#A Lesson in Muscle Memory | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danysdaughter · 14 days ago

Text

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Москва, 2003 — Красная комн��та

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting. That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

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schizononagesimus · 10 months ago

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unrelated why do i still have nightmares about not knowing my locker combination

#is this because once after a break in secondary i actually forgot it but realized my hands muscle memoried it but i still didnt know the #actual numbers #lessons of the hand and the mouth #ok to rb

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kxsagi · 2 months ago

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aged up blue lock men of your choice where they already perfected their skills in every aspect with their girlfriend who wants to try soccer for the first time so the blue lock men jokingly tried to show off their signature move and then reader thinking he might be asking her to replicate it, did exactly that except they didn't expected their gf to execute it perfectly (it took them years, it took her a glance)

“𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐫”

a/n: the header is everything

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, bachira meguru, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, mikage reo, niko ikki

itoshi rin

he was just trying to be funny, okay?

you'd asked him to teach you how to play, and he just... showed off a bit. a simple top-corner shot – full sprint, perfect form, sharp angle. you clapped.

“so you want me to do that?”

he snorted. “no, not unless you’re secretly a prodigy or something.”

but then you jog up. barely even take a second to aim. and the ball swerves – a perfect curve into the same damn top corner.

he just stands there. arms crossed. blinking.

“… did you google my entire playstyle last night?”

you: “no?”

rin: “are you possessed?”

he’s so irrationally offended, but also stunned and a little in love because what do you MEAN you just felt like it???

itoshi sae

you ask for help and he stretches dramatically like he’s being forced to tutor a child.

“fine. observe a prodigy.”

he lines up, slow-walks to the ball like a diva, and hits one of those cheeky no-look chips into the goal. smirks.

“okay, now you.”

you mimic everything – down to the posture, the lazy half-step, and then bam, the same result. ball lands in the net with that same crisp curve.

“… huh.”

he walks up to you and pokes you in the forehead.

“how did that come from you?”

you stick your tongue out. “you said observe a prodigy, right?”

he’s lowkey smiling the entire time and won’t admit it.

“okay, whatever, prodigy #2. try dribbling next, i bet you suck at that.” (he’s bluffing. he knows you’re about to humble him again.)

isagi yoichi

you just wanted a basic lesson. but your sweet boyfriend enters meta vision.

“okay, okay, watch this. it’s my direct shot. this took me years, okay?”

he explains angles. timing. leg strength. strategy. he’s so passionate you almost feel bad.

until you try it.

and the ball flies – same angle, same power, right into the net.

he’s speechless. like, “did you just… wait what???”

you: “was that it?”

him: “was that it?? LOVE, THAT TOOK ME YEARS OF DEVASTATION AND CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.”

he's so happy and offended all at once, like this is not how shonen arcs work 😭

but he also makes you recreate it ten more times while filming it for proof. his screensaver is now you landing a direct shot.

nagi seishiro

this man literally yawns before showing you his “signature” trap-and-volley. it’s so clean it looks fake.

“alright, try it. but it’s kinda hard.”

you look at him. “you mean like this?”

and you trap it mid-air and volley it in one fluid motion.

he blinks.

“whoa.”

you: “was that right?”

him: “um, i think you just stole my whole flow.”

nagi’s not mad tho. he’s excited. now he has someone to do lazy genius duos with.

he immediately suggests skipping the rest of practice and just going pro together.

bachira meguru

he’s full of sparkles and spins the ball on his finger before juggling it in a zig-zag pattern across the field like a circus act.

“okay cutie, your turn, but don’t stress if it’s messy the first ten years.”

you blink. “you want me to do that?”

him: “LOL nooo… unless???”

you try it. and by some miracle or muscle memory from dance or gymnastics or whatever divine chaos lives in your body, you nail the dribble.

he screeches.

like full volume. picks you up and spins you like a helicopter.

“you’re possessed by a soccer god!!! teach me!!!”

he’s immediately calling you his monster twin and demands matching cleats and jersey numbers.

training is now just the two of you goofing around and inventing new flashy combos.

kaiser michael

he was only demonstrating. not asking you to compete.

“watch and learn, liebling,” he says, tossing you a wink.

then he pulls off his signature kaiser impact like it’s casual.

you clap. “so… you want me to do that?”

“obviously not. unless you want to destroy your feet.”

you attempt it anyway.

and somehow, your shot is smoother. it hits the net harder. and you land with zero effort.

kaiser’s jaw is on the floor.

“did you… did you just out-kaiser me?”

you blink innocently. “i thought i was just copying?”

he is in his villain arc. he stares off dramatically and mutters “she’s my greatest rival” under his breath.

but he’s also holding your hand the entire walk home like you just saved his life.

shidou ryusei

“alright baby, this one’s hot.”

he launches himself into a wild, mid-air scissor kick like an absolute maniac.

lands on his feet, smirks, and flexes.

“that was sexy, right?”

you raise an eyebrow. “i can try.”

he laughs. laughs. “what are you gonna do, cartwheel and break your nose?”

and then you scissor kick it perfectly.

not only that, you somehow make it look graceful.

he’s silent.

then bursts into laughter and tackles you into the grass.

“BROOOO you’re cracked!!! marry me again!!!”

he now insists on being your hype man every single time you breathe near a soccer ball.

“watch out, my girl’s got hops and precision. she’s a menace.”

karasu tabito

karasu, the king of cool, casually rolls the ball up with his foot and does one of his famous elastic cuts followed by a no-look assist shot.

“kinda difficult. probably too fast to pick up on first try,” he smirks.

you try. you nail it.

first try. no hesitation.

the ball glides into the net like you’ve been doing it since birth.

karasu slowly removes his imaginary sunglasses.

“… are you a government experiment?”

you: “is that your way of saying good job?”

he’s lowkey impressed and also mildly panicked that he might not be the slickest one in the relationship anymore.

but he gets over it quick and says, “cool. we should do duo trick shots and make money.”

mikage reo

reo is SO dramatic about teaching you.

he plans a whole lesson, brings cones, makes a playlist.

“this is gonna be our bonding day, babe! you’ll learn from the best.”

you: “okay, show me something fancy.”

reo: “say less.”

he dribbles between cones with lightning footwork and ends with a clean nutmeg-shot combo.

then turns and bows.

“good luck topping that–”

you do it. all of it. smoother. faster. even add a little spin at the end.

reo’s soul leaves his body.

“HOW???”

you shrug. “i just… watched?”

he is clapping like a proud stage mom but also spiraling a little.

“okay, but i still look better doing it, right? right???”

he makes you wear matching jerseys and calls you his "soccer power couple" for a week straight.

niko ikki

you ask him for soccer tips and he gets all shy but serious.

“o-okay… just, uh, follow my lead.”

he does this intense, stealthy feint he’s known for, disappearing around your blind spot and curving it in.

he’s proud. it’s his baby move.

then you do it. perfectly. with the same footwork, the same angle, the same curve. first try.

he stares at you in disbelief.

“was that… did you just read my blind spot?”

you: “i mean… yeah? it made sense.”

he looks at the ground.

“am i… obsolete?”

you immediately shower him with praise, telling him you learned it because he made it look so cool.

he softens.

“… okay. just don’t start covering your forehead, too. we can’t both be mysterious.”

