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mrs-elsie-barnes · 2 months ago

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5 Times You Are Not Dating Bucky Barnes (and the one time you are) | Bucky Barnes x Reader | One shot - 2.6k words |

You're sick of saying it, Bucky is not your boyfriend, you are not dating you're just friends. Until...

Warnings: 18+ for some canon typical violence and for Sam and Joaquin being pains in the arse (affectionate). Friends to lovers vibes, idiots in love, dating but not dating.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics & @saradika-graphics

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

Bucky Barnes is not your boyfriend.

At least once a day these words come out of your mouth in some form and it's becoming so frequent now that you're considering just recording yourself and playing it back on your phone.

Colleagues, partners in the field, friends.

Not a couple.

Not dating.

"Did you hear that, Wilson? She said —"

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

Sam rolled his eyes at Bucky, sighing dramatically in a way that only Sam is really allowed to get away with. Bucky hadn't taken his eyes from your laptop screen or the secure file you were scrolling through.

"Look awful close though."

You looked up this time, the top of your head brushing Bucky's cheek, his breath was warm against your own and the contrast between his exhale and the cold glass of the table gave you goosebumps.

"We're reviewing the data Joaquin sent us, what do you want us to do?" You snapped, scrolling to the next page of mind numbingly boring KPIs and MIs. Just your luck to get the management files and nothing juicy.

"Perhaps you could use the projector?" Sam clicked a button on the table and the details on your screen lit up the plain, white wall of the conference room.

Embarrassed heat flared up your spine and you shivered.

"Not very secure though, is it, Captain?" Bucky picked up the remote and switched the projector off, his eyes on the laptop screen.

The plastic of your chair squeaked as he tightened his hold on it, and the door slammed shut behind Sam.

You followed your nose from the cool darkness of the operations room to the open living area. Tedious as it was to be stationed in the middle of nowhere for recon, you couldn't fault the accommodation, it was almost like being on holiday, apart from the gruelling shifts staring at monitors every day.

Somewhere further along the corridor the sound of good-natured arguing grew louder, Bucky's voice rising above the others and warning them not to disturb you. There was a brief pause before you heard Sam and Joaquin start laughing and Bucky's heavy sigh.

"Morning," you gave a small sleepy smile to the assembled team. Joaquin smiled back, raising his coffee cup in greeting. Sam grinned and you knew instantly that there was something going on. "What now?" You sighed, sending both men in to fits of laughter.

Bucky handed you a cup of tea and bowl of yogurt and granola, a handful of blueberries and raspberries on top.

"Thanks, I'm starving." You bumped his hip as you wandered past to join your teammates at the kitchen island and earned yourself a rare smile.

"What've you got there?" Sam asked, peering into your bowl.

"Usual," you mumbled, sipping your tea. Perfect.

"Uh huh, the usual." He looked up at Bucky, whose face was slowly turning the same colour as the raspberries.

"Can I have some yoghurt, Bucky?" Joaquin asked, innocently.

"Nope." Bucky said, watching you take the first bite and allowing the corner of his mouth to turn up in a smile when yours did.

"Oh, did we run out?"

"Nope."

Bucky put the almost full pot back into the fridge, fixed his coffee and sat down too, shuffling his stool a little closer to you. His hair was still a little damp and you could smell the familiar scent of his shampoo, his bare arm bumping against yours as he took a sip of coffee.

Sam and Joaquin emptied out the last of their coffees into the sink and slunk away, whispering and laughing conspiratorially about "special treatment for girlfriends."

Bucky was, as usual, ignoring them and flipping through a week old newspaper and sipping his coffee. He caught you watching and gave you a mock glare, nothing like the hard stare he'd given Sam and Joaquín earlier.

Then he turned the pages slightly so you could see and you let your head rest on his shoulder, still sipping your tea.

"I'm sorry, okay, please stop giving me the cold shoulder." Sam followed after you as you picked your way back to the jet, trying to catch up so you could walk together.

"Absolutely not, I want to be angry for at least two more hours." You grouched, squeezing water from your tactical gear.

"C'mon, it's a little funny," Joaquin laughed, taking up space on your other side.

"Fuck off, Torres, if you had fish swimming in your tac suit you'd be mad too. "

Bucky met you at the cargo door, towel in hand and glaring at your team mates.

"Hell happened to you lot? And why are there fish in your suit?" He scanned you all quickly for serious damage, but it was just your ego that was bruised really.

"Someone, told me it was totally safe to cross this rickety fucking bridge back there," you scowled again.

It really wasn't Sam's fault, it looked perfectly safe or you wouldn't have started to cross, but it was clearly rigged to fall and that's exactly what you'd done, straight into the stagnant water below.

In their gear Sam and Joaquin had been fine. You, on the other hand, had been soaked from head to toe.

"Let's get you in something clean and dry," Bucky gently ushered you into the cool darkness of the jet, soothing your embarrassment with his own stories and wiping mud from the back of your neck as if it was an everyday occurrence.

"I don't think there's anything left in my locker after we got caught in that storm a few weeks back." Embarrassment made your skin itchy and your blood cold. You had spare underwear, maybe, at best.

"Don't worry," Bucky put his back to the door of the small bathroom while you stripped off your dirty clothes inside, "I've got something."

When you reappeared fifteen minutes later, cleaner, dryer, it was in a pair of Bucky's spare sweat pants and the black t-shirt he'd been wearing.

Joaquin raised his eyes but made the decision not to comment and incur your wrath any further.

Sam, on the other hand, chose to tease Bucky instead, their arguing bouncing around the jet while you tried to get comfy on the thin flight seats.

"Got your territory all marked then, Barnes?" He laughed, eyes darting between the two of you.

"Don't know what you're on about, Wilson." Bucky snapped back.

"She's in your clothes, couldn't find any spares? Nothing of mine of Joaquin's back there? You're getting more possessive." Sam shot you a look, "you need to tell him to fuck off."

"I'm good, Sam, thanks for your concern."

"Ahh so you are —"

"We're not dating!" You shouted in unison.

Which only made Sam and Joaquín laugh harder.

It was okay though, you were safe again now and, snuggling deeper into the body warmth of Bucky's t-shirt and definitely a lot less angry than you had been, you really felt safe too. How could you feel any other kind of way, when you could smell his body wash, when he had dried your face so carefully and helped you into your clean clothes.

He looked over at you, eyes still checking for injuries.

"You okay over there? Warm enough?" You nodded and he nodded back, smiling.

Joaquin woke with a jolt when the plane hit turbulence, there was a crick in his neck and a sore muscle in his back screaming for a soft bed and his favourite pillow. But no such luck, just an army evac in the dead of night.

Beside him Sam had spread out a blanket and his jacket on the floor, using his rucksack as a pillow and snoring soundly. He could always sleep anywhere, you all could, especially after the day you'd had.

Bucky had taken up a spot sat on the floor like Sam, but with his back to the thin benches, his pack holding up his head. In the gloom he could see Bucky's left arm rigidly holding his body up, elbow locked, because on the right you were leaning into him. His arm was around your shoulders and you'd curled your body into his, pressing into his side, face tucked into his neck and hand under his shirt.

The plane rattled again and Bucky blinked one eye open, his body still as he scanned around quickly before locking eyes with Joaquin.

"You two comfy?" Joaquin whispered and Bucky scowled back. He'd expected Bucky to push you away, but instead he tugged you closer.

Joaquin made a tiny heart shape with his fingers and then mimed kissing.

Bucky flicked up his middle finger and then closed his eyes.

"So, Playboy, got any plans tonight," Sam asked, scuffing Joaquin on the back of the head while you pulled your bag out of the gym lockers.

It'd been a long day and you couldn't wait to order a ridiculous amount of food, put your pyjamas on and forget the world existed.

"You know me, Sam. Keepin' my options open." The younger man grinned back.

"Lotta fingers in a lotta pies, have you Torres?" You snickered.

Bucky shut his locker with a slam. "Don't be crude," he grouched, but you saw the way he smiled when he rolled his eyes.

"Something like that," Joaquin shrugged.

"What about you man, hot date?" Joaquin asked,

"Nah," Sam turned away and Joaquin finished towelling his wet hair and started digging his clothes from his bag before wandering off for some privacy.

You slid your trainers back on, tucking your boots in your locker and wondering why they were both suddenly so interested in each other's dating life.

"Not even Leila," you needled, breaking the silence and poking him in the side.

"What's it got to do with you anyway? You seeing anyone tonight?"

"Nope, just me and some Chinese takeout tonight, maybe a little flirt with Netflix," Sam gave you a slightly sad look, but what did you care, it wasn't the only Friday night that would ever happen and you were exhausted.

"I was going to get noodles, do you want to come back to mine, we can split an order?" Bucky asked, fishing his keys from his gym bag and nodding his head towards the door.

"Ohh yes as long as we can get dumplings."

"Obviously we're getting dumplings."

"And maybe fried rice?"

"Rice and noodles?"

"You get one, I'll get the other, we'll split it."

"Fine."

"Shall I follow you —"

"Leave your car by the hanger, I'll drive you back in tomorrow."

"Perfect, let's grab a bottle of wine from the store on the way back."

Bucky groaned, holding the door open for you, "how many times have I said, the only acceptable drink with Chinese takeout is Tsingtao."

The door shut as Joaquin rounded the lockers again, a confused look on his face."Do they know it's Valentines Day?"

Sam laughed, "I don't think so but I can't wait to see their faces tomorrow when they figure it out."

"I've got him, Bucky, you watch the trucks?" You put your sight back to your eye, shuffling your shoulders, settling lower into the ground, you breathed deeply as you prepared to take the shot.

"You'll give away your position, you're too close, fall back." Bucky's voice was surprisingly frantic in your ear.

"Quiet, please. I can do this."

"Leave her, Buck, she's got this."

"Cap's right, gotta have a little faith."

"It's too risky —"

You turned your comm off. You'd been watching this gang for weeks hoping to catch them in the act and you had the perfect chance.

