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capuccinodoll · 20 hours ago

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The boyfriend act, part 13: "The one with the day after" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The aftermath of your night with Frankie isn’t what you expected—and maybe that’s not a bad thing. As you settle into this new rhythm, your thoughts rearrange themselves somewhere between interruptions, selfies, and a lingering cold. WC: 15.6k

A/N: Let's breath. You said you liked the long chapters—so here’s a long one. I hope you enjoy it; this one’s for my spicy girlies <3 Thank you for all your comments—I read every single one, even if the notifications don’t always hit my inbox and I take a while to reply. It means the world that you're enjoying this story, I absolutely enjoy writing this!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Frankie reached out, his hand brushing against the cool, empty space next to him. His fingers lingered there for a moment, as if the sheets might give something back to him —some sign you were still close. But you weren't. He opened his eyes, squinting toward the doorway. His heart gave a small, restless lurch.

He called your name. No answer.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. That uneasy feeling—the one that curled bitterly at the edges of his stomach—started to creep in. The light felt too harsh, too loud. He closed his eyes against it, squeezing the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to overthink.

Then: the sound of a door closing softly. Barefoot steps brushing against the hallway floor.

You appeared, standing there like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Hair loose, face bare and fresh, wearing only the white T-shirt he had thrown you the night before and the red panties he could still vividly remember sliding down your legs.

"Hi," you said, your voice hushed, touched by sleep. You smiled, and for a second the sunlight caught the edge of it, made it look almost golden. You crawled back into bed, curling onto your side to face him.

Frankie dropped onto his back again, turning his head toward you, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

"I thought you'd left," he said.

You reached out, running your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"No," you said. "I just went to wash my face." Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. "I hate waking up with makeup still on."

He tipped his head slightly toward your touch, hungry for it without realizing. "Did you find anything useful in there?"

"Not really. But I had makeup wipes in my bag."

He huffed a quiet laugh, something easing in his chest just watching you. Your face looked softer, almost unbearably tender, and maybe he could have resisted reaching for you—but he didn’t want to. He didn't have to. He pulled you into him, your body tucking against his like you belonged there.

For a while, he drifted. He wasn't entirely sure if he had fallen asleep or just let himself hover somewhere close to it. You were still there when he opened his eyes again, your breath brushing against his bare chest in steady, even puffs.

Frankie leaned down, pressing a light kiss against your cheek. You smelled so good. Warm, familiar, sweet. It wasn't perfume. It was just you.

"Hey," he said, voice low and a little rough, "you still want to try that coffee I told you about?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "That would make me really, really happy."

And Frankie thought: good. Good, because he was already thinking of ways to make you stay.

“Hey,” you said, just loud enough to pull his attention back to you. Frankie turned his head, his gaze landing on you.

You pointed toward the piece of furniture in front of the window, your finger aimed precisely at the object sitting on top.

“You do have a lava lamp,” you said, a grin spreading across your face.

He looked over, then back at you, his mouth already pulling into a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling, his voice a little raspier than usual. “Yeah, I do. It's old, my dad gave it to me when I was like twelve.”

Fifteen minutes later, Frankie was standing in front of you, watching you like he was waiting for some verdict that might change the course of his day. He had placed a cup of coffee in your hands barely ten seconds ago, his fingers brushing yours briefly, intentionally or not.

You took a sip and then closed your eyes, tipping your head back.

“Yes,” you said, with a soft, satisfied sigh.

You didn’t say anything else.

Frankie arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “Yes? That’s it?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, lifting the cup again to your lips, the corner of your mouth curving into a smile.

He let out a short laugh, cradling his own mug loosely between his hands. He tilted his head a little, as if studying you from a new angle.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm and teasing.

You turned your head to look at him fully, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated suspicion before giving him a flirtatious grin.

“Sorry,” you said, tapping his bare stomach lightly with your fingertips. “I was busy savoring it.” You gave a small shrug, playful, self-assured. “It’s amazing. I never thought I’d say this, Francisco, but you were right.”

There was a tiny pause, a hitch in the air between you. Frankie stepped closer. He thought of something clever to fire back, something to match the spark you lit in him so easily, but the words never quite made it to his mouth.

Instead, he set his coffee down on the counter without looking away from you, then reached for your face, cupping it between his hands. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, grounding him more than they grounded you. Your eyes caught his like they had no other choice.

He kissed you, and it wasn’t rushed or impatient; it was simply inevitable. His lips found yours with a kind of easy certainty, the world narrowing to the soft, tender pressure between you. His hands slipped down to your waist, fingers pressing into your hips.

You fit against him so naturally. The thin fabric of the shirt between you did little to hide the way your body warmed his skin.

You lifted your arms, looping them around his neck, and the kiss deepened instantly, a small, involuntary sound vibrating from your throat into his mouth. It rattled something loose inside him.

It was ridiculous, honestly, how easily you could unmake him. How one sound, one kiss, could turn his blood into something reckless.

There had always been a part of Frankie that stayed careful, measured — even with the people he loved, even in the bright, stupid recklessness of his twenties. Lust had always been something he could control, contain. It never unraveled him like this.

But with you, it was different. With you, there was no polite distance between desire and need. No moment of standing still, thinking better of it.

Apparently, he was the kind of man who lost his mind over a kiss. The kind who forgot how to breathe when your hands touched the back of his neck. The kind whose body wanted things long before his mind had time to catch up. The kind who felt a desire bigger than his own body.

And maybe, today, he didn't mind at all.

Frankie pushed you against the counter, his hands finding your thighs easily, lifting you in one smooth movement until you were perched at the edge, your legs parting instinctively to fit around his hips. Your breath caught as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers sliding down his abdomen like you couldn’t help yourself.

"Let's do it again," you said, a wicked glint flashing in your eyes. It wasn't even a suggestion.

Frankie laughed under his breath, a sound more strained than he meant it to be.

"What?" you teased, the innocence in your voice barely covering the hunger underneath. "You told me to use my words, didn't you?"

He smiled at you, or at least tried to. The expression faltered slightly as he felt your hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. His body went tight with anticipation.

"Yeah, I did say that," he murmured, voice low against the side of your neck, his teeth grazing the sharp line of your jaw. His hands tightened briefly on your thighs. "Then tell me, baby. Tell me what you want."

He could feel it in the way you shivered against him —the way you responded to being asked, like it made you braver.

"I want to feel you," you whispered, your fingers stroking the back of his neck, playing with the soft curls there. "I want to have you in my mouth."

Frankie pulled back enough to see you clearly, the way the sunlight poured over your features, the way your pupils were blown wide with desire.

"And then," you said, your voice breaking slightly on the next words, "I want you to fuck me. Like you mean it. Like you know exactly how bad I need it. Tell me, have you thought about it?"

He went quiet for a moment, letting your words sink in. They sounded strange in his mind, coming from you—words he never thought he’d hear you say. It felt odd, hearing you say something like that about him. And yet, the feeling passed almost as quickly as it came, slipping through the cracks before he could hold onto it.

He decided, almost instantly, that he liked the sound of your voice like that. So he smiled, lopsided and undone, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

"Sometimes," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "I forget how goddamn good you are with your words." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Now show me what else that mouth of yours is good for."

You bit your bottom lip, smiling against his skin, before sliding off the counter, sinking to your knees in front of him. The sight of you like that —willing, gorgeous, utterly unbothered by the fact that he was already shaking inside— knocked the air from his lungs.

Frankie rested one hand against the counter to steady himself and brushed the other along your cheek, the gesture reverent even as the tension between you grew unbearable. You weren't looking at him. Your focus was entirely on the task in front of you, on your fingers curling around the band of his boxers and easing them down, revealing just how ready he already was for you.

He could see it in your eyes, too — the same raw need tightening his chest, threading through his veins.

Your hand wrapped around him and began moving, measured and excruciating, and Frankie had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, letting the pleasure override whatever guilt or hesitation might have still been clinging to him.

When you flicked your tongue over his tip, he opened his eyes immediately, refusing to miss a second of it. You looked up at him, smirking a little, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him —and maybe you did.

He didn’t care. He was too far gone to care anymore.

You leaned in, your mouth hovering just above him, watching his reaction closely. One hand steadied you on his thigh, the other moving with cruel, perfect precision. Frankie tangled his fingers in your hair, less to guide you and more because he needed something — anything — to hold onto.

Then, you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, the heat of you making him curse under his breath. When you pulled back, dragging your lips over him, he almost said it — almost told you to take your time—but he caught himself just in time.

He knew you didn’t want instructions. You didn’t need them. You knew exactly what you were doing—and you were going to ruin him with it.

Your mouth moved with increasing certainty, every shift of your lips, every glide of your tongue drawing Frankie deeper into the kind of pleasure that made rational thought impossible. Your hand stayed at his base, fingers firm, your grip confident and perfect, squeezing just enough to make him shudder under your touch. Your mouth was so warm around him it almost hurt, like the heat itself might undo him.

His eyes caught yours —bright, sharp, impossibly dark—and you didn’t look away as you adjusted the rhythm, your own need matching the urgency rising between you. Frankie dug his fingertips into the edge of the counter, grounding himself there, every muscle in his body pulling taut like wire.

"You're so beautiful," he choked out, the words escaping without permission, barely more than a rasp between the uneven breaths stuttering out of him.

You pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet sound that made his stomach tighten even more. You stroked him once, twice, your fist gliding slick over him, before licking your lips, messy and unbothered. Drool shimmered on your chin, a bright thread against your flushed skin, and without missing a beat you grabbed the hem of his white T-shirt — the one you'd slept in — and wiped your mouth with it.

Frankie thought he might die right there, from the sheer brutality of how beautiful you looked.

There you were: cleaning yourself with his shirt like you were scrubbing away any lingering innocence he might have imagined clung to either of you. He felt wrecked by the sight, by the effortless way you ruined him without even trying.

When you leaned forward again, flicking your tongue against him in a teasing stroke, something in him snapped. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling you back, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"Stand up," he ordered, his voice low, cracked open by need.

You obeyed immediately, the quickness of it making his blood roar. Maybe there were some commands you didn’t mind after all.

The second you straightened, Frankie caught your mouth with his, the kiss messy and insistent, hands greedy as they mapped the curve of your hips, the soft weight of your ass. He hoisted you onto the counter again like you were weightless, like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

Kicking his boxers off his ankles without even glancing down, Frankie’s hands found the hem of your shirt —his shirt— and pulled it over your head in one swift movement, tossing it aside.

You leaned back on your hands, chest lifting with every breath, eyes half-lidded and glittering as you watched him.

Frankie pressed his mouth to the side of your neck, kissing the skin there hard enough to leave a mark, breathing you in. He moved lower, tasting the slope of your collarbones, the soft, sensitive skin along the tops of your breasts. You smelled like soap and sweat and him, and he didn’t know if he wanted to worship you or devour you whole.

Maybe both.

He paused, just shy of kissing the spot where your skin begged for it.

"Shit," he muttered, voice thick with frustration, eyes squeezed shut like he could will away whatever was clawing at his mind.

You stiffened under him, fingertips sliding up to the back of his neck. "What? What's wrong?"

Frankie opened his eyes, looking at you like it physically hurt him to pull away.

"I'll be right back," he said, peeling himself off your body like it required an impossible effort.

You sat up straighter as he backed toward the hallway. "Frankie, what is it?"

"I'll be back, don't move," he called over his shoulder, already halfway gone.

Frankie wasn’t a man who prayed. Not really. But in that moment, he would’ve dropped to his knees and begged whatever god was listening to let there be a condom left somewhere, anywhere. Preferably in the nightstand.

He yanked open the drawer, heart hammering, scanning the cluttered mess. Empty. He clenched his jaw.

He knew it, he had known it —last night he'd used the final one, and had briefly, irrationally, thanked the universe for his own foresight. But hope was a stubborn thing.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath, slamming the drawer shut.

He checked the bathroom too, frantic now, rifling through shelves like maybe he had forgotten a secret stash. Nothing.

It wasn't like he could even blame himself. His sex life had been non-existent for months, maybe more. There had been no reason to keep a stockpile.

Still, he cursed himself the whole way back to the kitchen.

And then he saw you.

Still perched on the counter, wearing nothing but those tiny red panties, your hair messy, looking like some fever dream he'd conjured.

You smiled when he came back into view, and reached for him.

"I—" he stopped just in front of you, feeling like an idiot. "I don’t have any more condoms."

Your smile faltered, a tiny ripple of disappointment crossing your face.

"Oh."

"We can—" he started, fumbling, desperate to not lose the moment.

"I'm on the pill," you cut in, calm, your hands brushing down your bare stomach to rest lightly at your hips. "And I’m clean. If you want—"

"You sure?" he blurted out, faster than he meant to.

You bit back a laugh.

"Yes, Frankie. I'm sure."

Frankie exhaled, a short laugh shaking through him. "Well, I’m clean too."

"Yeah, I figured," you teased, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and bright.

He kissed you back properly, this time with both hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish.

Your panties shifted under his touch, and you lifted yourself without hesitation, letting him peel them off and toss them aside, forgotten.

“I’m naked, running around my house, and you’re laughing at me,” he said against your lips, amused.

You smiled, light catching your teeth, and he kissed you again, tasting the laughter on your lips.

Your hands roamed — over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his chest — while he lifted one of your legs, resting your heel on the counter, the other leg draping over his shoulder like you belonged there.

"Don’t think just because I like you that you’re getting special treatment," you murmured.

Frankie grinned against your mouth. "I don't expect it."

He cupped your waist with both hands, steadying you, anchoring himself. He would need every ounce of control he had left to survive this.

Carefully, he shifted his hips closer, the thick head of him brushing against you, and you broke the kiss to watch — to actually watch — as he started to push inside you.

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening, and Frankie thought, incoherently, that he would never forget the look on your face right then, not if he lived a hundred years.

His hips began to move, cautious at first, almost like he was testing the strength of what was happening between you.

Frankie watched where your bodies met, watched the way you grew slicker each time he pulled away and pushed back in. It was hypnotizing, enough to make his mind empty out completely.

Your breathing was ragged, the sound of it filling the kitchen, and when you looked up at him, your pupils were wide and glassy, lips kiss-swollen and parted like you couldn’t catch enough air.

He felt something coil tight in his chest — something reckless and unfamiliar — and it unnerved him, but not enough to make him stop.

A low moan slipped from your mouth, almost involuntary, and you threw your head back, exposing the long line of your throat.

Something inside him broke apart.

Frankie moved faster, driven by the sight of you unraveling right in front of him, by the noises you made every time he pushed deeper.

The room filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, wet and urgent, with your breathing getting sharper, quicker, and the soft, almost desperate cries you couldn’t hold back anymore.

He crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that felt like it might actually leave bruises. When you bit his bottom lip as he pulled away, he made a low, broken sound in the back of his throat.

"Those fucking sounds you make," he said roughly, his voice cracking apart as his pace became more reckless, more wild, the sound of his hips meeting your body growing louder.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching him like you were afraid he might disappear, leaving shallow half-moons in his skin.

Your heel slipped from the edge of the counter but Frankie caught you without hesitation, grabbing your leg and hitching it over his hip, tugging you flush against him.

The new angle had you gasping, your body shuddering beneath his, every nerve ending lit up, and he could feel you trembling as he buried himself inside you again and again.

Little broken sounds escaped your mouth every time he moved, high-pitched and involuntary, and when you pushed forward abruptly, there was a sharp gasp of pain.

"Ouch," you whimpered, your forehead resting briefly against his shoulder.

He paused, instincts cutting through the haze in his mind.

You had bumped against the edge of the counter.

Frankie's hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a rare, tender gesture.

"Shit, sorry," he whispered, kissing your temple, his chest tightening at how small you felt against him in that moment.

Without any warning, Frankie slid you off the counter, catching you easily when your legs buckled under the weight of what you'd both been doing.

He noticed it right away —the way you trembled, your knees brushing against his as you tried to steady yourself.

His hands found your hips again, grounding you, and he turned you around. One hand smoothed down your spine, tracing the curve of your back like he was committing it to memory, until he reached the small tattoo just down there. His thumb pressed into it, soft and possessive, and he felt you shiver in his hands.

He pushed you forward, guiding you until your palms and stomach flattened against the counter. With his knee, he nudged your legs apart, shifting you into place like you were the only thing in the world he knew how to handle right now.

For a second, he just looked at you —took in the sight of you bent over, waiting for him, the muscles in your thighs tense, your back arching into the air. He swore under his breath, almost undone by it.

Frankie lined himself up behind you and slid back inside with a breathless curse, gripping your hips tightly enough that he wondered if he'd leave bruises.

It didn’t take long for him to build back the rhythm he needed, the sound of your bodies clashing filling the kitchen, raw and chaotic. You made a noise —high and desperate— and the sound shot through him like an electric current.

"I want to see you," you gasped, shifting, pushing yourself up so your back pressed against his chest.

His hand moved instinctively, skimming up your belly, palm flattened over your ribs, then higher, gliding over your breasts with reverence he wasn’t sure he deserved.

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, and he saw it —the way your face was flushed and open, like you were unraveling right there in his arms.

His fingers slid up to cup your jaw, holding you there, forcing you to keep looking at him. You moaned, louder this time, your body tightening around him as he moved harder, each thrust pulling another broken sound from your throat.

Your right arm reached up blindly, finding the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

Frankie’s breathing grew ragged, his movements growing uneven, messy around the edges.

Your voice broke the air —a soft, involuntary "yes," barely louder than a breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut, too overwhelmed to look at you, but your words clung to him, dragged him closer to the edge.

"I know you're close," you whispered, voice low and certain, like a secret only you were allowed to know. "I can feel you."

He kept one hand firm on your jaw, anchoring you to him, while the other slid down your front, his fingers finding the delicate spot between your legs with practiced ease. He felt the way your body trembled, the way you clung harder to his arm, your nails pressing into his skin.

"Francisco," you whispered — the way you said it, almost broken in two.

"I know, baby," he breathed out against your hair, voice fractured, helpless.

You fell apart then, a choked cry leaving your mouth as your body caved against the counter. Frankie moved instinctively, pushing you down gently, bending you at the waist in front of him.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice uneven, broken slightly by his own ragged breathing.

You didn’t answer—didn’t even seem to hear him, really. You were somewhere else entirely.

“Baby,” Frankie said again, softer this time.

“Huh?” You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes hazy.

“Where do you want it?”

You blinked, and for a second, he thought you might not reply. But then you said, “I—I, um, inside,” the words barely more than a whisper.

“You sure?”

You didn’t say anything this time. Just let out a soft, aching sound and closed your eyes again, your body answering for you.

His hands gripped your hips like he might lose himself otherwise, thrusting into you with a desperation he couldn't contain anymore, every nerve in him strung tight and burning.

He threw his head back when he felt you clench around him, his heart hammering, the sounds falling from your lips driving him straight over the edge. The air between you was a collage of broken moans and harsh breathing, bodies colliding over and over.

His rhythm faltered as he felt himself giving in, gasps tearing from his throat as his climax crashed through him. Frankie kept one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other bracing your waist, and he pulled you back into him as the last shudders rolled through his body. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the damp skin of your neck, like he could somehow say everything he felt without speaking at all.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The aftershocks hummed through your bodies, your breathing slowly beginning to settle.

When he finally pulled out of you, he caught sight of the mess between your thighs, evidence, and his stomach twisted painfully with a kind of wild affection he wasn’t ready to think about.

"Stay here," he said, voice rough, thumb tracing your spine. "Don't move."

He stepped away reluctantly, running a hand over his face as he made his way down the hall.

His heart was still pounding, his blood still running fast and bright in his veins, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that it was over.

He found a towel, wiped his face, then brought it back for you.

You were waiting exactly where he'd left you, eyes hazy and mouth pink from kisses. He cleaned you up carefully, then leaned in to kiss you, soft and slow.

"I really need a shower," you said, your arms looping lazily around his neck.

He smiled and nodded, feeling like he'd just survived something that might wreck him all over again if he wasn’t careful.

Frankie watched you lower yourself onto the sofa. Your hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and you were dressed in his clothes— a black cotton T-shirt and pijama shorts. You dug around in your bag, pulled out a lip balm, and applied it with absent-minded precision, your eyes unfocused, as if your mind was somewhere else entirely.

The phone on the coffee table vibrated sharply, breaking the fragile stillness. You picked it up, thumbs moving lazily over the screen, typing something you didn’t seem particularly interested in.

Frankie lowered himself onto the cushion beside you and switched on the TV, stretching his legs out, one hand resting lazily against his stomach. He could still feel the heavy satisfaction of breakfast sitting in his gut.

After the shower, he'd made another pot of coffee because the first one... well, had gone stone cold. So you had sat at the kitchen table across from him, eating breakfast with a kind of quiet, ravenous focus that made him strangely tender toward you. You chewed through a piece of toast, staring at it longer than necessary, like you were solving a puzzle only you could see.

Now, he was warm and half-asleep, the room around him vibrating gently with the television’s glow. He ran a hand through his hair — still faintly wet — and yawned into the back of his wrist. His thumb pressed idly against the remote, flipping through channels without focus until something made you shift beside him.

"Oh, leave that one," you said, tossing your bag behind you carelessly and setting your phone face-down on the table.

Frankie hesitated, glancing at the TV. It was Friends, some old episode he half-remembered from a lifetime ago.

He was about to make a joke about it when he felt your hand, warm and light, pressing into his ribs. He turned his head toward you, and found you already looking at him, your mouth twitching.

He gave you a crooked smile. "I— I don't know if I can do it again yet—"

"What?" you cut in, your voice high with amusement, a real smile stretching across your face now. He blinked at you, bewildered, for a second too long. "I'm trying to get you to lie down so we can watch TV," you said, laughing. "What the hell did you think I meant?"

Frankie exhaled a short, embarrassed laugh and glanced away, scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh," he muttered. "Right."

You let out another bright little laugh and pushed at his shoulder until he slid down the sofa, stretching out lengthwise, his body heavy and pliant under your hands.

You climbed in beside him, nestling into the space between his arm and his ribs like it was made for you. As you adjusted, you squeezed his arm, teasing.

"What?" you said, grinning. "Tell me, Francisco. What were you thinking just now?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, smiling without looking at you, his eyes darting back toward the TV.

"So smug," you muttered, laying your head against his chest, draping your arm over him. "You're letting it go to your head, aren't you?"

He snorted, shaking his head in mock defeat.

"I just misunderstood you," he said.

"I didn’t even say anything," you pointed out, still laughing under your breath. "I just touched you."

"Yeah," he said, "but you're full of surprises, aren’t you?"

"Mhm. Sure. Whatever you say." Your hand played idly with the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging and smoothing it down again. "Right now I'm just full of toast and coffee. And very, very sleepy."

You let out a breathy sigh, your voice low and easy now, sleep already threading into it.

"Don’t let me pass out, okay? Emma’s leaving at eight. I need to be home before two."

Frankie made a low sound of agreement and slid his hand up into your hair, his fingers moving through it slowly, carefully. On the TV, the canned laughter echoed through the room.

He thought about how strange it all was, but also how strangely right it felt. As if this had been inevitable, written into the way things had always been, even though he knew, deep down, that wasn’t true. It hadn't always been this way, and pretending otherwise would only make the conversations you were eventually going to have even harder. Conversations about last night. About this morning. About the impossible weight of it all, sitting on his chest like something too large and too familiar to ignore.

He knew it wouldn’t be about admitting anything — there was no point anymore in telling you he liked you, that you made him feel every difficult, beautiful, complicated thing a person could feel. That part was obvious. It had bled through the spaces between you without needing to be named. But the rest of it — the consequences, the questions neither of you had the courage to ask yet — still blurred at the edges of his mind, a mess he wasn’t ready to sort through.

There was one thing, though, that he understood with perfect clarity: he didn’t regret any of it. Not a second. No matter how messy it could get.