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uchispeach · 6 months ago

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Killer

Dark! Bully! Rafe Cameron x Fem! Reader

Warnings: NON CON, SMUT, rough sex, manhandling & degradation, choking, breeding kink, bullying, violent & abusive behavior, Mean! Rafe, Bully! Rafe…

A/N: Sorry for disappearing, I’ve just had a shit ton of family problems. I hope I can update a bit faster from now on! ALSO lmk if you want this to become a series! 💕

A laugh, dripping with mockery, echoed through the vast room, sparking a ripple of chuckles and whispered insults from the nearby group of boys.

Rafe Cameron’s body stretched lazily in the chair, making it seem almost comically small under his heavy frame. Even with his limbs sprawled out in complete relaxation, the outline of his hard muscles pressed against his shirt, as if daring to break free at any moment. You couldn't deny he looked attractive, exuding an undeniable magnetism in that confident, almost predatory pose, his new buzz cut only amplifying the arrogance that oozed from him. But that ugly, smug smirk? It made your bones ache and your throat dry up in ways you couldn’t explain.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, lingered on yours with a deliberate intensity, delighting in your discomfort, relishing in every flinch and subtle shift of your gaze. You turned away, hoping your disinterest would bore him eventually, but you knew it wouldn’t.

No matter how hard you focused on the lecture, his presence was like an intrusive, constant drill on your brain—his burning gaze a distraction that gnawed at your senses. How naive had you been to think he'd ever leave you alone? Every time you raised your hand in class, you could count on him to whisper some stupid joke under his breath. How foolish had you been to think he would ever stop tormenting you? This sick dynamic between you two had been a game since childhood, and if anything, he seemed to thrive on it.

His once-small fingers had grown long and strong -now covered in silver rings. Those same digits that used to tangle on your hair and pull from it until your scalp burned in pain. His legs were now far longer, but they had always been longer than yours, outpacing you as they chased you through the school halls in all infant and adolescent years, always with the aim of making you stumble and fall to your knees. But his mouth had never changed. It had only sharpened, evolving into something far more dangerous.

You’d convinced yourself you were above all of it. Charleston had felt like a fresh start, and you’d thought the Pogue curse might finally be something you could outrun. But when Rafe Cameron showed up once more, everything you’d built: your confidence, your peace of mind—began to crumble, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the raw, unresolved tension between you.

You were studying to be a teacher, the first in your family to receive a scholarship that promised a brighter future. Your days were filled with lesson plans, textbooks, and the weight of academic expectation. Every second of your time was accounted for as you worked tirelessly to carve out a new path for yourself, one that didn't involve being brought back to the past or the memories of him. You didn’t have time for distractions, certainly not for him. But here he was, always lurking just at the edges of your life, a dark cloud you couldn’t escape.

Rafe was studying for an MBA, the complete opposite of you, and yet fate had forced you into a shared class. You would’ve done anything to avoid him, but trapped in between those fours walls, mere meters away from him - it just seemed impossible.

And there he was, at your left, staring with a look of sick pleasure every time he found you trying to focus. His presence was suffocating, like the air itself became dense with his attention. His words, the snide remarks whispered under his breath, were like a weight on your chest, making every breath harder to take.

He harassed you constantly in that class—every. single. time. Without fail. No matter how much you tried to bury yourself in your notes, no matter how hard you tried to ignore his mocking chuckles, his eyes always found you, always zeroed in on your every move. He’d challenge you with pointless questions, make stupid comments about your work, his voice dripping with condescension. But it didn’t stop there. His reach extended beyond the classroom, following you into the hallways, his tall frame casting a shadow that would make your stomach turn. He would appear out of nowhere, as though drawn to you by some sick fixation, and make his presence known with a smirk or a taunt, forcing you to look up from your books, to meet those stormy eyes full of wickedness.

He would ‘accidentally’ bump into you, making your school supplies fall over. He licked his lower lip when you bent over to pick the mess up. His front would get dangerously close to your back in any queue, sometimes getting bold enough to grind slightly against you. He would move you around like a rag doll, always putting his huge palm on your ass to push you to the side. Still, there was nothing as uncomfortable as having his dirty eyes scanning you from head to toe at any given time - he licked his lower lip in amusement, making your cheeks grow hotter.

You’d always hoped, prayed, that once the class ended, he’d disappear—vanish into his own world and leave you to yours. But you were wrong. Every time the teacher dismissed you, and you gathered your things to leave, he’d be right there, waiting. It was like clockwork. His long, strong fingers would slide into the pockets of navy trousers, the scent of his manly cologne wafting over you in an intoxicating way. His gaze would follow you as you tried to make a clumsy exit, his footsteps closing the distance between you with every passing second. You hated that you could never outrun him. Hated how he always found a way to corner you.

And just as you thought you might make it out of the door, safe, free—he’d appear at the threshold, standing in your way with that damn smirk of his, a look that seemed to promise nothing but trouble.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice would slither through the air like poison.

Your heart would pound in your chest, but you’d force your eyes to look anywhere but at him, hoping and praying, that maybe, just maybe, today would be the day he’d leave you alone. But you knew better. You always knew better.

And now, you could feel it again; the familiar pressure of his presence, creeping closer, dark and inevitable.

“What’s that I’ve heard?” He scratched his head while pressing his brows together, pretending to be deep in thought. “…Oh, right” Now, enlightened; he stepped forward. Your almost wobbly legs did their best on distancing themselves -though, they weren’t allowed much movement after hitting a desk.

The back of your knees stung against the protruding piece of wood. “You tryna leave…study abroad, right?” Your eyes peeled in horror, and you hid in yourself as much as you could when his tall frame overpowered yours. “No, no. Look me right in the eye.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. Without any hesitation, his cold rings found their place under your chin, burying in your skin when lifting up your face. “How-how do you know?” Your stuttering made him smile -predatory grin adorning his harsh features. “Everyone thinks you’re smart…” The pain on your neck amplified at the uncomfortable position.

“…But I think you’re just a dumb bitch.” He spat at you. Tone as rough as the domineering grip on your jaw. “…Bragging left and right - you really thought I wouldn’t find out?” He shook you with erratic movement. The pain you felt under his digits distracted you from a perverted knee slowly opening its way between your legs.

His unruly eyes took a break from tormenting yours as he admired your skirt’s fabric draping over your thighs. The blond snob flashed you his hungry canines while biting into his lower lip.

The horror only amplified when a sharp thrust attacked your clothed sex. His impatient knee continued to roughly rub against the cotton underwear, cruelty reflected on the fast pace. “Ha. Would you look at that? The dirty slut is getting wet!” You whined in disgust when Rafe pressed harder on the soaked circle.

The scarce dignity you thought you held was harshly stripped from you. On his arms you were nothing but a squeaky toy he got to bite and squeeze whenever he desired, and little by little you felt victim to a raw resignation.

The next thing you sensed was his palm abandoning your neck and moving onto your meaty thighs. He gave the flesh a squeeze, followed by a lusty groan leaving his pinkish lips.

Your mind tried to wander away, but the situation was just too much; too much stimulation everywhere, too much heat coming from his larger body, too much degradation directed your way in mean words and touches, too much torturous pressure applied to your virgin cunt and too much pawing at your unexplored parts.

