked in,” you said quietly. “He was resisting it harder than expected.”

Still nothing.

“Bucky…”

He exhaled—through his nose. Sharp. Barely contained.

“I know why you did it.”

His voice came out flat. Controlled.

You turned toward him, catching the hard line of his jaw, the way that vein in his neck was still ticking.

“I just—he was slipping under, and I knew if I didn’t do something, I’d lose him. I wasn’t enjoying it—”

“But you fucking ground your hips on him,” Bucky snapped, eyes finally cutting to you. His voice didn’t rise, but it cracked, broken glass under velvet. “You pressed your body against another man’s cock like it wasn’t mine you’re supposed to be riding.”

Your breath hitched. Shame curled in your stomach like fire.

“I didn’t want to,” you said. “It was only ever for you.”

He looked away again, jaw flexing hard.

“I get it,” he said, after a moment. “I do.”

But it didn’t sound like understanding.

It sounded like restraint.

He said nothing else.

Just kept driving.

Until his right hand—the flesh one—left the gear shift and slid onto your thigh. Slowly. Hot.

You blinked, heart skipping. His palm moved up, lifting your dress inch by inch until the tactical shorts underneath came into view—thin, black, still dry against your skin. A reminder: that entire act, that entire grind? It meant nothing. No arousal. No pleasure. Just strategy.

But when his fingers slid under the waistband?

When his knuckles brushed your heat?

That’s when your breath hitched.

Because you started getting wet then—only then. Your body responding to him, and no one else.

He paused for half a second. Felt the shift. The slow bloom of warmth between your thighs.

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“Look at that,” he muttered, voice low, dark, possessive. “You’re only getting wet now, sweetheart. Not for him. Not up there in his fucking lap.”

You whimpered, your thighs tensing, hips twitching toward his touch.

“This?” His fingers pushed deeper. “This is mine. No one gets this but me.”

“Only you,” you breathed, voice barely holding. “Only you, Buck.”

His fingers pumped slow at first—two… then three. His thumb flicked your clit in lazy circles while the pads of his fingers curled up, hitting that spot that made your mouth fall open in a gasp.

You moaned. Soft. Stifled.

But not enough.

“Say my name,” he growled. “Say it like it fucking means something.”

You tried. Choked on it.

He fucked his fingers in deeper.

“Say it.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, the sound breaking free as your head tipped back. “Bucky—please—”

He swerved hard into a side street. Then another. Pulled into an alley dark as sin, hidden behind crates and dumpsters and silence. He slammed the car into park. Killed the lights.

Turned toward you with that fire in his eyes.

—

“Back seat,” he ordered. “Shorts off. Now.”

You didn’t question it.

Didn’t ask.

You scrambled over the center console, breath caught in your chest, heat pooling between your thighs. The dress was already bunched around your waist, riding high. You leaned back against the cold window, knees bent on the seat, and finally hooked your fingers under the edge of your tactical shorts—still clinging to your thighs, still damp with your own guilt.

You peeled your shorts down, slow but shaky, skin prickling as you dragged them past your knees and tossed them aside. The leather was cold beneath you, but your body burned hot. You shifted, leaned back against the SUV window, legs parting instinctively in the tight space.

Through the tinted glass, you saw Bucky climb out of the front seat, jaw tight, eyes stormy.

He slammed the door behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame—then opened the rear passenger side.

And when he stepped in, he filled the entire space.

Broad shoulders ducked low, head nearly brushing the ceiling, body moving with purpose as he sank into the backseat with you. The air between you thickened instantly—hot, electric, inevitable.

He was everywhere. The space felt smaller with him inside it—broad shoulders brushing the roof, body folding awkwardly in the tight quarters, but he made it work. He always did. And now, he was on his knees between your thighs, crouched over you, arms braced on either side like a man caging what’s his.

“No more pretending,” he rasped, breath thick, eyes locked on your dripping heat.

He gripped your thighs, calloused fingers digging in, spreading you wide open.

“No more acting.”

Then his breath hit your folds. Hot. Possessive.

“And no one,” he growled, voice dark and deadly, “will ever make you come the way I do.”

Then he buried his face in your pussy like it was his fucking prize.

Not soft.

Not slow.

But god, not careless either.

He licked you like he needed it to breathe—tongue flat and strong, dragging up your slit and latching onto your clit like he was starving for it. He sucked hard. Claimed it. The sound of it—wet, lewd, hungry—filled the cramped SUV, echoing off the windows.