It wasn’t as if this had happened out of nowhere. God knew he had thought about it — about you — for the last two weeks with a stubborn persistence that bordered on cruel. He buried himself in work, in meaningless tasks, anything to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind elsewhere. Hell, he even tried to quit smoking. But every night, without exception, you returned. You slipped into his mind at the edges of sleep, no matter how tightly he tried to close the door against you.

Sometimes the pull to reach out was unbearable. To call you. To show up at your door with takeout and ask you to put on one of those movies you were always talking about. He'd picture it sometimes — your bare feet on the coffee table, the way you’d laugh, the way you’d look at him when you weren’t trying to be careful. But every time, the same thought stopped him: maybe you didn’t want that. Maybe you needed space after what had been said between you.

And then there was Bill.

Frankie had known from the beginning what might happen. Santi had mentioned you were spending more time together for work. It seemed inevitable. A matter of days, maybe weeks, before something shifted between you and Bill in a way it hadn’t with him. It would be easier that way. Cleaner.

He should have let it happen.

But when Emma started listing all of Bill’s perfect qualities at the bar last night, something inside him recoiled. It was pathetic, the way he sat there, wanting to vanish into the cracked leather of his chair, knowing he couldn’t compete, knowing he shouldn’t even try. You deserved simple. You deserved someone who didn’t make everything harder.

Still, somehow, against every better instinct, he had stood up from the table. Some invisible thread tugging him, pulling him toward something he didn’t even understand yet. He didn’t wait for you to appear next to him, didn’t expect you to. And he certainly hadn’t prepared for what came next — for the look in your eyes, for the quiet, reckless thing in his own voice when he asked if you wanted to leave with him.

As if the choice had already been made. As if some part of him — some deep, stubborn part — had been choosing you all along anyway.

On the TV, Ross was grinning, his too-white teeth catching the studio lights.

Don’t fall asleep, Frankie thought, his mind sluggish. Stay awake.

He let his eyes close for just a second.

Just... a... second.

The sharp sound of the doorbell dragged him out of it. He blinked hard, his whole body protesting the movement, the heavy pull of sleep still thick in his limbs. You were draped across him, completely still, your breathing steady and soft against his chest.

He stretched one arm out toward the coffee table and fumbled for his phone. 1:45 p.m.

Shit.

You’d both been asleep for over an hour.

The doorbell rang again. Frankie shifted carefully, easing out from under you, doing his best not to wake you. You made a small sound but didn’t stir beyond that, your face slack with the kind of deep sleep that only comes when you stop fighting it.

Frankie padded toward the door, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. His body felt too warm, too heavy, like he'd been underwater. He peeked through the narrow curtain hanging by the window.

His heart slammed hard against his ribs.

Santi was standing outside, looking right at him through the glass, raising his eyebrows like he was in on some joke Frankie didn’t know he was telling.

Frankie backed away from the door instinctively, putting more distance between himself and the window.

"Uh, just a minute," he called out, his voice cracking slightly.

Without thinking, he hurried back toward the sofa, panic crawling up his throat. He hoped — prayed — that from the porch Santi couldn’t see anything, couldn’t piece together what had just happened, what he was about to walk into.

He crouched beside you and pressed his hand lightly to your shoulder, whispering your name once, then again.

You didn’t wake.

"Shit," Frankie hissed under his breath, glancing nervously over his shoulder toward the door.

He touched you again, a little firmer this time. You stirred, blinking at him with a foggy, confused expression that made his heart twist.

"Santi’s here," he murmured urgently.

You sat up immediately, your whole body jolting into awareness.

"What?" you said, your voice still rough from sleep. Your hair was messy and dry now.

Frankie handed you your phone, practically shoving it into your hand. "Go to my room. Now."

Without waiting for more, you clutched the phone to your chest and disappeared down the hall, moving quicker than he'd ever seen you.

Frankie exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he made his way back to the door.

When he pulled it open, Santi didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped inside like he owned the place, brushing past Frankie without hesitation. Frankie shut the door behind him and trailed after him into the living room, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and dread collecting under his skin.

"You look good," Frankie said, trying to sound casual. His voice felt like it caught a little on the words. "I figured you'd still be nursing a hangover."

"It's all appearances," Santi said, waving a hand as he dropped heavily onto the sofa, his body landing with a thud. "Inside I'm dying."

Frankie let out a short laugh and slumped down next to him. "You're old."

Santi tilted his head back, laughing properly now, the sound low and easy. "You're not exactly a spring chicken either."

Frankie shook his head, smiling despite the tightness gathering in his chest. Santi clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.

"Anyway," Santi said, stretching his arms out in front of him, "I came by to see if I could borrow your mower."

"You’re telling me you dragged your hungover ass across town at nearly two in the afternoon for a lawn mower?"

Santi shrugged, completely unapologetic. "You said it yourself, man. I'm old. I like my lawn neat." He made a vague sweeping gesture with his hand. "And besides, you're the only one of us responsible enough to actually own a functional mower."

"What happened to yours?"

"Engine’s toast. It’s dead. Beyond saving."

Frankie nodded, letting the tension in his shoulders ease a little. "Yeah, no problem. You don’t have to ask."

Santi gave a quick nod of thanks, his eyes drifting lazily across the room. He went still after a second, his gaze catching on something, next to him.

Frankie followed his line of sight.

His stomach dropped.

Santi was looking at the bag — a deep red one with a little silver star keychain dangling from the clasp — sitting right there, between them, like a fucking silent confession Frankie hadn’t thought to hide.

Santi’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Wait a second," he said, his voice light, teasing. "Are you... with someone right now?"

Frankie blinked, his brain stumbling over itself. "Huh?"

Santi nodded toward the bag. He didn't look suspicious, only amused, but that didn’t make Frankie feel any better.

"I, uh…" Frankie cleared his throat, searching for something neutral to say. "Yeah," he managed, aiming for casual. It could be anyone’s bag. It didn’t have to mean anything. Maybe Santi wouldn’t recognize it. God, he prayed Santi didn’t recognize it.

Santi grinned, slapping him lightly on the thigh as he pushed himself off the sofa.

"Man, you could’ve said so. And I'm here interrupting. No wonder you ghosted last night."

Frankie’s face burned hot. He scrambled up too, his hands finding his hips in a nervous, restless gesture. A laugh — shaky and a little too loud — broke from him.

"Come on," he said quickly, spinning toward the door like there was nothing unusual about any of this. "I’ll get you the mower."

Santi followed him out without another word, the two of them stepping into the afternoon sunlight. When Frankie handed over the mower, Santi just grinned at him, that same mischievous glint in his eyes, and winked before climbing into his truck.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to.

Frankie stood there for a moment after the truck pulled away, the hum of the engine fading, feeling like his heart was still lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You waited until you heard the front door shut and counted a few seconds, standing there barefoot in the stillness of his room. Then you stepped out.

In the living room, Frankie was slouched on the sofa like his body had folded in on itself. His head tilted back against the cushions, one arm thrown over his eyes like he couldn’t bear the light, or maybe the moment.

“Hey,” you said, your voice quieter than usual as your feet padded across the floor.

He didn’t respond right away. You sat in the armchair next to the sofa, knees angled slightly toward him.

“What happened?”

He exhaled. Slowly, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasped. His eyes found yours.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

You gave a small shrug. “Just that he came to get a mower. Then I couldn’t hear anything. You started whispering.” You paused, tilting your head. “Why? What was it?”

Frankie shook his head, one short motion, like he wanted to shake it all off. “He asked if I was with someone.”

You blinked. “And what did you say?”

“That I was.”

“Francisco—”

“He doesn’t know it was you,” Frankie interrupted, waving one hand loosely in the air. “He thinks it was someone from the bar.”

“You told him that?”

“No. He assumed. I just... didn’t correct him.”

“Oh.”

You folded your arms, your gaze drifting to the coffee table between you. There was a stain near the edge of it—maybe old coffee, something long dried. You stared at it for a moment like it might hold an answer.

When you looked back at him, his face had shifted—like something inside him had turned heavier. He wasn’t meeting your eyes anymore.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently. Your voice felt different coming out of you—quieter, less certain.

He pressed his lips together and nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just feel weird about lying to him. It’s not sitting right.” He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes scanning your face like he might find some relief there. “It doesn’t feel good.”

“I know,” you said softly. You leaned back in the chair, resting your hands on your thighs. Your fingers toyed with each other, knotting and unknotting in your lap. “It doesn’t feel great to me either.”

Frankie reached up, scratched the back of his neck. His mouth parted slightly like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

You let a few seconds pass. Then you said, “You know we’re not doing anything wrong, right?”

Your voice was quiet, but steady. He looked at you again.

“We’re adults, Frankie,” you continued. “And we’re not hurting anyone.”

“I know we’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, leaning back into the cushions like he was trying to make space between the two of you, physically if not emotionally. His hand swept through his hair, raking it back, then falling to his lap. “But still—he’s my best friend. I know him. And I’m telling you, without a doubt, he wouldn’t want me anywhere near you like this.”

You tilted your head, a crease forming between your brows. “Like what? He spent years trying to get us to be civil. I imagine he’s just relieved we finally figured out how to be in the same room without yelling.”

Frankie let out something like a laugh, but it didn’t land—more of a breath that twisted in his throat, the edge of a smile flashing and then fading before it could mean anything.

“Yeah,” he said. “He wanted us to get along. As in, be polite. Exchange basic human niceties without biting each other’s heads off. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely between you, not even bothering to name it. “Not sneaking around. Not ending up in each other's beds.”

You gave a short, thin smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Right. Because I forgot I was supposed to ask for his approval before sleeping with you.”

He groaned, your name low and exasperated in his mouth, dragging a hand over his face like he could rub the tension out of his skin.

“Come on,” he said, looking at you now. “I know you don’t agree with what I’m saying, but can you try—just try—to understand where I’m coming from?”

His hair was a mess now, sticking up in every direction. It made him look younger.

You didn’t answer right away. You let the silence open up between you, a long breath of distance, before responding.

“I do see,” you said finally, your tone clipped but not cruel. “Your best friend showed up at your house, and meanwhile his sister was hiding in your room after having sex with you. It’s awkward. I get that. Of course I get it.”

Frankie looked at you, then down, his gaze landing on your hands like they held something he couldn’t figure out. He inhaled again, deeper this time.

“But you think I’m making it into a bigger deal than it is,” he said. “You don’t think it really matters.”

“That’s not true,” you said quickly. You shook your head, almost defensive. “That’s not what I think.”

“Be honest with me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes drifted to the far wall like you were trying to find a neutral place to anchor your thoughts. A few hours ago, everything had felt light. Easy, even. Now, it was as if someone had flipped a switch and nothing felt simple anymore.

“We’ve had this conversation. I do understand what you’re saying. But I think you keep framing it like something catastrophic has happened. What exactly did you do wrong? You were nice to me. You’ve been sweet with me. What’s so terrible about that? If I like it—and I do—what’s the harm in you liking me back?”

Frankie was quiet for a second, eyes still on you. Then, voice flat but not cold, he said, “Let’s just say you’re right. Even then—it wouldn’t matter. He still wouldn’t want someone like me getting involved with you.”

You blinked. Your expression shifted.

“Someone like you?” you asked, eyebrows lifted. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with you?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression thoughtful but not entirely present, as if part of him had already begun pulling away. You could sense it—the quiet, almost imperceptible construction of a barrier between you. Not cruel. Just protective. Defensive.

“He knows me better than anyone,” Frankie said. “He’s seen the worst of it—every stupid thing I’ve done, every time I’ve blown something up that I cared about. He’s my brother. I know he loves me. But don’t think for a second that he wouldn’t want something better for you,” he added. “He knows what I’m still trying to fix. No matter how much he cares about me, don't fool yourself—he’d still want more for you.”

You let the silence stretch out for a beat.

“I think you’re confused,” you said calmly. “What makes you think he gets to decide what’s good for me? What I want, what I need—that’s not his call to make. That’s mine.”

Frankie exhaled and tried to respond, but you cut him off before he could get the words out.

“No,” you said. “And I don’t understand why you’re acting like this now, after last night? You let yourself feel something for five minutes and now one knock on your door and you're back to default mode.”

“It’s not like that. It isn’t.”

“It looks exactly like that,” you said. “You told me we should have boundaries. Then you kissed me and then you didn’t speak to me for two weeks. Two full weeks. You acted like you’d made peace with that decision, like you were fine with keeping your distance forever.”

He didn’t answer.

“Why did you ask me to leave the bar with you last night?” You asked, voice louder.

“What?”

“Why, Francisco?”

He stared at you, his jaw set, confusion mingling with something harder.

“I wanted to be alone with you.”

“Why?”

He pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing at them like the motion might bring clarity.

“What do you mean why? Because I like being with you.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter now. “But you have my number. You know where I live. If you wanted to be with me, you could’ve shown up literally any other time. You waited until we were all sitting there, until we were surrounded by the people we’ve been hiding this from. You barely even looked at me the whole night. Like just being seen near me was risky. And then Bill comes up, and suddenly you stand, and next thing I know, you’re asking me to come with you.”

Frankie looked at you like he wanted to protest but didn’t know where to start.

“I...I don’t know,” he said, his voice caught somewhere between honesty and deflection. “It just happ—”

“Do you want to know what I think?” you interrupted, and your voice trembled near the end of the sentence. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just watched you, his eyes heavy with waiting. “I think the rules we agreed on, the distance you kept, felt perfectly reasonable to you. Until you thought there might be someone else.”

“That’s not true,” he said instantly, a little too quick.

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t know wha—”

“Then tell me!” Your voice cracked, not from anger, but from something more fragile.

“I just... I'm sorry,” he said, his voice rising, cracking under the weight of it. “I just know that last night I needed to be near you. And I didn’t know how to stop that.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, the words hitting you harder than you’d expected. There was a pause, one neither of you filled.

Then you said, “Yeah, well. That turned out to be one hell of a mistake, didn’t it?”

“It wasn’t a mistake for me,” he said, his voice clear and steady. His eyes didn’t move from yours. “Not for one second. I don’t regret it. Not last night. Not this morning. Not crossing that line with you.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. You blinked up at him, and the heat behind your eyes was instant, unforgiving. Tears clung to your lashes, not falling yet, just gathering, making everything shimmer.

“Then what are you doing?” you asked, your voice firm, but uneven at the end. “You’re constantly contradicting yourself. You say one thing, then act like none of it matters. You look like it’s killing you when Santiago comes up. But then you turn around and say you don’t regret any of it. So which is it? What are you going to do?”

“I just—” he exhaled hard, his posture faltering. “I don’t want to lose anyone.”

“You’re not going to lose him.”

He didn’t answer, not right away. His mouth opened and closed again. You could see the words catching behind his teeth, whatever truth he had trying to find a way out.

“And if you’re really this scared of Santi’s reaction,” you added, the edge still sharp in your voice, “then maybe you don’t know your best friend as well as you think you do.”

“I—”

“Or maybe this is just easier for you. Maybe it’s more comfortable to hide behind all this guilt and fear than to just say what you want. Because honestly, I don’t think you’ve thought about any of this without trying to put a label on it first.”

Frankie dropped his gaze, like he was following some invisible thread unraveling at your feet. The silence between you stretched, but it was not tense. When he looked back up, his eyes had softened.

He held out his hand, palm open, fingers curling slightly in a wordless invitation. You watched his hand for a moment, deciding. Then you placed yours in his, your fingers slipping between his like it was muscle memory.

He gave a gentle tug and you rose, knees brushing his. In one fluid, practiced motion—like he’d done it in a dream a hundred times—he drew you into his lap. His arm came around your waist, the other finding your wrist, thumb resting in the hollow there like he was memorizing your pulse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. His gaze didn’t waver this time. “This… it’s new to me. And I keep stumbling through it. Especially when it comes to Santi. It messes with my head. Makes everything feel strange.”

“I’m not exactly in the right place for any of this either,” you said, your voice low but steady, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, it’s over between me and Harry. Fully, completely. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for this.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “You think this is easy for me?”

“Then what do you want?” he asked. His voice was quieter now. “Do you even know what you want out of this?”

You looked at him, and your throat went dry. The question made your mind turn to static. You didn’t answer right away. There were too many things happening in your head at once, and none of them felt solid enough to touch. But something in you clicked toward honesty, maybe because it felt like anything else would be pointless.

“I don't. I’m just as scared as you are,” you said finally, your fingers touching his arm. “I don’t have it figured out. But I know I feel good when I’m with you. I feel safe. And I didn’t expect that. Not with you, of all people.” You gave a small, startled laugh, as if the truth of it surprised you even now. “You understand me in ways that... I don’t know. I didn’t see it coming.”

You inhaled deeply, searching for your next words.

“I don’t know if I can define what this is right now. It’s too soon for me to wrap it in a neat explanation. But I know I want to live whatever this is without pretending it’s not happening. Without tiptoeing around it. I just don’t know if you’re ready for that. And I... I can see how much this is weighing on you,” you said, your voice quieter now, as though afraid too much volume might crack something between you. “I don’t want to be the thing that adds more weight. I don’t want to be something you have to carry around like guilt.”

His response came fast, too fast, “You’re not. God, you’re not. You’re not making anything worse.”

“Maybe that’s what you want to believe but something about all this is getting to you. What happened didn’t feel wrong to me,” you said, almost in a whisper now. “Not for a second. But a few moments ago? The way you looked at me, like you were already trying to undo it in your mind... I hated that.”

Frankie nodded, the motion subtle, like he was still working through the shape of his thoughts. His gaze dropped to your lap, settling there. He stayed quiet for a few breaths, and you didn’t push him.

When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“That’s not how it happened in my head,” he said, eyes still not meeting yours. “I swear, it wasn’t— I don’t regret this. Not even a little. It wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment thing. I had time to think, to think about you. Two weeks, actually. And I used them.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and understated, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to show it yet.

You felt something light bloom in your chest. “So you thought about me?”

He gave a short, almost embarrassed snort. “Just a little.”

That made you laugh, a warm sound that belonged entirely to this version of the two of you—this strange, unfolding thing neither of you had a name for yet. You leaned in, your hand finding the familiar line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your palm. His skin was warm. You kissed him, your mouth brushing his like you’d done it a hundred times before, like it didn’t still terrify you a little. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you in with a quiet urgency, like he needed to feel more of you, like just the kiss wasn’t enough.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were on you now. Alert.

“Don’t overthink it, okay?” you said, your voice softer now.

He nodded again, this time without hesitation, and kissed you once more—quick, grounding.

“We’re just pretending, after all,” you murmured against his mouth.

He smiled.

When you opened the door, Emma didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at you, really looked—her eyes dragging slowly over the length of you, from your shoes to the crown of your head. Her gaze lingered on your face for a beat too long before she finally spoke.

“No way,” she said, sitting up straighter on the couch, clutching Mr. Darcy to her chest like he might need to hear this too. Her expression flickered—shock first, then glee. “You look criminally guilty right now.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, ears burning. A giggle escaped your lips, light and uncontrolled, almost like someone else had let it out. Embarrassment was a warm thing in your throat.

You told her everything. Naturally. Or, well—almost everything. The version with soft edges and edited scenes. Not for lack of trying on her part; she asked pointed questions, raised her eyebrows, made dramatic gasping noises until you were both doubled over in laughter.

Her excitement was instantaneous. She got so animated that her own cheeks flushed, her hands moving as she repeated things back to you in disbelief. But when the laughing ebbed, when the story was laid out like puzzle pieces between you, she reached for your hand. You let her take it.

“But you know you can’t rush into this, right?” she said, quieter now, as if saying it too loudly would tip everything over.

“I know,” you replied, your voice softer too. You leaned back into the couch. “We talked about it, in the car. It was—god, it was a whole conversation. I told him I didn’t want this to spin out before we even knew what it was. I said I’d write him sometime this week.”

Emma didn’t even blink. “Right. You’re going to write him tonight.”

You laughed immediately, half out of horror, half out of recognition.

“I’m not!”

She gave you a look, all sharp humor and affection, her lips pulling into a knowing smile.

“Yes, you are. You’ll pretend it’s casual. Something cute. Like a question about flight times or—what, turbulence? You’ll make it sound logistical.”

“I’m not that transparent,” you said, nudging her with your shoulder. “Besides, I saw him this morning. I’m trying to be chill. I’m maintaining mystery.”

Emma snorted. “Babe, any mystery you had died sometime between last night and sunrise. Pretty sure there’s no going back after someone’s seen you naked and sweaty and probably begg—”

“Oh my God, Emma.”You groaned, burying your face in your hands.

When you finally uncovered your face, you looked at her—still flushed, still warm, but smiling now.

“I’m not calling him. I’m not writing him,” you said. “We agreed to talk later in the week.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, eyes glittering with mischief. “Which means you’ll call him tomorrow. Monday. A whole new week.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I won't!”

You didn’t. You didn’t need to. Because the next morning, while shelving a stack of biographies alphabetically—something that should have been soothing, or at least numbing—your phone vibrated in your pocket.

You wanted to believe you could’ve waited. That you could’ve finished straightening the line of uneven spines, wiped the thin film of dust from a few neglected covers, completed the task like a well-adjusted adult. But you didn’t. Not even close.

You fished your phone out of your jeans in a practiced, clumsy movement, nearly knocking over a memoir about mountaineering. The screen lit up in your hand. A message. Of course it was from him.

A photo.

Frankie.

It was a selfie, taken from a slightly awkward angle, like he’d held the phone low, somewhere near his chest. He was wearing those dark aviator sunglasses you’d teased him about once, and a pair of heavy headphones—the kind with the padded ear cups and the mic curving toward his mouth, like he was narrating something important from the sky. Behind him, the cockpit of a small plane blurred into view—wires and dials and sky outside the glass. His expression was technically serious, but you could see it, just at the edge of his mouth: that crooked thing he did when he was trying not to smile.

His hair was a mess. It looked soft, too, falling in uneven tufts over his forehead like he’d run a hand through it and then forgotten to fix it. Below the image was a single line of text:

Think about adding ‘flying lesson’ to your bucket list.

You smiled. Not thoughtfully, not hesitantly—your face just did it, all at once, without asking permission. The kind of smile you feel in your ribs. It was stupid how easy it was.

You typed back:

[You]: I will. Let me know if you know anyone good at it <3

[You]: Are you working right now?

You slipped the phone back into your pocket, or tried to. It buzzed again before your hand left the fabric.

[Francisco]: I know a guy

[Francisco]: And I’m not texting while flying, if that’s what you’re asking.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened a little anyway.

[You]: Okay. Let me think about it.

Read.

You stood still for a moment in the middle of the aisle, the dusty silence of the bookstore briefly folding in around you like a blanket. Then another buzz.

Typing…

[Francisco]: Do you have anything to do tonight?

That afternoon, after locking up the bookstore and folding the security gate down with both hands, you walked three blocks to the supermarket and wandered through the aisles like someone with all the time in the world. You bought candy. Frankie had once mentioned, offhandedly and with a shrug, that he liked gumdrops and chocolate-covered peanuts. So you found both, holding the bags in your hands for a beat longer than necessary.

Later, sometime just after eight, he showed up at your door holding a greasy paper bag that smelled like heaven. Burgers, fries, something carbonated in two cups with plastic lids and too much ice. He grinned when you opened the door and held up the food like an offering.

You ate at the kitchen table, your knees bumping occasionally under the wood. No music, just the soft ambient sound of the refrigerator humming in the background, and Frankie making you laugh. He told stories about his coworkers, about mishaps during training sessions, the absurd things people said on radio calls, or when one of them once dropped a walkie-talkie in a porta potty and tried to fish it out with a wire hanger. And you found yourself leaning forward with your chin in your hand, smiling like someone on a first date. But this wasn’t a date. This was Frankie.