Sam and Joaquin had been leading your infiltration of their den and everything had been going swimmingly — until their leader had walked out and thrown everything into chaos.

You caught the kickback from your rifle with practised ease, your aim perfect, the apparent leader of the group crumpled to the ground, bleeding from his now shattered kneecap. Nothing fatal, you wanted to see him on the stand as did the rest of the team.

You touched your ear piece again ready to gloat about your excellent hit but Bucky's panicked voice found you instead.

"Run, I'm coming but you've gotta run, go —go! Why aren't you going!"

You turned, surrounded by three armed guards, and did the only thing you could do. Fight back.

This wasn't the best time for close quarters combat, but you needed time to reach your handgun or your dagger or something.

Dodging around you gained enough time to slip a knife from your thigh holster.

"I've got it, Buck. Go to Sam."

"No you fucking haven't."

Your arm moved, swiping at your first assailant and leaving a splatter of blood behind. Still low you lurched for the second man's legs, jabbing upwards as he bent down to you. The blade pierced the top of his thigh and blood gushed out as you twisted your wrist and tugged.

"Don't kill anyone." Sam admonished.

But you were too focused to care. The third guard was huge, broad and carrying a knife to match. But it was the gun pointed at your temple that had your heart pounding.

"Put the gun down little lady, we don't want any more messes for you to clean up." The man leered forward, pressing the hot muzzle of the gun into your skin.

"Fuck off." You spat back.

He bent closer, sliding his dagger back into its holster, giving him a free hand to pinch your cheeks. "Such a dirty mouth, what will I do with you."

"She said, fuck off."

The man looked blank, turning his head to find Bucky towering over him gun pressed to his back.

"You okay?" He asked, glancing at you quickly.

"Fine."

"You're a lucky bastard today." Bucky pulled the trigger and you closed your eyes against the spray.

The man shouted, clutching at his shoulder where blood was pouring between his fingers, the wound wider at the front.

"How's that lucky, Bucky?" You chastised, brushing leaves and dirt from your tactical suit and grabbing your rifle.

"If you were hurt, I'd have shot him in the head." He answered, simply, and you felt yourself go hot all over at the thought of what he'd do for you.

Sam and Joaquin landed behind you and rushed forwards.

"We heard more shots, is everyone okay? — What the hell guys I said minimal damage." Sam groaned.

"Would've been easier if someone—" Bucky looked at you, "had left their comms on and run when I'd said."

You rolled your eyes, "I was fine, look." All three patrol guards lay bleeding on the ground.

"That guy had a gun to your head, you were not fine."

"I had him on the ropes." You smiled, but it wavered, you had been scared and your heart had been racing seeing Bucky sneak up on him. "Plus, I've got my knight in shining armour to shoot people for me." You grinned up at Bucky, blood painted on your uniforms and across your cheeks.

"Good thing too." Bucky threaded his fingers through your chest holster and tugged you forwards, pressing a deep kiss to your lips. You hummed happily and leant into him before he set you back down

"If you're done, Sam, can we go back to the jet? I've got bad guy blood all over me, yuck." You made a face and wiped your cheek with the back of your hand before strolling off with Bucky, rifles over your shoulders.

"Did they just—" Joaquin looked over at Sam.

"Yeah —"

"How long?"

"No idea."

As you rounded the corner Bucky took your hand again, tugging you closer and pressing a kiss to your head where the imprint of the gun still lingered.

"Does this finally mean I'm your boyfriend?"

"Because you shot someone for me?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, sure." You smiled, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

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tizeline · 6 months ago

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TSAU!Donnie's Ninpō Explained!

The first ability Donnie unlocks is the ability to see mystic energy! Objects or people with with mystic energy has this colourful glowing aura you could call it, the more mystic energy the more brightly is glows. For example - Mikey already has a very bright aura naturally, which becomes even brighter when he is actively using magic! ..... All of this is to say, Donnie found that out the hard way when he used his mystic sight on Mikey when he was using magic and Donnie as a result got a little bit fucking blinded!

All yōkai and mutants are naturally mystic in nature, they always have a visable aura because of that. Humans are not mystic, so they don't have that aura. HOWEVER! Humans can learn how to use magic through certain means like, y'know, Ninpō for example! When a human uses magic, they do have mystic aura, but only while actively using mystic powers.

(Also Donnie totally accidentally discovered that the "teapot" had bad vibes because his mystic sight lol)

After a while Donnie is able to start making constructs out of his Ninpō. Initially however, he can't really form complex designs, it's mostly just blocks and walls, very simplistic shapes. But it turns out he can use these simpler constructs as effective shields! Which is good considering his soft shell as well as the fact that his battle shell in the AU wasn't built to be used as armour. Both he and April gets a lot of use out of the extra defense.

With quite a bit of practice Donnie is able to actually generate specific and more complex designs! Which means that yes, to the horror of friend and foe alike, Donnie can and will summon an entire arsenal of firepower, yikes. He's not limited to firearms though, he's able to generate all kinds of technology and machinery (drill!!!!)

To create these mystic contructs, it does require Donnie to have a good understanding of what it looks like, how it functions, etc. His imagination and his knowledge of technology are what sets a lot of the limits on what he is able to create, if he can build it in his lab then he can build it with his Ninpō. This particular ability requires a lot complex thought, if Donnie wasn't so smart he wouldn't be able to pull it off as well as he does.

Another limitation is that maintaining the contsructs is very energy-consuming, he'll quickly exhaust himself if he keeps them around. He'll usually only summon constructs very briefly for an attack and then immedietly dismiss them.

The way that Donnnie's Ninpō manifests itself is already very technology-oriented, because of that he can interact with ordinary technology through his Ninpō. Personally I haven't figured out the details of what exactly that can look like, but there's definitely a lot of possibilities to explore here.

One thing though, as Donnie's Ninpō grows more and more powerful overtime, a side-effect of that is that if he gets really pissed off or otherwise very emotional, he'll accidentally make the technology in his near viscinity go haywire lmao. (This has the risk of making him even more angry, which just worsens the problem, and so on haha)

I really like the idea of Donnie being the second most powerful mystic user out of his brothers, after Mikey of course. And because he's mostly self-trained, he doesn't have the best understanding of how to properly control his powers, which evidently can become a bit of a problem. Donnie eventually agrees to let Draxum help him get a better grasp on his mystic abilities after the Hamatos and the Draxums become more friendly with each other.

So uh. About how Donnie kinda accidentally infused Shelldon with mystic energy while creating him which caused the robot to develop a kind of soul? Yeah so because of that Shelldon's mystic energy if linked to Donnie's, which means that Shelldon more or less gains access to the same abilities as Donnie does! He's not quite as powerful as Donnie, and he still needs to practice to fully get a grasp on these powers as well. But point is, that's how Shelldon gains acess to Ninpō in the AU! (He also notices their fucked up "teapot")

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Anyway that basically summarizes it! A lot of these ideas are headcanons I have for canon!Donnie as well honestly, the AU is just an excuse to explore these concepts. Donnie's ability to summon fucking firearms and military equipment is also something I've thought about, I wanted to try to think how it would work for him while also putting some limitations on it. ANOTHER THING I like the idea of Donnie's tech constructs basically being the same ability as when Raph creates constructs of himself. The difference lies with that Donnie is a massive nerd so his first instinct is to recreate his own tech with the Ninpō. While Raph being someone who is already so physically strong would naturally use his Ninpō to recreate his own greatest weapon, which is himself. (Donnie uses his brain, Raph uses his brawn, who would've guessed)

#i love figuring out magic systems even though im not that good at it #at least not from scratch #its a lot easier to have something to go off of which i have here #tiz sep au #tizel art #my art #digital art #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #rottmnt #rottmnt au #rottmnt donnie #rise donnie #rottmnt shelldon #rise shelldon

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majorproblems77 · 1 year ago

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Colouring page time! :D

Trying a different character today and have kinda been on a Wars is a cool guy phase. So here we are!

This page is from the linked Universe colouring book by the amazing @vagueandominousvibes or Kalh!

Please please go and look at their art and AU there are several pages in the colouring book which I love and am looking to work on in the future!

I really hope You think I've done your work justice, cause its just incredible.

And Thank you so much Kalh for putting your artwork into this book for people to colour! It's absolutely incredible and I love it so much. Hope it's alright if I add it to my wall! :D

Alternative lighting under the cut!

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wcnderlnds · 6 months ago

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funhouse | choi su-bong (thanos)

・❥・ summary: you're just as crazy as he is which instantly catches his attention ・❥・word count: 1.1k ・❥・warnings: mentions of death, blood, sexual innuendos, thanos got his pills. ・❥・ authors note: there will definitely be a second part to this because him vibing with someone just as crazy is so fun!! thank u to anon for the request.

Money made the world go round and it was no different for you. Unfortunately, you managed to land yourself in a crap ton of debt so when some shady looking salesman approached you offering you a way to win some money, you took it. Was it the smartest thing you’d ever done? Nope but when times were hard, people got desperate. Desperation made people do ridiculous things. That’s how you’d found yourself in this weird place with hundreds of other people who apparently all had debts to pay off. Some of them over ten billion. At least your own was only around one. All you had to do was get that money and your life would be back on track. All you had to do was play some stupid games and that cash would be yours. How hard could it really be?

As you stood there ready to take your photo, one of the pink guards watching you carefully, you heard a commotion from the other side of the small wall. Peering around, you saw a bunch of people gathering around a guy with purple hair. ‘Losers’, you thought as you went back to happily take your picture. Of course you just had to give it the finger, raising both of your middle fingers as the camera flashed.

The guards led you into a big room filled with sand, your feet scuffing against the grainy substance. Curious eyes around as you noticed the weird doll, the colourful walls giving an eerie feeling. With hands on your hips, you listened as the rules were echoed out through the speakers. The boy with the purple hair stood next to you, his arms crossed across his chest as he listened, too.

Then, the game began. Red Light, Green Light – one of the easiest games imaginable. As you were about to start running, player 456 began spewing something about people getting shot if they moved. “Pfft, he’s lost his mind already.”