You moaned, legs already trembling, head thudding softly against the glass.

He groaned into you—tongue flicking, circling, devouring—like he knew exactly how your body worked and wanted to remind you who trained it. His nose brushed your mound, his chin soaked with you, his mouth relentless.

It wasn’t just need.

It was marking.

Like he was writing his name in your cunt with every lick, letting the whole damn city know whose you were.

You squirmed, overwhelmed, but he locked your hips in place.

“Stay still,” he warned, voice raw against your skin. “Take it. You owe me this.”

You gasped, back arching, nails digging into his scalp.

“James—fuck—”

“Say it louder,” he growled, licking harder now. “I want it echoing in your fucking skull the next time you let someone else touch what’s mine.”

“Bucky,” you choked out. “Bucky, please—I’m—”

Your voice shattered as the orgasm slammed through you—hot, fast, brutal. You came on his mouth with your thighs trembling and his name torn from your throat like it was ripped from the center of you.

But he didn’t stop.

Even as you cried out, shaking, spent—he kept going.

He licked you through it, slow and thorough. Cleaning you up. Tasting you like you were the only thing that could calm the fire still burning in his chest. His mouth dragged along your folds like he needed more. Like he’d never get enough.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, chin soaked, eyes burning.

He leaned up, voice rough and quiet.

“Mine.”

Then he backed out of the seat and got behind the wheel again—still hard, still silent, cock straining against his pants as he shifted back into drive.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to.

You were panting in the passenger seat, legs still spread, cunt still aching from his mouth.

And the safehouse?

Ten minutes away.

You weren’t going to walk out of that room.

You were going to crawl.

—

Bucky killed the engine like it had offended him. His hands were still tight on the wheel. His cock was straining, painful in his pants, his breath ragged from holding back ever since he licked you raw in the backseat.

He got out first—door slamming shut behind him—then moved to the rear.

The moment the back door opened, you blinked up at him, legs still parted slightly, the hem of your black dress bunched indecently high on your hips. Your tactical shorts were somewhere on the floorboard. Forgotten.

His jaw ticked hard.

Without a word, he reached in—gripped your waist, fingers biting into your skin—and pulled you out like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

You could feel his cock through the rough fabric of his pants—thick, hot, pressed right between your thighs.

Your lips crashed into his before either of you could think.

It was rough. All tongue and teeth. No rhythm. Just claiming. His vibranium hand gripped your waist to keep you balanced, fingers pressing through the dress. His flesh hand slipped low—cupping your bare ass under the hem, gripping, kneading.

You moaned against his mouth, and he answered with a groan that rumbled from deep in his chest.

He carried you like that—mouth on yours, kissing like he was branding you—toward the front door of the safehouse. His back hit the wall as he fumbled for the keypad, keying in the code with fast, practiced taps. The lock clicked.

The door opened.

He stepped inside, still holding you up, the door swinging shut behind with a deep slam that vibrated through the floor.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You couldn’t stop.

He walked you deeper inside, mouth never leaving yours, breath hot, cock twitching against the heat of you. Each step toward the bedroom felt like another second he was barely keeping it together.

By the time he reached the doorway, you were gasping into his mouth—desperate, wrecked, clinging.

He broke the kiss with a heavy breath. Set you down slowly, like he was restraining the urge to throw you on the bed and rip the rest of your clothes off in one go.

His eyes dropped, dragging down your body.

Then he spoke—voice low, rough, possessive.

“Strip. All of it.”

You didn’t hesitate. Hands went to the hem of your dress, still clinging to your skin—wrinkled from the SUV, soaked with heat and sweat. The black silk slipped up your body in one smooth pull, dragging across your hips, your waist, your breasts.

The backless cut slid over your shoulders like a final sigh before you tossed it aside.

No bra. Just bare skin. Breasts flushed and rising with your breath. Nipples tight. Still sensitive from the way you’d been edged on the drive here.

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His eyes dropped—drank in everything.

He knew. He’d seen the way the fucker had looked at you. Had seen his eyes drop to your cleavage over and over again. Had heard the bastard groan when your pussy rubbed against his lap.

And now here you were—naked in front of him.

And he was the only one who got to touch.

As you stood there naked, his hands went to the buttons of his shirt. He popped them open one by one—quick, clean. Then peeled it off and let it drop to the floor behind him.