After dinner, the two of you migrated to the couch without really discussing it. The overhead lights were off, the living room soaked in the amber hue of the table lamp. He picked the movie—Christine, some weird eighties horror about a car that could think for itself and kill people. You rested your head on a pillow at one end of the couch and stretched your legs across his lap, trying to act casual about it. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you caught him resting his hand lightly on your ankle at one point, his thumb tracing a mindless shape there.

By the time the credits rolled, your mind had moved away from the film entirely. You could feel your heart beating in your throat. The idea had crept in during the last twenty minutes—quiet at first, then louder: Should I ask him to stay?

It was ridiculous, maybe. Or maybe not. You’d slept at his place once... Yeah, you did. He’d crashed at yours, too, drunk after a wedding. But both times had been circumstantial, convenient, semi-justified by context. This would be different. This would be you asking for something. You inviting him in, not out of necessity but because you wanted him there. With you.

“I should get going,” he said, cutting into your thoughts with the calm certainty of someone who hadn’t just thrown your internal world into chaos. He stretched his arms over his head, the hem of his T-shirt lifting just enough for your eyes to catch skin. He turned to look at you, his smile soft, almost apologetic.

“Already?” you said, glancing at your phone. 10:23 p.m. You looked back at him, not quite hiding your disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But I had a really good time.” He reached for your chin, touching it gently, his thumb brushing your skin. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“Oh,” you said, quieter than intended.

For a second, it felt like he was going to kiss you. The way his body turned toward you, the quiet tension in the air between you—it was almost unmistakable. But then he looked away, instead fixing his gaze on Mr. Darcy, who was perched sleepily on the armchair like he was the one responsible for chaperoning the evening.

A few minutes later, you were walking him downstairs. You opened the front door and he stood on the threshold, one hand braced casually against the frame, his eyes soft in the dim porch light. You thought he might say something else, but instead, he just looked at you for a long second, and then—

He kissed you.

His hand came up to cradle your face, warm and certain. His lips were soft, unhurried, the kiss full of something quieter than urgency but no less intense. You reached up, your fingers brushing the back of his neck, and he leaned into you—deeper, steadier. One of your hands found his chest, the other resting lightly against the fabric of his jacket. His hand was at your waist now, grounding you.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes met yours—deep brown, coffee, the kind of color that turned darker at night, pupils wide in the dim light. You could feel your own breath catching.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back a little, as if needing more room to explain. “Oh, I won’t be around this weekend. We’re going to Boston—me, my mom, and Mai. Going to see Luna. Henry’s not feeling great. He’s been having a rough time, I think.”

“Oh no, what happened?”

“They’re not exactly sure. Or maybe they are and Luna’s just not telling us everything yet. It’s all kind of recent.” His gaze shifted off to the side, then came back to settle on you again. “She’s the oldest. She gets this way sometimes. Like it’s all on her to manage. Doesn’t always let us in.”

You nodded. “That must be hard. Being far away.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “I wish we were closer. I’ve been wanting to spend more time with Jamie too. At first, the trip felt like it might be... intruding? Like we’d be in the way. But then my mom said Luna actually asked us to come. And I dunno, something about that made me want to go even more.”

“When do you leave?”

“Friday morning.” He nodded once, almost to himself, then glanced at you again, studying your face like it calmed him somehow. “I was thinking—when I get back, we could pick up where we left off with your list.”

You smiled. “I’d love that. Which item?”

“That’s up to you. What do you feel like doing?”

You tilted your head, squinting slightly like you were concentrating very hard. Frankie laughed.

“All right,” he said. “You can tell me when I’m back.” His smile lingered as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “You’ve got time to think it over. Or add something new.”

“I will,” you said, grinning now.

He started walking backward toward his car. “But I’ll see you before I go, right?”

You leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“You can’t shake me off that easily anymore.”

You laughed. “Good.”

The week passed quietly, the days folded in on themselves—work, errands, evenings spent helping Bill—and you didn’t really register their passing. Everything felt muted, like background music playing at low volume. You were content to let it be that way.

On Tuesday, Bill showed up at the bookstore just before your lunch break, holding a cappuccino in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.

“Coconut cake,” he said, placing it carefully beside your laptop. “Thought maybe you’d want to come to dinner tonight. Julie’s been asking.”

You said yes before really thinking about it.

He lived just ten minutes from the you, in a two-story house that looked like it had been loved for a long time. The porch light blinked once when you rang the bell, then glowed steady, casting a soft yellow halo over the front steps. Inside, the floors creaked under your feet in a way that felt more like a welcome than a warning. The rooms were layered in warm colors—muted greens, soft terracottas—and every surface had their touch: a worn mug left on a windowsill, stacks of books arranged without order, a half-burned candle that still smelled faintly of pine. A dog named Arthur, the size of a small bear, greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who truly believed you’d come just to see him.

Julie took your hand and tugged you through the house, her voice spilling out in quick, enthusiastic bursts. She showed you Bill's room, then her's—pausing reverently by a shelf of books to point out her favorites. Meanwhile, Bill moved around the kitchen, tossing garlic into a pan, stirring something thick and fragrant. He poured you wine without asking. The food was really good. Not just passable or “dad good.” Actual, proper, you’d-pay-money-for-this good.

The night stretched on without effort. You laughed, a lot. And the more time you spent with Bill, the more clearly you saw what people loved about him. He was kind in a way that felt active. Intentional. He listened when you spoke, remembered things you’d only said once. He was an excellent father—that part was undeniable—and probably an even better friend. Whatever Emma or Santi thought they saw, you didn’t feel it. There was no subtext in his glances, no lingering pauses or suggestive remarks. If he harbored some quiet affection for you, it wasn’t the kind that asked to be noticed.

You asked yourself if maybe you were missing something. If you were brushing past a nuance you ought to catch. But no. You were a good reader of people—better than most. You’d known when others were pretending not to want things. Bill didn’t strike you that way. He simply liked having you around. And you liked being around him.

On Wednesday, Frankie texted you mid-morning: Dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up.

He picked you up at eight, punctual. He asked what you felt like eating, and you told him to choose. You meant it, too—you didn’t want to make decisions that night. You wanted to see what he thought you’d like.

He drove you to a grill, the kind of place you wouldn’t have looked at on your own. Inside, it smelled like smoke and rosemary and something vaguely citrus. The lights were and made everything feel slightly warmer. It was, really good. The food was better. He ordered for both of you after checking if that was okay. You said yes before he could list the options.

You spent nearly two hours there, not in a hurry, not really aware of the time at all. People who worked there knew him—not just nods of recognition, but real, easy conversation, the kind you only fall into when someone has been showing up for years. You liked watching that version of him: at ease, occasionally distracted by someone calling his name. You liked seeing what the world looked like when he was inside it.

When you left, the air was colder than you remembered. You pulled your sleeves over your hands as you walked to the car.

In the driver’s seat, he turned toward you but didn’t start the engine.

“You wanna come to my place?”

You looked at him. His voice had wavered just slightly when he said it.

He added, “To spend the night, if you want.” Then glanced away, and back again. “No pun intended.”

You laughed, because he looked genuinely unsure for a second.

You didn’t mind, either way. If he had a motive, you weren’t in the mood to dissect it. You might’ve had one too.

“That sounds good,” you said. “But I should swing by my place first, grab a few things. That okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a little smile, already reaching for the gearshift.

When you got back to your apartment, he walked in behind you. He stayed by the couch, crouched beside Mr. Darcy, who purred so loudly it almost sounded fake. Frankie scratched behind his ears and didn’t rush you. He just stayed there, one hand still on the cat’s head, while you tucked a few things into your bag and closed the windows for the night. Before leaving, he pressed a soft kiss into Mr. Darcy’s fur and whispered something you didn’t quite catch.

At his place, you ended up on the sofa with a movie playing—something neither of you really paid attention to. Your legs brushed a few times, but nothing happened. Eventually, your eyes began to flutter closed, and Frankie noticed before you did.

“Want to go to bed?” he asked, like it was a real question.

You nodded.

But once you lay beside him, the sleep slipped out of reach. Your mind went suddenly alert, wide open. The awareness of his presence just inches away took up all the space. Not in a tense way, but in a heightened one. You stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, barely breathing.

Just a week ago, you weren’t even speaking to him. You’d wondered what he was thinking, where he went when he disappeared into himself, and whether any of it had anything to do with you. The space between you had felt like something structural, something permanent.

Now you were lying next to him, your body relaxed, as if this had always been a possibility. As if there hadn’t been days—weeks—of restraint and awkwardness and keeping track of how long it had been since you last made eye contact. Somehow, without really noticing it, you’d stepped past all of that. And this? This felt absurdly easy.

And it wasn’t like anything outrageous had happened. He’d invited you to stay over, and maybe something more would happen, but even so—it didn’t feel dangerous. It felt like something between a joke and a dare, playful, not overwhelming. There was nothing unraveling inside you. You weren’t spiraling. And it was... nice.

He shifted beside you on the pillow, turning just enough to catch your expression.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Frankie asked, his voice dipped in amusement. “You’ve got those eyes. Crazy eyes.”

You blinked. “What? I do not.”

“You do,” he said, grinning now.

You laughed, moving toward him instinctively, resting your cheek against his chest. You angled your head to look up at him, your chin pressing into the fabric of his T-shirt. His hand found the small of your back, easy and grounding.

“Call me crazy again and see what happens,” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

He widened his eyes in mock fear. “Oh no. What are you gonna do, eat me?”

“Worse.”

“I’d honestly like to see that.”

You kissed him. Just a brief press of your lips at first but it didn’t stay that way. Your tongue teased the inside of his lip, and he let out a low sound that vibrated under your cheek. His hand tightened on your waist, then slid lower, anchoring you to him. You lifted your leg over his hip, instinctive and teasing. His breath caught, and when you reached down between you, pressing over the fabric of his clothes, he hardened against your palm with a quiet, involuntary groan.

You smiled against his mouth.

Then, without warning, you pulled away. Your leg slid off him. Your hand retreated. You rolled onto your side and adjusted your head on the pillow, your back now facing him.

“Good night,” you said lightly, amused by your own cruelty. You smiled into the darkness, knowing full well he couldn’t see it.

He didn’t respond right away. You could feel his hesitation, feel the shape of his attention still focused entirely on you. The heat of it.

A few seconds passed.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice lower now, like he’d sunk into the mattress. “Good night.”

You heard the faint rustle of the sheets as he turned behind you. And then everything went still. Except your heart, which hadn’t quite settled yet.

Ten seconds went by. Nothing.

Another ten. Still nothing.

You stayed where you were, wrapped in the kind of silence that starts to feel personal. You didn’t say anything. Not yet. You wanted to see if he would break first. He didn’t.

Finally, you shifted, sitting up.

“Mhm. Sorry—it’s kind of warm in here,” you said lightly, like the heat had crept up on you. “Do you mind?”

Frankie turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.

“I can turn up the AC. Or grab the fan?”

You shook your head, smiling, already tugging at the toes of your socks. “I’m good.”

You peeled them off, one by one, and tossed them beside the bed. Then your fingers found the waistband of your pajama shorts. Without hesitation, you slid them off and flung them toward the far side of the bed—his side. You didn’t look to see where they landed.

Lying back, you stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t moved. His back was still to you. Either he was very committed to pretending not to notice, or this was his idea of restraint. You watched the curve of his neck for a moment, the edge of his jaw. You let a smile creep onto your lips.

Then you took the hem of your T-shirt in both hands and pulled it upward, lifting your hips to free it from under you. As it passed over your head, you felt a light breeze—barely there—touch the new skin exposed to the room. You balled the shirt loosely in your hand and tossed it, purposefully, to land just in front of him.

Still nothing.

You sighed like you meant it, settling again on your side, back turned to him, your eyes falling shut with calm.

A few seconds passed. The mattress shifted behind you.

Then you felt it—his hand, warm and cautious, settling lightly on your waist, fingertips barely skimming your skin. His chest hovered just out of reach.

His voice landed beside your ear. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

You shrugged, eyes still closed. Said nothing. Made no effort to face him.

And then—without warning—he yanked you toward him with a single, fluid pull, his hand firm at your stomach, his body suddenly pressed against yours. You gasped, surprised, and then let out a laugh that broke in the middle.

He was laughing too, quietly, into your neck. His hand moved up, steady, his palm resting just under your breast, his thumb brushing the curve of it like it was an accident.

His mouth found your shoulder. He bit you gently, just enough to make you squirm. Then he kissed the spot, soft and maddening.

“Would you look at that,” he murmured. “You’re ticklish.”

His voice vibrated against your skin.

You twisted a little in his grip, breath hitching.

“Not fair,” you said, your voice muffled.

He grinned into your shoulder. “I’m not trying to be.”

You reached back without thinking, your fingers threading through his hair, guiding him closer. Your head tilted, cheek brushing his as you glanced over your shoulder. It was dark, not pitch black, but muted—just enough moonlight slipping through the window to see his face. His eyes were the clearest thing about him, steady and unblinking, watching you.

Then his hand moved. First, it skimmed across the softness of your stomach, his fingertips tracing lazy shapes on your skin, like he was getting reacquainted with it. You felt his breath at your shoulder before his mouth found it, his lips moving upward along your neck, mapping the curve of your jaw before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss was patient, unpressured.

He slipped one arm beneath you, anchoring himself to your ribs, pulling you closer so your back rested snug against his chest. The press of his body made something flutter low in your belly.

And then his other hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers parting you gently, brushing between your folds. You breathed against his mouth, the sound fragile, instinctive. He circled your clit with the same quiet focus, like he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere, just happy to be here. The sensation bloomed across your body, sharp and tender. You arched against him, seeking more, feeling the firmness of him pressing against the curve of your ass.

Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers continued, moving in tight, even circles. Every nerve in your skin lit up, your nipples tightening in the cool air, your body reacting in ways you didn’t have to think about. Frankie exhaled behind you, uneven, his hips shifting closer. He pressed himself against you like it was involuntary, like he couldn’t help it. You pushed back into him, greedy for the friction.

Then, with a low sound in your ear, he guided one finger inside you.

You gasped, your hand tightening in his hair.

“This from the tickling?” he murmured, amused, voice rough and almost hoarse, as if speaking cost him something.

You let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back toward him, guiding his mouth to yours again. His kiss was messier now, more open, his tongue coaxing yours as he slid a second finger inside you. He moved them with precision, pressing into the spot that made you keen softly, his palm catching against the base of your clit with every stroke.

The pressure built in waves, your hips moving in small, instinctive motions, trying to follow the rhythm he gave you. He was fully hard now, pressed flush against you, and your whole body was humming, breath shaky.

Then, without warning, he withdrew his hand.

Your mouth parted, confused—but he didn’t leave you hanging long. He kissed you again, soft and sweet and then just a little smug.

“Open,” he said, his voice low and sure.

You obeyed.

He slipped his fingers into your mouth, and your tongue met them willingly, curling around the taste of yourself, tasting the salt and heat of what he’d done to you. He watched you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You didn’t look away.

He liked the way you looked right then. And you liked that he did.

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, he brought them to his own without thinking, like tasting you was a kind of instinct he couldn’t resist. Just a second—then he was reaching for the drawer beside the bed, fingers brushing quietly through whatever else was inside before he found what he needed. He set the condom on the table, its presence casual but charged—he bought more, you thought—and began undressing with a calmness that made you ache.

You slipped your panties down your legs, kicking them to the floor before lying back into the same position, your cheek resting against the pillow, the sheets cool under your skin.

You heard the sound of the foil tearing behind you and then the mattress shifting under his weight as he came back to you. You rolled slightly onto your side to meet him, propping yourself up on your elbow. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a second like he was grounding himself, then slid his arm beneath you and drew you close, the contact warm and comforting.

His other hand moved your neck, fingers settling gently at the base of your skull, thumb grazing your throat. He kissed you in little fragments—several short, breathless kisses that weren't feel hurried.

You could feel him nudging at your entrance, his body flush against your back. You ran your hand across his arm, your palm pressed over the muscle of his forearm, and held on as he began to push inside you.

It was different this time. Not rough, not wild—just something else entirely. Every thrust was measured, grounded, like he was trying to feel everything, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of you. And for some reason, that made it hit deeper. It wasn’t just physical—it was intimate in a way that made your chest tight.

He moved into you with precision, hips meeting yours again and again, his pace unshifting but strong, the repetition making your whole body throb. You closed your eyes. Let your head fall forward. You could feel your pulse between your legs, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers.

His mouth found your shoulder, then your back, kissing a line down your spine in between thrusts. When he bit gently at the skin just below your neck, you let out a sound you hadn’t meant to make. He kissed the spot in apology or affection—you weren’t sure which.

There was no chaos in this. No rush. Nothing pulling you away. It felt like the only thing in the world was his body against yours, his hand holding your waist.

You breathed in deeply, not to calm yourself but to hold the moment a little longer.

Because for the first time in a long time, you felt entirely unguarded—like being touched by him was not something you needed to analyze or defend against. It was just good. Good in the kind of way that didn’t demand anything else from you.

You pressed your hips back against him, and he let out a soft, fractured breath near your ear. And everything inside you felt like it was finally allowed to let go.

The week slipped in quietly.

Frankie left early Friday morning. He sent you a picture from the plane—a blurry shot of the wing against an overcast sky, a coffee cup in the frame. He didn’t write much with it, just a short caption and a little airplane emoji. Still, it made you smile.

You spent the weekend indoors, your body still weighted by a lingering cold that made everything feel just slightly out of reach. Reading gave you a headache, so you let yourself drift between reruns of half-forgotten reality shows and movies you’d seen a dozen times. You dozed through some, watched others with a kind of passive affection. You stayed in pajamas longer than you meant to. You ate soup from a mug. It was quiet. Not unhappy, but not particularly anything.

On Sunday afternoon, Frankie texted to say he was staying in Boston for a couple more days. He didn’t elaborate. You asked about Henry, and he replied that he was doing fine. Just that. It wasn’t that you expected more, exactly—it was just that something inside you had already started picturing his return. You didn’t realize how much you’d been counting on that until it slipped a little further out of reach.

On Monday, you stopped by Bill’s to pick up a coffee. The light outside the window was pale and wintry, even though it was barely autumn. You closed the bookstore early—not because you had to, but because your head was still pounding slightly and your limbs felt heavy. You told yourself it was just residual exhaustion. Nothing serious.

When you got home, Mr. Darcy greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t seen you in weeks. He hopped onto the couch and pressed himself against your leg like a loyal, if slightly overzealous, nurse. His version of affection included a surprising number of claws. At one point, he kneaded your arm so hard you winced, but you didn’t push him away. You just scratched behind his ears and told him he was forgiven.

Santi came by on Wednesday, despite the message you'd sent that morning insisting you felt fine. He showed up mid-afternoon with a brown paper bag in one hand, a crumpled plastic bag of medicine in the other, and a look that said arguing would be pointless.

“I’m staying for a few hours,” he said simply, stepping past you into the house. “Just enough to take care of you. Like the excellent big brother I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled anyway.

You curled up together on the couch, a shared blanket over both your legs, and watched reruns of That '70s Show. At one point, your head tilted against his shoulder, and you stayed that way for a while, letting your eyes trace the patterns in the ceiling or the soft flicker of the TV screen.

But then his breathing changed and when you glanced up, you found him dozing. His chin tucked slightly toward his chest, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.

You smiled. Gently, you shifted away from him, pressing your fingertips against his arm as you moved.

His eyes flew open, confused and almost startled. He blinked at you, disoriented.

“You fell asleep,” you whispered, amused. “That’s all.”

He sat up straighter, rubbing his face and stretching out with a groan.

“Ah. Sorry. This couch does things to me.”

You stood, gathering the empty mugs from the coffee table.

“You can stay if you want,” you offered, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Thanks, but I should probably head out. Yov’s waiting for me.”

You nodded, catching the way his posture changedas he prepared to leave. He moved slowly down the hallway, announcing casually, “I need to pee.”

You stayed in the kitchen a while longer, rinsing out the mugs and placing them neatly on the drying rack. Mr. Darcy was weaving around your legs in tight little figure-eights, purring.

Santi reappeared beside you, looking a little less tired. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “I feel better.” You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “I told you, I wasn’t even that sick.”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the fridge.

“You say that every time. You always downplay it. You act like it’s wrong to admit when your body needs rest.”

“No, Santiago,” you said, drying your hands and heading back toward the living room. “You men just dramatize everything. I still remember that time you had the flu and acted like the world was ending.”

“Because I was dying,” he called after you.

“You had a fever,” you shot back. “Not the plague.”

“I felt really bad,” he muttered behind you, the faint sound of his steps following yours to the door. “And for the record, the flu can be deadly.”

You paused, turning back just enough to shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Yes, I know,” you said. “But you still exaggerate.”

Santi let out a short, unbothered laugh as he picked up his keys from the ceramic bowl in the foyer. And you stepped toward the coat rack and reached for his jacket, a puffy black thing he insisted on wearing regardless of the actual temperature. You handed it to him wordlessly.

He raised an eyebrow but took it from your hand anyway, his smile softening. You opened the door and stepped halfway out, but he didn’t follow. When you looked back, you saw he was still in the doorway, not moving, eyes fixed on something next to him.

You stepped closer to him again. He didn’t speak, just lifted his hand slowly, pointing toward the coat rack. You turned, following the direction of his gesture.

Your bag. You’d hung it there last night without thinking, and the little keychain attached to the clasp, the silver star with a tiny scratch on one side.

Santi reached out and touched it with the tip of his index finger.

“Nice bag,” he said, low.

“Uh, thanks,” you said, softly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. He didn't.

Then, he gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he stepped past you, finally heading out.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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ssweeterthanfiction · 3 days ago

Text

Glimpse of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter VII

They don’t bring Finnick into the War Room.

Not officially, anyway.

He isn’t invited to the briefings, or given access to intel. The door shuts before he can ask questions, the conversation ends when he walks by. Everything he hears, he hears in pieces—through murmured hallway conversations, closed doors that don’t quite latch, whispered updates passed between people who seem to forget that Finnick has ears. That Finnick has stakes.

Sometimes Plutarch catches him in the hallway, offers a vague reassurance about “progress,” or “developing stages.” Haymitch mutters things here and there, never the full picture. He always ends it with the same gruff line: “You’ll know when you need to know.”

But Finnick needs to know now. Every second he doesn’t feels like a betrayal.

Still, no one looks him in the eye for too long.

He’s not stupid. He knows what they see when they look at him: someone unraveling. A liability. A ticking bomb dressed up in Victory laurels.

Maybe they’re not wrong.

Because underneath the stillness, the silence, something inside him is splintering.

The guilt is constant. All-consuming. It burrows into the cracks of every hour he’s spent here, safe, while you’re out there—Gods know where, Gods know what’s being done to you.

And the worst part is: he left you. The wire snapped. The world exploded. And he hadn’t found you in time.

You had been right there. Somewhere just beyond the trees. Just beyond the smoke. And he’d lost you.

He’d let them take you.

And now the rebellion is moving like molasses—calculating, weighing, waiting. As if there’s time.

There isn’t.

He knows the Capitol better than anyone here. He knows how fast the pain starts. How they break you without breaking the skin. How they take what you love and twist it into something unrecognizable. They don’t need months to do damage.

Just days.

Just hours.

The first time he hears your name again, it’s from behind the glass walls of the Command room.

He isn’t meant to be there. He’s just passing by, pacing like he does now—like if he stops moving for too long, he might fall apart completely.

He catches a sentence midair, Coin’s voice clipped and cool: “She’s still being held with the others. Alive. For now.”

The words hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Alive.

His legs falter mid-step. He braces a hand against the wall, barely breathing.

Alive.

But for how long?

Is anyone asking that?

Because they talk about you like you’re a box to be recovered. An asset. A symbol. Not a person. Not his person.

That night, the silence is a scream inside his head. He thinks of what it must be like for you right now. Are you cold? Are you afraid? Is someone hurting you? Are you being told he gave up on you? That he forgot?