The next thing your brain registered was a rip. The sound of something being torn apart, and if you didn’t see the light fabric pooling around your feet, you could’ve almost swear it was the noise your spirit made when breaking in half. “And I was thinking about making it nice for you…fucking you on a bed of roses or some corny shit.” He talked with nothing but mockery, while leaning onto your chest. “But I guess you prefer it when I treat you like a cheap whore.” The Cameron boy finished it off with a chuckle, his muscles flexing hard under the rumbling laugh.

You wanted to contradict him, defend your honor and pull him off of you, but all protests got stuck in your throat when he took you by it and slammed your upper body against the desk. The rigid wood wasn’t welcoming. Your head spinned uncontrollably at the beast-like hit.

The lack of oxygen didn’t stop you from hearing him unbuckling his pants. Panic grew louder as you heard his clothes falling to the Classroom’s floor. Worries clouded you in a tumultuous storm, and you did your best to cover yourself up when the only layer covering your vulnerable hole was pushed to the side. “Open your fucking legs or I’ll break your useless skull!” He demanded in a crazied tone, ripping your limbs apart and throwing them over his shoulders.

“Please, don’t.” Your eyelids squeezed together, shielding your irises from looking at the violating scene. “That’s right, beg me” Warm breath imposed itself above your slit, followed by a warmer liquid dripping down your folds. “Gotta make it wetter…I don’t want you breaking at the first use.” Even though your sight was all black, you could imagine his satisfied grin decorating that diabolically handsome face.

You tried pulling away when a foreign limb rubbed against your sex, desperate to be let in. “Rafe, no-” You were cut short by your own screams, eyes peeled open at the feeling of his cock entering all at once.

“Fuck! Tight ass pussy.” He sounded in heaven, palms manhandling your knees to your chest while pounding ruthlessly into you.

The rest of your body went numb, being rocked up and down at the bestiality of the boy’s attack. His groans and moans overpowered your miserable sobs. Your withering form contrasted his blessed expressions, pure passion exuding from his now sweaty body.

“Your whorish cunt is squeezing the shit out of me…she doesn’t want me to leave!” He continued to talk while creating some deeply loud wet noises.

Your neck and waist’s skin burned under his cutting rings and the unsolicited friction of his grip that kept you still. Your ears got lost at the multiple pet names he called you, as well as the dirty sentences of encouragement he occasionally threw your way.

After almost an hour of feeling him impale you on his dick, you grew tired of screaming and crying, now reduced to quiet whimpers and even quieter pleas. “Stop-” He did the opposite to that, toned pelvis slapping hard against you as his tip bruised your cervix in persistent thrusts.

The cries that left your esophagus were now primal and raw, long nails holding onto his huge back. “That’s right, cry for me. You fucking deserve it!” That only made the tears fall faster down your cheeks, reaching your mouth on a salty taste.

And when his movements finally went sloppy and his member felt softer, your suffering only sharpened. “Tell me you love me” He barked at your face, drops of unintentional spit hitting your distressed face.

You thought you heard wrong, that between his chocking, and suffocating weight your brain had imagined the unimaginable. “Tell me you love me!” His features tensed, making a vein pop on his front.

Was Rafe Cameron asking for words of affirmation from you? Was the same guy who just butchered your purity asking you for your heart? Or was it just another inhumane prank? Another limit of yours he wanted to cross?

Clearly you took to much time thinking and not acting because the next thing you felt was the blond burying impossibly deeper into your core and making you know a new level of uncomfortability. “Tell me you fucking love or I’ll come inside you.” The light on the room was vast, you were sure of it. Such an elite university could only have the best illumination for its elitist students; still, his burly body completely covered yours.

His sharp jaw and eyes were enhanced by the darkness found in his stare. “I-” He trembled lightly in excitement at your shaky voice. “I love you.” You finally decreed, unknowingly sealing your fate.

His smile was like nothing you saw before, too devilish and twisted you actually doubted smiling was ever a nice gesture. And when you felt a dense liquid flooding your womb in overwhelming warmth, you swore you could see the devil in his eyes.

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1lovewony · 16 days ago

Text

The Power of Two (Hanni & Minji of Njz)

Hanni & Minji x Hanni's Ex

Summary:

Hanni and Minji, best friends, go out for a girls' night and encounter Hanni's ex-boyfriend, Jae, at a bar. Seeking to teach him a lesson and assert their power, they invite him to a secluded room where they engage in a passionate and intense sexual encounter. Taking turns pleasing each other, they ensure Jae remembers the night, emphasizing their control and desire. The story culminates in a satisfying and empowering experience for Hanni and Minji, leaving Jae utterly spent and them feeling content and in control.

Hanni and Minji were out for a girls' night, the city lights reflecting off their glossy lips and sparkling eyes. They were dressed to kill, their heels clicking against the pavement as they made their way to their favorite bar. The night was young, and they were ready to paint the town red.

As they pushed open the heavy door of the bar, the loud music and buzz of conversation hit them like a wall. They scanned the crowd, and that's when Hanni's heart skipped a beat. There, at the far end of the bar, was a familiar face—Jae, her ex-boyfriend. He was leaning against the counter, a smirk on his face as he chatted up the bartender.

"Fuck," Hanni muttered under her breath. "What is he doing here?"

Minji followed Hanni's gaze and her eyes widened in recognition. "That bastard," she hissed. "Want to teach him a lesson?"

Hanni raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

Minji leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Let's give him a night he'll never forget. But on our terms."

Hanni felt a thrill of excitement and nervousness. "You're on."

They ordered their drinks and made their way over to Jae, their hips swaying in sync with the music. Jae's eyes widened as he saw them approaching, a mix of surprise and something else—desire, maybe—flashing across his face.

"Hanni, Minji," he greeted, his voice smooth as velvet. "Long time no see."

"Jae," Hanni replied coolly, taking a sip of her drink. "Fancy meeting you here."

Minji stepped closer to him, her voice a purr. "We were just talking about old times. Remember those, Jae?"

Jae's eyes darkened, and he leaned in, his voice low. "How could I forget?"

Hanni felt a rush of memories—both good and bad. But tonight, she was in control. She set her drink down and ran a finger down Jae's chest, feeling his muscles tense under her touch. "You know, Minji and I were just saying how much fun we had with you. Maybe we should show you how much we've missed you."

Jae's breath hitched, and he looked from Hanni to Minji, a hungry look in his eyes. "I'm game if you are."

Minji took his hand and led him to a quieter, more secluded corner of the bar. Hanni followed, her heart pounding in her chest. This was their night, and they were going to make sure Jae remembered it.

They found a cozy booth, and Minji slid in first, pulling Jae down beside her. Hanni sat on his other side, trapping him between them. She could feel the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "You know what we want, Jae. Give it to us."

Jae turned to face her, his eyes dark with desire. "And what is it you want, Hanni?"

She smiled, a slow, seductive curve of her lips. "We want you to make us feel good. Like old times."

Minji's hand snaked up Jae's thigh, and he sucked in a sharp breath. "God, you two are trouble," he muttered, but he didn't stop them.

Hanni's hand joined Minji's, and together they explored his body, reacquainting themselves with the contours of his muscles, the heat of his skin. Jae's breath came in ragged gasps, and he closed his eyes, giving in to their touch.

Minji leaned in and captured his lips in a passionate kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth. Hanni watched, her own desire rising as she saw the effect they were having on him. She ran her hands up his chest, feeling his heart pound under her palm. She leaned in and nipped at his earlobe, her voice a whisper. "You like that, don't you?"