His pants?

He unbuttoned them. That was it. He met your gaze as he pushed the waistband down just an inch—enough to reveal the shadow of V-lines and the thick bulge still fighting for release.

He stepped closer, low voice sharp and steady:

“You started this.”

His gaze dropped to your still-wet cunt.

“Now you’re gonna take everything I’ve got.”

—

Bucky’s pants were already unbuttoned, low on his hips, the thick shape of him straining against black boxer briefs. He looked down at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and hungry.

“On your knees,” he rasped. “You wanna make it up to me, sweetheart? Start there.”

You dropped instantly—knees hitting the hardwood, palms sliding up his thighs.

He hissed through his teeth when you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and dragged them down just enough.

His cock sprang free.

Hard. Thick. Flushed deep red at the tip and already leaking. Your mouth watered.

He watched you watch him. Smirked like he was reading your mind.

“Like what you see?” he murmured. “Is this what you were thinking about while grinding on that fucker’s lap?”

You shook your head, breath shallow, voice barely a whisper. “Only ever think about yours.”

He stepped closer, cock inches from your lips. “Say it again.”

“Only want your cock,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Always.”

“Yeah?” He reached down, wrapped his metal hand around the base, gave it one slow stroke. “You want it in that pretty mouth?”

You didn’t answer. You just opened your mouth and took him.

The first inch made his hips stutter. The next made him groan.

“Fuuuck, baby…”

You slid your tongue along the underside, hollowing your cheeks as you sank lower—taking more, deeper, until your nose brushed his pelvis and spit started to drip down your chin. You bobbed your head with purpose, working him like you’d done this a hundred times—like his cock was the only thing you were meant to swallow.

He hissed, one hand gripping your hair, the other braced against the wall behind him.

“God damn—you look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth.” His voice was gravel now. “So fuckin’ perfect… every inch of it.”

You moaned around him—on purpose—tongue curling just right, letting the sound vibrate through his shaft.

His hips jerked forward and he groaned. Deep. Raw.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he growled. “You like the taste of my cock? Like how it fills that needy little throat?”

You moaned again, this time louder, eyes fluttering shut as you sucked harder—lips tight around him, spit pooling at the corners.

“Look at you,” he panted. “So desperate to please me. All that shit back there, and now you’re here… gagging for it.”

You swallowed around him once. Then again.

He let out a broken, wrecked sound that made your thighs clench.

“My cock,” he muttered, voice gone low and fucked-out. “Always gonna be yours, baby. No one else gets it. No one else deserves it.”

—

Your throat was wrecked from the effort—slick with spit, lips swollen around his cock as you sucked him deeper, faster, like you couldn’t get enough of the taste of him.

Bucky’s hips twitched, breath hissing through his teeth, every muscle in his thighs taut.

“Fuck—don’t stop, baby. Don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

You moaned around him again, greedy and soft, and that was it.

His grip in your hair tightened—his thighs locked—and then his cock pulsed once, twice, and he let go with a deep, broken groan.

Hot, thick ropes of cum painted your face.

Across your cheek. Your lips. Your chin. A drip landed at the corner of your mouth, warm and heavy. He held your head still, letting it happen. Letting you take it.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he panted. “Just like that.”

You stayed there, kneeling, breath shallow and mouth parted—cum dripping down your skin, cooling in the air. Dazed. Ruined.

But he wasn’t done admiring you.

He reached down, cupped your jaw in both hands—flesh and vibranium—guiding you up, slow, until you were standing again, swaying slightly on your feet. His thumbs dragged through the mess he left, smearing it across your flushed cheeks, his eyes devouring every inch.

Then he leaned in.

And licked it off your skin.

His tongue dragged up your cheek—slow, filthy—then circled the corner of your mouth. He moaned low, like the taste of his own cum on your skin satisfied something animal in him.

“Mine,” he growled, voice dark and reverent. “You wear it so fuckin’ well.”

You whimpered, eyes half-lidded as his tongue lapped once more—this time over your bottom lip.

Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around your thighs and lifted you clean off the floor.

You gasped as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, arms clutching his shoulders. His cock, still hard and leaking, pressed between your soaked folds—barely touching, just there, heavy and teasing as he walked you across the room toward the bed.

You felt it—every step—the way your slick coated his length, the head of him bumping your clit, sliding through your folds as he carried you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, smirking against your neck. “You’re dripping for me only, aren’t you?”