He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes until stars bloom against his lids. Anything to stop the images from coming—your face contorted in pain, your voice crying out for help in a place where no one is listening.

He can’t sleep.

Can’t think straight.

By the time morning comes, he feels like a shell of himself.

Haymitch finds him outside the infirmary the next evening, a bottle in his hand and circles under his eyes darker than the District tunnels.

Finnick doesn’t hesitate. His voice is hoarse but sharp. “I want in.”

Haymitch lifts a brow. “You always want in.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You meant it last time.”

Finnick’s jaw tightens. “I’m not asking to be coddled. I’m not asking for sympathy. I know how the Capitol works. I survived them. That has to count for something.”

Haymitch sighs through his nose. He looks like he’s aged five years in the last five days. “You’re not sleeping,” he says instead.

“Does it matter?”

Haymitch looks at him for a long time. “You’re slipping, kid.”

“I’ll be fine when she’s back.”

“And if she isn’t?”

Finnick doesn’t answer.

Because there is no if.

Two days later, they hand him a transcript.

No context. No warning.

Just a line of garbled Capitol communications and one clear sentence, spoken in a voice that’s raw and crackling through static.

“I’m still here.”

His knees go out from under him.

He catches himself on the edge of a table before he can collapse, his breath leaving him in a broken exhale.

It’s your voice.

Real.

Weakened, but real.

Alive.

You’re alive.

Around him, the others are talking. Plutarch is analyzing the source, Coin is giving orders, and Boggs is marking something on a map. There are plans in motion. Moving pieces.

But all Finnick can hear is you.

I’m still here.

He clutches the transcript in shaking hands, presses it to his chest like a prayer.

The next morning, they call him into the War Room.

Coin. Boggs. Haymitch. A few other officials.

He walks in with a spark of hope flaring in his chest. This is it. He’ll be a part of the extraction. He’ll get to go. He’ll bring you home.

There’s a map spread across the table, zones marked in red. Timelines. Strategized entry points. Extraction windows.

And your name—written in bold above one of the sectors.

Finnick’s eyes fly to the deployment list.

His name isn’t on it.

“I want to be there,” he says immediately.

Boggs doesn’t look surprised. “You’re not on the mission.”

“I should be.”

“You’re compromised,” Coin says, her voice clipped. “Emotionally. We need clean heads on the field.”

“I know the Capitol,” Finnick argues. “Better than anyone. I know the tunnels, the scent of the air, how they manipulate their prisoners. I should be there.”

“You’re too close,” Boggs says. His tone is gentle, but firm.

“I am the mission,” Finnick grits out. “She is everything to me.”

They don’t respond.

Haymitch shifts awkwardly in the corner but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t defend him.

And Finnick feels it then—that isolation, that frozen wall they’ve all built around him. He’s not part of the team. He’s the reminder of what could be lost.

He leaves before they dismiss him, fists clenched at his sides.

That night, he doesn’t try to sleep.

He just sits on the floor of his room, knees drawn up to his chest, the transcript of your voice folded and unfolding in his hands.

I’m still here.

He repeats the words to himself like a mantra, like a lifeline, like they can hold him together.

Because everything else is pulling him apart.

They’re going to the Capitol.

They’re going to try to bring you back.

And he’s not going with them.

He’s just supposed to wait.

Sit still while the people he loves walk into fire.

Hope that you come back.

Hope that you recognize him when you do.

Hope that some part of what they had doesn’t get lost in the dark.

Finnick bows his head and presses the paper to his lips, a prayer mouthed into the quiet, desperate and aching.

“Please hold on.”

He has nothing else left to give but that.

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

The knots come easily to his fingers. They always have.

Finnick sits on the edge of a bench in one of the unused prep rooms, a long coil of rope in his lap. The kind the District 13 soldiers use for field drills and training maneuvers. He doesn’t remember picking it up, just that his hands needed something to do.

Anything to drown out the thoughts.

He loops and pulls and tightens without thinking. Muscle memory. Over, under, through. A perfect square knot. A fisherman's bend. A reef knot. Over and over and over.

The rhythm soothes something in him—or maybe numbs it. He isn’t sure there’s a difference anymore.

The rebellion is in final preparations. A few more days, they say. Then the rescue teams launch. You might be back by the end of the week. Or not at all.

He swallows hard against the ache that creeps into his chest every time that second possibility tries to take root. He won’t let it.

***

You were quiet that day. The waves had stilled outside the Victor's Village, the salt-slick wind curling around the porch like it didn’t quite know what to do with itself. The ocean was waiting.

So were you.

It was only a few days after your Games, and you still flinched at loud noises. Still woke up with your fists clenched and breath caught in your throat. Still walked like the arena was stitched to your shadow.

Finnick found you on the steps that morning, curled into a knit sweater two sizes too big for you — one of Mags’s old ones, he recognized. Your eyes were fixed on the water. Like you were trying to find yourself somewhere out there.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you, dropping a thick coil of spare fishing rope between your feet.

You glanced at it. Then at him.

“What’s this for?”

Finnick didn’t answer right away. He picked up the rope and started working it between his fingers, slow and steady. “We all need something to do with our hands,” he said eventually.

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

He offered you a strand.

You hesitated. Then took it.

“Start here,” he murmured, guiding your fingers, “and twist toward you. No—yeah, that’s it. Good. Now loop over—don’t let it tangle. Try again.”

You made a face when it slipped. “I’m bad at this.”

He smiled. It was the first time either of you had smiled in days. “You just won the Hunger Games. I think you can handle some rope.”

You looked up at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “It doesn’t feel like I won.”

“I know,” he said quietly. And you knew he meant it.

There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of the ocean below. And then, gently, he shifted a little closer, took your hands in his to show you again.

“This is how I got through it, you know,” he said. “After. I’d come down to the docks with a line of rope and tie knots for hours. My hands would cramp. I wouldn’t stop. It was something to do. Something that stayed the same, even when everything else didn’t.”

You didn’t say anything. But your eyes softened.

You tried again.

And this time, you got it.

“Hey,” he said softly, watching the knot hold. “Look at that.”

You exhaled a shaky breath and looked up at him. “Does the pain ever stop?”

He didn’t lie. He didn’t say yes.

He just held your gaze and answered honestly. “It gets quieter. Some days.”

You nodded.

And then you tied another knot.

***

He wonders where you are right now. If your hands are shaking. If you remember that afternoon at all— he way the salt air made your hair curl, the way your laugh, small as it was, had sounded like it didn’t quite know how to exist yet, but was trying anyway.

The knot slips from his fingers.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, rope pooling in his lap like it’s mocking him.

I'm still here. That’s what you said.

But for how much longer?

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth to muffle the sound building in his throat. It’s not a sob. Not really. Just a sound of something caving in.

You were trying.

And now he needs to try too.

Even if they won’t let him on the mission.

Even if all he can do is sit here and wait.

He picks up the rope again.

Pulls. Loops. Ties.

Something to hold onto.

Something that won’t fall apart.

🌊 .·:¨🌊🐚🌊¨:·. 🌊

Finnick sits beside Katniss in the stark studio of District 13, his body tight with nerves, a coil of rope in his hands that he works mindlessly into knots. Each twist, each pull of the rope feels like the only thing tethering him to reality. His hands move on instinct—loop, twist, pull—over and over again. It's a routine, a lifeline. Just like she used to be.

Across from him, Katniss stares at the camera, her features unreadable. She's trying to steady herself for what comes next.

“I can do it,” he hears himself say. The words come out thin, haunted. “If it'll help her. I’ll talk.”

Plutarch nods, stepping aside for the cameras.

When the red light glows and the signal goes live, Finnick lifts his eyes to the lens and begins to speak—not with the charm the Capitol once demanded of him, but with the weariness of a man hollowed out by truth.

"This is Finnick Odair, coming to you alive and well from District 13."

He tells them everything.

How President Snow sold him like a prized possession. How he wasn't the only one. How victors deemed desirable were paraded before the Capitol elite like toys. How they were threatened, controlled, used.

How she was one of them.

“She won her Games at sixteen. She didn’t know what was coming. None of us ever do.” His voice cracks slightly, but he keeps going, hands twisting the rope so tightly his knuckles go white. “She was a favorite. Beautiful, gentle. They said she had ‘softness’—like that was a gift, something they could harvest.”

Katniss glances at him, something shattering in her gaze.

He continues. Names, dates, horrors. The price of survival. The cruelty of silence.

“She was just a girl,” Finnick murmurs. “And they broke her anyway.”

The feed cuts eventually. The room is quiet again.

The mission is underway now. The rescue team is inside the Capitol. And all Finnick can do is wait.

He ties another knot.

Hours crawl by like years.

Katniss sits beside him, arms wrapped around herself. Neither of them speak. Finnick just keeps working the rope in his hands, tighter, tighter. It’s too quiet again—like the worst kind of storm is coming, and all they can do is brace for it.

Then the call comes through.

They’re back.

Katniss shoots to her feet, her face pale but hopeful. Finnick doesn’t even wait. The rope drops from his hands as he bolts from the room, heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of desperation.

He runs through the hallways of District 13, shoving past soldiers and medics, barely registering the people rushing the opposite direction. He rounds the corner and sees them—stretchers, gurneys, rebels swarming around figures too thin, too broken, but alive.

Alive.

His eyes scan the room frantically.

Johanna.

He stops briefly when he sees her. Her hair is gone—shaved brutally close to her skull. Her face is hollow, bruised, but her eyes are sharp. Angry. Still Johanna. She’s muttering something under her breath, spitting at a medic who tries to touch her. Still fighting.

He wants to ask if she saw you. If you were with her. But his feet are already moving again.

He hears someone say Peeta’s name.

“He tried to kill her,” someone whispers. “They hijacked him.”

Finnick’s stomach turns violently. The words barely register, swallowed by the storm brewing inside him. If they could do that to Peeta...what had they done to you?

What if you’re not the same?

What if you’re worse?

What if—

And then he sees you.

You’re standing by a doorframe, hunched in Haymitch’s coat, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Your skin is pale, lips dry, hair limp and tangled, but...

You’re breathing.

Talking to Haymitch in a soft, uncertain voice. You’re malnourished, gaunt, exhausted...but intact.

He exhales shakily and takes a step forward, then another.

And then you look up.

For a second—just one—he thinks you might run to him. That your eyes might fill with tears of recognition, relief, love.

But instead...

You flinch.

Your body stiffens and you move closer to Haymitch, almost hiding behind him, like you’re afraid. Your eyes are wide, uncertain, like a deer cornered in a snare.

Finnick’s heart shatters.

“Hey,” he says, holding his hands out gently. “It’s me. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

You don’t answer right away.

Then, your voice, smaller than he’s ever heard it, lifts into the air like a tremor.

“Who are you?”

The world tilts.

“What?” he breathes.

You stare at him blankly. Like he’s a stranger. Like none of it ever happened. The beach. The nets. The whispered secrets in the dark. The stormy nights. The love.

Gone.

“I-I don’t know you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Behind you, a medic freezes. Haymitch’s eyes widen.

Finnick’s knees nearly give out.

“No,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “No, it’s me. It’s Finnick. You know me. You- you-”

But your eyes only fill with fear, your body curling tighter into yourself, like he might hurt you.

And that’s when everyone realizes it.

The Capitol didn’t just take your freedom.

They took him from you too.

Your memories.

Your love.

Everything you were together.

Gone.

A/N: i want you all to remember that YOU GUYS asked for this.

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#isa’s thoughts #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick #hunger games finnick #thg finnick #finnick x reader #finnick fanfic #thg finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair angst #finnick odair x you #finnick odair fanfic #mockingjay #mockingjay fanfic #sam claflin #sam claflin x reader

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screaminglygay · 2 days ago

Text

New way back

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader, past!natasha romanoff x reader, wanda maximoff x reader

summary: after the tension becomes too much, you and natasha break up, leaving behind feelings neither of you can shake. you leave S.H.I.E.L.D. to start over, while natasha finds her place with the avengers. when the maximoff twins join, fate leads you to wanda in a quiet bookstore and what begins as something small slowly grows into something real. but the past never stays buried for long.

warnings: cursing, swearing, emotional angst, past relationship tension, natasha struggling with unresolved feelings, mild miscommunication, lingering heartbreak, slow healing

word count: 10k

an: i just want to say thank you - truly. I’m so happy people are enjoying this story, and your support means more than I can say. It’s been such a joy to write, and I appreciate every single comment<3

part one I part two I part three

It´s the end of the week, so of course there is another party going on. S.H.I.E.L.D. was worse than some collage campus. The music thumped through the walls, the steady bass vibrating through the floor as laughter and chatter filled the air. It was supposed to be a good night, an easy night. A chance to let go, to be close, to have fun together. But it wasn’t. Not for you.

Not when Natasha was across the room, leaning into Maria Hill, smirking at whatever she was whispering in her ear. Not when every little touch, every lingering glance, every laugh felt like it wasn’t meant for you anymore.

You had put up with a lot. You had swallowed the jealousy, reminded yourself that you trusted her, told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That she just wanted to be liked. That she was figuring things out.

But this?

This was your final straw.

You had waited for your moment, watching the way Maria touched her wrist, the way Natasha let her fingers trail down the length of her arm, the way she didn’t pull away.

But when your song came on… the one she used to pull you into her arms for without hesitation, you thought this would be the moment she remembered. The moment she’d look at you, smile, and tug you close like she always did.

You weaved through the crowd, heart pounding, gripping her wrist gently. "Nat! It’s our song!"

She turned her head, the hint of an annoyed expression flitting across her face before she smirked and turned back to Maria, rolling her eyes.

"See what I have to struggle with?" she said with a laugh, making sure Maria could hear.

You froze.

Maria giggled, nudging Natasha’s shoulder, clearly entertained. And that was it. That was all it took for your heart to crack, for everything inside you to shatter into something raw and unbearable. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to cry in front of her. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

So you left. You pushed through the bodies, ignored the heat burning behind your eyes, ignored the way your hands shook, ignored everything until you made it up to the rooftop, where the cold air hit your skin like a slap.

It didn’t stop the tears from falling.

You curled your arms around yourself, shoulders shaking, and let them come. The sobs, the heartbreak, the frustration, the helplessness - everything you had been holding in, everything you had tried to push down.

You didn’t even hear her footsteps until she was there, standing in the doorway.

"There you are," Natasha said, as if this was normal. As if this was okay. "Maria’s about to play beer pong… figured you’d wanna watch."

You scoffed, wiping at your face, not bothering to hide how wrecked you looked. "Are you serious?"

Natasha frowned, stepping closer, "what-"

"I can’t do this anymore," you said, voice trembling, raw with emotion.

Natasha stilled, "baby-"

"No," you cut her off, shaking your head. "Don’t ‘baby’ me right now, Natasha. I’m done."

Her face fell, "wait-"

"You ignored me all night," you choked out, "for her. For them. I know you want people to like you. I get that. But when did I stop being enough?" The words were barely above a whisper, but they cut deeper than anything else.

Natasha’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. And in that silence, in that moment of hesitation, you saw it. You saw the way she didn’t have an answer. And that hurt more than anything.

You inhaled sharply, exhaling a broken laugh. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

You turned to leave, but her hand caught your wrist. "Wait," she whispered, voice barely audible.

You looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the fear, the desperation, the way she looked like she was about to lose something she had never thought she’d have.

But it was too late. You gently pulled your arm away. "I love you, Natasha," you said, voice cracking. "But I can’t keep trying to make this work when it’s only tearing me apart inside."

And with that, you walked away, leaving her standing there, alone. Lonelier than she had ever been.

The days after the break-up were long and filled with an aching emptiness that Natasha tried her best to ignore. She plastered a cool girl exterior over everything, pretending that the world was just as it had always been - full of admirers and fleeting smiles. She didn’t want anyone to see how much it hurt, how much she regretted everything. Natasha had a reputation to uphold, and she would be damned if she let anyone see her broken.

Meanwhile, you couldn’t stand to be around it anymore. The flirting, the constant validation she was chasing from everyone but you, it left a bitter taste in your mouth. The thing was, you love her - loved her for who she was, not the show she put on for everyone else. But you were done. You needed to get away. For your own peace, for your own sanity.

You packed your things quietly, knowing that it would be difficult to leave behind the life you had built at S.H.I.E.L.D. But in the end, you realized that you couldn’t continue to fight for something that wasn’t meant to be. So, you made the decision. You were done. Standing in front of Fury’s desk was something that made your heart beat a little faster, but right now? You were calm. Completly.

"You’re one of the best scoring agent we have," Fury said, eyes narrowed, his voice firm. "You can’t just leave, (Y/L/N)"

His words cut through the air like a warning, but you already knew what you had to do. "I have to, sir." You said, your voice calm, but my heart heavy. "I’m sorry, but I can’t keep doing this. It’s not good to mix personal life with work. You’ve said it yourself."

Fury’s gaze softened for a brief moment, but it was quickly replaced by the usual steely professionalism. He knew. He could see it. But he wouldn’t make it easy for you.

"You’re a damn good agent, (Y/L/N),” he muttered, almost to himself. "The door will be always open for you. Just so you know. Good luck,” he said quietly, his eyes giving you a nod of respect and with a shake of his hand you said your last goodbye.

You didn’t know what would come next. All you knew was that it was time to move on, to find peace somewhere else. And as you walked out of S.H.I.E.L.D.´s walls for the last time, you couldn’t help but wonder if Natasha would ever realize how much it hurt you. And how much you loved her for being her. For being your Natasha.

…

Time had a funny way of softening old wounds. Leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. had felt like cutting off a part of yourself at first, but in the end, it was the best thing you ever did. You found something new, something that didn’t revolve around stealth, danger, or constantly feeling like you had to fight for your place.

Now, you worked as a personal trainer at a gym in the city. It was a different kind of discipline - pushing people to be their best, celebrating their progress, watching them grow stronger. It felt good, fulfilling in a way you hadn’t expected. Your apartment was nice, filled with books and small comforts that made it feel like home. Life was steady. Life was good.

And then you met her.

It happened in the most unexpected, mundane way at a bookstore. You had been eyeing a deluxe edition of this book ferever, fingers just about to close around it when another hand reached for the same copy.

"Oh," you blinked, turning your head to find a pair of deep green eyes looking back at you. The woman in front of you smiled, a little sheepish but undeniably charming.

"Guess we have good taste," she said, her accent lilting around the words. You can´t place it, but it sounds Slavic-ish?

You let out a small laugh, your hand hesitating on the book. "Seems like it."

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could tell she wanted it, but she wasn’t being pushy about it. Just waiting. "You should take it," you said finally, stepping back.

Her brows lifted, "are you sure?"

You nodded, "yeah. I’ll find it another time."

Wanda glanced between you and the book, then back to you again, as if debating something. And then, with a small smirk, she tilted her head. "Well… if you’re letting me have the book, can I at least buy you a coffee?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the offer, but there was something so warm in the way she said it. Genuine.

You smiled, "you don’t have to do that."

"I know," she shrugged, "but I’d like to."

And somehow, fifteen minutes later, you were sitting in a cozy little café, two cups of coffee between you, lost in conversation about books, stories, and the kind of worlds that made reality feel a little more magical. She was smart, funny, and had this way of looking at you like she actually listens everything you were saying.

"So, you’re new to the city?" you asked, fingers curled around your coffee cup as you watched Wanda stir hers absentmindedly.

She nodded, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Yeah. I just moved here with my brother, Pietro… for work."

You raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of your drink. "Work, huh? Sounds mysterious."

Wanda chuckled, shaking her head. "Nothing too exciting. At least, not yet." There’s a flicker of something behind her eyes, but it’s gone before you could place it. Instead, she leaned forward slightly. "What about you? Have you always lived in New York?"

You shook your head, "not always, but I’ve been here for a while. Long enough to call it home."

"Then I guess I should be asking you for tips," she chuckled.

You grinned, "well, first tip... don’t let the city chew you up and spit you out."

She smirked, "that’s very reassuring."

"I mean it in a good way," you laughed. "New York has this… way of testing you, but if you find your rhythm, it can be amazing. I hope you end up liking it here."

Wanda tilted her head, considering your words, "I think I already do."

There’s something in the way she said it, a certain softness to her voice that made your stomach flip, but before you could dwell on it, she asked, "what do you do for work?"

"I’m a personal trainer," you replied, and when Wanda’s eyes widened slightly, you added, "yeah, I know. Not what you were expecting?"

She shakeed her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "No, I just… I guess I didn’t think about it. But it makes sense."

You arched a brow. "Oh? And what exactly makes sense about it?"

She took a slow sip of her coffee, like she´s considering how to answer. Then, she gestured vaguely toward you. "I don’t know, you just… have this way of carrying yourself. Strong, confident." She paused, her smile turning a little teasing. "And you did let me have the book, so clearly, you’re generous, too."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "Generosity has nothing to do with it. I just didn’t want to wrestle someone in the middle of a bookstore."

"That’s a shame," Wanda mused. "I think I’d have put up a good fight."

You chuckled, shaking your head at her. The conversation flowed so easily, like you’ve known her longer than just a handful of minutes.

It was… nice. Comfortable. And as Wanda watched you over the rim of her cup, eyes bright with amusement, you realized that - maybe - this little coffee date was exactly what you needed.

"You have an accent," you remarked, tilting your head curiously. "Where are you from, if you don´t mind me asking?"

Wanda put her coffee cup down and smiled softly, "Sokovia."

Your expression faltered for just a second. Sokovia. You know that name. You’ve heard it on the news, read about it online. The devastation, the aftermath… the way an entire country became a cautionary tale in the wake of destruction. You weren’t there, you didn’t live through it, but you remember seeing the images, the headlines.

"Oh… I’m sorry about that," you said gently, unsure if there’s a right way to address something like that.

Wanda hesitated, something flickering in her eyes before she shakes her head. "It’s okay," she said, voice quiet. "I just… I kind of realized over the years that home is wherever my brother is."

You took a slow breath, nodding, knowing how it feels to follow your brother everywhere. "Yeah. I get that."

For a moment, the two of you sat there, the weight of the conversation settling in the space between you. Then, Wanda offered a small, reassuring smile. "So, what about you?" she asked, shifting the topic slightly. "Do you have family around?"

You hesitated, the question stirring up a mix of emotions, but you just gave her a small shrug. "Not really. But I’ve built something for myself here. I like it."

Wanda studied you for a moment before nodding. "That’s very nice."

You held her gaze for a second longer before clearing your throat and offering a small smile. "Guess we both kind of found a new start, huh?"

Wanda chuckled softly. "Yeah. Seems that way."

And just like that, the conversation shifted again back to lighter things, to book recommendations and the best coffee spots in the city. But there was an unspoken understanding lingering between you, something that made the moment feel… easy. Like maybe you’ve stumbled across someone who understood you more than you´ve expected.

…

Over the years, you weren’t the only one who had worked on yourself. Natasha had, too.

At this point in her life, she had changed in ways you never could have imagined back then. She had gone to therapy - really gone, not just brushed it off. She had done the work, faced the wounds she used to cover with charm and distraction, and slowly, she had started healing. She learned how to be still with herself, how to sit with her emotions instead of burying them under layers of flirtation and detachment. She explored who she wanted to be, who she considered family. And the Avengers? They became that for her.

Now, Natasha was sure of herself, grounded in a way she never used to be. She had grown into the strong, steady woman the world now knew as The Black Widow… not just a name, not just a title, but a person who had fought for the right to be something more than a weapon.

And after Sokovia, she and Wanda had become casual friends. Not inseparable, not the closest of confidants, but they got along well. They worked together, trained together, laughed together when the moment allowed it. She tried to welcome Wanda and her brother, Pietro, as people and not as addition to the team. Because she knows what it feels like to be seen as a thing and not as a person.

Natasha had spent years learning how to be human. And now, she was.