Jae nodded, his eyes still closed, his breath coming in short gasps. "Yes," he hissed. "God, yes."

Hanni smiled and turned her attention to his neck, kissing and nipping her way down to his collarbone. Minji's hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt, exposing more of his chest to their hungry mouths. Hanni could feel the heat building between them, the tension coiling tighter and tighter.

Jae's hands found their way to Minji's waist, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss. Hanni could see the hunger in his eyes, the way his body responded to their touch. She felt a thrill of power, of control. This was what they wanted, and they were going to get it.

She slid her hand down his stomach, feeling the ridges of his abs, the way his muscles tensed under her touch. She dipped her fingers below the waistband of his pants, feeling the heat of his skin, the way his breath hitched as she brushed against his hip bones.

Minji pulled back from the kiss, her lips swollen and red. She looked at Hanni, a question in her eyes. Hanni nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. It was time to take this to the next level.

Minji stood up and pulled Jae to his feet, her hands on his chest. "Come with us," she said, her voice a command. "We have a surprise for you."

Hanni led the way to the back of the bar, where there was a small, secluded hallway with a single door at the end. It was a storage room, but it was private, and that's all they needed. She pushed the door open and pulled Jae inside, Minji following close behind.

The room was small, filled with boxes and crates, but there was just enough space for the three of them. Hanni turned to face Jae, her eyes locked on his as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the lace bra underneath. Jae's eyes darkened, and he reached out, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples.

Minji came up behind him, her hands sliding under his shirt, exploring his chest. Hanni could feel the heat of his body, the way his muscles tensed under her touch. She leaned in and captured his lips in a passionate kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth.

Jae's hands roamed her body, his touch hungry and desperate. He pulled her blouse off her shoulders, his lips trailing kisses down her neck, her collarbone, her chest. He pushed the lace of her bra down, exposing her breasts, and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking and nipping until Hanni was moaning, her head thrown back in pleasure.

Minji's hands were busy unbuckling Jae's belt, pulling his pants down. Hanni could feel the heat of his erection, the way it pressed against her stomach. She reached down and wrapped her hand around him, stroking him slowly, feeling him pulse in her hand.

Jae groaned, his head falling back against Minji's shoulder. "God, Hanni," he gasped. "You feel so good."

Hanni smiled, a slow, seductive curve of her lips. "And we're just getting started," she murmured, dropping to her knees in front of him.

She took him in her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock, tasting the salty pre-cum. Jae's hands found their way to her hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he guided her movements. She took him deeper, her hand stroking the base of his shaft as she sucked and licked, her other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently in her palm.

Minji's hands were busy exploring Jae's body, her lips trailing kisses down his back, her nails digging into his skin. Jae was a mess of sensations, his body tense and trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Hanni could feel his muscles tensing, his body coiling tight as a spring. She knew he was close, but she didn't want him to finish yet. She pulled back, a wicked smile on her lips as she stood up, her body pressing against his.

"Not so fast," she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. "We're not done with you yet."

Jae groaned, his body shaking with the effort of holding back. "Hanni, please," he begged. "I need to be inside you."

Hanni smiled and turned to Minji, a question in her eyes. Minji nodded, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Let's give the man what he wants," she said, her voice a purr.

They led Jae to a stack of crates in the corner, a makeshift bed for their pleasure. Hanni lay down first, her body on display for Jae's hungry eyes. Minji straddled her, her lips capturing Hanni's in a passionate kiss as Jae watched, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Hanni could feel the heat between them, the way their bodies fit together perfectly. She ran her hands up Minji's thighs, her fingers digging into her soft flesh as she pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.

Jae's hands were busy exploring their bodies, his touch hungry and desperate. He ran his hands over Hanni's curves, his lips trailing kisses down her neck, her collarbone, her chest. He pushed Minji's skirt up, his fingers finding her wet and ready, and he slipped two fingers inside her, pumping them in and out as she moaned and rode his hand.

Hanni could feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter. She reached down and guided Jae's cock to her entrance, her eyes locked on his as he slowly pushed inside her, filling her completely.

They both moaned, their bodies pressing together, their breaths mingling. Jae started to move, his hips thrusting against hers, his body taking control. Hanni wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him deeper, harder, faster.

Minji straddled Hanni's chest, her wet pussy hovering over Hanni's mouth. Hanni reached up and pulled her down, her tongue delving into Minji's folds, tasting her sweetness, feeling her shudder and moan above her.

Jae's movements became more frantic, his body tensing as he chased his release. Hanni could feel him swelling inside her, his body coiling tight as a spring. She knew he was close, and she wanted to push him over the edge.

She sucked Minji's clit into her mouth, her tongue flicking and swirling as she brought her to the brink. Minji's body shook, her hands fisting in Hanni's hair as she came, her juices gushing into Hanni's mouth.

The taste of Minji's orgasm sent Hanni over the edge, her body clenching around Jae's cock as she came, her muscles milking him, drawing out his own release.

Jae groaned, his body shaking as he spilled himself inside her, his seed filling her, marking her as his. He collapsed on top of them, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

They lay there for a moment, their bodies entwined, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Hanni could feel the aftershocks of her orgasm, the way her body still pulsed with pleasure. She looked up at Jae, a small smile playing on her lips.

"That was...incredible," he murmured, his voice hoarse with exertion.

Hanni smiled, a slow, seductive curve of her lips. "We're not done yet," she said, her voice a promise.

Jae's eyes widened, and he looked from Hanni to Minji, a hungry look in his eyes. "What do you have in mind?" he asked, his voice already husky with renewed desire.

Minji smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Round two," she said, her voice a purr. "And this time, I want to be on top."

Jae groaned, his body already responding to their touch. "God, you two are going to kill me," he said, but he was smiling, his eyes dark with desire.

Hanni and Minji exchanged a look, a silent communication passing between them. They were in this together, and they were going to make sure Jae remembered this night for the rest of his life.

They spent the rest of the night exploring each other's bodies, their touches growing more intimate, more desperate with each passing moment. They took their time, savoring every touch, every kiss, every moan. They were in control, and they were going to make sure Jae knew it.

As the night wore on, their movements became more frantic, their bodies more desperate for release. Hanni could feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter. She knew they were close, and she wanted to push them all over the edge.

She reached down and guided Jae's cock to her entrance, her eyes locked on his as he slowly pushed inside her, filling her completely. Minji straddled his face, her wet pussy hovering over his mouth. He reached up and pulled her down, his tongue delving into her folds, tasting her, feeling her shudder and moan above him.

Hanni started to move, her hips thrusting against Jae's, her body taking control. She could feel him swelling inside her, his body coiling tight as a spring. She knew he was close, and she wanted to push him over the edge.

She leaned down and captured Minji's lips in a passionate kiss, her tongue exploring her mouth as she rode Jae's cock, her body slamming against his, her muscles clenching and unclenching around him.

Minji's body shook, her hands fisting in Hanni's hair as she came, her juices gushing into Jae's mouth. The taste of Minji's orgasm sent Hanni over the edge, her body clenching around Jae's cock as she came, her muscles milking him, drawing out his own release.

Jae groaned, his body shaking as he spilled himself inside her, his seed filling her, marking her as his. He collapsed on the makeshift bed, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Hanni and Minji lay down beside him, their bodies entwined, their breaths slowly returning to normal. They had given him a night to remember, and they knew it. They exchanged a look, a silent communication passing between them. They were in this together, and they had just shown Jae exactly who was in control.