His flesh hand gripped your ass tight, fingers spreading across the soft skin like he owned it.

“You dirty little slut,” he growled—voice smug, filthy, hungry. “All this mess, and you’re still so fucking wet for me.”

You moaned against his throat, clinging to him tighter.

“You think sucking me off makes it even?” he breathed. “Nah. You’re not off the hook, sweetheart. Not ‘til I’ve fucked that grind out of your memory.”

He reached the bed.

Dropped you onto the mattress with a low grunt, his chest heaving.

—

You looked up just in time to see him wrap one hand around his cock—thick, flushed, still slick with your spit and the mess between your thighs. He stroked himself once, slow, his jaw clenching tight as his hand glided over the length.

Your slick made every sound wetter, filthier. And he watched you like you were prey.

“Turn around,” he said—voice low, gravel-wrapped filth. “Back to me.”

You obeyed instantly.

Rolled over, lifted your hips, and grabbed the nearest pillow—propping yourself up just right. Your chest sank into the sheets as your ass rose high, knees spread wide to accommodate for his size, your folds glistening and parted, waiting for him.

You heard it. That sound. That moan he didn’t even try to hold back.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “So perfect. So fucking obedient for me.”

You arched deeper, giving him more. Offering yourself the way he liked—completely. Without hesitation.

He stepped between your legs and ran the thick head of his cock through your folds—gathering slick, bumping your clit once, twice, making you whimper into the sheets.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, voice low and tight. “Dripping all over me.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow.

Deep.

Thick.

The stretch made your mouth fall open, eyes squeezed shut as he filled you with one steady thrust—your cunt sucking him in, clenching around every inch.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips. “You were made for this cock.”

You whimpered, body tensing, back arching deeper.

“Yeah… that’s it, baby,” he murmured, rocking in just a little more. “Feel that? Feel how tight you are around me? Fuckin’ gripping me.”

He bottomed out, hips pressed against your ass, and let out a low, broken moan.

“Shit. So fucking good. This pussy—this cunt—was made to take me.”

Then he started moving.

Thrusting hard. Controlled. Not rough—but not gentle either. A rhythm built for branding, for claiming, every movement steady and deliberate. His cock slammed into you with that perfect drag—thick and hot, sliding through soaked walls that welcomed every inch like it belonged there.

You moaned into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheets, your thighs trembling as he fucked you deeper.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Ass up, knees wide, taking every fucking inch like a good little slut.”

You whimpered—because it wrecked you when he said it like that. Not to degrade, but to own. To punish you in pleasure.

“My good girl,” he moaned. “You’re so fucking wet for me. Clenching like you need it.”

Each thrust slammed your hips forward, his grip unrelenting, cock buried in you over and over again, the sound of skin on skin filthy and perfect.

And he wasn’t even close to done.

—

You were moaning into the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

“Bucky—fuck—I’m gonna come,” you gasped, voice high and wrecked, thighs trembling under the force of him.

But his hands didn’t slow.

If anything, they tightened on your hips.

“Not yet,” he growled. “Not the fucking time, baby.”

His hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back—not too rough, just firm, in charge—until your spine arched and your mouth fell open in a cry.

Then he slammed into you harder. Deeper.

You could barely breathe. His cock pounded into you from behind, thick and relentless, dragging over every perfect spot inside you. Your slick made it loud, each thrust a wet slap that echoed through the room.

You sobbed, close, body twitching.

“Please, Bucky—I can’t—”

He yanked your hair again—harder this time—until you were upright, your back flush to his chest, ass pressed against his hips. You whimpered, the new angle hitting you even deeper, your cunt fluttering around him as your orgasm crashed through you with violent, blinding heat.

You squirted, soaking his cock, the sheets, everything.

And Bucky? Fucking smirked.

“Goddamn,” he grunted, cock twitching inside you. “Look at that mess, baby. Look at what you gave me. No one’s ever made you come like that.”

You were shaking, limp in his arms—but he didn’t let go.

Didn’t stop.

He kept going—fucking you through the aftershocks, through the overstimulation, through the trembling cries that spilled from your mouth as your pussy clenched again and again.

“Bucky—James please—too much—”

Your voice broke, hoarse, desperate, head falling back onto his shoulder.

But he just moaned into your ear, voice filthy and breathless.

“No, baby. You don’t get to tap out yet.”