“Tell me about it,” the deep voice next to you replied. You’d mostly been talking to yourself not expecting anyone to hear you. His dark eyes scanned your body, unabashedly checking you out. “Ay, Senorita, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you grinned, turning back to face forward. Ignoring everything around you, the second the song started, you began to skip forward without a care in the world. Player 456 was still going on and on but his words weren’t even registering in your head as you once again began to skip forward, hands swinging by your side with a smile on your face.

The first shot sounded out and, admittedly, it made you almost jump back but you held still. So, that guy wasn’t just crazy. He was telling the truth. If you moved, you died. Oh, well. That just added more stakes to the game and what was life without a little bit of danger anyway? Again, it’s not like it was a hard game. All you had to do was make sure you stood still before the red light came on. Your eyes glanced to your left to see the purple haired guy who had been standing behind the girl who had unfortunately taken the first shot. Blood splattered across his face, his eyes wide almost as if in shock. Fair, you were sure if you had someone’s blood across your face you’d be a little shook up. At the next green light you skipped forward again, throwinging a little twirl in there. As you twirled around the red light sounded and you noticed purple hair had a cross in his hand. You couldn’t quite see what he had in it but as the green light flashed once again, he popped something into his mouth. Whatever, it was none of your business.

The game continued but it was starting to get a little boring. Everyone was listening to that Player 456 so mostly everyone was still in the game. Now, you definitely weren’t one for anyone getting hurt but… a little chaos was always needed. So, as the red light sounded out you end up learning forward, arms stretched out as you pushed the person in front of you forward. It was like a domino effect as they stumbled forward into another player each of them falling to the ground. A laugh from your side sounded out and as you decided to look, you noticed that purple hair had the same idea as you – he’d pushed people to the ground.

“Great minds think alike, huh?” He wiggled his brows cheekily.

“Sure do,” you smirked, skipping backwards to continue talking to him as the running started again. “You haven’t told me your name yet.”

“Thanos. Remember it because you’ll be screaming it later.”

“Ha! Good one.” You cackled, throwing your head back. It was polite to tell him your name too, right? You did even though you knew for damn sure Thanos wasn’t his real name but you could probably worm his real one of him somehow. He seemed like someone that could easily be persuaded by charm and a pretty face.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Back in the main holding area, you sat on the stairs between the bunks, humming a song to yourself. Your foot tapped against the metal, palms stretched behind you leaning backwards. It was like you were right at home, not caring about the disaster going on around you. Maybe if you thought too much about it then you would be terrified but that wouldn’t help. The money was the only thing you needed right now and nothing could get in the way of that. Lost in your own thoughts, you heard someone sit down next to you thanks to their footsteps echoing off the cool metal.

“Senoritaaaaa,” he sang out, knocking his knee against yours. “I see you survived.”

“Mhm! Can’t get rid of me that easily now, Thanos,” you winked at him resting a hand on his shoulder as you leaned on him, fluttering your eyelashes. “I like you, you seem fun.”

“I can show you how much fun I can be,” his deep voice a seductive purr as he leaned into your ear. “Stick with me, baby. We’ll survive this shithole, get our cash then I can show you a good time.”

You tilted your head to the side, eyes looking at him in assessment. Yeah, there was no way you could trust this guy but he was handsome and having someone by your side protecting you in here seemed like a good idea so you clapped your hands together excitedly. “Okay! Deal.”

taglist: @angelofbooksworld @taivantaylor @sherlocke3d @djarindroid @justsisse @ldydeath @sassyyoyo @lillyysgirlblog @mysatnin

#choi su bong x reader #thanos x reader #choi su bong #choi seunghyun #squid game x reader #squid game

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aeternabitart · 2 years ago

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#artists on tumblr #artwork #art #colored pencil #colour #furry art #portrait #animals #fall vibes #autumn #commission #pets #painting #wip #art wip #cottagecore #realism #realistic #wall art

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gabibunni · 4 months ago

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Jason looks out of place

That’s something Jason thinks to himself all the time when he stays at your place.

Jason looks like an action figure stuck in a teenage girl's bedroom. He’s about 182 centimeters, big and bulky. His clothes make him even bigger than he really is.

Your queen size bed is covered in a black fitted sheet, a dark red comforter and a leopard throw blanket. He looks like a shy pimp laying in your bed napping. Your dresser has lotions, perfumes, body sprays and photos all across the top. Your walls are painted a dark colour, with art to match the vibe.

You have shelves of comics and trinkets all over the place. Somehow, your jelly cat (which he got for you) and crocheted stuffies are pushed onto the ground on the other half of your room. Your bedroom is somewhat small too so he looks even funnier in your head.

You make your way into your bathroom where you see some of his stuff in there. Toothbrush, cologne, towels, and other little things. You can't help but smile because even though he claims he doesn’t want to move in with you, you can tell he at least finds comfort in you, a home. When you walk into your closet, you see your things in there and Jason’s. He has his own row in there filled with button up shirts, hoodies, pants and boots. You can’t bring this up because he’ll start deflecting and apologizing for taking up space.

In your kitchen, he has his own mug that he drinks out of. Slightly cracked and chipped in a few places but he doesn’t have the heart to throw it away. He has spices that he uses the most compared to you. A frying pan he makes breakfast for the two of you. He made your kitchen his own in different ways, from utensils to aprons.

Your living room has books thrown around on the coffee table and end table. All the books have been thoroughly loved and used, not by you, but Jason. A throw blanket he uses when he comes home late but for some reason won't wake you. You can beg a plea but he won’t disturb your sleep, even if his late night naps do bother you.

A secret he keeps from you, not because it's necessarily bad but, a gun strapped underneath your coffee table, somewhere in the kitchen, and your bedroom closet are there for “just in case.” You know about them, but you don’t have the heart to tell him. If it keeps his mind at ease, you’re happy they are there. If he does decide to officially move in with you, locks, and windows would need to be updated, right after he’d put in cameras.

Jason thinks he looks out of place in your world, but he couldn’t be more wrong. He’s right where he’s supposed to be. Loved, accepted, and at peace.

He probably overthinks often, let’s be honest here. He’d be surprised by how much you care for him, even though you tell him all the time. I find that people love the dynamic of Jason just being loved so I might write more of that.

#dc #fanfic #jason todd x black!reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd #black reader #x reader #reader insert #drabble #fluff

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writingfics-passingtime · 16 days ago

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Empty Threats

synopsis: stranded in a one-room safe house overnight with Loki, you learn the consequences of teasing him.

pairing: Loki x female reader (sexual / romantic)

word count: ~6700

cw: swearing, tickling, making out, closed-door sex, innuendo and other sexually-charged exchanges, light bondage (with magic), less romance more fwb vibe? you be the judge

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but does contain steamy moments and closed-door sex between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: horniest I'll ever be on main. future smut will be posted on nevermath.tumblr.com

The escape craft was some older thing. Ancient and rickety, by SHIELD standards. Definitely not built for an ice-storm.

You can't remember the last time you felt so unsafe in the air - and that included a handful of situations involving heat-seeking missiles, plummeting free-falls, and one especially memorable brush with a Chitauri cannon.

The turbulence knocks the controls hard to the left, you wrestle them back with a grunt, jaw tight, adrenaline burning under your skin. A flick of your eyes towards your passenger seat makes your blood pressure spike for an entirely different reason.

Loki looks bored.

Actually... worse; he looks vaguely amused.

He's lounging, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap. Not a single hair out of place, nor muscle braced. Whether that means he trusts you to fly safely out of this storm, or simply doesn't care whether the damn thing goes down in flames, you're not sure. You don't ask.

You don't want the answer.

So when the radar pings a safe-house just a hundred clicks off-course, you make a hard turn toward it with zero apology.

The landing is rough. Metal groans as the craft slams down on a barely-visible patch of ice-washed earth. But she holds. Barely.

You unbuckle fast, tossing Loki a look over your shoulder. "Hope your highness can handle a night in a little mountain shack."

His brow raises. His smirk is slow, knowing.

You don't give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. You just shove the hatch open and duck out into the freezing sleet with a scoff.

You'd never usually leave a craft in the open like this, but the visibility is shit and the airspace is fucked; no one will be flying overhead - not even the combatants that'd been pursuing you fifty-odd clicks back.

The safe-house cabin appears like a ghost out of the storm, flickering through thick sheets of sideways rain. You reach the door, slap your hand on the bio scanner, and hear the click of the lock just as Loki falls into step and you both slip out of the weather.

The door shuts with a solid thud - and for the first time in hours, silence rings.

Peace. Safety.

Both of you stand still, breathing hard. You're not sure if it's the cold or the tension. Maybe both.

But it’s tranquil in here. Nice, even. Far from a little mountain shack.

You step further in, the dim lights automatically fading on, and you glance at the windows, which seem to be holding tight against the icy rain lashing against them. Wind howls through the trees and scratches at the glass like a leopard's claws, but the place seems solid.

No sooner had you stepped in further did thunder crack so close it felt like the gods were arguing just over the mountain-

Wait...

"That's not your brother, is it?" You look at Loki over your shoulder, half-joking.

"No," Loki's low, rich voice chuckles behind you. "Not nearly dramatic enough."

You're almost soaked-through from the dash, a chill threatening to settle into your bones, but you notice that, though isolated, the safe-house isn't freezing. The lights are low and warm, casting the room in comforting haze. It feels luxurious; hardwood floors, thick rugs, a fireplace in the centre of the wall, opposite to the kingsized bed draped in earth-coloured linens and furs and- wait. Fuck.

Bed. Singular.

You look around and quickly confirm the sheepish feeling sinking into you. This is a studio. Designed for one. Or for a couple.

Who... the fuck decided that only one bed was appropriate for safe house?

Instead of making it a big deal, you declare, "I'm going to shower to warm up."

Loki looks to the stone mantle and says "I'll make a fire."

But as soon as the word fire leaves his lips, the empty cavity hisses to life, flames beginning to spark and build. You bite your lip as Loki scowls.

"Spooky," you tease, twirling your finger to the ceiling. "The cabin must be haunted by helpful ghosts."