As they lay there, their bodies sated and spent, Hanni couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. They had taken what they wanted, and they had given Jae a night he would never forget. It was a night of passion, of power, of pleasure. And it was a night that would stay with them all, a memory etched in their minds, a testament to the power of two women who knew what they wanted and weren't afraid to take it.

The room was quiet, the only sound their soft breathing and the distant hum of the bar. Hanni looked at Minji, a small smile playing on her lips. "That was...intense," she whispered.

Minji smiled back, her eyes shining with satisfaction. "He won't forget us anytime soon," she replied, her voice soft but firm.

Jae, still catching his breath, managed a weak smile. "You two are something else," he said, his voice hoarse. "I never expected...that."

Hanni propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a mix of amusement and satisfaction. "Expect the unexpected, Jae. That's what makes life interesting."

Minji nodded in agreement, her hand gently stroking Jae's chest. "And tonight was definitely interesting," she added, a playful tone in her voice.

Jae chuckled, a low, exhausted sound. "You can say that again," he muttered, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "I needed that."

Hanni raised an eyebrow. "Needed what? A reminder of what you're missing out on?"

Jae opened his eyes and looked at her, a serious expression on his face. "Maybe. Or maybe just a night to remember. You two know how to make an impression."

Minji leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. "Glad we could oblige," she murmured.

Hanni felt a pang of something she couldn't quite identify—satisfaction, maybe, or a sense of closure. She had shown Jae that she was in control, that she could give and take pleasure on her own terms. And she had done it with her best friend by her side, making the experience even more meaningful.

As they lay there, their bodies slowly cooling down, Hanni couldn't help but feel a deep sense of contentment. They had taken what they wanted, and they had left their mark on Jae. It was a night of empowerment, of shared pleasure, and of friendship. And it was a night that Hanni would cherish, a memory of a time when she and Minji had taken control and shown the world what they were made of.

Eventually, they untangled themselves from each other and began to straighten their clothes, their movements slow and lazy. Hanni looked at Minji, a soft smile on her lips. "Ready to face the world again?" she asked.

Minji returned the smile, her eyes shining with happiness. "With you by my side, always," she replied.

They helped Jae to his feet, and the three of them made their way back to the bar, their steps slow and steady. As they re-entered the noisy, bustling world, Hanni felt a sense of detachment, as if the rest of the bar was moving in slow motion while she was stuck in a bubble of her own making, a bubble filled with the memories of the incredible night she had just experienced.

They said their goodbyes to Jae, their voices low and intimate, their touches lingering. And then, hand in hand, Hanni and Minji walked out of the bar, their heads held high, their hearts full, and their bodies sated. They had taken what they wanted, and they had left their mark on the night, on each other, and on Jae. It was a night to remember, a night of passion, of power, and of pleasure. And it was a night that would stay with them, a memory etched in their minds, a testament to the power of two women who knew what they wanted and weren't afraid to take it. AN: My yearly smut, see yall next year

#smut #kpop smut #hanni pham #newjeans hanni #kim minji

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keraawrites · 14 days ago

Text

Private lesson

Summary: It was a snobby high-class country club, and the only reason you ever stepped foot on its grounds was because of the stupidly hot upcoming young pro golfer. ۶ৎ Armin x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Outdoor sex, unprotected sex, face down ass up, tongue peircing, oral (male and female), dirty talk, name calling (ma, slut, whore), hair pulling, dom Armin, picture taking

Word count — 5.2k

The thing about going to a top-tier high school was that everyone acted like they were two business calls away from running the country. Every hallway conversation was a flex-off—who landed the better internship, who had the higher GPA, who was casually being groomed to take over their family’s tech empire. Everyone was somebody, or pretending hard enough to fake it.

You didn’t have to pretend.

You weren’t just rich. You were connected. Your parents made sure of that. Old money, black excellence, and carefully cultivated prestige followed your name like a designer label.

But unlike the rest of the pill-popping trust fund babies who sniffed coke in bathroom stalls and pretended to give a damn in Model UN, you actually had the résumé to back it up.

President of three student orgs. Captain of the swim team. Debate medals. Volunteer hours. Invited to think tanks at sixteen.

And God, you were so bored.

Everything felt easy now. Predictable. College had sharpened you more than high school ever did, but even here, surrounded by social climbers and legacy students, you’d already hit the ceiling. You were graduating in a month. Off to Rome in June for a summer internship that your professors called “life-changing” and your father’s friends called “brilliant positioning.”

And still—bored.

So fucking bored you could scream.

Your eyes drifted behind your sunglasses, scanning the manicured lawns of the country club like you were searching for something interesting. Nothing but rich people playing dress-up in white and pastels, swinging overpriced clubs, and gossiping behind mimosa glasses.

“If you keep spacing out like that,” a dry voice said beside you, “I may start to think you don’t like me.”

You blinked once, slowly, turning your head toward the man sitting across from you on the club’s patio. “Uncle Levi,” you said, tone flat, “you know I like spending time with you. But I hate this country club.”

Levi Ackerman smirked behind his espresso. You weren’t blood, but he claimed you like you were. Old friend of your father’s from before the money came in—quiet, blunt, always dressed like he was mourning something. He was also the only person who never sugarcoated things with you. Which made him tolerable.

“Yeah, well,” he said, nodding toward the sprawling green in the distance, “at least the view’s decent.”

And he was right.

You took a slow sip of your iced coffee, letting the condensation roll lazily down the cup as your eyes drifted across the range. They landed—again, like muscle memory—on him.

The tall, lean figure in a black polo. Standing near the far practice green, focused and alone. His hands adjusted on the grip of his club with the kind of precision that felt… sensual. Like he thought with his fingertips. Like he trusted his body to remember what his brain wouldn’t say out loud.

Sunlight caught the sweep of his blond hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he shifted his stance. His shirt clung to the sharp lines of his back, and when he swung—fluid, effortless, perfect—you felt your stomach twist.

That was the thing about Armin Arlert.

You’d learned his name a few weeks ago—just in passing, during one of your father’s rare attempts at small talk over dinner.

“He’s the future of the sport,” he’d said. “Quiet kid. Smart. Good form. I invested in his early sponsorship.”

Your ears perked up. You didn’t usually care about what your father invested in. Startups. Political campaigns. A few underground fashion brands trying to break into Tokyo. But this? A person?

“Golf?” you’d repeated flatly, twirling your fork.

Your father nodded. “Young pro, he goes to your college—same year. Sponsored by one of the top athletic firms. He’s got the numbers. All he needs is a clean image and a few more wins. We’re grooming him to be the next golden boy.”

And then he pulled up a clip.

It was less than 90 seconds long—just Armin on a course, mid-tournament. His jaw tight. Eyes focused. Wind in his hair. He moved like the world around him didn’t exist. Like the only thing that mattered was the ball, the swing, the arc.

You'd never been so interested in one of your dad’s boring business tangents.

From that point on, Armin was everywhere. Or maybe it just felt like that. In the student newspaper. On club flyers. In the background of your econ class once or twice. Always quiet. Always composed. But so completely and utterly untouchable.

And that made him irresistible.