His teeth grazed your jaw as he drove into you again, rougher now, cock dragging through your soaked walls like he was trying to ruin them.

“This’s what happens,” he growled, “when you grind your pretty little pussy on another man’s lap.”

You sobbed again, your cunt fluttering around him uncontrollably.

“You let him feel it,” he panted, hips slamming up into you. “Now I get to remind it who the fuck it belongs to.”

You whimpered, hands slipping off your thighs, too weak to hold yourself up.

He caught you, arm locked under your chest, still fucking into you like it was the only language he spoke.

“This pussy,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, “is mine. Say it.”

—

Your voice broke again—“Bucky—too much—please—”

And this time, instead of pleading the word, you meant it.

You reached back, tapping his thigh gently, hips squirming away as your overstimulated cunt fluttered helplessly around him. Your hand slid to his, guiding it away, your body trembling in the cradle of his chest.

He got the message.

He slowed.

Breathed heavy against your back… and finally let you go.

He pulled out with a low, drawn-out groan—his cock slick, flushed, twitching from the effort not to come right there. He sat back on his knees, then dropped off the bed, standing at the foot now, watching you like something sacred.

You moved slow. Gently flipped onto your back, thighs still shaking. You folded your knees up, spread them apart, presenting yourself with your head tipped to the side, hair messy against the sheets. Your fingers slipped between your folds, teasing yourself—wet, messy, flushed from being pounded raw. You looked at him through heavy, lidded eyes.

“My pretty little pussy’s only for you, baby.”

His mouth parted.

His body twitched.

“Fuuucking Christ,” he muttered, voice half-broken, hand running down his face. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

He climbed back onto the bed—over you now—knees braced to either side of your hips, cock bobbing near your entrance but not touching yet. He leaned in and kissed you—really kissed you. Slow. Deep. Tongue sliding against yours with a reverence that made your chest ache.

He pulled back just enough to pant against your lips. “I fucking love you,” he moaned. “Every part of you. Every inch. You know that, right?”

You nodded, dazed, breathless. “I know. I love you too.”

He kissed you again—one hand cradling your face, the other made of vibranium, cold but careful as it slid down your chest. He cupped your breast, thumb teasing the peak, fingers squeezing gently. Your nipple twitched under the metal and he smirked against your mouth.

“So sensitive,” he whispered.

Then he slid down your body, vibranium fingers trailing from your breast to your slick heat. He circled your clit gently, slow and patient now—just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. You were so wet still. So open.

One vibranium finger slipped in.

You gasped.

He groaned.

“Still clenching,” he murmured. “Still so fucking tight for me.”

He thrust it slowly once, twice, and then pulled it out—watching your walls twitch around the loss.

Then he grabbed his cock—thick, veined, soaked—and lined himself up again. He braced one hand on the mattress, the other at your thigh, and pushed back inside—slow and deep, his moan shaking through your chest.

Not rough this time.

Not punishing.

But no less intense.

He fucked you with love now—hips rolling into yours, cock dragging over every sensitive spot like he knew the shape of you from the inside out.

Every thrust said: you’re mine. I love you. You’re safe.

And your pussy soaked it in like it never wanted anything else.

—

Bucky’s thrusts were slow and deep now, rolling through you like waves—his hands sliding under your thighs to press your legs higher, folding you up just the way he knew drove you wild.

“Hold them here,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent as he guided your knees up toward your chest. “Let me in deeper, baby.”

You obeyed, trembling slightly as your knees framed your chest, and he slid in all the way—his cock dragging through your dripping, overstimulated walls with a rhythm that felt like he was fucking straight into your soul.

He leaned down, pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, your collarbone—then sucked, just enough to leave hickeys blooming across your skin.

Marks.

Proof.

His.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses. “Love your body. Love this pussy. Love you.”

His thrusts deepened, hips rocking harder now—controlled but urgent.

“You love me too, right?” he whispered near your ear, voice quieter now. “You only act like that with me, yeah? Only mine, baby?”

You nodded, breath catching, hands gripping his shoulders. “Only you, Bucky. Always you.”

That broke him.

“Fuck,” he groaned—just as your orgasm slammed through you again.

You clenched around him, crying out his name, and he came with you—cock pulsing deep inside as he filled you with heat, hips jerking forward in short, frantic bucks. His moans were wrecked, low and filthy against your neck.

Even after he emptied everything into you, he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out.