Loki swings that scowl on you, but softens it. "We do also have technology on Asgard, you smug little goblin."

You smirk and turn on your heel. "You keep calling me things like that and I'm gonna think you’re flirting."

"I am," he calls after you.

You don't dignify it with a reply. You also don't stop smiling as you close the bathroom door.

The bathroom, and the shower itself, match the quiet wealth of the rest of the place. Such a shame, you think as you let your shoulders ease under the spray, that this place must be empty most of the time. It's exactly the kind of place you can imagine yourself... being. Just relaxing, letting go. Preferably alone, considering the one-bed situation.

Your stomach pings in a cluster of nerves as you lather the fig and sandalwood suds over your skin, trying to scrub the tension from your shoulders - tension that, annoyingly, has less to do with the mission and more to do with the god in the other room.

Loki is… a menace. Not just in the field. Not just in battle. But here. In the quiet. In the glances. In the way he looks at you like he’s already peeled your thoughts apart and likes what he sees.

The bed is big, and it's not like you'd mind sharing it with Loki - you'd known since the first time you worked with the God of Mischief that you'd likely fall into bed together at some point or another - but this... it feels forced. Like two dolls some child is guiding into a kiss.

Soon you're standing in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth, wiping a path through the fog on the glass to look yourself in the eye and coach yourself mentally, as if you were a child: just because you're under the same covers does not mean you will have sex with him.

You feel your cheeks warm as you realise that Loki probably isn't thinking about any of this. At all. Even though he makes no efforts to hide his physical attraction to you, that doesn't mean he's... wanting, in the same way you are.

Besides, he's your mission partner. Your headache. Your shadow in the field. The beautiful thorn in your side when you're not under fire. Taking it further could make it messy.

You throw on some standard-issue lounge clothes; socks, underwear, sweat shorts, tank top, and a cloud-soft sweatshirt, all found in the bathroom's linen cupboard that must contain at least two dozen different size options.

When you walk back into the main area, the warmth instantly seeps into your skin like a gentle summer evening. One deep breath, and you've eased further.

Loki looks up from the couch where he's lounged with his head against the headrest, hands folded over his stomach. He's still in his tac gear.

"There's a change of clothes in there," you nod to the bathroom.

Loki's eyebrow lifts. In a slow pulse of green, his clothes change into a softer, yet seemingly still tailored, all-black set that covers his limbs entirely. It looks too good for something summoned out of spite. "Over my dead body," his eyes rake over you, critical on the surface, heated underneath.

With a roll of your eyes you make your way to the bed. "I'm tired," you say, seeing it in his eyelids. "Ready to sleep?"

"I'll tend to my needs and then take my rest here." He stands and heads towards the bathroom.

"Loki," you put a little casual laugh in your voice. He stops and turns his head. "The bed's huge. We can share it."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're worried you've fucked it. That you've been presumptuous. That he's going to say something about how he'd rather die than share sheets with the likes of-

"Very well," he tilts his head in agreement, barely looking at you before he closes the bathroom door.

Internally, you're screaming. Outwardly, you're pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes, wondering if there was any possible way you could've made it more awkward.

You hear the shower spray and try to think about anything other than him in here.

Whatever. Whatever. You take a breath through your nose and slip under the sheets. The lights are still dim. You narrow your eyes, and test the cabin, saying "it's time to sleep."

The lights dim to nothing, the fire pulls back from roaring to gently crackling, creating a cozy atmosphere that's calling you to sleep. But the second you settle in, you get that sinking gut feeling that sleep isn't going to come easy. Your limbs are tired, your eyelids heavy, but your mind is still buzzing with adrenaline.

You're staring at the ceiling when Loki reenters, crosses the room, and slides into the sheets on the other side of the bed. And sure, the bed is big, but he's still less than an arm's length away. You didn't realise how close you'd feel until he was there.

"Sweet dreams," you say with a subtle teasing lilt to try and disguise your nerves, eyes still on the ceiling, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.

You hear his head turn to look at you. Hear a small, faintly amused puff of air through his nose. "Try not to dream about me too vividly. I don’t want to wake to you whimpering." He turns, back to you, and settles in.

You bite your lip, the heat returning tenfold, but you chuckle. “Who's the smug little goblin now."

In an effort to get the adrenaline out, to help your mind complete whatever it feels it needs to, you start replaying the mission in your head. Every bullet, every chase, every snarky little jab Loki threw at you in that seductive voice, every- ... oh shit.

You almost forgot.

You press your smiling lips together, suppressing the giggle threatening to betray you. But it slips out anyway - a little puff of laughter in the dark.

That moment. The one that sent you over the edge.

Loki shifts beside you. "Don’t start," he warns. His words are a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“I didn’t say anything," you retort, now openly grinning at the ceiling.

"You thought it," he snips. He knows exactly what you're thinking about and hates it already.

You roll onto your side to face him, arm tucked under your head. "I'm just remembering a moment from today. A glorious one."

He exhales through his nose. "You truly have a death wish."

You grin wider. "You ate shit so hard on that slippery boulder."

The silence between you stretches like wire. Taut. Dangerous.

You keep going anyway.

"One second you’re monologuing, all broody Asgardian menace - 'You dare challenge me?' - and the next? Boom. Legs in the air. Splashdown."

You can feel the heat rising from his side of the bed. His magic pulses just faintly through the room. Static before a lightning strike.

"If you were wise you'd shut your mouth," he says darkly, "before I'm forced to shut it for you."

You laugh again - quieter this time, taunting. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan - another lecture about respect?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, searching the air for more sass. "Or... just another bout of empty threats and semi-inappropriate workplace banter?"

Loki turns. Slowly. He shifts to mirror you - rising on one elbow, lifting his face so you can see him in the flicker of firelight.

And fuck... he looks dangerous like this. Hot and dangerous. Hair damp and curling at the ends, shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, pale blue eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s actively backing into a corner.

He tilts his head, and, with a devastating sweetness, he says, slowly, "Tease me again, and I’ll put you on your back and tickle you until you sob."

You blink. "Huh-what?"

Loki leans in just slightly - close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth. "You heard me. One more snide little comment and I'll have you writhing. I will take my time. And you will not know mercy."

Your brain flatlines. Your mouth parts. You should say something sharp - should snap back, keep the banter going - but your body betrays you with a single thud of heat low in your stomach.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees it.

Loki's eyes narrow and you know - you know he’s cataloging every flinch, every breath. "It's the perfect punishment, wouldn't you agree?" he continues softly, dangerously. "Intimate, humiliating… leaves no mark. You won’t run to your beloved Captain Rogers with bruises. Just memories you can’t scrub off."

Your throat’s dry. You manage a single nervous chuckle. "You wouldn’t."

He smirks like the mischief he is. "We both know I would."

You go quiet.

Dead quiet.

Because the worst part is, you don't know whether you want him to or not.

And Loki - bastard that he is - sees that, too. He leans back slowly, satisfaction dripping from every hard line of his body as he settles into the pillow again.

You lie there, heart pounding, every nerve on fire. The storm still rages outside, but now it's got competition.

Loki chuckles deep and low, and it feels like thunder cracking beneath your skin.

"Wise choice," he murmurs.

And fuck, you hate him.

You hate him.

Well... no.

You don't hate him.

And you hate that you don't hate him.

You shift under the covers, giving an exaggerated sigh as you turn away from him. "Jeez. You're so fucking dramatic," you mutter under your breath.

A mistake.

"Oh, you poor little fool."

A catastrophic mistake.

Before you can even suck in another breath, his magic crackles through the air. It's an electric, humming snap that raises the fine hairs on your arms a second before you feel it.

The pillowcase under your head moves. It slides off the cushion with a treacherous slither, wrapping itself around your wrists with a speed and precision that makes your stomach drop. You jerk instinctively, but it's too late - your hands are caught, ensnared, pinned above your head, wrists bound together tight enough to be secure but loose enough to tell you this is a game.

His game.

You barely manage a grunt of protest before Loki’s hands are on you - turning you onto your back in a fluid, almost lazy motion, like he’s not even trying. His fingers are wickedly strong around your waist, holding you down just long enough for him to shift, knee pressing between your legs, swinging himself up until he straddles your hips.

You struggle, wild and panicked, kicking your legs and jerking your torso, but you’re half-covered in blankets and utterly unprepared for a fight - in soft sleepwear, no armour - and he’s bigger, heavier, faster, magical.

You buck hard, trying to dislodge him, but all it earns you is a low, infuriating chuckle from above.

"Is this truly the best you can fight?" he purrs, tightening his grip just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

"Fuck you," you scowl, jerking your hands against the bonds.

"Rude." He tsks, smirking down at you, his hips pinning yours to the bed with effortless control. "And after I warned you so nicely."

You twist again, but it's useless. You’re stuck. Fully at his mercy.

And the worst part?

You can feel the slow, deliberate shift of his body against yours - his thigh pressing against your bare skin, the long line of him caging you in - and it sparks heat low in your gut that has nothing to do with rage.

"You can’t seriously - Loki, come on," you start, trying to wriggle your wrists free, but the enchanted fabric tightens at his will, dragging a frustrated, helpless sound from your throat. "This is stupid and dramatic. You proved your point, now let me go."

He just tilts his head, studying you like a cat might study a bird fluttering with a broken wing.

"Tell me," he murmurs, voice dangerously low as he settles further, "did you really think that would go unpunished?"

His hands start inching forward.

You glare. "I really think you’re a dickhead."

His eyes gleam, a spark of delight dancing at the edges. "Mm. Defiant. I expected nothing less."

His fingers descend like vipers, darting straight for your sides, and the second they make contact... fuck.

You jerk so violently the bed frame gives a protesting creak.

You arch instinctively, breath hitching, but you refuse to laugh. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

"Nothing?" he muses, leaning closer, eyes flaring in delight. "Oh, you’re going to be so fun."

You twist under him, trying to wriggle free. The pillowcase tightens slightly in response. You grit your teeth as he drags his fingers up and down your ribs with merciless precision.