Because you didn’t do distant. You didn’t chase. But there was something about him—maybe the way he ignored all the noise, how his entire being was chiseled down into one, singular obsession. Golf.

You could relate.

You’d been obsessed with winning your whole life. And now, bored with everything else, your mind had settled on a new fixation.

Armin Arlert.

Not just because he was beautiful.

Not just because he was brilliant.

But because he didn’t seem to notice you at all.

And you hated that.

“Alright, we’re cutting it close. Yearbooks need to be wrapped by the end of the week. Who’s still left for portraits and legacy blurbs?”

A voice to your left piped up, half-buried in a checklist. “Most of the secret society kids want to do a joint statement. They're scheduling individual shots for later this week.”

You sighed. Of course they were.

“But,” she continued, hesitant, “um—Armin Arlert hasn’t signed up for his photo. And the deadline for that… is today.”

Your pen paused mid-air.

Armin.

The name barely had time to hang in the air before your brain locked onto it like a heat-seeking missile. You blinked once, lashes low, and tilted your head just slightly, trying not to look as interested as you suddenly felt.

“Arlert?” you repeated.

The girl nodded, flipping through the clipboard again. “Yeah. I think he’s been swamped with training or whatever. But if he doesn’t get it in by today, it won’t make print.”

You hummed under your breath, tapping the end of your pen against the table. The meeting buzzed on, voices layered in logistics and complaints—but you’d already tuned out.

You dismissed the meeting soon after, your mind already on the blonde as you unconsciously hunted for him.

You hadn’t even realised you were scanning the quad until you stepped out into the sun, hand shielding your eyes, searching.

It wasn’t stalking, not really. You just happened to remember overhearing—somewhere between class rep gossip and cafeteria noise, that Armin was training on campus today. Something about the varsity golf team getting access to the athletic green while the country club prepped for a corporate retreat.

You saw him perched under a tree, clad in jeans and a polo shirt, jumper tied around his shoulders as he chatted away with Eren Yeager.

"Ahhh, if it isn’t Miss Student Body President herself,” Eren drawled, smirking as he leaned back on his elbows. “To what do we owe the honour? Did the sun come out just for you, or are we just lucky today?”

You ignored the brunette, eyes focused on the blonde who looked up at you as you enetred his view.

“Armin,” you started, voice smooth but edged with command. “You need to take your yearbook photo. Today.”

He blinked. “What?”

You took another step closer, ignoring Eren’s smug little smirk from the side. “You know, the photo you’ve conveniently been avoiding. Legacy, remember? Don’t try to tell me you don’t have time, because clearly you have time to sit around entertaining miscreants.”

“Rude,” Eren mumbled with a laugh, not even offended.

Armin sat up straighter, clearly caught off guard. “I didn’t realise the deadline was today.”

“Well, now you do,” you replied, arms crossing lightly under your chest. “And since I personally came all the way out here to remind you, the least you can do is follow me back and make it quick.”

There was a long pause, you watched Armin shift slightly, something thoughtful in his expression. He wasn’t flustered—he didn’t seem like someone who ever got flustered—but there was a flicker of curiosity behind his calm demeanour. Like he was trying to figure you out.

"I can't today. I have practice."

You stared.

Eren let out a snort. “Damn, I think he just rejected the queen herself. History in the making.”

You ignored him again.

“Practice,” you repeated, one brow arching. “You’re on a bench under a tree, Arlert.”

His lips twitched, just slightly. “I was about to start.”

“Mhm.”

"And, I don't really care about leaving a legacy behind, and if you really need a picture, can't you just get a quick candid when I'm practising?"

Your brow twitched at the second basic 'no'. You didn't do good with the word no.

"Maybe if you get up and come take your picture I'll get daddy to talk to your sponsor about getting you those new clubs that their working on."

You tried really hard to hide your smirk as Armin's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Damn, bribery? Who’s the miscreant now?”

"Shut up, Eren,” Armin muttered, gaze still on you. “Can you actually get that to happen?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Do you think I make empty promises?”

He didn’t answer, but the look he gave you said enough.

You knew the answer was yes.

After a beat, Armin stood up, brushing off his jeans and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Fine. I’ll take the picture.”

Your grin widened.

“Great. Studios in the comms building, third floor. I’ll walk you.”

You glanced at Armin from the corner of your eye as the two of you fell into step together. He didn’t speak at first, just adjusted the strap on his bag and kept pace.

"Eren's right. Didn't peg you down for bribery. Me not taking my picture doesn't actually harm you in some way."

You scoffed slightly, heels clicking against the stone steps, smiling softly as students greeted you in pacing.

"I am the head of the committee, so it bothers me when things don't go my way Arlet." Armin felt the corner of his lips pull into a smile, you were just as he thought.

"You know that's kind of like me and golf, its precise so I have to do things exact or it'll just fuck up."

You blinked, caught off guard by the swear that left his lips, you bit your lip softly, feeling the heat go straight to your core.

You finally reached the studio, knocking softly before telling the photographer that someone was here for their picture.

You turned towards the blonde, who was already staring at you.

"What?"

"You really gonna get me them clubs?"

You hummed softly, stepping away from the door as you closed in on him.

"How about I bring them by the club in a couple days and you show me how to use them?"

Arnin chuckled softly, he knew what game you were playing but it wouldn't hurt to play along.

“You want a golf lesson?”

You nodded once. “I’m at the top of the school. I’ve done everything. Won everything. And now I’m bored out of my mind. Graduation can’t come soon enough. So yeah, Armin… I want a golf lesson. And I want you to teach me.”

He held your gaze, a spark flickering behind those thoughtful blue eyes. Then, he stepped toward the studio setup, dropping his bag and rolling his shoulders.

“I’ll send you my schedule.”

Your smile widened. “Looking forward to it, golden boy.”

The breeze teased the hem of your tennis skirt as you made your way across the sprawling green of the country club, sunlight pooling over the trimmed lawn like honey.

It had been a few days since you told Armin you’d bring the clubs.

You remembered talking to your father that night, curled up on the velvet couch in his home office, swirling a mocktail while he poured himself something older than you.

“Get those new golf clubs for Arlert,” you’d said casually, eyes flicking toward your phone screen, where a paused video of Armin’s last tournament.

Your dad had barely looked up from his glass. “Already ahead of you,” he said, voice brimming with the kind of investor excitement that usually puts you to sleep. “Kid’s a prodigy. Ball speed’s insane for his weight class. Balance like a dancer. He's gonna win me a lot of money.”

You bit your lip as your eyes settled on the blonde.

He was stretching, his polo shirt had ridden up your gaze locked in on the happy trail that vanished beneath his belt.

You inhaled, reset your composure, and started walking toward him.

"Hope you're ready for a gift," you called out, causing the blonde to halt his movements.

Armin glanced over his shoulder mid-stretch, brows lifting slightly as he straightened. "Didn’t think you’d actually show."

“You wound me,” you drawled as you stepped closer, arms crossing beneath your chest. His eyes dropped—not subtly. They scanned your whole frame before resting mid thigh, where your pleated tennis skirt teased the bare skin of your thighs.

He didn’t bother hiding the stare.

You didn’t bother hiding the smile.

Then the low hum of an engine broke your moment, a golf cart pulling up beside you. The staffer hopped off and carefully set the bag of clubs at your feet. You murmured a thank-you, dismissing him with a polite nod before nudging the bag toward Armin.