He shifted, carefully—sliding one arm under your back, the other under your thigh—until he could lay beside you in that tight fit of tangled limbs. His cock still inside, your bodies joined. Your walls fluttered around him in soft, pulsing squeezes, but they were easing now, slowing. Content.

You exhaled, eyes closed, lips parted.

Done.

So full of him.

So full of love.

He left soft, fluttery kisses on your cheek. Then a plush one on your lips.

You smiled against his mouth.

“Baby,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours. “We gotta clean you up. We still need to shower.”

You hummed, too tired to lift your head. “You carry me. I can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckled. “I got you.”

—

The water was warm, steam curling around your bodies. Bucky stood behind you, gently massaging shampoo into your hair with careful fingers, rinsing you like you were made of something breakable. His cock had softened, finally, resting against your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your wet shoulder. “If I was too rough. If I hurt you.”

You shook your head lightly, water cascading down your back. “I’d do the same if you were the one grinding on another woman.”

He stilled behind you.

You added, voice soft but dark, “Actually… I’d probably do worse. Maybe a little dick-chopping.”

Silence.

Then—“Jesus fuck,” Bucky muttered, stepping back half a step. “You’re not joking.”

You turned your head slightly, smirking. “I don’t joke about that kind of thing.”

He grabbed your shoulders gently to turn you around. The shampoo dripped down your temples, eyes squinted closed as you faced him.

He cradled your cheeks in his palms, kissed your nose once, then said with absolute sincerity:

“I swear on my long-ass life… I will never, ever test that.”

You both laughed—soft and tired—your foreheads resting against each other under the water.

Still full of heat.

Still full of love.

Still his.

[cameronsbabydoll]

ex!husband!rafe when he finds out you had another guy over while your son was there

divider is from @princessbrunette

wc: 947 — a/n: sorta a new layout

you hear the knock at your door late at night, sharp and deliberate. you already know who it is before you open it.

rafe stands in the doorway, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something between anger and possession. he’s still dressed from work—white button-down undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, rolex catching in the dim porch light. he looks every bit the man you once loved, the man you once shared a life with. the man you thought you had finally left behind.

but you didn’t. not really.

“you wanna tell me why my son is talking about some man in my house?” his voice is low, biting, laced with an authority he has no right to wield over you anymore.

your stomach knots. “rafe—”

“don’t,” he cuts you off, stepping inside, closing the door behind him like he still owns the place. like he still owns you. “who the fuck was he?”

you exhale sharply. “it’s none of your business.”

“the fuck it isn’t,” rafe scoffs. “some guy plays house around my kid, and i’m just supposed to sit back and take it?” he steps closer, eyes locking onto yours. “you still belong to me.”

you shake your head, voice firm. “no, rafe. that’s not how this works anymore.”

his hand grips your chin, tilting your face up to meet his, forcing you to hold his gaze. his touch isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle either. “does he take care of you? huh? what does he make? forty, fifty grand a year?” he laughs, shaking his head. “you slumming it now? is that what you want our son to see?”

your jaw tightens. “i don’t want our son to be like you.”

that makes him pause. his grip tightens just slightly, enough to make your breath hitch.

“like me?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “entitled? condescending?” his lips curl into something dark, something cruel. “or just a man who gets what he wants?”

you glare at him, trying to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.

“you forget your place,” rafe murmurs, voice like a promise. he leans in, his breath hot against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. always have been. always will be.”

your body betrays you, shivering at the claim, at the truth laced within it.

his lips brush against your cheek as he whispers, “you can let him pretend all you want. but we both know—no one else will ever be me.”

you press your hands against his chest, pushing him back with more force this time. “stop, rafe.” your voice wavers, not as firm as you want it to be.

he lets you push him—barely—but he doesn’t step back. he lingers, watching you with something knowing in his eyes, something that says he sees right through you.