So Natasha had taken it upon herself to make sure the Maximoff twins had everything they needed. It wasn’t an obligation, no one had asked her to do it. But she knew what it was like to be thrown into a new life, into a new world, and expected to just… figure it out.

So she made sure they had a place in the team, that they knew they weren’t just there because they were useful but because they belonged. She checked in, made sure they were settling in, reminded them that despite the chaos of the city, they had a home here. But she also knew better than to hover. Letting the twins find their own way was just as important as guiding them, so she stepped back. Pietro, of course, took to New York like he had been born for it. He was reckless, fast, endlessly amused by the sheer energy of the city. He explored every corner, tested every limit, and never seemed to stay in one place for long.

Wanda, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. She enjoyed her time alone, quietly taking in this new life instead of running headfirst into it. And Natasha respected that. She gave Wanda the space to breathe, to process, to figure things out in her own way.

And Wanda did figure it out.

With you.

Which was ironic, really.

Neither of you knew it yet, but while Natasha had been stepping back to let Wanda find her own path, that path had quietly led to you. And it wasn’t like Wanda had meant to keep being it a secret, she just hadn’t mentioned it. She wasn’t the type to spill her personal life into casual conversation, and it wasn’t like she and Natasha were close enough to share those kinds of things. They worked together, laughed on occasion, but there was no deep, personal friendship that would lead to late-night confessions over a bottle of whiskey.

So she never told Natasha she was seeing someone.

And Natasha never thought to ask.

…

Getting to know Wanda was like unwrapping a gift. Slow, careful, peeling back layers one at a time. She wasn’t closed off, not really, but she was careful. Thoughtful. Like she was still figuring herself out, still deciding what pieces of herself she was ready to share. You didn’t mind.

You liked learning about her, bit by bit. The way she always hummed under her breath when she was reading, the way she tilted her head when she was listening, the way her accent softened when she got comfortable. The way she fidget with her silver rings. The way she smiled at every single puppy you saw on your walks.

She was learning about you too. Maybe in a more direct way than you realized.

Because sometimes, when you sat together, Wanda could hear the static hum of your thoughts. It wasn’t on purpose, she was still learning to control her powers, still figuring out the line between listening and intruding. And it wasn’t all the time. But when your thoughts got loud, when your overthinking started to spiral, she could feel it, like a quiet buzz in the back of her mind.

She never said anything about it. Never wanted to admit that she knew when you were doubting yourself, when you were wondering if she actually liked you, if this thing that´s going on between you was real.

But she knew. And she hated that she knew.

Because she liked you. A lot. And she wanted to tell you the truth about everything before it got too far, before you found out some other way. So, after a few dates, she finally sat you down.

"I need to tell you something," she said, chewing on her lip as she watched your expression carefully.

"Okay?" you said, setting your drink down, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

"My brother and I…"she took a deep breath. "We’re Avengers."

There was a beat of silence.

You blinked.

And then, like a switch flipping, your expression shifted into pure surprise. "Oh."

"I wanted to tell you sooner, I just-" Wanda hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly against the table. "I didn’t want you to feel like you had to stay just because of-"

"Wait, so you’re-" You shook your head, trying to process it all. "That’s… wow."

She stared at you, waiting for something, maybe for you to leave, maybe for you to say it was too much.

But then you laughed.

And it startled her, because that was the last reaction she expected, "what?" Wanda asked, still tense.

You leaned back, shaking your head in amusement. "That’s funny, because I used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D."

Now it was Wanda’s turn to blink. "…what?"

"I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. for years," you admitted with a small grin. "It’s actually how I know about everything that happened with Sokovia. I try to keep up with all that stuff."

For a second, Wanda just stared.

And then, to your relief, she laughed too. "This whole time," she murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. "We’ve been dancing around this, and you-"

"… are an Avenger," you finished for her, still smiling.

Wanda sighed, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, in that case… does that mean you’ll come as my plus-one to the housewarming party next week, it´s this silly, but maybe you would like to?"

You pretended to think about it, then grinned. "Yeah. I will."

The conversation flowed naturally, like it always did with Wanda. After the initial shock of her being an Avenger had settled, you found yourself telling her about your time in S.H.I.E.L.D. - how it started, when you left, and everything in between.

Wanda listened intently, her eyes soft and thoughtful. "You must’ve been good," she murmured, "if Fury was upset about you leaving."

You scoffed. "I was one of the best. Not to brag, but I have the scores to prove it."

She smiled at that, but there was something deeper behind it, "and… do you miss it?"

You thought about it for a second, then shook your head. "Not really. I liked the work, but not the way it messed with my life. Leaving was the right choice."

Wanda nodded, even though she doesn´t know the whole truth behind your words.

Then, after a quiet pause, she finally opened up about her own reasons for joining the Avengers. "I didn’t really have a choice," she admitted. "After Sokovia… after losing my parents, then Pietro and I being used the way we were… I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And Steve, he made me feel like I could be something more. Like I wasn’t just a weapon."

You softened at her words, hearing about the good heart of The Steve Rogers once again. "You’re not."

She met your gaze, something unspoken passing between you before she cleared her throat. "My powers," she started, glancing down at her hands, "they were an accident. Something done to me, not something I was born with. And I’m still learning to control them."

You tilted your head, interested in Wanda´s powers. "What exactly can you do?"

She smirked slightly. "You really want to know?"

You nodded.

"Well…" Wanda lifted a hand, the tips of her fingers glowing a deep, soft red. "I can move things without touching them."

As if to prove her point, the grass nearby shifted slightly, and before you could react, a few wildflowers lifted from the ground, floating up in the air. Your eyes widened as they twirled and swayed as if carried by a gentle breeze, slowly weaving together into a perfectly arranged bouquet.

Your mouth parted slightly.

Then, Wanda held it out to you. "For you."

You took it carefully, eyes still locked onto her, blush slightly creeping on your face.

"That’s… wow," you shook your head in disbelief, then looked back up at her as you hear her voice in your head.

"Plus this," she smiled at you.

"Mind thing, huh?" you said out loud with a small smirk.

Wanda smiled, a little amused by your reaction. “Uh-huh.”

You exhaled dramatically. "Oh, that’s just great. Now I have to worry about you knowing all my embarrassing thoughts?"

She laughed, a soft and happy sound. "I don’t listen on purpose. But sometimes I can… feel things."

Your cheeks warmed at the thought. "Like what?"

Wanda tilted her head, watching you closely, "like right now… I can feel how much you like me."

You immediately looked away, face heating up even more. "Oh my God."

Wanda giggled. "It’s cute."

You groaned into your hands. "I hate this."

"No, you don’t." She reached forward, gently pulling your hands away from your face.

And when you looked up at her, you knew what was about to happen before it even did. She was close, closer than before, her green eyes locked onto yours, her fingers still curled around your wrists. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you didn’t move away. You didn’t want to.

And when she leaned in, you met her halfway. The kiss was soft, warm, and everything you didn’t realize you’d been waiting for. The only thing you had in your head was pure gay panic, tiny little voice that was making so much noise in your head.

When she pulled away, she was smiling, hearing everything your mind is yelling. "See? I knew you liked me."

You sighed, shaking your head fondly, "shut up and kiss me again."

And she did.

...

The transition from casual dates to something more had been seamless, like the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t a question of if but when, and at some point, it just was. Maybe it was the way Wanda always reached for your hand, or the way you leaned into her touch instinctively. Maybe it was the way she started leaving a spare sweatshirt at your place, or the way she curled into your arms on the couch without hesitation.

Whatever it was, it led to this moment.

One evening, after a long day, you were both curled up on your couch, your legs tangled together as you scrolled through a movie selection. Wanda was playing with your fingers absentmindedly, her head resting against your shoulder.

Then, she spoke. "So… are we, like, together?"

You blinked, turning to look at her.

She was smirking, though there was a softness in her eyes. "Because I kinda assumed we were, but you haven’t actually asked me to be your girlfriend yet."

You huffed a laugh, nudging her playfully, "oh, I haven’t, huh?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

You pretended to think, "well… Wanda Maximoff, will you be my girlfriend?"

She grinned, shifting to straddle your lap. "Hmm… I don’t know. I might need a little convincing."

"Oh, is that so?" You laughed, wrapping your arms around her waist.

She hummed in response, her face inching closer to yours, "mmhm.” And then she kissed you. That was all the convincing she needed.

…

You were focused on stirring the pasta sauce, listening as Wanda absentmindedly chatted from her spot at the kitchen counter, flipping through a book. "Oh, I was talking to Natasha the other day," she said casually. "She was overseeing some training sessions."

Your stirring slowed.

You knew, of course, that Natasha was an Avenger now - one of the Avengers. And you also knew that Wanda was part of the team, which meant…

Your stomach flipped.

"Wait," you said, turning to her. "She’s- she’s going to be at the party, isn’t she?"

Wanda looked up, confused at the shift in your tone. "Yeah, of course. Why?"

You hesitated, exhaling sharply. Well. Now was as good a time as any.

Setting the spoon down, you leaned against the counter. "Okay, so… I should probably tell you something."

Wanda closed the book, giving you her full attention. "Alright." She tried her best not to read your mind, not because she would like to get into your privacy, but because she still has some issues with keeping her powers controlled, especially when her nerves were on the surface.

You met her gaze, feeling surprisingly nervous. "Before I left S.H.I.E.L.D… I was in a relationship with Natasha."

Her eyes widened slightly, "oh."

You watched her carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, but she just seemed… curious. "It wasn’t a nasty breakup or anything," you continued. "It just- we weren´t meant to be. And then I left. Haven’t seen her since."

Wanda nodded slowly, absorbing the information, "not a nasty breakup..." she nodded, "and you’re telling me this because…?"

"Because I don’t want there to be any weird surprises at the party," you admitted. "And because I want to be upfront with you. I’m over her, Wanda. Completely. And I’m happy. With you."

That got you a smile from her. Wanda leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the counter. "You are?"

"I really am," you stepped closer, your hands settling on her waist. She studied your face for a moment before nodding, "okay."

You blinked, "okay?"

She smiled, "yeah. You told me. You didn’t have to, but you did. I appreciate that."

Your shoulders relaxed. "You’re… not like weirded out?"

She shook her head, "not at all. Natasha’s great, but if you say you’re over her, I believe you."

A smirk tugged at your lips, "you’re very reasonable, you know that?"

"Well, one of us has to be," she chuckled.

You laughed, nudging her playfully before leaning in to kiss her - slow and sweet. When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together.

"Healthy communication," you teased. "Look at us."

She hummed in amusement. "Aren’t we just the best couple ever?"

You grinned, pressing another quick kiss to her lips. "Yeah, I think we might be."

As you and Wanda settled at the table, plates full of pasta steaming in front of you, the conversation naturally flowed into talk about the team. "So, Pietro has been non-stop asking about you," Wanda said, twirling some spaghetti around her fork. "I think he’s more excited to meet you than he was about getting his new suit."

You chuckled, taking a sip of your drink, "oh yeah?"

She nodded, "he keeps saying things like, ‘Wanda, is she cool? Does she have cool stories? Does she like fast people?’"

You laughed at the imitation, "wonderful." You chuckled and then add. "It's a pity I didn't get to meet Pietro last week. I was kinda looking forward to it."

Wanda smirked, resting her chin on her hand. "Oh, trust me, no need to be sad about it. You're gonna get more than enough of him at the party. He’s… a lot in social settings."

You chuckled. "That sounds like a warning."

"It is a warning," she teased. "But you’ll like him, I promise. And he’ll like you. Maybe too much."

You raised an eyebrow at her. "Too much?"

Wanda sighed dramatically. "I just know he's going to claim you as his new best friend the second you two hit it off. And then I’ll never hear the end of it."

You laughed, "well, I guess I'll have to prepare myself."

She smiled and took a bite of her food. After a moment, she added, "oh, and I’m also really excited for you to meet Steve."

You tilted your head. "Steve Rogers?"

She nodded, eyes lighting up a little, "yeah, he's great. A really good person, but not just in the ‘super soldier hero’ way. He’s thoughtful, kind, and actually listens when you talk. I think you’d really like him."

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Wanda… are you trying to set me up with him?"

Her eyes widened slightly before she scoffed, reaching over to playfully shove your arm

You laughed, shaking your head. "Hate to break it to you, but I´m already dating someone."

She smirked, leaning in a little. "Oh, you are?"

You rolled your eyes, but there was nothing but fondness in your voice as you said, "mhmm."

…

Time flies like crazy and the day of the not so little Avenger party is here. The moment you stepped into the massive tower, because, of course, Tony Stark had to have the biggest damn building in New York, you felt a strange wave of nostalgia hit you. The sleek hallways, the subtle hum of high-tech security, the faintly familiar scent of polished floors and expensive equipment… It wasn’t S.H.I.E.L.D., not exactly, but it was close enough to stir something in your chest. You barely had time to process it before-

Whoosh!

A gust of wind rushed past you, and suddenly, there was an arm slung around your shoulders. "Well, well, well- so you must be THE (Y/N)," a voice said, dripping with amusement.

You blinked, barely registering the blur of silver hair before Pietro Maximoff grinned down at you like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment.

Before you could react, he pulled you into a tight hug, patting your back with way too much enthusiasm. "I’ve heard so much about you! You know, I was starting to think you were just a figment of Wanda’s imagination. But no- you’re real, and I gotta say, you’ve already got bonus points for dealing with her this long."

You snorted, glancing at Wanda, who was watching the interaction with a knowing smirk. "You did warn me," you muttered.

"Told you," she teased, crossing her arms.

Pietro pulled back, grinning as he sized you up. "Alright, first impressions… solid. You seem cool, and I have excellent judgment, so congratulations."

"Oh, thank you for your approval," you said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Wow. I come in here, welcome you with open arms, and this is how you treat me? No respect."

You couldn’t help but laugh. "Okay, okay. You’re alright too, Maximoff."

He gasped dramatically. "Just alright? Wanda, your girlfriend wounds me."

Wanda rolled her eyes. "I told you she’d handle you just fine."

You shook your head with a grin. "Oh, I think we’re gonna get along just fine, too."

Pietro beamed. "Good. Because you’re stuck with me now. Want anything to drink? Wanda?"

You nodded, and in the blink of an eye - whoosh! - Pietro is back, handing you a fruity drink with a cocky little smirk.

"For you," he announced, before handing Wanda an almost too full glass of wine.

Wanda raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"What? You like wine," he shruged, then lifts his own drink, a high-percentage beer that looked strong enough to knock out a normal person.

You took a sip of your drink, then glanced at Pietro. "Wait… How did you even know what I’d like?"

Pietro grinned, leaning on the counter. "Wanda talks a lot about you."

Wanda scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Not that much."

Pietro turned to you, "that much."

You chuckled, watching as Wanda simply sips her wine, pretending not to hear him.

Without missing a beat, she clarified, "Before you ask, no, I didn’t read your mind. I just know you."

"Uh-huh," you hummed, amused.

"And before you wonder why I’m not even tipsy," Pietro added, motioning to his drink, "Wanda and I have a very high alcohol tolerance. I have a ridiculously high tolerance, which means I can’t get drunk. Believe me, I’ve tried."

You nodded with a laugh. "That does sound like something you’d test."

He grinned, raising his glass. "So, on best friends’ cheers?"

You clinked your glass against his. "Best friends’ cheers."

Wanda shaked her head but smiles as she joined in, her glass meeting both of yours. "You two are ridiculous."

"You love us," Pietro teased.

Wanda sighed, but there’s nothing but fondness in her eyes. "Unfortunately, I do."

After some time, as you and Pietro continued talking and joking around, Wanda gently tugged at your hand. "Come on," she murmured with a soft smile. "There’s someone I want you to meet."

Pietro smirked knowingly. "Oh, the introduction. Have fun!"

Wanda rolled her eyes at him before leading you through the lively party, weaving past conversations and laughter until you reached a quieter corner. And then, standing there, just as effortlessly composed as you’d expect - was Steve Rogers himself.

"Steve," Wanda greeted warmly.

Steve turned, his expression immediately softening at the sight of her.

"Hey, Wanda." Then, his gaze shifted to you, and he extended his hand. "You must be (Y/N)."

You shook his hand firmly, surprised by how gentle yet strong his grip was. "That’s me."

He smiled, and it was so genuine, so kind, that you fully understand what Wanda meant when she said he was more than just a good guy. He was The Good Guy.

"I’m really glad to finally meet you," Steve said sincerely. "Wanda talks about you a lot."

You chuckled, throwing a glance at your girlfriend. "So I’ve heard." Wanda simply shrug, an innocent smile on her lips.

Steve nodded approvingly. "It’s good to see her with someone who makes this place feel a little more like home."

Something about the way he said it tugs at your heart. He was not just happy for Wanda, he understood what it’s like to find comfort in people rather than places.

"It’s a work in progress," you sid, smiling. "But I’d like to think I’m doing an okay job."

"You are," Wanda assured you, squeezing your hand gently.

Steve watched the small gesture with warmth in his eyes before he tilts his head. "You know, I heard you used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D."

You nodded. "Yeah. Spent some time in training and fieldwork before… well, before everything changed."

He huffed a knowing breath. "Tell me about it."

From there, the conversation easily shifted into talking about training, about the different approaches to working with new recruits. It turned out Steve already knew a bit about you, at least in a professional sense.

"I remember hearing about your training techniques," he admited. "You had a reputation for being tough but fair."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? And what do you prefer when it comes to training?"

Steve smiled. "I like to focus on discipline, but I think adaptability is key. The best fighters aren’t just strong, they know how to adjust in the moment."

You nodded in agreement. "Exactly. It’s not just about how fast you hit, it’s about how well you think on your feet."

Steve grinned. "I think I’d like sparring with you sometime."

Wanda, who have been quietly watching the entire exchange, chuckled. "Oh no. You’re going to start geeking out over training, aren’t you?"

You and Steve exchanged a knowing look before you smirked. "No promises." She sighed dramatically but squeezed your hand.

Steve tilted his head slightly. "I also heard that you were the second best on S.H.I.E.L.D.´s dead test."

You blinked in surprise. "Oh, uh… yeah."

Wanda's eyes widen. "Wait, what? You never told me that!"

You shrug, a little sheepish, "eh, nothing special."

Steve chuckled. "Being humble is also a good quality in an agent."

"I wasn’t the first, though," you added with a small smirk.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head in amusement. "Hard to beat the one and only Widow."

You nodded, "yeah, well… no one really compares to Natasha when it comes to that stuff."

Wanda tilted her head at you, studying your expression as she gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. You squeezed back instinctively, appreciating the silent support.

"So, she’s still into being the best at everything, huh?" you mused, an edge of familiarity in your tone.

Steve nodded. "Always. No break, just work, basically."

You let out a small chuckle, unsurprised. It was just so Natasha. But before your mind could wander too much, Wanda gently tugged at your hand again, bringing you back to the present.

"Well, you are incredibly impressive too," she murmured, nudging you playfully.

Steve grinned at the exchange but didn´t press further. He didn´t know about your history with Natasha and right now, you kind of prefer it that way.

Wanda, with her impossibly fast metabolism, had spent the last ten minutes determinedly drowning her drinks in an attempt to feel something. It was honestly kind of hilarious. She was pouting slightly, swirling the empty glass in her hand like it had personally betrayed her.

You chuckled, shaking your head, "I’ll get you another one."

She grinned, "make it strong, please."

With a teasing eye roll, you made your way to the bar. It was quieter here, dimly lit, the hum of conversations a little more subdued. You leaned against the counter, waiting for the bartender, when a familiar presence caught your attention from a few seats down.

Natasha.

She wasn’t looking at you at first, but when she finally did, it was like time slowed for a second. Her green eyes flickered with something unreadable… shock, recognition, something deeper beneath the surface.

Not wanting to make a big deal out of it, you gave her a polite smile, a quick nod, and looked down, suddenly aware of how your fingers fidgeted against the counter. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or just… old habits creeping in.

But Natasha? She was blindsided.

You were here. In this tower. At this party. And you looked good. The kind of good that made her itch to close the distance, to ask why you were here, how you’d been, what you’d been up to. She wanted to tell you, needed to tell you, that she wasn’t the same person anymore. That she’d changed. That the reckless, emotionally closed-off woman you had once been with was… healing. Better. That she was stable, secure, someone who could finally deserve you.

And God, she wondered, if she was different now, if she was better now…

Would there still be a chance for the two of you?

She was halfway through standing up, ready to cross that distance, when-

A pair of warm hands found your waist.

Wanda.

She pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before grinning up at you, "what’s taking so long, detka?"

Then she saw Natasha.

And Natasha - cool, composed, always-in-control Natasha - just froze.

Her mask slipped in an instant. Gone was the untouchable Black Widow. Standing there was just… a heartbroken woman. A woman who had just realized, far too late, that she had lost you. Again.

Not wanting to drag this moment out into something heavier than it needed to be, you gave Natasha a small wave. It was meant to be casual, easy, like you were just two people at the same party, nothing more. Natasha hesitated for half a second before walking toward you, her steps measured. Her expression was carefully blank, but her eyes still held that flicker of something unreadable.

Before she could say anything, Wanda leaned in close to you and murmured, "do you want me to go? Give you two a moment?"

You shook your head without hesitation. "No, you can stay."

Natasha caught that.

She caught the way your voice was steady, how your hand lightly rested against Wanda’s waist like it was second nature. How there wasn’t even a sliver of uncertainty in your decision.

You cleared your throat, breaking the moment. "Hey, Natasha," you said, keeping your tone polite. "Before you ask, I´m here only as a plus one, I´m not coming back as an agent." There was no malice, no lingering tension - just a quiet honesty. Nat nodded slowly, her lips parting like she wanted to say something else, but before she could, you offered her a small smile. "You look good. I hope you’ve been doing well."

Something in her expression shifted, her fingers twitching at her side, but she only nodded again. "You too."

And just like that, you grabbed the drinks from the bar, handing Wanda hers before turning away with her, letting the moment dissolve behind you. As you and Wanda walked away from the bar, drinks in hand, she let out a small, amused breath. "Well… that went well," she murmured, nudging you lightly with her hip.

You hummed in response, taking a sip of your drink as you led her toward a quieter corner of the room where a few plush seats were set up, "yeah." You finally said, "could’ve been worse."

Wanda sat down beside you, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her glass. "She was staring at you the whole time."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I noticed."

"Should I be jealous?" she teased, tilting her head.

You turned to her with a smirk. "You planning on breaking up with me anytime soon?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Of course not."

"Then no," you said simply, reaching over to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. Wanda smiled at that, her shoulders relaxing a bit, "besides I think, that she was just shocked I´m here."

After a brief silence, she leaned into you, resting her head against your shoulder. "So," she started, dragging out the word. "Since we’re here, and since I have an actual S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to ask, was Fury really pain in the ass to work with?"

You huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, you know. He´s a lot of rules, a lot of paperwork So… kinda."

Wanda laughed. "And what was the hardest part to do?"

"Oh defiently running," you nodded, being totally serious.

"Running?"

"Yeah, we weren’t all enhanced, you know," you joked, nudging her playfully. "Some of us had to train like normal people. Survival of the fittest and all that."

Wanda giggled. "And yet, you almost got the best score?"

"Almost," you corrected. "Big difference."

"Mm, I think you’re just being humble again," she teased, nudging your knee with hers.

You sighed dramatically. "It’s really hard to compete with a super-spy, Wanda."

"True, true," she mused. "We have that said super-spy over there, still staring at us."

You resisted the urge to look over your shoulder, instead bringing your drink to your lips. "Let her stare. She’ll get bored eventually."

Wanda hummed, then smirked. "You know, if you were still at S.H.I.E.L.D. and I was still new to the Avengers, I think they would’ve sent you to check me out."

"Check you out?" You wiggled your eyebrows suggestively.

She groaned, shoving your arm lightly. "You know what I mean! Like, making sure I wasn’t a threat."

You snickered. "I mean, technically, you were a threat back then."