You hold on, digging your heels into the mattress, biting your bottom lip hard. His touch is devastating. Too practiced. Light one moment, firm the next, zeroing in on your most sensitive spots with surgical precision.

And still, you don't laugh.

Until-

"Ah," Loki says softly. His fingers found it - a spot just beneath your left rib, sensitive as hell, one you hadn’t even known would betray you.

Your body jolts. A tiny gasp escapes your throat. Then, like a damn cracking, a laugh punches from your lungs.

Triumphant, Loki’s smirk deepens - not cruel, not quite - something darker, warmer. Endeared, even. And utterly smug.

"There it is," he whispers, tilting his head. "I knew you’d be a screamer."

You flush, full-body and furious. "I hate you," you huff through gritted teeth, breath coming fast.

He clicks his tongue. "Then you’ll loathe what comes next."

And then he really begins.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst with laughter, loud and sharp, your body trembling wildly beneath his tickling hands.

And gods, he’s good at it - depravedly good. His fingers dance, spider-light one moment, then digging mercilessly the next, zeroing in on every little vulnerable spot like he’s been studying you for months.

Which he probably has, the bastard.

You shriek again, trying to twist away, but his weight on your hips keeps you absolutely pinned.

"You should’ve held your tongue," Loki drawls, his voice maddeningly calm over your frantic squirming. His voice drops. "Gods, you’re responsive."

"I swear I'm gonna get you for this- SHIT!" you gasp out between bursts of helpless, writhing laughter, but the threats fall flat - your voice breaking with each choked, humiliating giggle he wrings from you.

"You’re welcome to try," he murmurs, dragging one hand from your side up under your sweatshirt to your underarm, circling lightly where the skin’s thinnest, most sensitive.

You convulse so hard under him you nearly tip him sideways, but Loki handles it easily, smirking like this is all beneath him - like your thrashing and desperate yelps are just entertainment.

He skims the pads of his fingers lightly over your stomach, watching with lazy amusement as you shudder uncontrollably.

You kick your legs, trying to knee him, but he just rides out the bucking like he’s enjoying it, settling heavier against you with a rough grind of his hips that makes your brain white out for a second - makes you way too aware of how warm he is. How solid.

"You are such a dick," you gasp, breathless.

"No," he grins. "I’m your reckoning."

You whimper - actually whimper - as he attacks your sides again, fast and brutal, forcing desperate laughter out of you until you’re gasping between giggles, your whole body arching and twisting under him.

Loki only hums thoughtfully, shifting his weight slightly so his hips press more firmly against yours - deliberately - and the new friction is a whole fresh hell you’re not prepared for.

Heat spikes through you, brutal and wanted, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of his hands tormenting your skin.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees everything.

And the bastard has the audacity to smile wider. Slow, wolfish, knowing. His fingers skitter up your sides again, sending you into another fit of helpless, humiliating giggles.

"Fuck! This is so messed up-"

"You could have avoided this," he drawls, utterly unbothered. "All you had to do was keep that clever little mouth shut."

You grit your teeth, trying to focus. "This- this is petty. This is some villain-ass shit. No wonder Thor used to kick your ass when you were younger."

"Oh?" he says, digging his fingers against the fabric covering the soft space under your arms, dragging a laugh straight from your lungs. "You want to talk about childhood trauma now? In the middle of this? How very Avenger of you."

You throw your head back and laugh through gritted teeth, managing a whiny: "I really hate you."

He laughs. "You wish." His hands dive back to your sides.

"I wait- Loki- okay please!" you gasp, twisting hard, but the pillowcase tightens again, holding your wrists captive.

"Oh, now you beg?" Loki teases, fingers squeezing at your waist until your whole body bucks. "Where was this charming submission before?"

You shake your head wildly, laughing so hard your ribs hurt, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Every time you think he’s about to let up, he switches tactics - light teasing along your stomach, a wicked squeeze at your hips, brutal tickling up your ribs again until you’re choking on helpless giggles.

He finds the hollow just above your hip bone and presses - firm and slow.

You squeal. Actually squeal.

He grins wider.

"Oh, you sweet thing," he purrs. "I could do this all night."

You swear at him in every language you know.

He just chuckles darkly, slow and satisfied, like he’s feasting on your misery.

"Say you’re sorry."

You growl through clenched teeth, body trembling from the effort to wrench free.

"Never."

He pauses. Cocks a brow.

Then he leans down. Slowly. Until his nose brushes yours.

You take a shuddering breath in, still panting, now caught in a frantic freeze state. Like your base animal instincts are twisted into some weird belief that if you don't move he won't see you.

"Never?"

Your heart flutters at his low, commanding voice. The pure heat in it, so obviously intentional.

The pads of his fingertips and the faint graze of his blunt nails tease along the bare skin where your tank has ridden up. Your fingers tighten around the pillow case.

"Then I suppose..." he starts, sliding his hands higher. Palms smoothing against your sides, fingers trailing, taunting.

"You and I..." You feel the curve of his grin in his voice. "...will be here a very… very long time.”

You gasp when you feel his fingers press against the bare skin of your lowest ribs. "N-n-no-nnn-!"

But your protests are swallowed in laughter. Drowned in gasps and cackles. You're out of breath, out of threats, out of any form of resistance.

Loki's dark chuckle sings against your ear. Sends tiny sparks of pleasure down the skin of your neck.

And he keeps going - meticulous and devastating - drawing it out until you’re breathless, boneless, wrists still trapped high above your head, body burning with exertion and heat and something darker, something hotter, curling low in your belly and spreading like wildfire.

"Okay- okay okay!" You squeak, some high and helpless whine in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please stop it!"

Loki finally slows, dragging one last, maddening trail up your side that makes you jerk involuntarily.

He sits back, straddling your hips lazily, surveying you. Admiring his work. His hair is wild around his face, his eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, incandescent with smug delight. His gaze stays locked on you, drinking in every breathless tremor.

You glare up at him, chest heaving, cheeks burning, completely at his mercy - and the way he looks at you, the way you feel under his hands... you can't show it.

"That..." you pant, "was an egregious HR violation."

"Oh dear," Loki rolls his eyes. "The paperwork."

"Oh, I'll show you fuckin' paperwork-"

"What shall it say, darling? How will you explain this? I'm so terribly fascinated by the prospect of our little tryst becoming immortalised in public record."

"That was not a tryst that was an attack and - hey, fuck you, untie me - it was uncalled for."

Perfectly in time with the raising of his brow, the pillowcase around your wrists loosen. But Loki makes no effort to get off you.

And you make no effort to push him off, even as you prop yourself up by the elbows, chin tilted back to look him in the eye.

"Poor thing," he soothes. And with that teasing edge, there's a softness. A devastatingly gentle thread of temptation laced through his voice. His smirk. His sheer fucking audacity.

He cocks his head to one side, pushing the damp curls back from his face, regarding you with a lazy challenge. "Was the big bad God of Mischief too hard on you?"

You lower your brow and pout, "Yes."

His head turns the other way. His smirk is devastating. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"

Every bit of heat in your over-exerted body goes to one of two places, and your lips part with a puff of air, almost like you'd been winded.

That small, insecure part of you whispers that this is a cruel trick. That he's having you on. He doesn't mean it, he-

Fuck.

Your breath hitches when the back of his hand finds your lower stomach. Your fists tighten as he trails his knuckles along the soft, exposed skin, his eyes not leaving yours. You swallow. He lifts a brow. A quiet question.

Your tongue slips out to wet your drying lips. "Maybe."

It's pitiful, but it's the only word you think you can say without it wobbling and-

Loki's shaking his head, shifting backward, lower. "I need a yes."

"Yes, then."

"And a please."

"Go fuck yourself."

He chuckles. "So sulky. What am I going to do with you?"

But before you can answer, his lips meet bare skin. Your back arches when his mouth brushes low across your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts. He’s barely kissing - it's more breath than lips - but every exhale is warm and deliberate, as if he's savouring the feel of your skin against his mouth.

"You’re far too brazen for someone so soft," he murmurs. His fingers press just beside your hipbone, not quite pinching, not quite tickling, just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath catch. "So easily undone, and still mouthing off."

His lips trail a slow line across your abdomen, kissing deliberately, as if each inch deserves reverence. Then- a single puff of air against your navel, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes your hips jerk.

You yelp. "Hey!"

He grins against your skin. "Thought you'd lost your voice for a moment."

The muscles of his shoulders dance under his shirt as he slowly pulls himself higher, chest brushing yours, hands planted by your head as he mouths a trail down your neck, grazing his teeth along the slope of your collar. Just enough to make your skin sing.

He lowers himself onto you carefully, hands dragging down your sides again, this time with full intention. His palms cup your waist, pulling you up into him.

The friction is electric.

Your chest heaves, thighs trembling under the weight of him - and he takes his sweet, unhurried time, moving over you like a storm in slow motion. He kisses the erratic pulse beneath your ear, nips, soothes, nudges his nose against your neck as your fists curl in his hair.

Your breath stutters when he finally pulls back enough to look at you.

Hair wild, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours like he wants to memorise every flicker of thought passing behind them.

He dips lower.

This time, his lips ghost over yours.

Once.

Twice.

Not kissing you. Not yet. Just tasting the shape of your mouth with his breath, taunting the final inches that separate you.

"Ask me," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.

Your jaw flexes.

"No."

He gives a dark chuckle. The sound brushes your lips. "Still so proud. Even now."

You glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours. "You want me."

Your breath catches.

"You want me," you retort.

He smirks. Hums. Kisses the corner of your mouth.

Just once.

Then the other.

Teasing. Gentle. Laying claim with infuriating grace.

You feel your eyes flutter.

He lingers. Breath to breath. Lips agonising close to yours.

"Say it," he breathes.

And you can’t anymore.

You’re done pretending.

"Just-... kiss me," you rasp.

And Loki does.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Deep. Measured. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth moves over yours with patience, with precision, like he wants to map every gasp you give him and drag them out for his own pleasure.

You groan into it before you even know it’s happening.