“you don’t get to do this,” you say, voice quieter now. “we’re done.”

he hums, like he’s considering your words. then he smirks, that same infuriating, arrogant smirk that used to drive you crazy. “and yet… i’m still here. in your house. late at night.” his voice dips, low and dangerous. “like always.”

you swallow hard, refusing to let him pull you back in. “because you forced your way in.”

his fingers trail up your arm, slow and deliberate. “and you haven’t made me leave.”

you jerk away from his touch, breath unsteady. “i don’t want you here, rafe.”

he lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “that’s cute, baby. real fucking cute.” his expression darkens. “you think i’m gonna just sit back while you play house with some nobody? while my son—my fucking son—is around some piece of shit you brought home?”

your jaw tightens. “he’s a good man.”

rafe’s hand snaps out, gripping your chin again, firmer this time. “he’s not me.”

you glare at him, but the intensity in his gaze makes your stomach twist.

his thumb drags across your lower lip, slow and possessive. “tell me something, sweetheart.” he leans in, his voice barely above a whisper. “does he even know what to do with you?”

your breath catches. “rafe—”

his lips brush against your ear. “does he know how to handle you? how to make you beg?”

you push against his chest again, but this time he doesn’t move.

he chuckles, dark and satisfied. “yeah. that’s what i thought.”

your hands tremble as you shove harder. “i don’t want this! i don’t want you!”

he catches your wrist, holding it against his chest. “liar.”

you shake your head, tears burning your eyes. “you don’t own me.”

rafe exhales, shaking his head like you’re saying something ridiculous. then his hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head up until you have no choice but to look at him.

“you really think you can change what you are?” his voice is softer now, but no less dangerous. “what we are?”

your breath is shallow, and your pulse is erratic.

his thumb strokes your cheek, almost gentle. “you’re mine. you always will be. no one else will ever touch you the way i do.”

you hate the way your body reacts to him. hate the way his words sink into your skin like they belong there.

he watches you, eyes flickering with something dark and triumphant. “so go ahead, baby. let him pretend he has a chance.” his lips hover over yours, teasing. “we both know where you’ll end up.”

your voice is barely a whisper. “rafe…”

he smiles, pressing one last lingering kiss to your jaw before finally—finally—pulling away.

“for now,” he murmurs. then he turns, walking to the door like he owns the place.

like he still owns you.

and maybe, just maybe… he does.

[shyoko]

✧Too late. She moans my name now ✦༺⊹

This writing is my own; no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it. 𓂃

✦ 1.2K words * Masterlist˚ Taglist₊‧ ✦𓂃 

Ni-ki x fem!reader ⚠️ CW: +18, jealousy, possessiveness, rough intimacy, dirty talk, choking, oral (m receiving), spanking, marking, phone call humiliation, creampie, breeding kink, emotional tension.

He wouldn’t touch you. Not after all the fights. So you begged. Now he’s fucking you hard enough to make your ex hear every moan.

The room was silent. Only the dim glow of the bedside lamp lit the outline of his body, naked on the bed, giving you a perfect view of every tense muscle, every shadow that defined his broad back and narrow waist. Ni-ki hadn’t looked at you once since he entered the room. He hadn’t spoken to you. Hadn’t touched you. Nothing. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Days without a single fucking touch. No affection. No kiss. Just arguments, shouting in the middle of the night, doors slammed shut… all because of your stupid ex who kept calling like he still had a claim on you. And you, with that naive sense of calm, had tried to de-escalate. Had tried to explain to Ni-ki that the other guy meant nothing, that he wasn’t part of your life anymore. But Ni-ki couldn’t stand it. And you couldn’t stand the silence either.

You walked slowly to the bed. He still had his back to you. The silence between you felt like concrete. “Ni-ki…” you whispered, but he didn’t answer. You moved closer, reaching out, your fingers barely grazing his skin.

He turned around sharply, his eyes burning with restrained rage. “Don’t start. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to fight anymore.”“I’m not here to fight…” you whispered softly, almost trembling. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

Ni-ki closed his eyes tightly, like your words only made things worse. He turned away from you again. “Do you really think a damn ‘sorry’ is going to erase what you defended? What you excused?”You bit your lip. Pride hurt, but your need for him hurt more. “I just want to be with you… I just want you to look at me like before.”

You moved in from behind, wrapped your arms around his waist. He tried to push you off with one hand, sighing heavily. “No. Don’t touch me right now.”“Then tell me you don’t love me anymore,” you murmured, kissing his shoulder blade. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

Silence. His jaw tightened. “Don’t provoke me.” His voice was low, tense, dangerous.

But you kept kissing him, lower, softer. Your lips drifted to his neck, and his breathing hitched. His hand caught your arm, this time tighter—but not to push you away. He held on. “What if I just want you to hold me…? What if I just want to prove I belong to you?”

That broke him.

Ni-ki turned abruptly, grabbing your wrists and pushing you down on the bed. His eyes were full of anger, yes, but also the desperate kind of need he tried to hide. His lips crashed into yours—brutal, messy, hungry. He kissed you like he hated how much he wanted you, his hands trailing over your body like he needed to make sure you were still there, still his.