"Exactly," she said proudly. "So? Would you have taken the mission?"

You pretended to think about it. "Hmm. On one hand, I’d be risking my life. On the other hand…" You glanced at her, letting your eyes flicker over her face. "I’d get to meet you."

Wanda’s cheeks darkened, and she shoved you again, but this time, her fingers lingered on your wrist. "Stop being sappy," she muttered.

"Never," you shot back, squeezing her hand. She shook her head, a fond smile on her lips. And as Natasha sat across the room, still watching, still quiet, you didn’t spare her another glance. Because in this moment, it was just you and Wanda.

As you and Wanda continued your conversation, reminiscing about S.H.I.E.L.D. days and sharing quiet laughs, a familiar voice cut through the air behind you.

"Well, well. That is a surprise."

Your head snapped up instantly, and a wide grin spread across your face. "Fury!"

Standing a few feet away, clad in his signature black coat and with the ever-present unimpressed look on his face, was Nick Fury himself. He crossed his arms, giving you a once-over before shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. Why does he always wears the coat? Even at a party?

"Relationships always mess with work," he mused, smirking just a little.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against the couch, "I’m here with Wanda, Fury. I’m not coming back."

"That so?" He raised a brow. "Didn’t think you’d ever get tired of the action."

You shrugged, taking a sip of your drink. "It’s not for me anymore. I like my work, my mostly cleared schedules."

Fury let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, training people as a trainer. Real relax."

“You been checking up on my life?” Your eyes narrowed slightly.

Fury gave you that signature, unreadable look before answering, "my eye is everywhere."

You sighed, shaking your head with a small laugh, "of course it is."

Fury took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound a little more serious, "if you ever decide to come back…"

You raised a brow, "you just said relationships mess with work, and now you want me to come back?"

Fury smirked again, tilting his head slightly, "if you change your mind, my number’s still the same."

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like he always did, like a damn shadow.

As soon as he was out of sight, Wanda leaned in close, wiggling her eyebrows at you with a smirk. "Well…"

You turned your head slowly to give her a look, already knowing where she was going with this. "Don’t you dare start too, Wan."

She giggled, taking a sip of her wine, "I didn’t say anything!"

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, shaking your head, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

Wanda swirled the remnants of her drink in her glass. You, on the other hand, were starting to feel the warmth of the alcohol settle in. A light buzz in your head, a lazy grin pulling at your lips. Not drunk, but definitely tipsy.

"You okay?" Wanda asked, amused as she watched you lean into the back of the couch a little more than before.

"Mhm," you hummed, setting your glass down on the small table beside you. "Just… comfy."

Wanda chuckled, shaking her head. "Lightweight."

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "I’ll have you know, I used to drink with top agents. You don’t survive that without building some tolerance."

She gave you a skeptical look. "And yet, here you are. Tipsy."

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "You just have freaky metabolism."

"Fair point," she admitted, taking another sip of her wine. "But still funny to watch."

You rolled your eyes but let the smile linger. Wanda glanced down at her glass, then back up at you, her expression softening slightly. "You know… Natasha was really good to me and Pietro when we got here."

That caught your attention, you blinked, turning to face her more fully. "Yeah?"

Wanda nodded, her gaze distant for a moment. "We didn’t trust anyone at first. And I mean anyone." She sighed. "We were… lost. Everything we had believed in, everything we fought for… it was all gone. And suddenly, we were supposed to trust these people we used to call enemies?" She let out a quiet laugh. "It was terrifying."

You stayed quiet, letting her continue.

"But Natasha… she was patient. She didn’t push, didn’t try to force us to talk. She just… made sure we were okay. Checked in. Gave us space, but always reminded us she was there." Wanda smiled faintly. "She was one of the first people who made me feel like I belonged here."

You tilted your head slightly, watching her as her words sank in. You had known Natasha in a very different light. You knew her sharp edges, her relentless drive, her constant need to be the best. But the way Wanda spoke about her… it was softer. Warmer.

Had she really changed that much?

Maybe more than a bit.

Wanda nudged you lightly, "you’re thinking really hard about something."

You blinked, shaking off the thoughts. "Just… surprised, I guess."

She studied you for a moment, then tilted her head with a knowing look. "You thought she’d always stay the same, didn’t you?"

You huffed a small laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "Natasha never really needed to change. She was always so sure of herself, always knew exactly what she was doing. Yet… not really. It’s weird to think of her as…" You trailed off, searching for the right words.

"As someone who cares?" Wanda finished for you, a teasing glint in her eye.

You snorted. "She always cared. She was just really bad at showing it."

Wanda hummed in agreement. "Well, maybe she figured it out."

You let that thought settle in, absentmindedly tapping your fingers against your thigh, "I´m glad she was and still is there for you, I don´t want to make it weird between you two."

"(Y/N), we all are adults." Wanda poked your side.

You hummed, "true, but we all are surrounded by not so common work."

It´s not so shocking, that she changed and truly worked on herself. Natasha Romanoff wasn’t the same woman you once knew. It is totally normal, but Wanda´s words still suprised you.

As Wanda made her way through the crowd, saying goodnight to everyone, you took the opportunity to slip away toward the bar, deciding that a glass of water might help ease the tipsiness creeping up on you. The party was still lively, but the energy had settled, with some guests already leaving and others dissapearing into quiet conversations.

You leaned against the counter, running a hand through your hair as you waited for your drink. The cold water felt refreshing against your palm, and you took a slow sip, letting yourself breathe for a moment.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you noticed someone approaching. You didn’t have to turn your head to know who it was.

Natasha stood just a few steps away, hands casually tucked into the pockets of her black pants, but there was something careful about the way she carried herself, like she wasn’t sure if she should be standing there at all. "You’re drinking water at a party?"

"Trying to avoid a headache tomorrow," you replied, swirling the ice in your glass before finally glancing at Natasha.

She had one elbow resting on the bar, body angled toward you, her expression unreadable but undeniably curious. "That’s surprisingly responsible of you."

You huffed a small laugh, "I can be responsible."

Natasha smirked slightly, eyes flicking over you like she was trying to piece something together. "You always did like sneaking away from crowds."

You shrugged. "Old habits."

A silence settled between you for a few moments, not entirely awkward, but definitely not the effortless kind you used to have. It was Natasha who broke it first.

"I heard you are a personal trainer now," she said, tilting her head slightly.

You gave her a look, "first Fury and now you," you chuckled, "How do you know?"

She smiled just a little, "I have my ways."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. "Yeah, I train. Mostly physical conditioning, self defence, a little tactics. Keeps me busy."

"And keeps you out of the field."

You exhaled slowly, nodding, "yeah. That part of my life is over."

Natasha studied you for a moment before nodding, almost to herself. "You seem… different."

That made you pause, "different how?"

She tilted her head, considering. "More at peace."

You weren’t sure what to say to that. Instead, you just smiled slightly. "Guess I’ve figured some things out."

Natasha held your gaze for a beat longer, and you could tell she wanted to say something else. But instead, she finally asked, "You and Wanda…?"

You nodded. "Yeah."

"For how long?"

"Some time now."

Natasha pressed her lips together, nodding slowly. "I see." She glanced away for a second before taking a breath. "I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry."

That made you pause.

"For what I did all those years ago," she continued, shifting slightly on her feet. "For how I hurt you. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I need you to know that I’m different now. I’ve worked on myself. I’m better." You studied her for a moment, then offered her a small, sincere smile.

"Thank you for the apology, Nat. It´s okay." You looked away for a second, sipping on your water. "By the way… I’m happy for you, Nat. Really. You deserve to feel stable and have a family like the Avengers. You´re really glowing here."

Her eyes softened, as if your words lifted something heavy off her shoulders. "Thanks," she said quietly.

You nodded, taking another sip of water. There was nothing left to be said, at least not tonight. But for the first time in a long time, things didn’t feel so heavy between you two, like the last time you saw her.

As soon as Wanda said all her goodbyes and then appeared beside you, her hand instinctively found yours, her fingers warm and familiar as they laced with yours. Natasha’s eyes flickered between the two of you before offering a small nod.

"We are heading for tonight, so see you tomorrow, Nat." Wanda said softly, her tone polite but firm.

You nodded as well. "Goodnight."

Natasha held your gaze for a second longer, something unreadable flashing in her expression before she gave a small smile. "Goodnight."

And with that, you and Wanda turned to leave, stepping out of the party and into the quiet night.

The walk back to your place was peaceful, the air crisp, the distant hum of the city filling the silence between you. By the time you stepped inside, exhaustion was starting to settle in, but Wanda’s teasing tone pulled you right back.

"I see you made sure to drink some water," she mused, nudging your side as she slipped off her coat.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smirk. "Didn’t feel like waking up miserable."

"Smart," Wanda hummed, already pulling you towards the bed.

It didn’t take long before the two of you were tangled up together, bodies fitting perfectly under the covers. Wanda’s fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on your arm, her breath warm against your neck.

"Hoped you enjoyed tonight," she murmured sleepily.

You let out a soft sigh, relaxing into her hold. "Yeah… I had fun. It was nice to come back."

Wanda smiled against your skin, her grip around you tightening just a little. She didn’t say anything else, but you knew what she was thinking.

You’d be calling Fury soon.

Because no matter how much you insisted that part of your life was over, you loved training people too much to stay away forever. It was still part of you, something that will stay with you till the day you´ll die.

The days following Tony’s party felt like a blur of normalcy, something rare and precious when you were dating an Avenger. Wanda’s schedule was unpredictable at best, but she always made sure to carve out time for the two of you, such as lazy mornings tangled in blankets, quiet dinners, and stolen moments between her missions.

And when you weren’t spending time with her, you were at the gym, running your own classes, guiding people through drills, and finding satisfaction in watching them improve.

It was a good balance.

Most of the time.

It became a habit - Wanda coming home and venting about work, about the team, about whatever new chaos had unfolded that day.

And lately, her frustrations had taken a familiar pattern.

"I swear, (Y/N), I watched a group of recruits today completely botch a simple counter maneuver. Like, a basic one. It was painful." Wanda groaned, draping herself dramatically over the couch while you stood in the kitchen, making some tea.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you poured the hot water into two mugs. "What was the mistake?"

"They left their center completely open. No weight shift, no counterbalance, just begging to be thrown to the ground."

You nearly choked on a laugh, "oh my god, that’s such a stupid mistake."

"Right?" Wanda sighed. "And Steve’s been trying to work on it, but it’s not really his style. They need someone who actually knows how to drill this stuff into their heads, not just super soldier who fought in war."

You didn’t catch it at first, the way she said it, casual but deliberate, planting the idea like a seed in your mind.

It wasn’t just a complaint. It was a suggestion.

But Wanda moved on quickly, sipping her tea as she changed the subject, and you didn’t think much of it.

Until it happened again. And again.

"Nat says the newer agents struggle with disarming techniques," Wanda mentioned over breakfast one morning, "it slows down their reaction time in the field."

You scoffed as you buttered your toast. "That’s basic survival. Why aren’t they drilling it more?"

"Exactly," Wanda said with a knowing look, but she didn’t push. She never did.

She just kept mentioning things. Little things. How S.H.I.E.L.D.´s training program was lacking. How the recruits weren’t getting the guidance they needed. How maybe, just maybe, someone with your experience could help. You weren’t sure when you started seriously considering it.

It was just… there. A thought in the back of your mind, lingering longer each time Wanda brought it up.

taglist: @starrycherie, @esposadejoyhuerta, @redroomgraduate

#adele writes #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff angst #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #marvel fanfiction #marvel universe #marvel fanfic #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x female reader

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atomic-waste-of-time · 2 days ago

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Daggers and Arrows

A story by me:3

Assailant: ha! I have you bested arrowless archer, with no ammunition, and in such short a distance, you shall surely fall to my bla-

The Assailants chin is held aloft by the archers Dagger, after the Archer used her Dagger to parry the short swords clumsy swing, knocking the blade from the untrained sword womans hands. The Archer smirks, leaning down to look the baffled woman in the eyes.

Archer: One, never monologue to someone within stabbing distance. Two, Never underestimate the Archers close range capabilities. And Three, Long distance units usually carry a form of small arms in case of extremely close quarters. Also, you should've worked a bit more with your blade instead of your tongue. Here's hoping you've learned your lesson. The Arrowless Archer winks, then turns and struts away, leaving the Assailant both confused and incredibly attracted to the strange Archer, and the witch hiding in a nearby bush, who had originally cursed the Archer, has drawn the entire scene, planning to sell it later as the first erotic depiction of a Dagger used in Foreplay. The witch was a genius, thinking that everyone would clumsily kill themselves while trying this new Technique.

Unfortunately for the witch, when she used her pocket mirror to ask the other witches in her coven via what we would call facetiming. Alas, to her dismay, the piece had no potential buyers in other towns, and if she showed the art in Daggersworth (the town in which the Arrowless Archer and the Assailant both live), they'd know who drew it for sure.. She decided to test her luck, and headed into town. She had a devilish idea indeed..

The Assailant (who I've decided is named Arma) was on her porch, she was recently broken up with, and thus used it as a business to cover the cost her gambling ex boyfriend left behind. It was a small smithy, dubbed "Arms and Armor" after her ex Aramor, who was clever with names, but not smart enough to realize dating every girl in town at once was a terrible idea on his part. "At least the hanging went smoothly" she thought to herself.

The Arrowless Archer approached the Smithy, it had been two days since the Assailant attacked, and the Archer knew Arma well enough to be the Assailant, but she was struggling, and the Archer (named Tinara, as I've now decided) was better than to hurt someone already hurting. They sighed, ringing the bell to let Arma know she was here, the girl was always so focused on her work, that she installed a small bell to ensure people could get her attention.

Tinara: Arma, I've an issue you're best at resolving!

Arma: Ah, hello Tinara!! Give me just a moment and I'll be with you!

Arma was, at present, fanning the small forge she used to heat the metals. (For the ones imagining the scene, and who'll know what I'm talking about, think of the blacksmith in Whiterun, except it looks better). She then approached Tinara, happy to see her as always.

Arma: So, what's the problem this time? Someone get too close and break your dagger?

Tinara: No, but a dagger is involved. Look at this.

Tinara held up a picture she had found on sale in the market by a young woman. It was signed with Armas signature, and it was of their brief encounter two days ago.

Arma: Wh.. where did you get this? That's my signature!

Tinara: I know, that's why I'm here. Did you draw these? I like them, but still, having these sold around.. I know times are tough for yo-

Arma: No, not in a hundred years could I draw that well, nor would I dare sell anything so provocative of myself.. Someone is setting the both of us up, but why?

Tinara: Well your ex is dead, so it can't be him. Any enemies aside from them?

Arma: Well, there was a witch, the one who turned all my Iron into Rabbits, ruined me that day because I couldn't be bothered to work the forge, as the same day my dog, Fido, had passed. I should've told her maybe, then she might have felt pity an-

Tinara: Shush, I've heard enough. You needn't belittle yourself for grieving, and it seems we have a common enemy. I propose we find them, and, seeing as the damage has already been done, end her life so she may no longer haunt our people.

Arma: Well, we could also just, I dunno, ask for money, she used our encounter for smut of all things, it's only fair we're paid for that.

Tinara: Hmm.. I suppose, she'll have made some good money from this I presume, we may be able to keep your shop open, hopefully befo-

???: Before I arrived, I presume?

Molly, the towns Debt Collector, had been standing there a while, her left arm under her breasts as she looked at her nails on her right hand. She was always one for dramatics, her parents owned the Theater in Swordston, the neighboring city. They made a lot of money, which was wasted on her drama classes, and very well spent in self defense and sword training, where she thrived. She was then elected the position of the towns Debt Collector after killing the first one in fair combat. Not a soul has beat her yet, and it's been about 7 years.

Molly: I was here to collect the debt your late ex boyfriend brought about with his drinking at the Ironhide Pub, and the property damage, and the-

Arma: Yes yes, get to the point, we've not the whole day to waste away.

Molly: Well, I heard something about Daggers, Smut, and a plan of some kind?~

Molly was also well known to be the towns connoisseur of all things lewd and tasteful, she works with the library to ensure the works of art she admires most remain preserved for all to learn from. Nobody saw any reason to make a fuss of it, and so it's been allowed to persist as one of Daggersworths many oddities.

Tinara: The witch that cursed me and Troubled Arma is the one making this smut all over town, signing it in Arma's signature to sully her na-

Molly: OOOH, Give!

Molly snatched up the piece before either could protest, and studied it close, putting on some small glasses to see more detail.

Arma: I'd would rather you'd ask first Molly, I understand your profession but this is a sensitive matter for I and Tinara.

Molly: That's because you're burdened by shame and such trivial things as the societal normalcy we've grown too accustomed to.

Tinara: Look, the matter is we've a witch to hunt, so w-

Molly: Oh, but look at her Anatomy! She caught both of your forms so well, and the way she made lighting in the scene with so little to work with, splendidly done indeed, I'll have to give this a special spot and ask for a properly signed one, truly a Queen of her craft. No wonder you're so concerned, These pieces are worth a fair bit! I'll have to come with the both of you.

Molly, looked up from the piece, to see a rather cross Arma tapping her foot impatiently.

Arma: If you're only coming for the Pornography, You may as well stay here. I highly doubt your expertise will be of use to us if we're ambushed by a member of their Coven.

Molly: Well, There's an official reason as well! I would be aiding in preserving history, and of course, ensuring you both have the payment by the end of the trip, so you can pay your debt. Plus I'm a great fighter, you know this firsthand Tinara~

Molly and Tinara spar on occasion, it helps them practice their aim, and the two enjoy each others company.

Tinara: Fine, you can come along, but if you so much as peak up a skirt I'll take your hammer and whack you upside the head.

Arma: I'll work on food, and close up the shop, Tinara can you bring some supplies? We'll need blankets and coats in case we encounter snow.

Molly: It's summer! How would it snow in the summer?

Arma: You never know, I try to be prepared. And besides, blankets are comfy, we should bring one each.

Molly: We could all share one?

Arma and Tinara in unison: No!

Molly: Alright alright.. I'll bring my extra large one just in case, and my Precious Biscotti, she'll alert us to danger, she's so talented.

Biscotti was a 6'5 Birch Wolf, a rare and powerful breed, they live in forests dense with birch, and have a similar pattern on their fur to that of a birch tree. They're one of many kinds of Woodland Wolves, a subspecies of wolves that disguise themselves as trees to better hunt skittish prey. Birch wolves are known for being incredibly alert creatures, and their heightened senses make them great guards. It's said that a well trained Birch Wolf can protect you from all harm, and sense the ill intent of others.

Biscotti can definitely sense ill intent in people, they were of old age, and had a lot of experience with bad people. Her previous owner gouged out her eyes, and as such her other senses were elevated, specifically her senses of touch and hearing. She often stamps the ground in order to get an idea of where she is. She also has a little pink bow, a gift from Molly.

Upon hearing her name, Biscotti emerged from behind Armas House, where they were basking in the sun. They nuzzled against Molly, emitting a low growl, a sign of affection.

Tinara: Well, I best get ready, I need to get some more ammunition for my slingshot.

Arma: I'll bring the food!

Molly: I'll bring the hitting sticks!!

The three nodded, and began quickly assembling gear together, in order to find the witch, and.. well, honestly not one of them was sure what they'd do exactly, but they'll come up with something on the road.

End of chapter one. Hope you enjoyed!!! idk where to put this but sometimes you see an idea and just go "yeah we rock with it." yknow?

As the kingdom’s best archer, you were cursed so your arrows would never hit again. But you just started shooting other things—rocks, sticks, shoes—and somehow, it works even better. Folks call you "The Arrowless Archer."

#writing prompts #writing inspiration #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers #kinda nsfw?#definitely mentions it #no idea where to put this #made a google doc #it has some corrections in grammar and stuff #hope you enjoy!!!

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better-setterv2 · 3 days ago

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𝒞𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑀𝑒 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 🎨

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I hope you’re all well. Here is a quick one shot that I wrote and also posted on PolyBuzz which you can create your own similar story. I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it. Any feedback is welcomed appreciated. Lots of love xx

Summary: While colouring in Lewis’s tattoos with markers, playful teasing turns into quiet intimacy, revealing how safe and soft he feels around you.

Warning: none

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The hotel suite was quiet, the hum of the city beyond the tall windows softened by the gentle rain tapping against the glass. A warm amber glow lit the room. The lamplight, low and soothing which casted golden halos across the space. You sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook and coloured pens laid out beside you, but your attention had long since drifted elsewhere.

Lewis lay on his stomach, shirt off, arms folded under the pillow, eyes closed, completely relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. The tattoos that told the stories of his life ranging from his family, faith and beliefs sprawled across his back and arms like living art. You'd always admired them, often catching your fingers tracing the lines absently when he was close, or stealing glances when he was changing. Each one held meaning. Each one had history. Which made you love them even more.

"You’re staring," Lewis murmured, voice low and amused, not even turning to look at you.

You blinked, caught. "I was just thinking."

"About?"

You hesitated, then grinned. “How cool it would be to colour in your tattoos.”

Now he did open his eyes and turn his head. His gaze was dark with curiosity and a hint of mischief. "Colour them in?"

You nodded, already reaching for your pens. “Like a giant walking colouring book.”

He raised a brow with a small grin. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. Lay still and trust the artist,” you said, crawling over to sit beside him.

Lewis gave a soft laugh, burying his face into the pillow again. “Alright then. Just don’t draw a mustache on me.”

You giggled, uncapping a deep green marker and gently touching the edge of his shoulder tattoo. Your strokes were light, careful not to tickle. As you began filling in the tattoo, you felt the shift in the air - not uncomfortable, but quieter. More thoughtful.

"You really love these, huh?" he said after a moment.

"Yeah," you whispered. “They’re like pages of your story.”

Lewis was silent for a beat. “Most people just think they look cool.”

You shrugged, switching to a soft purple. “They do look cool. But they’re you. Pieces of who you are.”

The weight of your words settled in the space between you. Lewis turned his head slightly to look at you, his eyes soft now, no trace of teasing. “That’s kind of why I love you, you know.”

You paused mid-stroke, heart skipping. “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly. “You see stuff others don’t. You see me.”

For a while, you coloured in silence, your fingers moving gently across his skin, the air between you filled with something quiet and warm. You weren’t just filling in ink - you were connecting. Laughing occasionally when a line strayed, or when he twitched and insisted it wasn’t because he was ticklish.

After a comfortable silence Lewis spoke up. “You missed a spot,” He murmured, voice low and ࣪amused.

You glanced up from where you were carefully filling in the black ink of the lion tattoo on his left chest with a purple marker, only to find him watching you with a faint smirk.

“Excuse me,” you huffed, mock-offended, “I take my artistry very seriously.”

“Right,” he chuckled, eyes crinkling. “How could I forget I hired the most professional temporary tattoo artist in the business?”

You shook your head, dipping the marker again with exaggerated precision. “Keep talking and I’m switching to glitter pens.”

Lewis stretched lazily under you, the movement sending a ripple across his back muscles. “Do your worst,” he said, tone teasing. “I’ll wear it to the paddock tomorrow.”

You paused dramatically. “Don’t tempt me.”

For a moment, the room quieted again, except for the light tapping of rain on the windows and the soft rustle of fabric. His warmth radiated through the hoodie you were practically drowning in. His hoodie to be exact. The scent of his cologne still lingered on it. Comforting. Familiar.

“You’re really relaxed today,” you noted softly, switching colors. “That’s rare.”

He was quiet for a beat. “Think it’s you,” he finally said. “When you’re around, things feel lighter.”

You smiled at that, trying not to let your heart hammer too loudly. He always had this way of slipping something soft into the middle of your banter, like a secret he wasn’t sure he should be telling.

“So I’m basically your emotional support crayon.”