Your hands twist in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue teasing your bottom lip before claiming more, drawing it out, savouring the moment like a rare vintage.

You kiss him back harder.

Because gods help you, you’ve wanted this. For too long. Through too many missions and almost-maybes and can’t-haves and don’t-even-think-about-its.

And now he’s everywhere.

His hands are under your tank top, resting against your waist as he keeps you under him. His body presses down, moulding into yours, every inch of him demanding and anchoring and terrifying in the way it feels so right.

You gasp into his mouth when his hand skims higher, palm dragging heat up your side, sliding beneath the edge of your top without hurry. Not groping. Just... feeling. Claiming space.

Your hips lift without your permission, chasing friction, chasing him.

He groans softly into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.

Loki pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, both of you straining against the gravity of the moment.

Still not enough.

His hands tense with the last dregs of his self-control, his body pressing down as if to imprint the shape of you onto his bones.

"You want this?" He pants. “You want me?”

"Yes," you gutter out. "Gods, yes."

He smirks against your lips. "Swearing to gods now, are we?" One hand slides back down your waist, hooking under your thigh, hitching it up over his hip. "How flattering."

When the radio on your tac vest wakes you with an alert of incoming comms, the first thing you register is the cold.

Then the ache - deep, lazy, sated - a bruised exhaustion thrumming through every muscle. Your brain struggles up from a black ocean of sleep just as the radio, somewhere across the room, starts crackling to life.

Loki groans low beside you. You feel the movement - sheets slipping off marble skin, the faint stretch of long limbs - and you grunt, rolling onto your stomach, grinding your forehead into the pillow. Everything hurts in a way that makes your mouth curl into a smug little smile against the linen.

The night comes back in flashes. Sharp. Shattering.

Claws-in, teeth-bared, breathless destruction of all the tension that had simmered between you for months. You hadn't so much fallen into bed with him as wrecked each other - over and over again - until your bodies finally gave out, tangled in the wreckage.

Maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe two. Not enough to be functional.

You groan as you push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off your bare back.

Loki sits at the other edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his wild, tangled black hair. The dim morning light coming through the frosted windows slices across his bare shoulders, illuminating the faint, red half-moon marks you left raked into his skin.

You'd be smug about it if your legs would fucking work.

The radio then crackles with the pilot's message:

"Seven minutes out. Chopper can't land. Buckle in for hover extraction."

You swear under your breath, shivering as the cold air hits you. You stagger toward the pile of tactical gear you’d dumped near the fireplace, yanking on your thermals, combat pants, boots, shirt, jacket, ignoring the way Loki watches you, one arm braced casually on his knee, the other draped over his thigh.

Comfortable. Loose. Dangerous.

You grab your tactical vest and the climbing harness slung over it, trying to move quickly, but your hands are clumsy, your joints stiff and sleep-starved. The straps tangle. You hiss in frustration, tugging at them.

Then, you hear the bed creak.

You feel him stand.

You don't turn.

Loki approaches with slow, measured, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. Each one a promise.

The air crackles between you, sharp and bright.

By the time he stops behind you, you’re holding the harness out in front of you like an fool, still wrestling it into some recognisable shape. You can practically hear the smirk in his silence.

He reaches out and, without a word, takes the harness from your fingers.

You lift your chin, refusing to look at him.

His knuckles brush yours. Not an accident.

You glare at the wall in front of you as he circles, slow and lazy.

Then he kneels. Right in front of you.

Looking up, lazy and wicked, his hair falling forward like a curtain of night sky. His body is bruised, unbothered, utterly relaxed. It should be illegal for anyone to look that composed after what the two of you did.

His hands move to your thigh, looping the first strap around it with maddening care. He doesn't rush. Just smooths it in place and gives it a slow, tightening pull. You feel it bite into your skin, feel his fingers curl with precision.

"You seem... compromised," Loki says lightly, his fingers brushing against your bare skin where your pants gap slightly at the hip.

You narrow your eyes.

Another strap glides between your thighs. His hands are firm, his thumbs brushing near places he has no business touching right now, not unless he wants round two on the cold floor. Maybe he does.

"Compromised?" you repeat, voice scratchy with lack of sleep and and too many hours of sinning.

He flashes a slow grin, wicked and pleased with himself, fingers tightening the strap until it bites your hip.

"Fatigued. Shaky. Thoroughly plundered," he drawls. "Tell me, darling - whoever could be responsible for that?"

You snort, pressing your lips together hard to bite back the traitorous smile twitching there.

"Self-satisfied bastard."

He smirks. "I do take pride in my work."

He pulls another strap between your legs, adjusting the belt with slow, taunting movements that are absolutely unnecessary and make you grind your teeth.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

"Doing what?" His voice is all innocence, but his hands are anything but. "Making sure you don’t fall out of your harness mid-air? You're welcome."

His fingers ghost under the hem of your top, smoothing the waistband flat against your belly. Every touch is too much. Too slow. You hold perfectly still, trying not to tremble.

"You’re not subtle," you mutter, raising a brow as you feel your lips flush.

"Ironic," he muses in satisfied purr, "coming from someone who, not four hours ago, was screaming herself hoarse begging for-"

You kick him lightly in the shin. He catches your ankle with lightning speed, holding it aloft for a second, grinning up at you like the absolute bastard he is.

"Temper," he tuts, releasing you.

He finishes the rest methodically, hands sliding around you with the same precision he uses when breaking into a vault - like he already knows where you’re most vulnerable.

"You know," he says lightly, eyes fixed on the buckles, "I should do this more often. Watching you squirm while I dress you. It’s…" He clicks the buckle shut with a soft snap. "Endearing."

You refuse to shiver. Refuse to give him the satisfaction. But you're admittedly speechless.

When he finally sits back on his heels, looking up at you, his eyes are molten as he whispers:

“Perfect.”

You roll your eyes and lean down to grab the carabiner clips, but Loki beats you to it.

He stands.

One slow movement - shoulders rising, body unfolding to full height - and you suddenly feel too small in his shadow, the air sucked clean from your lungs.

He steps in close, smooths a hand over the centre strap down your chest, fingers dragging slowly. Then he reaches for the buckle at your waist and snaps it into place with a decisive click.

You feel the strength of it reverberate through you, far more intimate than it has any right to be.

And he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he curls his fingers around the central loop, just above your navel, and lifts.

Effortlessly.

You don’t even have time to react before your boots leave the floor. Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble for balance, but he just stands there - arm slightly bent, muscles slack, holding you aloft with casual strength, like you weigh nothing at all.

Your eyes snap to his.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches you - dark and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. His grip is unbreakable, his expression unreadable.

The air between you goes molten.

He holds you there for a full, punishing heartbeat. Then another. And another.

Then, finally - finally - he lowers you, so slow you swear he’s savouring every inch of contact as your body slides back into place.

Your boots touch the floor. Barely.

"Perfect," he murmurs again. "Safe and sound."

Your breath stutters. You feel warm all over. Unmoored.

"You done?" you rasp, not trusting your voice.

He chuckles, quiet and pleased. "Oh, not even close."

You exhale through your nose, clenching your fists at your sides to keep from grabbing him.

The radio crackles again: "On approach. Be ready. Thirty seconds."

You tighten your shoulder straps brutally, trying to focus. Trying not to think about how he still smells like smoke and sweat and you.

Loki finally magics on his gear, lazy and unconcerned, buckling himself in with casual grace. You want to slap him. Or straddle him again. It's really fucking hard to tell.

The storm had eased a little - less hectic wind but still smatterings of icy rain. The helicopter blades whir louder, slicing the air like a knife through satin, as you reluctantly leave the cabin behind and run, side-by-side with Loki, the short distance to the pickup point.

You clip yourself and him to the main retrieval cable, double-checking the lines with stiff, professional efficiency.

Your hands brush at the connection point. He catches your fingers in his and holds them just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

"You're trembling," he says barely over the wind, eyes glinting.

"Shut up," you mutter, clicking the radio twice to signal all is good. Pushing his hands away from the line so his skin doesn’t catch.

He chuckles, deep and low.

Above you, the cable jerks taut, the winch starting to pull.

You and Loki are yanked upward together, slammed chest-to-chest, bodies colliding with force as you're hauled into the storm-torn sky.

Your breath catches. Loki grins down at you, devilish.

"Another round when we get back?" he calls into your ear over the wind.

You narrow your eyes, baring your teeth in a wicked smile.

"Only if you leave your harness on."

He throws his head back and laughs - a wild, delighted sound ripped away by the screaming wind - as the two of you disappear into the storm.

#loki x reader #no y/n #loki x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert #marvel one shot #mcu reader insert #mcu x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #loki tickle #ticklish!loki

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em1i2a3 · 16 days ago

Text

Nothing Matters

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Fem!Reader!

Summary: In preparation for Bucky’s wedding, Bob decides to attend dance lessons so he doesn’t have to embarrass himself during the reception.

Warnings: Fluff! Acquaintances to Friends to lovers (basically) We love a good trope y’all, and my brain just couldn’t let go of this idea, so I needed to do it!

Author’s Note: I absolutely love cheesy tropes, and I needed to do this for my own brain to be satisfied because this idea had been rolling around in my head for a week straight! Hope y’all enjoy!!

Word Count: 12,626

The sky was the colour of a fading bruise–lavender pressed into the soft yellowing hues of an early evening.

It was late August, and the air had finally started to cool. The stifling weight of summer heat had faded, twisting and turning into something gentler and more comfortable. Crickets murmured from cracks in the sidewalk, and somewhere down the block, wind chimes clinked lazily against a fire escape railing. The streetlight hadn’t flickered on yet, but they were due to come on soon.

Bob was standing in front of a dance studio, sweating through the back of his long sleeved shirt like the building was going to swallow him whole.

The studio sat tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore, it was unassuming except for the handwritten chalkboard that was leaning against the brick wall just beneath the glowing windows:

“Beginner Ballroom! No partner? No problem!”

No rhythm, either, Bob thought miserably.