His lips devoured you. Nothing soft. Nothing sweet. Just raw frustration. He bit, sucked, held you down with a grip he only used when control slipped through his fingers. His hips pressed against yours, and his tongue forced its way between your lips, like he needed to erase any trace of someone else.

He yanked your underwear off without hesitation. The fabric didn’t stand a chance before it hit the floor. You were left wearing only his oversized t-shirt—too big, too his—and that seemed to set him off even more. “Look at you…” he growled against your neck. “My shirt. My bed. But you’re still acting like you’re not completely mine.”

His fingers slammed into you, two at once, fast, deep, impatient. He fucked you with them hard, hitting that spot inside that made your whole body shake. “You’re so fucking wet… and I’m the one who’s supposed to be angry?” he scoffed, his tone mocking. “Pathetic.”

You moaned beneath him, clinging to his neck as he gave you no space to breathe. His mouth dropped to your chest and bit down through the shirt, leaving a harsh, burning mark.

“Don’t pull away,” he growled when you squirmed. “Don’t you dare tell me to stop. Not tonight.”

Your mind was gone. Your body was melting. Your thighs trembled, your pussy pulsed violently around his fingers. Suddenly, he lifted you with ease and dropped you to your knees in front of him. His erection strained against his pants, bulging, ready to snap. Ni-ki pulled them down, and his cock sprang free, hard and heavy, the tip flushed and dripping.

“Do what you’re good at,” he muttered coldly. “Have your fun. Like it’s the last fucking time.”

He gripped your hair and forced you to look up at him. You didn’t speak. You just opened your mouth and took him in. The taste, the heat, the weight of him—he filled your mouth and your senses all at once. “That’s it…” he groaned through clenched teeth. “My pretty little slut.”

He fucked your mouth without mercy. Each thrust deeper, faster, pushing past your limit. Tears streamed from your eyes, saliva coated your chin, and still, he didn’t stop. His hands were tight in your hair, guiding you like a toy.

Then your phone rang again. The name on the screen: your ex.

Ni-ki froze. He pulled out of your mouth, a thick string of spit trailing. He grabbed the phone, glared at it, and answered.

“Listen, asshole,” his voice was sharp as a blade. “Call again and I’ll break your face. She’s not yours. Never was. She’s on her knees for me, swallowing it like she fucking needs it. And now you’re gonna hear exactly what it’s like to be irrelevant.”

He tossed the phone on the bed—still connected. He shoved you onto the mattress and flipped you over, pulling your hips up roughly. No warning. No pause. He slammed his cock inside you with one brutal thrust.

You screamed, your voice tangled in spit and moans and heat. He started moving fast, punishing, every thrust deeper than the last, smacking into you like he was trying to make a point. “This what you wanted, huh?” he grunted in your ear. “You want him to hear how fucking needy you get for me? Let him know this pussy only gets wet for me.”

A harsh slap landed on your ass. Then another. Your skin stung, your walls clenched. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to leave you breathless as he kept pounding into you.

“You’re mine,” he hissed against your back. “Mine. And I’m gonna fill you so deep you won’t be able to hide it.”

The phone was still on. Still active. Moans, cries, his name over and over. Then, finally, the line cut off.

Ni-ki smirked darkly. “Coward,” he murmured. “He knows he lost.”

He leaned over you, biting your shoulder, his hips snapping into yours with more power, more fire.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warned, his voice ragged. “And I’m giving it all to you.”

He spilled inside you with a guttural groan, shaking as he emptied himself deep. He didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, catching his breath on your back.

“Don’t take it out,” he ordered, breathless and rough. “I want it to stay in. I want you dripping with me so everyone knows what happens when someone tries to take what’s mine.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, his lips brushing your ear with a final, vicious whisper:

“I’m gonna put a baby in you, princess. So that fucker finally gets it—you’re mine. Only mine. Fuck.”

✦N/a: Hiii, I hope you all liked it a lot! I love you so much, my loves!

✦Taglist: @lezleeferguson-120 @nuki-riki @ijustwannareadstuff20 @vvenusoncasual @miellette @enhacolor @xxkatsusjinsux @somieverse @ourshin @han-to-my-minho @douqhnxtss @nuggets4lifers @mitmit01 @highway-143