His gaze flicked from the clubs back to your face, and then back again. You saw it—the instant the excitement lit his features like a damn sunrise.

He dropped to a crouch, unzipping the bag with reverence, like it held holy relics. His fingers ghosted over the matte graphite shafts, his mouth parting just slightly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, lifting one of the irons. “These are actually the real deal.”

You giggled as he turned the club over in his hands, admiring every inch of it like it was art.

“TaylorMade’s unreleased line,” you said, letting the pride bleed into your tone. “Balanced for your tempo. Personalized grip. Straight from the R&D lab to your hands. Told you—I don’t make empty promises.”

Armin stood and took a practice swing, slow and smooth. His stance was perfect—shoulders loose, core tight, legs braced with just enough tension. His follow-through was fluid, almost hypnotic.

God, he looked good like that.

He exhaled a low breath and shook his head. “Fuck, fuck—these are fucking legendary.” He brought the club back up, eyes wide with awe. “I’ve never felt anything this smooth. They feel like they were built for me.”

You leaned a little closer, chin tilted up. “They were.”

He looked at you—really looked. Something unreadable flashed behind his expression, something that simmered just beneath the surface of admiration and gratitude.

“You’re kind of insane,” he said, tone light but edged with disbelief. “In the best way.”

You laughed. “I get that a lot.”

He grabbed a ball from his own bag, tossing it lightly into the air before catching it. “Alright, if you’re really serious about this golf lesson, you’re getting the full treatment.”

“Oh?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Grip, stance, swing, posture. No shortcuts. No half-assing.”

You smirked. “I’m not usually the one doing the assing, but okay.”

That made him laugh—really laugh. He rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was putting up with you.

"Okay, some people are visual learners so why don't you watch me with my stance and hit a couple balls and then you'll give it a go."

You nodded, sinking down onto the green, your skirt fanned around your thighs, as you stretched your legs out in front of you. You pushed your sunglasses up into your hair, eyes tracking every move he made.

Armin lined up, posture precise. He rolled his shoulders once, adjusted his grip on the club, then exhaled slowly through his nose. You watched the transformation happen in real time—the soft-spoken golden boy gone laser-focused and lethal.

His swing was a thing of beauty—clean, practiced, elegant. The club sliced through the air with a whisper and connected with the ball with a satisfying crack, sending it sailing in a perfect arc across the range.

You let out a low whistle. “Okay, that was actually kinda sexy.”

He looked over his shoulder at you, shaking his head, but you caught the faint pink blooming in his ears.

“Again,” you said, grinning. “Slow this time.”

Armin rolled his eyes but did as asked, resetting. “You better be paying attention.”

“Oh, I am,” you murmured, voice dropping a note lower.

He hit another. And another. Each swing was different, slightly adjusted for distance and control, but all of them were sharp, intentional, perfect.

After the fourth, he stepped back and turned to you. “Your turn.”

You stood, brushing grass off the back of your thighs with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But if I break a nail, I’m suing.”

He chuckled, handing you one of the new clubs. “Not a chance. These were built for royalty, remember?”

You took the club, turning it over in your hands like you weren’t just admiring the curve of his back ten seconds ago. You stepped up to the ball, adjusting your grip and spacing your feet like you vaguely remembered him doing.

He walked up behind you, close—but not touching. “You’re too stiff. Relax.”

You arched your back slightly. “Is this better?”

“Nope. Worse,” he said, clearly trying not to smile. “Here—let me help.”

His hands slid onto your hips, gently nudging you into place. His fingers were warm, steady, and stayed a second longer than necessary.

“There,” he said quietly, voice close to your ear. “Now try.”

You swung.

And absolutely whiffed it.

“Shit—”

Armin laughed again, stepping back as you straightened. “We’re gonna be here a while, come on--lets go get the balls."

Armin put his sunglasses on as he helped you into the passenger side, his hand resting on your mid-back. He drove off once he settled in the drivers seat, his hand brushing against your thigh. You crossed your legs, skirt riding up a little, which caused the blonde's hands to pause before they settled on your knee.

The cart pulled to a stop, some balls littered in the distance, the area seemed more private.

Armin helped you out of the cart but before he could say anything, you already walked off and began picking up some of the balls.

You could feel his burning gaze on you as you bent over to pick up the golf balls. You could feel the slight breeze on your ass, you smirked as you heard his murmered curses.

"Okay I'm ready."

You turned to face the blonde who was still standing by the the cart his gaze soley on you.

"Armin."

The boy blinked, gaze adjusting, "Huh, yeah okay, erm okay yeah."

You giggled as Armin grabbed the clubs, he walked over to you, handing over the club before you took your stance.

His breath hit the back of your neck, warm and shallow. You held still as his hand skimmed your wrist, then ghosted along your forearm to adjust your grip. His other hand dropped lightly to your waist.

“Relax your shoulders,” he said, voice softer now. Lower. “And keep your weight even between both feet. You’re leaning into your right side too much.”

You pushed yourself back into his chest, your ass grazing the outline of his dick. You could feel the intake of his breath before his gripped tigheted agaisnt your waist.

"Okay," His breath fanned against your ear, "now take a big swing."

You hummed softly, feeling his grip on your waist tightened, his hand over yours as he gudied you to take your swing.

Your head tilted to the side as his nose brushed the edge of your ear, his hands left your arms before they tightened on your waist.

"Do you want me to fuck you on this field?"

A quiet moan slipped from your lips before you could catch it. The shift between his personality was intense.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, tugging just hard enough to send a jolt down your spine. His hands drifted lower, cupping your ass possessively over the thin fabric of your skirt.

"You think you can?"

The blonde chuckled before his lips met yours. You moaned at the feel and taste of his lips, your hands pressed firmly against his chest, his fingers trailed against your bare thigh before cupping your ass under your skirt.

You gasped as his tongue slipped past your lips, slick and demanding, a cool tap of metal catching against yours. Your fingers curled into his chest, pressing close as realisation settled in.

“Wait—” your voice hitched, “you have your tongue pierced?”

“Mmhmm,” he smirked against your jaw, his lips moving down the column of your throat, hot and unrelenting. “Didn’t think I’d use it on you this soon... but I’m not about to waste the opportunity.”

You moaned again, head tilting back as he scooped you up effortlessly, your thighs locking around his waist on instinct. He kissed you through your surprised laugh, walking both of you to the cart.

The cold leather of the golf cart seat kissed your ass as he sat you down, his lips trailed along the barness of your skin before he fully sunk down to his knees.

You barely had time to blink before his hands were parting your thighs, spreading them open wide beneath your skirt.

“You know,” he murmured, lifting the hem slowly, reverently, “I thought about this. Not like—exactly this, but something close.”

You moaned, head tilting back as you tried to hide your smile, "Yeah? Didn't think you were into me."

Armin kissed the inside of your thighs, fingers barley grazing the outline of your clit before your tugged your panties to your ankles.

"Hmm, whatever gave you that idea?"

"Maybe because—fuck Armin." You gasped, one hand flying to the back of his head when you felt his tongue swipe through your folds—piercing grazing your clit in a way that had your hips jerking up off the seat.

Armin groaned at the taste of you, his tongue welcomed your jucies as he burried his face futher into your cunt.

His hands kept your legs spread as his tongue fucked into you, switching between broad licks and tight flicks over your clit, like he was trying to figure out what made you squirm the most—and then doing exactly that on purpose.