Through the wide front pane, he could see warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, strangers were already forming into pairs–awkward pairs, confident pairs, mismatched pairs that were still somehow moving better than he ever would. There were mirrors lining the far wall, doubling every motion, and every hesitation. A speaker in the corner played something old and jazzy, the music was soft and smooth like someone pouring honey over a vinyl crackle.

Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clutching the strap of his backpack. His palms were clammy, and his stomach felt like someone had reached in and tied his intestines up into knots.

“You could throw yourself down a flight of stairs, I’m sure you’ll heal up quickly…Or you could just vanish until the wedding’s over.” The Void murmured.

The suggestion was tempting.

Bob’s eyes flicked toward the pavement, to the way the light from the studio spilled across the sidewalk like a trap laid in honey. It glowed gold against the soles of his sneakers, making it impossible to pretend he wasn’t here. That he hadn’t shown up. That he hadn’t committed to this already by simply thinking about it too long.

Vanishing would be so simple. He was good at disappearing, he had done it before and he could do it again.

But all he could think about was Bucky’s face when he brought up this idea at the Tower a few weeks ago, just two months away from the wedding. It wasn’t even a formal request. Just something tossed between bites of takeout and laughter, like it wasn’t already making Bob crawl out of his body.

”Leila and I are doing something a little different for the first dance,” He said, tipping back in his chair and stretching out his shoulder, “We talked and agreed that we didn’t really want to be in the spotlight…We kind of just want it to feel shared. Comfortable. So we figured that the bridesmaids and groomsmen will be on the dance floor together as well! It’ll soften the focus a little bit, and spread the attention so we don’t get overwhelmed.” Bob remembered how the others reacted. Yelena and Ava had no problem with the idea, they said the more dancing the better, Walker made a quip about it giving off vibes like it was a high school prom which earned him an elbow to the gut, and Alexei said it sounded theatrical but fitting.

Everyone had taken it so well, but Bob had just froze in his spot.

He had tried to laugh it off, tried to blend in to the joy. But something in him had locked up the moment he imagined it: the eyes, the closeness, the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. A stranger’s breath near his face, the music moving through his body like it belonged there, even though it didn’t.

Not for him at least.

Bob had the grace of a malfunctioning vending machine, and the coordination of someone who had blinders on twenty-four seven.

And yet–Bucky had looked at him like it wasn’t even a question. Like of course Bob would be part of it. Like it wasn’t absolutely insane to trust him with someone as soft and human as slow dancing…Like he belonged in the frame of that image Bucky and Leila had created for themselves.

He let out a reluctant sigh, giving into the idea that he had no other choice but to face the music–literally and metaphorically. He didn’t want to add to the stress by vanishing, so he might as well bite the bullet and try to dance.

But just as he reached for the door to the studio–

“Oof–!”

A blur of movement came flying down the sidewalk. He caught a flash of warm skin, wind-tossed hair, and the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps slapping the concert just a heartbeat before you slammed directly into his side.

You shoulder bounced off his with a solid thud, and Bob stumbled back a step, wide-eyes, hands instinctively reaching out to steady both of you. Your paper coffee cup jostled violently between your palms, but–miraculously–it didn’t spill.

”Oh my god–I’m so sorry!” You gasped , immediately pulling back to look him over, “Shit, are you–? Did I spill anything on you? I didn’t even see you, I was trying to make it on time–are you okay?” Bob blinked down at you, frozen, mouth open but saying absolutely nothing.

You didn’t notice the way he was looking at you because you were already fussing over him, your brows knit together with a frantic worry as your eyes darted over his dark grey shirt, checking for any coffee stains. You began to dig through your bag like you could undo the entire collision if you just found the right napkin.Your lips were parted in a breathy, flustered rush, as you pushed your wallet, keys, and a folded shopping list out of the way, before finally pulling out a slightly crumpled but unused tissue.

”If I got anything on you, I swear, I will buy you a new shirt or dry clean the thing myself,” You claimed nervously, holding the tissue up like a peace offering as you leaned in to inspect his top again.

Bob stood completely still. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to.

You were so close now. Close enough that he could see the light sheen of sweat clinging to your collarbones, where your neckline dipped into soft linen. You smelled like heat and summer–clean shampoo, a trace of vanilla body mist, and the warmth of coffee clinging to your skin. Something about it hit him harder than he expected. Like sunlight filtered through cotton curtains.

Your outfit was simple, but the kind of simple that made his throat tighten. A cream-colored wrap skirt that fluttered around your legs, cinched loosely at the waist, with a thin slit climbing your thigh just high enough to reveal a sliver of skin when you ran. A rust-orange tank top, soft and ribbed, clung lightly to the line of your torso. You wore a worn denim jacket over it–probably thrown on last-minute to fight the evening breeze–and your shoes were a pair of canvas flats that had clearly been through some things. One of them was slightly scuffed at the toe.

You were warm and alive and still half laughing under your breath.

Bob’s eyes–unfortunately for his nervous system–drifted down for just a second too long. The edge of your skirt had ridden up in all the commotion, exposing more of your thigh than probably intended, and the moment he noticed, his entire body locked.

He turned red–deep red–so fast it was like someone had flipped a switch behind his ears. His gaze darted away as he cleared his throat, a strangled noise barely making it out of his chest.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” You muttered, realizing a second too late. “I’m an absolute mess today, I’m sorry…Uh–“ You tugged your skirt down with one quick, frustrated motion, letting out an embarrassed laugh as you straightened up again. “Well. At least I didn’t get any stains on you.”

Bob blinked down at himself, then back up at you, giving a small, awkward huff of a laugh. “Y-Yeah…L-Lucky you.” That made you smile–soft and sheepish. It was the kind of smile that pulled the tension off your face and made Bob’s lungs work again, if only barely.

“Are you here for the Beginner's Ballroom too? Or am I so late I’ve crossed into…I don’t know, Triple Tango Thursdays?” Bob’s face grew hotter at your little line of questioning, but then a short laugh bubbled out of him before he could stop it.

”N-No…You’re not l-late. Ballroom i-is starting soon, I think.” You raised your eyebrows at him.

”So…Why’re you out here then? Shouldn’t you be in there picking out your ideal stranger to step on?” He swallowed thickly, his hand returning to the strap of his backpack.

”W-Was just looking i-in.” You nodded like that made perfect sense, eyes flicking to the glowing windows before returning to him.

“I see, you’re scoping out the place. I like your thinking…” Then, you offered out your free hand–still faintly warm from clutching your coffee, “I’m Y/N, by the way.” Bob hesitated for a second, looking at the way you waited for him to reach out, as if you could tell he was nervous. He brought his hand to yours, engulfing it in the clamminess of his palm. You didn’t cringe or flinch, you just gave it a shake like it didn’t matter.

”I’m B-Bob,” He said softly, “I-It’s nice t-to meet you.” You gave him a kind smile..

”Likewise.” You replied, squeezing his hand gently before stepping back and pushing a few sweaty pieces of hair from your face, quickly glancing toward the glowing studio windows.

“We should go in before we actually miss the lesson,” You added with a nervous smile, shifting your coffee to your other hand. “I mean…I did run three blocks and risked third-degree embarrassment just to get here, so.” Bob gave a quick nod.

“Y-Yeah, y-you’re r-right.” He turned to the door with a flicker of hesitation, then stepped forward and reached for the handle. The old glass door creaked open on slightly rusted hinges, and he held it wide for you, eyes flickering shyly toward the ground.

“Thanks,” You murmured as you passed him, gusting another wave of vanilla body mist across Bob’s senses.

The moment you stepped inside, the world shifted.

The air was warm and fragrant–polished wood floors mingling with the faint sweetness of citrus cleaning spray and the rich, earthy musk of old building materials. There was the soft scent of sweat–not unpleasant, just human–and a hint of lavender coming from a reed diffuser sitting on the front desk.

The atmosphere buzzed with soft conversation and laughter. Shoes squeaked gently against the floor. Jazz hummed from a speaker near the mirrors, rich and syrupy, the kind of music that made you want to move without thinking too hard about why. Pairs were scattered across the room–some already holding each other in awkward positions, others simply standing in front of one another, trying not to look down at their own feet.

A few looked practiced. Most did not.

In the far corner, a stack of bags had already begun to form–a messy pile of duffels, jackets, and water bottles.

Before either of you could do much else, a woman with short silver-streaked hair and an ankle-length black skirt swept over. She looked exactly how you’d expect a ballroom instructor to look: confident, composed, and entirely unbothered by lateness.

“There’s always a few strays,” She said with a wry smile. “Thankfully, we waited.” You gave her a sheepish grin.

“Sorry, had a little incident outside.” Bob’s hand immediately went to the back of his neck to scratch at the damp skin.

”First time?” The instructor asked, glancing between the both of you.

“Not mine.” You replied.

”Y-Yeah it’s mine.” Bob admitted, keeping his eyes down on the floor.

”Perfect,” The instructor said brightly, “One newbie, and one novice. Let’s pair you two together.” You laughed under your breath,

”I’m definitely not a novice. I’ve only been to two classes. But…I guess you could say I’ve got a tiny bit of a one-up.” Bob’s eyes darted over to you–like you were leading him off the edge–and you smirked. The instructor motioned toward the open space near the center of the floor.

“Drop your stuff and take your place. We’ll be starting with basic closed position and lead-follow exercises.”

You both made your way toward the corner, where the bags were stacked. You knelt, slipping your tote bag down and gently placing your coffee beside it. Bob unclipped his backpack, setting it near yours. You shrugged off your denim jacket, draping it over your bag with practiced ease.

The moment your jacket slipped from your shoulders, Bob’s eyes darted–instinctively, like something pulled him forward by a thread.

He saw your bare arms first. Smooth skin, still faintly dewy from your run. And then–just as you turned to face him again–he caught the small tattoo inked into the back of your upper arm. Clean, black, minimal:

777.

Angel numbers that represented luck.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed loudly. You didn’t seem to notice the way he stared, you just turned toward him and offered a grin, stretching out your limbs.