Lewis laughed, actually laughed. The sound bubbling up from chest like it had been pulled straight from somewhere deep inside him. His huff of laughter was that low, rare sound you always tried to coax out of him. “Exactly.”

You leaned in, closer than necessary. “Good. Because I’m not done with this masterpiece.”

And as you started colouring in the compass on his chest this time in a ridiculous mix of pink and green, you swore he leaned just a little closer too.

#lewis hamilton x reader #x reader #f1 x reader #lh44 #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 smau #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 #lh44 x reader #lewis hamilton one shot #lh44 imagine

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hanafubukki · 3 days ago

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Summary: Malleus goes missing. Lilia panics a little (a lot).

“We can’t find him.”

The blood in Lilia’s veins froze. He stared at the two worried knights before him.

He straightened in his seat, “Knowing Malleus, he might have gotten distracted on his way back.”

The look the two sent each other sent a slight rush of anxiety through him.

“Father, we asked around and no one has seen him. We tried calling but…”

But his phone is probably broken. That boy. Causing me trouble even at this age.

Lilia looked at the young knights before him, “Go. Ask the Shrouds if they have footage of his last known location.”

Silver and Sebek nodded before heading off.

He knew he told Silver and Sebek to handle it, but he couldn’t leave it.

He felt unsettled.

Anxious.

He knew Malleus could take care of himself. There’s little in this world that could take him out.

Still.

Where is he?

Back in Briar Valley, he always knew where Malleus was: the castle or the cottage.

Their world was small and he knew he preached to broaden their horizon and meet others.

But…at least he’d always know their location. One way or another.

Even when Malleus thought he was sneakily running off to visit the nearby town, he knew.

But now…

Where did he go?

“Far Cry Cradle.”

The magic that reflects his soul, the reason why he manifested it, it doesn’t escape him, the irony of why he uses it now—this time to find Malleus.

Azul stared at the entity before him.

Living in the sea made him aware of dangers no man on land were aware. Tales told to keep mermans away from the darker depths.

Azul knew the dangers of the sea, but he had never known the fears of land.

Before him lay darkness incarnate, shadows moving with every step; crimson eyes bright as fresh blood.

He resisted the urge to press the panic button. He doubted he’d even have the chance with the slithering of vines on the floor.

“Let’s have a chat, Ashengrotto.”

“I found him.”

Sebek let out a sigh as Silver relaxed his tense shoulders.

“Where is he father?”

“Having a marriage ceremony with the Prefect and others.”

Silence.

“What?!”

Lilia’s shoulders shook at the response he received.

That boy…he better call soon.

It is forever funny to me how Malleus just left without letting anyone know. He said his time as the master of the dream world is over and now he’s going to go off to a wedding because he was especially invited. Bye family. 😂💞

You know, as if he didn’t wreck us all for over two years for said family lolol

I couldn’t stop thinking how would Lilia and the others react? I mean we’ve already seen how Sebek and Silver runs after him, but Lilia? He always seems to know where Malleus is (book 6) or he sent him off with others (events). This time he didn’t know at all. 😆😆

I feel Lilia would be happy and yet have mixed feelings. He’s happy because Malleus is being independent, going out, making friends and memories, etc.

But mixed feelings because…where is he? Why wasn’t he told? He always knew where he was before or he had an inkling. Lilia never that far away or Malleus under the watchful eyes of others. But this time? Nothing. Nothing at all.

So I feel he would pout just a little. 😆🤣💞💞 maybe feeling a little bit of empty nest like he did in the beach event. Happy but also pouty 🥰🥰💞💞

(I really like how I wrote Lilia here. I always love describing him as a different entity or something unnatural or different. It’s one of my faves to make him more darkness and creature like.)

[Using this as my summoning circle to hopefully get a cute Malleus story and voice lines. I hope we get something related to souvenirs or a phone call back or something. At the very least, I hope we get a beautiful Malleus groovy 💞🙏]

#lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #diasomnia #twisted wonderland #twst fluff #twst platonic #twst lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #twst drabble #disney twisted wonderland #Disney twst #twst malleus draconia #twst malleus #twst scenarios

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brookghaib-blog · 18 hours ago

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The ghost I left behind (preview)

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I have this idea in mind I want to share it, it's still to be writen and planned but I will provide this and watch yall feedback. I had this idea when reading the content on the tag, and I'm bored with all being smut and more smut (which it's fine, but enjoy a story). Feel free to comment and message me with your opinions :) I also had this idea because sentry has a whole wife in the comics, so I'm giving him one.

The Void pulsed around them, breathing shadows. Echoes. Regrets.

“Where are we?” Ghost asked, her voice uneasy.

The warped blackness twisted, then rippled—and suddenly, they weren’t in the darkness anymore.

They were standing inside a small, dimly lit apartment. Peeling paint, an open window letting in the summer air. A cheap fan spun lazily in the corner. A couch with cigarette burns. And two people in the center of the room.

One of them was Bob.

The other was her.

Y/N.

She stood barefoot in an oversized t-shirt, mascara streaked down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking.

“You lied to me again, Bobby!” she screamed, holding up a small baggie in trembling fingers. “You told me you were clean!”

“I was! I am—I—” Bob stammered, his eyes darting, wild. “I just—one time, I swear. I needed to feel normal again, Y/N. Just for one night.”

She laughed, a horrible sound—broken, gutted. “You don’t get to call this normal! You said you wanted to get better! That you wanted to be here for us—”

He froze. "Us?"

She pressed a hand to her stomach. Her voice cracked like glass.

“I’m pregnant, Bobby.”

Dead silence.

Even the fan stopped.

Bob’s memory-self blinked. Stepped backward as if the words physically struck him. “No,” he whispered. “No, you—Y/N, why would you do this to me—”

“Do this to you?” she whispered, eyes wide. “It’s a baby, Bobby. Not a punishment.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

“I believed in you,” she choked. “I thought I could help you. But you keep choosing the drugs. You keep choosing to disappear, and now..” Her voice broke entirely. “Now I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

She turned her back to him. And then, the memory flickered like a dying film reel—and stopped.

They were back in the Void.

Bob sank to his knees.

“That’s her,” he whispered, voice like gravel. “That’s Y/N.”

The others stared in stunned silence. Even Bucky didn’t speak.

“I left her. I left everything,” Bob said, clutching his head. “I thought—God, I thought I’d never get clean. I was barely holding myself together, and she—she had so much hope. I didn’t want to drag her down with me.”

He looked up. Eyes rimmed with red. A storm behind them.

“She was the only good thing in my life. And I left her alone. With our child. Because I was afraid.”

No one moved.

“I thought I was protecting her, how could a drug addict be a great boyfriend and a better father,” he said. “But really…I just broke her heart.”

And then the Void pulsed again—quieter this time. Like it was listening.

To be continued...

#thunderbolts #sentry x reader #bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #marvel #thunderbolts x reader #robert reynolds x you #the new avengers #void x reader #sentry

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blueberrybirdsworld · 7 hours ago

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Collision 9/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : SMUT (MDNI)

CHAPTER 9 :

Serie Masterlist

Texts messages :

Lando

I’d really like to see you again.

Just us. A proper dinner. A quiet place.

You in?

Ariana

Yes.

That sounds good.

Pick the place.

I’ll be there.

Lando

7PM.

I’ll pick you up.

And I promise not to talk about engines for once.

Ariana

Not even one metaphor?

Lando

Only if it’s a good one.

And only if it makes you smile.

The restaurant he chose was quiet, tucked between rows of old stone buildings and dimly lit galleries. The kind of place that still wrote the menu by hand. Where the wine list was spoken aloud and the music stayed low enough not to interrupt a thought.

He pulled her chair out before sitting across from her, the candlelight between them softening the edges of everything. Her dress was understated and elegant. She wore no necklace, only a hint of lipstick and the weight of something unreadable in her eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

“I’m glad you asked.”

Conversation unfolded slowly, not playful, but personal. She told him about the quiet hours before a show, the meditative routine of stretching, braiding her hair, the way a certain silence meant the performance would go well.

He told her about noise, how he was used to it. How he’d learned to find peace in the spaces between chaos.

Their fingers brushed across the table once, accidentally, and neither of them pulled away.

“I like the way you see things,” she said, over the first course. “ It feels… thoughtful.”

He smiled softly. “You make me see things like this, meaningfull.”

They talked about nothing and everything. Favorite authors. Old regrets. Places they hadn’t been. Her voice was low, steady. His was quiet, almost careful. She asked if he ever got lonely. He said sometimes. She said she understood.

By the time dessert arrived, something had shifted. The air had grown heavier, not tense, just full. Like both of them were waiting for a moment neither wanted to name.

And then he set his fork down.

Ariana noticed the change in his face before he said anything.

“What is it?” she asked, gently.

He exhaled. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

“Tell me what?”

“I have to leave tomorrow.”

She stilled. “Where?”

“Brazil. It came together last-minute. Some of the drivers, their partners… someone planned a trip. There’s this pressure to be part of it. I didn’t want to go. But—”

“You’re going,” she said, quietly.

He nodded. “Just two weeks.”

Her eyes dropped to the table. Her hands folded into her lap. She didn’t speak right away.

“And then I’m going back in Paris,” she said finally.

“I know, and I'm back at the races”

The silence was brutal.

The kind that swells in the chest and spreads into the throat.

“I thought we’d have more time,” she said softly.

“I thought so too.”

They both stared at each other, not speaking, not touching, while the candle between them flickered, helpless against the weight of it.

“It’s just two weeks,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“And then we’re in different countries.”

He nodded. “Different routines. Different time zones.”

They sat like that for what felt like forever.

Neither of them said it, the thing they were both thinking.

That this might be it.

That this night might be the last night.

That maybe fate had offered them only a single season, a few weeks, a few moments, a few kisses and now it was slipping through their fingers like smoke.

They left the restaurant without speaking much more.

Outside, the air was icy but clear, the kind of winter night where everything felt sharper. Their hands found each other instinctively as they walked. No umbrella. Just the sound of heels and boots and breath.

At her door, he paused.

She turned toward him, her keys in hand.

And then he just said it.

“I don’t want this to end.”

She looked at him, eyes wide and shining.

“Then don’t let it.”

“Ari…”

She stepped forward, pressing a hand to his chest. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. But tonight, I want you stay.”

He didn’t answer.

He just nodded.

The door clicked shut behind them, shutting out the world, the cold, the noise, the gossip, leaving only the heavy, breathless space between them.

Ariana turned toward him, standing in the golden, muted light of her flat, her hands twisting slightly at her sides like she wasn't sure what to do next.

Lando didn’t say anything. He just crossed the small space between them in two strides, his hands lifting to frame her face, tentative at first, like he needed to make sure this was real and then he kissed her.

Slow. Gentle. Asking.

Her whole body softened into him at once, sighing against his lips, arms lifting to twine around his neck. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, keeping her close, anchoring her there.

He kissed her again, deeper now, pouring everything into it, the nerves, the gratitude, the pure, aching need he had been trying to hold back all night.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, Ariana’s fingers curled into the fabric of his coat.

“Can I?” he whispered against her lips, his hands brushing lightly along the curve of her waist, waiting.

She nodded, heart hammering, then whispered, “Yes. Please.”

Carefully, Lando slid his hands down her sides, letting the velvet of her dress slip from her shoulders. He moved slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind. She didn’t, she only arched closer, helping him, wanting this too much to stop.

She reached for him next, fingers fumbling a little with the buttons of his shirt. She popped them open one by one, her knuckles brushing his chest, his skin warm and firm under her touch.

When his shirt finally fell open, she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his bare chest, just under his collarbone, soft kisses that made his whole body shudder.

He groaned low in his throat, catching her waist to steady himself.

"You’re killing me," he murmured against her hair, voice rough with restraint.

She smiled, small, shy, devastating and pushed his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Lando's hands slid over her body again, down her arms, around her back, following the curve of her ass. He found the zipper at her back, tugged it slowly down, and the dress pooled at her feet, leaving her only in delicate black lace panties.

He stepped back just enough to look at her, to really look and his breath caught.

"You're so beautiful," he said, voice breaking.

She flushed, shifting slightly under his gaze, but didn't try to cover herself.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, hungrier, his hands roaming, rediscovering every inch of skin he could reach.

He backed her up gently until her legs hit the couch. She dropped down onto the cushions, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

Lando knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, parting them carefully. He kissed the inside of her knee first, then higher, and higher, patient, deliberate, until she was squirming.

He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and tugged them down her legs, slow enough to make her whimper.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, voice low and thick.

"I don't want you to stop," she whispered.

He kissed her hipbone, then down, nuzzling the soft skin at the apex of her thighs before finally, finally licking a slow, wet stripe through her folds.

Ariana gasped, hips jerking, hands flying to tangle in his curls.

Lando groaned at the taste of her, sweet and sharp and addicting and licked again, slower, more thorough. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her open, pressing his tongue flat against her clit and flicking lightly until she was trembling.

He worked her with devastating patience, circling her clit, dipping into her entrance with his tongue, teasing her until she was panting and begging under her breath.

Then he slid two fingers into her, slow and deep, curling them just right to find that spot that made her cry out, hips lifting off the couch.

"Lando," she gasped, voice breaking.

"That's it," he murmured against her, lips brushing her slick folds. "Let go for me."

He moved his fingers faster now, fucking her steadily while his mouth sucked and licked her clit, never giving her a chance to come down.

She shattered with a soft, keening cry, thighs clenching around his head, nails digging into his shoulders.

He kept going, coaxing every last tremor from her, until she was gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth was slick, his eyes dark with hunger.

He kissed her knee one more time, almost tenderly, before standing, fumbling in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.

He pulled out a condom, tearing it open with shaking hands.

Ariana sat up on the couch, watching him with flushed cheeks and wide, desperate eyes.

He knelt between her legs again, kissing her deeply as he rolled the condom on, her hands clumsy and eager on his shoulders.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, voice wrecked.

She nodded, pulling him closer. "I need you."

Lando groaned and lined himself up, brushing the thick head of his cock through her slick folds.

When he pushed inside her, they both moaned, loud, unrestrained, clinging to each other.

He went slow, giving her time to adjust to the stretch, kissing her face, her throat, her collarbone between every shallow thrust.

She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, her hands scrambling over his back like she couldn't get enough of him.

"Fuck, Ari," he gasped against her skin. "You feel so good."

She whimpered in answer, rocking her hips up to meet his thrusts.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied.

It was deep.

Slow.

Desperate in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with needing : needing to connect, to anchor, to feel.

He thrust into her harder now, faster but still controlled, grinding against her just right to make her gasp every time he bottomed out.

"Look at me," he panted.

She opened her eyes and what he saw there, wild and open and full of him, nearly undid him.

He kissed her again, bruising and sweet, swallowing every sound she made.

Their bodies moved together like they'd done it a thousand times in dreams. The slap of skin against skin, the soft cries, the murmured names, it all blended into a symphony of need.

Her walls fluttered around him, and she sobbed his name into his mouth.

"That's it," he whispered. "Come for me, baby."

She shattered with a cry, nails raking down his back, thighs locking around him.

He wasn’t far behind, with a broken groan, he thrust once, twice more and then came, burying his face in her neck, holding her so tight it felt like he could imprint himself on her skin.

They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, bodies slick and spent, neither of them moving away.

Lando kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, like he couldn't stop, like he didn't want to.

Ariana threaded her fingers through his curls, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

They lay there for a long time afterward, tangled, quiet, skin slick with sweat and still pressed together.

He kissed her again like it would never happen again as they both fall asleep against each other.

The morning she woke to find him already dressed, jacket half-zipped, by the door. She padded out of the couch where they fall asleep, hair still messy, wearing his shirt that hung too low on her frame. He smiled when he saw her, but there was a weight behind it. The same weight sitting in her chest.

They didn’t say much.

Because what could they say?

His flight to Brazil was in two hours. A house full of friends waiting for him. A vacation with laughter and heat and late nights. And yet all he could think about was the way her fingers clung to the hem of his sleeve, the way she leaned into his chest one last time, how their lips met, slowly, then suddenly, like neither wanted to let go.

“I’ll see you again,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

She didn’t answer.

Because maybe they both knew that even if they did… it wouldn’t be the same.

He lingered in the doorway.

Then left.

And the silence that followed felt like a scream neither of them knew how to stop

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09, @its-me-frankie; @linneaguriii , @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek

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xplicitviewz · 2 days ago

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thinking about pussywhipped!Choso who was severely wounded. You were on a 3 day trip (you wouldn’t event consider it a trip, just stayed a few cities away with some friends for their birthday) and Choso couldn’t believe his ears when you said you weren’t coming home that night.

“Cho,” you shake your head holding the phone to your ear, “I told you this for about few weeks now, you will be fine, it’s only 3 days.”

“But baby, 3 days and nights…..it’s too long.” He whines lying back in to the couch already feeling the withdrawals of not being near you practically all day. You had left earlier that morning.

“Baby I have to go, the ride is here, we’re gonna go eat dinner and I’ll call you back when we get back to the hotel. I love you and I’ll see you soon you big baby.” And with that you hang up.

Since the day you guys officially started dating, Choso hasn’t gone longer than 24 hours without being in seeing you. He was all for you having fun with your friends but 3 days? Not that he’d do anything to sabotage that………..

It had been hours since you last called, Choso was checking your social media mainly to see what you were doing. Tapping through your story; Still out eating, drinking now. Choso feels his dick throb when he sees the picture you posted showing off your outfit in the bathroom mirror of the restaurant. He quickly swipes up a reply, “you look so sexy baby”

Impatiently waiting for your reply, he decides to pull up one of his favorite home videos. It starts off with you laying on the bed, legs spread wide for him while his free hand roams around your naked body. His fingers press down your tongue while you suck around them before he pulls them out, a string of spit connecting from your lips had his hands glides down your neck teasingly, to your breast. He pinches your nipple earning a soft whimper from your lips.

Hearing your whimper from his phone causes his dick to grow hard instantly. He palms himself through his sweats watching as his fingers rub against your pussy. Fuck- he needs you now.

Whether it’s been him just giving you head or fucking you into the bed, Choso has never gone over a day without being in you and it’s driving him crazy that he wouldn’t be able to for 3 days.

Long before you know it, Choso has his dick out in his hand while he fucks his hand. His phone had been long tossed aside- he didn’t need the video to play since he’s watched it more than he would like to admit, also his imagination works a little too well.

Choso was manspread on the couch, his shirt bunches up high and his sweats at his ankles, biting his lip as his hand moves. He definitely wasn’t quiet either. Eyes closed imagining it to be your hand instead of his. The things you’d say to him, he can hear it in his head as if you were right next to him.

“Gonna make you feel so good Cho.”

“I want you to cum all over me, my face, my boobs, want you to cum in me too.”

“I love all the noises you make for me, such a good boy.”

“Taste so good in my mouth.”

Choso’s hips buck when he imagines your hand trailing up his thigh, to his balls, massaging them softly and gently. “Fu-Fuuck.” He groans when you he squeezes them just right. He fucks into his hand right before he cums all over his hand and stomach. Catching his breath he looks at the mess he created before grabbing his phone, taking a picture and sending it to you, “I miss you baby.”

*not proofread*

Part 2

Husband!Nanami

Maid!reader x Married! Eren

#fae's lore #choso x y/n #choso kamo #blood kink choso #choso x reader #choso smut #jjk choso #choso x you #jjk x poc!reader #jjk drabble #jjk college au #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jjk y/n #jujutsu kaisen choso #aot college au #aotau #aot x poc!reader #aot x reader

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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 days ago

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Chapter 5 - The Paradise

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, soulmates, canon divergence, slow burn, smut (fingering, p in v sex, orgasm denial? kinda? you'll see), angst, fluff, eventual happy ending.

Summary/Warnings: You and Bucky go on a date. Usual Warnings, plus extra smut.

Author's Note: 2014 Avenger Tower Fics this one's for you. Enjoy!

Word Count: 5.6k

Read on A03! - Chapter 4

She’d like the flowers.

Bucky didn’t care if Stark yelled at him again, for taking them from the garden. Every single flower shop was trying to charge him a goddamn fortune, the Compound’s garden was filled with a bunch of pretty roses and lilies just lying there, and Bucky wanted to pick them himself. He wanted to be able to hand them to Her and say I found them for you. Chose them for you. You’re my world, so here’s something prettier and better than me for you to have.

“Do girls still like flowers?” Steve asked, standing over Bucky as he restarted the arrangement for the fifth time. “I’ve seen some people say they don’t.”

“They’re wrong.” Bucky grunted. “And I don’t care either way. My girl likes flowers, she gets flowers.”

“Aww.” Sam grinned from across the table. “Bucky’s got a girl. And he’s makin’ her flowers.”

“I didn’t make them. I picked them.”

“See, that’s more sappy-“

“Sam.” Steve sighed. “If he attacks you, I’m not stopping him.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and Bucky smirked at his arrangement. And he’d never tell Sam, but the birdbrain was right. It was more romantic that he’d picked them. He didn’t know how to make flowers, so he would’ve had to ask Stark, then he wouldn’t have been the one who got Her flowers.

She mostly just liked things Bucky got for Her. He made Her food and brought Her souvenirs after every mission, because he was really fucking trying to be worthy of it. Her forgiveness.

If he told Her that, She’d say the same thing Steve always said. Bucky didn’t have to earn forgiveness. For everything he’d done as the Soldat, or for leaving Her for so long when She’d needed him. Bucky had left Her when She’d needed him, and just been forgiven. Like it was nothing.

He didn’t deserve Her. He didn’t deserve to have this second shot, this chance to do it right. There was a lot of blood on his hands and scars on Her body he’d taken too long to soothe, so he’d wanted to earn the second chance. To really fucking earn it, so that in twenty years when people asked how they met, he’d have a better story than the truth.

“What would a better story look like?” She’d asked when he’d told Her, and Bucky had sighed.

“I don’t know. Somethin’ that doesn’t involve me leavin’ you for a year after I got you kidnapped.”

“You didn’t get me kidnapped-“

“Yes, I did-“

“And.” She pushed up onto Her knees, holding Bucky’s face between soft hands. “I don’t want a better story. I like the one we have. Where you did leave me, and you were a fucking idiot to do that, but then you got better. Smarter. Came back to me again. And I waited for you, and it’s stupid and romantic and a little fucked up.”

Bucky had frowned. “But…” He’d leaned into Her touch, and She’d waited. Let him find the right words, and watching him with a soft smile the whole time. “I really fuckin’ wish I didn’t leave you, doll. Would take it back, if I could. And I don’t want people to think I didn’t want you.”

“Then don’t let them think that.” She’d hummed, settling fully down in Bucky’s lap. “You did leave me. And I know you wish you could undo it, but you can’t. But, Bucky.” She tilted Her head at him, and if he hadn’t been sitting down, Bucky would’ve fallen to his knees. “I know you want me. And that’s all that matters, right?”

Right.

Of course She was right.

His girl was a genius—although he still didn’t understand exactly what Quantum Relativity Theoretical Meta-Physics meant—so of course She was right.

So instead, Bucky was going to spend the rest of his life proving that She was right. That he did care about Her, so much that she was going to feel it.

“Who was in my-“ Stark froze in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes narrowing on Bucky and the flowers. “Barnes, I’m pretty sure I told you to stop fucking with my garden-“

“It’s not for me.” Bucky muttered Her name, slowly grabbing the ribbon to tie it all together. “I’m gettin’ her flowers.”

“Just buy them. You’re on the company card-“

“He doesn’t want to buy them.” Sam hummed. “Gotta be like this, Stark. Doesn’t count otherwise.”

Bucky just grunted, because this was the most important part. The ribbon. He needed to get this right. Keep it all together. The flowers could look perfect, but if he didn’t get them all together he just had a bunch of fucking plants-

“You and good lady Barnes got a date tonight?” Stark asked, moving around the table, and Bucky gave a short nod.