“Taste so fucking good,” he groaned, voice muffled between your thighs. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind. You know that? You think I didn’t know how often you watched me on the field?”

You whimpered, already close, hips rocking against his mouth. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue swirling, then popped it with a lewd sound that made your breath hitch.

Your whole body shivered when Armin rolled his piercing over your swollen bud, your fingers tightened in his hair as his two of his fingers bullied their way into your cunt.

Your instantly clenched around them, the squelch loud and obscene as he started to fuck them into you hard and fast.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice dark and raw with lust. “Drippin’ like a damn faucet. This pussy’s so wet for me it’s embarrassing. But you like it, don’t you? Like being used out here where anyone could see.”

A scream ripped from your throat, the blonde pulling away to look at your face, his smile was feral as his fingers roughly curled against your G-spot.

“You gonna come on my tongue and fingers like a good girl?” he taunted, pressing messy, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Wanna make a mess for me? Let everyone know who this pussy belongs to?”

You nodded, breathless, tears threatening to sting your eyes.

“Say it.”

“Y-yes! Armin—please, wanna come for you, wanna come so bad—fuck, don’t stop—!”

He growled and sealed his mouth over your cunt again, the silver ball rolling over your clit one last time as he licked you through the sharp rise of your orgasm until you were writhing, hips jerking, thighs threatening to close around his head. But he held you there, firm and inescapable, until your body trembled against the leather.

Armin finally pulled away from you, his chin wet with your slick, the blonde smiled before he leaned up to press a kiss to your lips, his tongue shoving into your mouth so you could taste yourself on him. When he pulled back, his soaked fingers slipped from between your thighs and lifted to your mouth.

“Open.”

You did as he said—eyes locked on his, you moaned around his fingers as he slid them past your lips. You sucked them in slow, tongue swirling, moaning at your own taste while his gaze darkened further.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the way your lips wrapped around his knuckles.

Armin swore he could have busted a nut right then and there.

You let Armin's fingers go with a soft pop, eyes bold and looking up at him all innocent. It drove him insanse.

The blonde quickly pulled you up, your breathing laboured as he lowered you to the ground, your knees meeting the grass as you became eye level with his crotch.

You watched Armin's fingers as they worked on the belt of his slacks, you bit your lip softly after he freed his cock from it's confinement.

Fuck, fuck there was no way that was gonna fit.

The blonde looked down at you, his lips pulling into a smirk as your eyes widened.

“You can take it,” he said low, gripping the base and dragging the tip slowly across your lips, smearing precum against them. “Open that pretty mouth for me.”

You obeyed instantly, lips parting as he eased himself past them. The first few inches filled your mouth with weight and heat, and he groaned deep—his head falling back for a second, throat tight.

“Fuuuck, there you go,” he rasped, one hand braced on your jaw while the other threaded deep in your braids. “Shit, baby, look at you—so fuckin’ eager now, huh?”

You moaned around him, the sound vibrating through your throat as your tongue curled along the underside of his cock. You could feel him twitch when your spit started to gather, dripping from the corners of your mouth.

He started to guide your movements, slow and steady as he fucked your mouth. Every time you gagged just a little, he moaned like you were a drug.

“Yeah… take it, fuck, just like that,” he growled. “Didn’t think the sweet little President had a dirty fucking mouth like this.”

You whimpered around him, fingers digging into the back of his thighs as he gently rocked his hips forward again.

When he finally pulled back, strings of spit still connected your lips to his cock. His hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his stare—eyes blown wide, mouth messy, pupils wild with lust.

“Get in the cart,” he said, voice sharp.

You didn’t even hesitate.

As you turned and climbed in, he followed close behind, hands already on your hips. You barely got one knee on the seat before he was crowding you from behind, pushing your skirt up, groaning at the sight of pussy.

“Fucking dripping, and I haven’t even put it in yet. Such a desperate little thing, huh?”

You whimpered, arching your back and wiggling your hips for him, already trembling with need.

Armin ran his tip through your folds causing you to whine, "Your so presistent you know."

He growled, pulling away slightly to stroke himself. “Fucking chasing me for one stupid yearbook photo but you're really just a needy fuckin’ slut, aren’t you? Just wanted me to fuck you.”

You gasped, embarrassment blooming right alongside your arousal. But god, it turned you on more than you'd admit. “Please… Armin, I need it,” you breathed.

“Oh, you need it now?” he sneered, grabbing a handful of your braids, yanking your head back.

You whined, eyes fluttering shut, your pussy clenching around nothing. You didn't even have time to beg him some more before he slammed into you in one deep, brutal thrust, punching the air out of your lungs.

You screamed, back arching, nails digging into the leather of the golf cart seat.

“Fuck yes,” he hissed, setting a punishing rhythm right out the gate. “This pussy’s so goddamn tight—gripping me like you were made for it.”

Your mind was a haze, you would have never had guess that the golden boy, the one who just wants to golf and graduate, had such a sinful cock and a filthy mouth.

He grunted as his hips smacked against your ass, the sound filthy and loud in the quiet of the green. His balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, making you moan uncontrollably.

“Bet you fingered yourself to me, huh?” he panted. “Touchin’ that nasty little cunt thinkin’ about me fucking you stupid. That’s why you got me those clubs, right? Wanted me to thank you just like this.”

You moaned louder, drool slipping past your lips.

He slapped your ass hard, then again, until it stung. “Look at this messy fucking cunt,” he growled, spreading your cheeks wider. “All sloppy and stretched around my dick. That’s what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to treat you like the dumb little whore you are?”

“Y-yes, god, Armin—don’t stop,” you cried, body rocking with every heavy thrust.

He reached around and rubbed your clit mercilessly, fast and tight, just to make you scream again. “Come on then. Be a good slut. Come on my cock.”

You shattered.

You screamed his name, legs shaking violently as your orgasm ripped through you, cunt clenching around his cock like a vice. You collapsed forward, arms limp, drool slipping from your lips as you sobbed through the high.

But Armin didn’t stop.

“Uh-uh. Why you running for?” he chuckled, yanking you back by your waist and slamming into you again, chasing his own release with brutal thrusts that had your body going limp in his hold.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he growled, voice rough and wrecked. “Gonna come so deep, it leaks down your thighs and stains that pretty little skirt. You’ll smell like me for days.”

You weren't sure if you were making sense, you were a babbling sensitive mess as Armin continued to fuck you. Your body molding into the leather seats of the cart as your ass continued to clap against his pelvis.

It didn't take him long before he bottomed out, groaning loudly as he emptied himself inside you.

You moaned softly at the warmth, his cock twitching inside your overstimulated cunt.

He didn’t move for a moment, just gripped your hips and breathed hard, staring down at the mess he’d made of you.

Then he pulled out slow, watching his cum spill out of you and drip to the grass.

Armin chuckled softly, you barely registered the shuffle behind you until Armin helped roll you onto your back on the cart seat. You blinked up at him through hazy, fucked-out tears.

“Wh… what’re you…?” you murmured, voice raw.

"You know how you chased me down for one stupid picture. Isn't it only fair I get one in return?"

Confusion filled your eyes before you saw him bring a polaroid camera up to his face. Your eyes widened, your legs were still spread, his cum dripping out of you, face dazed and perfect.

"Say cheese baby."

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