“He’s focused, Tony. Don’t distract him-“

“I’m just asking a question, Cap. And I still don’t know why we haven’t met her-“

“You have met her.” Steve sighed. “We’ve all met her.”

“Yeah, but not as Mrs. Robot.”

“They’re not married, Tony-“

“They will be.”

Bucky paused—he was so fucking close—and frowned up at Stark. “Why are you so fuckin’ sure.”

“Just a feeling.” Stark shrugged. “Why, you getting cold feet?”

Bucky snorted. That wasn’t possible. “No.”

“They just got back together.” Steve snapped at Stark. “Stop pushing him on this-“

“It’s fine, Stevie.” Bucky looked back to the flowers, and pulled the last ribbon together. He fucking did it. “Stark’s not wrong. I will marry her.”

There was a long moment of silence—Bucky didn’t really care, he was mostly just proud of his flowers—and Sam broke it by clearing his throat.

“You- Uh- Not worried you’re jumpin’ the gun a little, Buck?”

“No. She’s my soulmate.”

Steve sighed, running a hand over his face. “Bucky, I’m happy for you, I am, but going all in that fast might scare her away-“

“No, it won’t.”

“Soulmates aren’t real-“

“Yes, they are.” Stark cut in, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “It’s a branch of string theory. Big talk in the meta-physics field right now.”

Steve frowned. “Tony, I can’t tell if you’re making a bad joke-“

“He’s not.” Bucky glanced down at his watch. “Peter told me ‘bout it. It’s why she was able to get through to me, when I was under Hydra. Only reason I’m doing the courting thing is so we can do this properly. But I’m gonna marry her.”

“Don’t call it courting, man.” Sam snorted. “It makes you sound a million.”

“I am a million.” Bucky stood up, taking his flowers with him. “And my girl seems into it.”

He didn’t stick around longer after that. He had a date to get ready for. A real, proper date, and the one that—hopefully—Bucky was going to finally grow a fucking spine during, and tell Her about the soulmate thing.

There was a lingering, rotten fear in his heart. That She wouldn’t want him to be that for Her. Nobody sane would.

But She’d wanted Bucky all the same before. And She wasn’t the kind to run from this thing. It could be the end of the best thing he’d ever had, or it could be the thing that sealed it all together. They were soulmates. Bucky wouldn’t leave again, and he wanted Her, and he loved Her. Nothing could tear them apart, because the universe had decided to give Bucky a second shot, and he wasn’t going to miss it for fucking anything.

Doing the whole dating thing—Sam had said to call it dating—was for that. To earn it, and prove Her right, and never lose Her again. They’d done dinner and a movie, and walked in the park, and kissed under the rain and gone to a botanical garden. Bucky had even gotten the flower idea from that date. Her hand had been in his, and Her head on his shoulder, and She’d been staring at the flowers as Bucky stared at Her.

She was better to look at anyway.

“I like flowers.” She’d hummed. “It’s cool that nature just does that. Makes things so beautiful.”

Bucky had grunted an agreement.

And he’d still been looking at Her.

He must be the luckiest asshole alive. His girl was smart and beautiful and kind and perfect, and he got to be the one who She smiled at. Who She waited for.

“Don’t know how you waited for me,” he’d muttered last week, frowning at Her puzzle on the table, and She’d shrugged.

“I know you, Buck. I know you wouldn’t leave on purpose.”

“But I did-“

“It’s not your fault you’re a cute dumbass. And I’ve told you, you came back.” She’d narrowed Her eyes. “Now stop trying to convince me to leave you. It won’t work.”

“I’m not tryin’ to-“

“Yes, you are. I want you, Bucky. And I’ll punch it into you if I need to.”

He’d snorted. “I don’t think that would work in your favor, doll.”

“Then let’s not find out.” She’d given him a small smile, and that was never not going to knock all the air out of Bucky’s lungs. “And you waited longer for me, anyway. In the grand scheme of things.”

It wasn’t worth arguing with Her about. How he had waited long, but it didn’t matter, because he hadn’t even known he was waiting at all. She’d waited knowing what had been taken, and not knowing if it would ever come back. She always said She knew Bucky would come back, but he didn’t understand it. Her faith.

Of all things, She had faith. In Bucky.

He needed to tell Her about the soulmate thing, soon. To give Her one last out, just in case She realized she was being forced to want him by the universe. This was supposed to be the date. Not just for Bucky to get it together and tell Her the truth, but to touch Her. To tell Her that, even outside of the soulmate thing, Bucky loved Her, and he’d fucking worship Her if was allowed to.

God, he hoped he’d be allowed to.

He hadn’t been bringing Her to the compound, because that felt like too much. Just in case the worst scenario became reality—where She didn’t want Bucky as a soulmate, and he lost Her for good this time—Bucky didn’t want Her around the team until She was sure. Until he could show Her off as much as he wanted, without worrying he’d be making a fool of himself.

This was the date, though. And if it all went well, Bucky would be taking Her wherever she wanted after, to do whatever She wanted.

They’d been holding off on that. It was part of doing this normally.

But God, if Bucky wasn’t ready to do more.

He grabbed Her from her apartment, shifting on his feet after he knocked on the door, and staring at the bouquet. It didn’t look professional, but it looked good. Fine. Acceptable. Maybe he should’ve listened to Stark and bought the flowers-

The door swung open, and it was amazing. How every single time Bucky saw Her, she only got more beautiful.

“You got me flowers?” She whispered, Her eyes perfectly wide, and Bucky nodded.

“Chose ‘em from the compound garden.” He grunted. “I did all the arrangement stuff, so if it’s a little shit-“

“It’s perfect.” Her smile was blinding. Bucky still didn’t know how he could possibly deserve Her. “Thank you, Bucky. I love them.”

“Good.” I love you. “You ready?”

She nodded, bouncing slightly on Her feet, her gaze never leaving Bucky’s. “Born it, Sergeant. Just let me put these in a vase.”

Bucky let Her pull him inside, and tried not to whine like a dog when She paused, kissed his cheek, then bounced away to store the flowers. He didn’t know how She was always this clear. She was so fucking clear and bright and happy, and I drove him out of his goddamn mind with love. She was like a sunbeam, bursting through a long, thick fog, and Bucky couldn’t think of a better life than this. For as long as She’d have him.

Maybe forever.

“What are we doing?” She called from Her kitchen, and Bucky took a long breath.

“I was, uh-“ He cleared his throat. He could fucking do this. “I was thinking we head upstate. There’s a cafe near the compound we could do lunch at.”

“Okay.” She agreed like it was easy. Like Bucky could’ve said we’re jumping off a cliff and She would’ve still followed him. “Are we taking the bike?”

“Do you wanna take the bike?”

“Yes, please.” She practically fucking floated back into the room, Her smile still fixed entirely on Bucky. “Just promise not to let me fall.”

Bucky chuckled. “Doll, if I ever do let you fall, it’s only cause I’m dead.”

Her smile widened, and Bucky could do this.

He could keep Her safely tucked in front of him on the drive, and kiss the top of Her head whenever her heartbeat picked up a little too fast. He could hold Her hand as they walked into the cafe, and let Her order for both of them. She knew what Bucky liked, and he loved hearing Her talk, so all he had to do was stand behind Her and glare at anyone who got too close.

She was wearing a dress. They always made Her look like a fairy. Glowing and clear and soft. The only thing he might ever need.

He had to tell Her.

“What’s wrong?”

Bucky blinked at Her as they settled at a table. “Nothin’-“

“Don’t lie, Bucky. You’re bad at it.”

He snorted. “I think a lot of people would disagree with that, doll.”

“Well then, they don’t know you like I do.” She shrugged, Her gaze never leaving Bucky’s. “You’re making this tight face, and you keep taking long breaths, and I know you’re thinking about something, Bucky. Please tell me.”

“I-“ He took another one of those long breaths, and shook his head. “It’s not bad. Promise.”

“Okay.” She leaned forward, and Bucky swallowed.

“There’s this thing called, uh- String theory. I don’t know how it works. Spider-Man explained it to me, and the talks real fuckin’ fast.”

She gave him an amused look. “Spider-Man explained string theory to you?”

“Yeah. He found out about you, and told me that there’s a branch of string theory. Called it-“ Deep breath. He could do this. “Soulmate theory. Said that two people can vibrate together or somethin’, and it’s like having a soulmate. And he thought it might be why you could get through the programming. Cause you and I, we’re- You know.”

She was just looking at him. Smiling, wide and happy and real, but not saying anything. Bucky really fucking needed Her to say something.

“It’s just a theory. But we never worked out how you broke through Hydra’s work, and I never forgot you. And Stark thinks it’s real.”

That got a soft laugh.

Bucky wasn’t sure what was happening.

“I would hope Tony thinks it’s real.” She hummed, Her smile never dropping. “He’s the one who sponsored my research. Would be a bummer to find out he’s thought I was full of shit the whole time.

It was Bucky’s turn to stare. His brain was either connecting everything wrong, or he’d finally completely lost his goddamn mind. “What.”

“I know about soulmate theory, Bucky. I invented it.”

Oh.

Fuck.

“What.”

She let out a long breath, holding Bucky’s gaze carefully. “It’s a long story-“

“I got time, doll.” Bucky leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t lie. You’re bad at it.”

Another soft laugh, and Her hand moved to tangle with Bucky’s. She might be glowing. She was fucking perfect. “I love you, Bucky. You know that?”

His breath was too sharp, but he felt like he’d just been hit by a fucking comet. Crashing out of the stratosphere and rewriting everything, because that was what She did. Turn everything upside down, only for Bucky to look around and realize this was the right way up.

And it was never going to get better than this.

“I do.” He muttered, squeezing Her hand in his. “And I love you too, doll. But you still need to explain.”

She nodded, Her thumb rubbing over Bucky’s as she spoke, and he might be happy turning to stone right here.

At least he’d be touching Her forever.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” She started, Her voice so soft. Almost nervous. “I promise. But it’s a lot, and I didn’t want this, us, to be something you had to do. I wanted you to love me because you love me-“

“I do love you.” He grunted, and he’d never seen a smile that wide and perfect. “Stop dancin’ around it.”

“Sorry-“

“Nope.” Bucky shook his head. “Don’t apologize, either. I kept it from you, too. You trust me?”

She blinked at him. “Of course-“

“Then tell me.”

“I- Okay.” She swallowed, Her grip on Bucky’s hand a little strangling. He didn’t mind. “I knew there was something… more. With us. Always knew. You always remembered my name, and you kept coming back, and I- I could feel it. When I saw you on the road, I could feel it, and it only ever got stronger. And there was always just- there was something, telling me you were mine. That you were home. And it made me do stupid things like take a big man with a gun into my house. But I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. It was stupid, and I thought I was going insane, but I knew. The same way I knew you’d come back. And I started researching it, and then I got good at researching it, and then I changed my whole degree to research it, and… yeah. When I got freed from Rumlow, Tony said he’d read my thesis and grant proposal, to properly research my theory. Then he gave me all the money I needed. And I called it soulmate theory, because that’s- It what it felt like. With you.”

She leaned forward, and Bucky could only stare at Her. She must be an angel, or goddess, or something. There must have been a strange fate deity that owed him a favor, because She was far too good to be Bucky’s.

But She was.

And nothing was going to change that.

So he might as well make sure he earned it.

“That’s how I knew you weren’t staying away because you didn’t want me.” She mumbled, staring at where their hands were connected. “You’re my soulmate. You’re kind of the soulmate. The theory only exists because I have you.”

Bucky swallowed, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. “That it?”

“Yeah.”

“You love me?”

She nodded, throat bobbing. “More than anything.”

“You alright if I keep loving you?”

“I- I think I’d like that. Please.”

“Good. Cause I’m not stopping for anything.” Bucky let his grin split his face. “You wanna get out of here?”

——————

You’d never been in the residential part of the compound before.

It was strange.

People who you’ve seen only on TV wandering around like they couldn’t level cities. You passed Thor roaring at the TV with a X-Box controller in his hand. The Scarlet Witch was baking, Black Widow was laying upside down on the couch, and Dr. Banner was reading a romance novel.

Tony smirked at you, when passed him. And his mouth was barely opened when Bucky started walking a little faster, almost carrying you with him.

He’d kept his hand was firmly in yours the whole walk, his body almost bended over you to shield you from his teammates, but there were a few people you couldn’t escape. The Falcon wolf-whistled, and Bucky mumbled an apology in your ear, before flipping the man off, and hauling you fully into his arms.

“It’s fine, Buck-“

“No.” He grumble, squeezing his grip on your body. “They’re bein’ fucking rude. You’re smarter than Sam, doll. Better than him, too. He doesn’t get to whistle like you’re just arm candy.”

“What if I want to be arm candy?” You coo in Bucky’s ear, and he tenses. “Maybe I like being arm candy?”

He sigh, giving you a dry look. “No, you don’t.”

You giggle. “No, I don’t. But you are taking me to your room to fuck me, so maybe let the whistle slide.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed. “You think I’m tryin’ to fuck you, doll?”

“I- Maybe?” You swallow. “Are you?”

“You wanna be fucked?”

“Yes, please.”

Bucky grins, his mouth moving to ghost over your ear, sending a sharp shiver up your spine. “I think we can beg a little better than that, babygirl.”

Jesus Christ. “Bucky-“

“Mr. Barnes!”

Something red drops from the ceiling, and you can’t stop your high shriek.

“No- Wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Kid.” Bucky grunted. “Stop scaring my girl.”

His girl.

It’s never going to quell the song in your blood, when he calls you that. You’re never going to not be made of a million sparks, and entirely and completely Bucky’s. To have however he wants, because he walks among these gods and he’s been ripped to shreds, but they’re shreds that still match you. Shreds you’ll worship on your knees, if he lets you.

You’ll take whatever Bucky gives you. And you’re his girl, and it’s pooling between your thighs, and holding off on sex was the right call, but God, you’re going to lose your mind if you don’t get fucked soon.

“I didn’t mean to.” The red-thing was almost whining, and when you pull your face from Bucky’s neck, it’s-

“Spider-Man?”

“Hi, ma’am!” He waves, Bucky sighs, and that voice sounds oddly familiar.

“Have I…” You pause, frowning at him. “Do I know you?”

“Uh.” Spider-man swallows, then looks at Bucky. “Can I tell her?”

“I don’t care.” Bucky grumbles, his hands kneading slightly on your skin. “Just be fast. We’re on a date.”

“Oh! Is it going well-“

“Yes.”

The kid sounds really familiar. “I- I’m confused-“

“Sorry, wait-“ Spider-man reaches up for his face, and before you know what’s happening, the mask is gone.

He really is just a kid.

A really familiar kid.

You definitely seen him before. Recently. You’re sure of it, and-

“Peter?”

“You remember!”

“Yeah, I-“ You pause, then whack Bucky’s chest. “Were you sending children to spy one me?!”

“No!” Peter squeaks, shaking his head before Bucky can answer. “I was spying on you myself! I just wanted to help, I promise-“

“I know.” Bucky sighs, cutting Peter off with a firm look. “Trust me, kid. I do. I’ll make sure she does too. And I’m glad you did. But,” his eyes narrow. “I’m on a date. And we’re busy. So we’ll find you after.”

“After….“ Peter scans over you, fully swept into Bucky’s arms, and his eyes widen. “Oh! Have- Uh, have fun! Be safe!”

Bucky grunts, already walking away, and you wave to Peter over his shoulder, before twisting back to Bucky with a sigh.

“That was rude, Buck.”

“I don’t care.” He mutters. “I’ll make it up to him later. He’s been askin’ about the war, I’ll answer whatever he wants.”

”Bucky-“

“But right now,” his gaze locks onto yours, and you swallow. “I’m ready to fuck you stupid, doll. That good with you?”

You might be drooling. The song in your blood feels molten and high, and you’re pretty sure that if Bucky asked you to fly, you’d figure it out.

You can’t really find it in you to care.

“Yes.” You whisper. “That’s- Yes.”

Bucky grins, leaning down to kiss you.

And he’s kissed you before. Since he got back.

But this is different.

It’s heavy. Demanding. Bucky’s tongue is pressing between your lips in seconds, and you let out a loud moan when he pushes it down your throat. It spurs a fucking growl, right from his chest, and the sound vibrates through your body until you’re aching. Your thighs pressed together, your mouth almost fused against Bucky’s and your bodies pressed right together, but it’s still not fucking enough.

You need closer.

You need Bucky.

“Please,” you mumble against him, your fingers tugging slightly on his hair. It only earns you a groan, and you start to grin in his grip. “Bucky, please-“

“I know, sweet girl.” Bucky’s mouth trails down over your jawline, onto your neck and over your collarbone. “I’m gonna take care of you, just gotta hold on. Think you can hold on?”

You nod, letting out a loud, breathy sigh, and Bucky chuckles. It’s dark and deep, rolling right through your body again.

It’s a promise.

He’ll take care of you.

Bucky kicks the door to his room open, his lips never once leaving your skin, and wastes no time. There’s a slight blur as he marches across his room and settles you down on to his well-made bed. Rising up only to rip off his own shirt and pants in half a second. And for a second you’re annoyed at his speed—frantic and rushed, never giving you time to take him in, all his bare and strong glory that’s yours—but then he’s diving back over, and the world is nothing but good.

He might be in a heated, almost feral state, nipping and kissing all over your face until you’re giggling, hands skimming over your hips and thighs as you hike a knee over his waist, but that’s all you’re getting.

“Bucky,” you gasp, clawing slightly at his back. “More. Need more.”

“Gotta say what, doll.” He rolls his hips, something thick and large pressing right into your core and spurring a moan from your chest. “C’mon, smart girl. Use your words and say what you want-“

“You.” It’s a high, breathy gasp, but you know Bucky understands. He groans, his hips jerking over you, and a high whine escapes your throat. “Please, Bucky- Just want you-“

“How.”

“I don’t care, just touch me-“

Bucky cuts your of with a strong, rough kiss, melting you into mattress, and you’re too dizzy and lost in the taste of him to even notice how he’s shredding through your clothing like they’re paper.

It only hits you that you’re fully naked when a broad finger shoves right into your pussy, and your back arches off the bed with a squeal.

“So fucking tight, babygirl.” Bucky groans against your lip, starting to pump you slowly. “Can’t wait to feel you around my cock-“

“Fuck.” You moan, and Bucky lets out a low laugh.

“You like that?” He mutters your name, running his tongue over your lips as his pace picks up. “Like the idea of me fuckin’ you, doll? Gettin’ you all wrecked and dumb on my cock as I fuck you like you deserve?”

You whimper, and Bucky’s finger crooks deep inside you, rubbing against your g-spot. “Jesus, Bucky- Please-“

“Maybe I’ll only let you cum on my cock,” he shoves a second finger into you without warning, and your mouth falls open with a silent plea. “This needy and wet and I’ve barely fuckin’ touched you? Think you could hold it together long enough for that? Think you could be good for me and cum when I’m fuckin’ you full of me?”

“Yes,” you gasp, and Bucky groans, rutting into your thigh. “God, please, Bucky, please-“

“I’ve got you, sweet girl.” He mutters, squeezing his metal hand on your hips. “Hold on.”

Your hands fly to his hair, he groans, and you can’t tell if the song is still moving, or if it’s just Bucky.

Maybe there’s not really a difference.

You don’t care anymore either way.

All you can feel is Bucky. Kissing down your chest and taking a nipple in his mouth, working you into a frenzy as his tongue swirls around you and his thumb finds your clit. You might be on fire. The world might start and end with Bucky’s touch, and you don’t mind that one bit.

He’s playing with you. Fingerfucking you right to the edge before stopping, letting you come back down from the edge with slow, taunting movement with one finger, kissing all over your breasts until you’re just a little less wired, and returning to his mission. Dragging your right to the edge, letting the coil in your abdomen building and build and build, then pulling back at the last second. You’re a boneless, writhing, sweaty mess below him, and he’s everywhere but it’s not enough, and you can feel his cock pressing and twitching against you—big and thick and hard—and if he doesn’t fuck you now, you might go insane.

You let out a soft whimper of his name, and Bucky laughs.

“I know. You’re bein’ so good for me, doll. Fuckin’ dripping for me.” He pinches your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Think you’re ready for my cock-“

“Yes.” You gasp, squirming at just the idea. “Need it, Bucky, need it so bad-“

He slams his lips over yours, the kiss rough and consuming, and it’s a distraction. Keeping you teetering over the edge again as his finger slide out of your pussy, leaving one sharp slap before he’s lining himself up at your entrance.

“Ready, doll?”

You nod, and Bucky’s brow drops to yours.

“Think you can hold it ‘till I say?”

“Yes-“ You moan, his cock rubbing right between your pussy lips. “I- just fuck me, Bucky-“

He groans your name, slamming into you with one thrust, and you’ve never been more full in your life. The stretch is painful and perfect, and Bucky’s everywhere, and you’re so close, you’re so fucking close-

Bucky start to fuck you slowly, rolling his hips back before slamming fully in, kissing all over your face and murmuring low praise.

“Takin’ my cock so well, doll. Feel like you were made for, so fuckin’ tight-“

“Bucky.” You dig your nails into his skin, your words high, desperate whines. “Please- I- I need to cum, please-“

He hums your name, pressing a sweet kiss right over your lips and driving his cock back into your cunt so hard you almost scream with pleasure.

“Please-“

Bucky groans your name, and start to fuck you so hard you might be able to see the stars. It’s all just good, built up over your nerve and begging for release, and his metal hand is snaking between your bodies, brushing feather-light touches over your clit that are going to drive you out of your mind. You’re on the verge of tears when Bucky presses your clit, his cock right back on that sensitive place deep inside of you, and the moan of his name is nothing but an incoherent whine.

“There you go. You’ve been such a good fuckin’ girl.” Bucky grunts in your ear, his pace growing sloppy and rough. “Cum for me, doll-“

It’s all you need to hear.

You cum so hard the world spins. Something leaks and squirt between your thighs, the sinful sounds of Bucky still fucking into you driving you over the edge over and over and over, and your orgasm might be enough to power a small country. Everything turns into a crashing, electric wave of pleasure, your body going slack and numb, and all you can feel is Bucky’s mouth devouring yours as he meets you with his own orgasm, his cock pumping you so full you don’t think you’ll ever feel empty again.

Bucky doesn’t bother to pull out when you’re both done, even when you’re shaking slightly below him, his cum dripping out between your thighs.

“You good with me keepin’ you here?” He mutters in your ears, rolling his hips just enough to send a second, smaller orgasm. Through your whole body. “You’re so fuckin’ warm, doll. Just don’t wanna leave you yet, but-“

“Stay.” You whisper, nodding a little stupidly. “Feels good. Full. Love you.”

“Alright.” Bucky chuckles, pressing a mockingly chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Love you too.”

You only hum, and let Bucky adjust you however he wants. With his cock still buried inside you, making the song flow happy and smooth through your body.

This is home. The song knows this is home. You know this home.

Not just Bucky’s bed.

Him.

Just Bucky.

Time will continue to pass, and your scars will fade, and new ones will grow. There’s the mark on your back, that you’d been so sure you’d managed to avoid him seeing. But Bucky’s lips brush over it once without any more words, because there aren’t a need for them.

You know he’s sorry. He knows you forgive him. You’ve both got demons, but they don’t need to be screamed at to fade into dust.

They need a little tending to. Softer touches and gentle words, and someone to sit with them until they drift away into just a lot more love.

So Life will move around and through you as it does everyone else, but you’ll remain luckier than most.

You get Bucky. He gets to be yours.

And this time, when he stays it’s going to be forever. All the blood he’s split will remain stained on his hands, but you’ll help wash them off. Just as he’ll hold you on darker nights. No matter how the world changes, with fog or smoke or ruin, you’ll have Bucky, and he’ll have you.

Until the universe shatters entirely, your love will remain with the song.

The same. Strong. Clear.

Good.

Home.

End Note: Bucky Barnes I'd kill and die for you. You're my soulmate in my heart.

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