”Alright Bob. Hope you brought shoes that you don’t really care about…Cause I think I might step on your toes.” The corners of his mouth twitched up, forming the softest hint of a smile.

”I-It’s okay,” He mumbled, barely above the music, “I-I don’t mind.”

You stepped onto the dance floor together.

The room felt warmer under the overhead bulbs, though that might’ve just been Bob’s proximity–or yours. Jazz was still spilling softly from the speaker system, a slow, crackling track that made it easier to move without thinking. Other pairs had started finding their spots in the open space, shuffling awkwardly through their first attempts at closed position.

You and Bob stood facing each other, hands hovering between you like the invisible pull of a magnet waiting to snap.

Being this close again gave you the first real chance to look at him.

His face was angular in a quiet, unsure kind of way–sharp cheekbones softened by the slope of his jaw, a mouth that looked like it didn’t quite know how to rest. His lips were parted slightly, as if he was mid-thought. He had a light shadow along his jawline, like he’d shaved that morning but the day had caught up with him. His hair was slightly mussed, the soft brown waves curling a little at the ends from sweat and the summer air.

And then there were his eyes. Blue. The kind that looked startled even when he wasn’t. Wide-set and endlessly expressive, like the sky right before a storm–light, restless, always caught somewhere between fight and flight. They flicked over your face and then dropped again, as though you were too much to look at all at once.

A heartbeat later, the instructor returned.

“Closer,” She instructed casually, placing one hand on your back and the other on Bob’s shoulder to gently nudge you together. “Lead with your left, follower’s right here–yes, good. Elbows up, hands soft. You’re not wringing laundry, you’re trying to float.” You bit back a smile as you felt Bob’s hand lightly touch your back. His palm hovered there for a second before he settled it–a barely-there pressure against the side of your ribs that radiated throughout your whole body.

He was boiling hot, almost like he was running a fever, but he didn’t look ill, his palen skin had a little bit of colour to it, and he definitely wasn’t sweating buckets, so you concluded that maybe he was just nervous. Your brows lifted a bit in an amused type of way, moving a bit towards the heat.

”You feeling okay? You’re kind of burning through my tank top.” Bob’s ears turned red instantly.

”S-Sorry.” He stammered, voice tight, “Always h-hot. It’s just t-the norm.” You tilted your head with a soft, teasing smile.

”Summers must be torture for you.” He gave a quick, sheepish nod, a puff of breath catching in his throat as he looked anywhere but at your face.

”Y-Yeah, an absolute n-nightmare.” Your smile only grew at his comment, the moment turning strangely tender despite the clumsy positioning and your shoes already brushing his.

It wasn’t perfect but the music played, and your hands stayed in place. You could feel something steady beginning to build between the both of you–not just rhythm, but trust.

He pressed his palm firmer against the damp lower curve of your tank top, which made your spine straighten a little and your heart thud once beneath your ribs, as if you went on high alert. Your skin was already tacky with sweat from the sprint and the heat of the studio, but if Bob noticed, he didn’t flinch away. If anything, his fingers flexed lightly–just once–before he began to move them absentmindedly across the ribbed fabric. Not in a pattern at first. Just a slow, tentative drag of touch, like he was soothing a thought out of his own head. But then…The rhythm of the song caught in his fingers. A lazy, honey-thick sway in time with the jazz crackling from the speakers.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just let him do it. Let him get lost for a moment. And when your feet stumbled a little too close to his, and his breath caught slightly in response, your hand tightened just faintly where it rested against his shoulder.

“So…” You started softly, your voice light in the space between you, “Why are you taking ballroom?” Bob looked down at you as you shifted together through another halting step. His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a sheepish, crooked smile.

”F-Friend’s wedding is coming u-up soon.” He admitted, the words awkward but earnest. Your mouth twitched, glancing down briefly at your feet, then back up at him with a sigh escaping through your nose.

”Ah. I guess we’re in the same boat.” Your heel skimmed his toe, and the two of you adjusted at the same time, bumping gently before returning to the natural pull of the music,

“My cousin’s getting married,” You explained, “She told me to take lessons because she didn’t want me embarrassing myself at the reception. Said she didn’t want her big day to end with me flailing around on the dance floor.” That made Bob huff out a laugh this time–short and slightly stunned–like it had slipped out before he could catch it.

“I-I took it u-upon myself to join,” He admitted, his voice lower now, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before falling to your shoulder, “I-I don’t think my friend had the h-heart to tell me I sucked at d-dancing.” You snorted, laughing in surprise.

”That’s kind of sweet he spared your feelings…Painful, but sweet.” He gave a shrug, his thumb brushing another distracted line across your back as you shifted closer again, feet adjusting to each other. You could smell mint, maybe a bit of basil on him, like he had walked through a field of herbs. It was earthy, and sweet, and it surrounded you, mixing with your own scent.

“M-Maybe I just…Wanted to surprise h-him. Prove I could d-do it.” You looked up at him, seeing the way his jaw tensed as he tried to concentrate on his steps, and the way his lips moved like they were shaping words he wasn’t voicing. His fingers couldn’t seem to stop moving even while he stared at the way your feet moved. You tilted your head slightly, letting your hand trail down his arm to rest a little more firmly at his bicep, adjusting your posture a bit.

”Well,” You started gently, “You’re doing much better than me, so that’s a pretty good start.” He let out a little laugh and shook his head at you, continuing to move as well as he could to the music.

———————

The lesson ended with a slow fade of music and scattered claps from around the room. Some pairs lingered, still swaying to a rhythm that didn’t exist anymore. Others parted quickly, ducking toward their bags and bottles like they’d just finished a gym class.

You and Bob stood in place for a second longer, both a little flushed, still slightly closer than necessary. When you stepped back, your arms suddenly felt colder, the heat of his body leaving yours in one quick breath.

Bob rubbed the back of his neck again, fingers damp with nervous sweat as the both of you moved towards your bags in the corner. You bent to scoop up your tote and your now half-empty coffee cup. It had gone lukewarm and watery, the ice mostly melted. You took one last sip and let out a small, disappointed sigh.

“Guess that’s a wrap on tonight’s toe-mangling,” You joked lightly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. Bob smiled faintly and picked up his backpack, looping one strap over his arm.

“So…” You started, turning a bit as you walked toward the exit together, “What are you getting up to now? Post-ballroom debrief?” Bob shrugged, glancing over at you as the two of you reached the door.

“P-Probably g-go back home and w-watch a movie or s-something…” He replied, looking down at you with a bit of confusion echoing behind his eyes, “W-Why do you ask?” You slowed a bit on the sidewalk, the warm August air hugging your skin to replace the warmth you lost on the dancefloor when Bob and you parted.

“Well…If you’re not doing anything, I work at a coffee shop just a few blocks down. We can sit and chat for a bit, if you want. I also get free drinks and stuff so…It’ll be on me.” You said, smoothing a hand over the strap of your bag. The offer hung in the air for a second–and the ball was in his court now. Bob looked a little caught off guard by your proposal as he wasn’t even expecting to make a new friend today, but he pushed down the nerves that brewed in his throat.

”I-I could go for a c-cold drink or s-something…” Your smile brightened.

”Great!” You slipped your jacked over your arm, “C’mon, I’ll take you there.”

You walked side by side down the sidewalk, the rhythm of the evening more relaxed now. Your footsteps fell into easy cadence with each other as you passed rows of restaurants winding down for the night. The lavender in the sky had deepened to a bruised navy, and a few streetlights had finally flickered on above your heads.

”So,” You said, glancing over at him, “Do you normally watch movies in your spare time?” He smirked at the question, as he kicked a rock down the walkway, pushing his windblown hair away from his cheeks.

“I-I have some roommates t-that keep me busy, so I usually p-put a movie on to just relax, o-or for background n-noise to drown out the l-louder noises around me…” You tilted your head a bit.

”Ah, so you’ve got roommates hm? How many?” Bob hesitated just a moment too long, and you immediately noticed.

It wasn’t that the question was strange–asking about roommates was easy, normal, it was the kind of thing you asked someone you were trying to get to know. But the way Bob’s shoulders tightened, and the way his thumb scratched lightly at the side seam of his pants, told you this wasn’t just idle small talk for him. Still, he saw you waiting. Expecting something. And for whatever reason, he didn’t want to lie. Not entirely.

“F-Five,” He said finally, voice quiet, gaze fixed just ahead on the sidewalk, “I-Including a cat. But…It’s g-going to be four soon, and the cat is going to be gone soon…One of them is t-the one getting married, and he’s t-the person who brought the cat.” Your brows lifted, surprised at the number.

”Five?” You laughed lightly, “That’s more than I expected. Must be a big place to fit all of you, huh?” Bob let out a small breath that sounded like it might’ve been the beginning of a laugh–but didn’t quite get there.

“Y-Yeah,” He said, “It’s manageable with a-all of us pitching in t-though.” He glanced down at the gravel near the edge of the sidewalk, his foot nudging a small stone into the gutter. A lie. Not because he wanted to deceive you, but because telling the truth–that rent wasn’t a problem when his name was on a government payroll for being a living weapon–felt impossibly heavy for a casual walk to a coffee shop.

You didn’t press any further. And Bob felt the weight ease just slightly as the conversation drifted back into a safer territory.

It wasn’t long before you rounded the corner and approached a familiar storefront tucked between a florist and a tiny secondhand bookstore. The brick exterior was warm with the glow of fairy lights strung in a lazy swoop over the front awning. A small chalkboard sign was propped near the door, the lettering in swirling script that read:

The Daily Grind

Bob smiled at the name.

You stepped up onto the little stoop and were already halfway to the door when Bob moved ahead, reaching it first and holding it open for you like it was second nature now.

“Thanks,” You murmured, your cheeks heating up as you passed him again, just close enough for your shoulder to brush lightly against his chest.

Inside, the café was unexpectedly lively for a weeknight. The soft clink of ceramic mugs and low conversation filled the air. A rich aroma of espresso, brown sugar, and steamed milk wrapped around you the second the door swung shut. There was a faint trace of something floral too–maybe a lavender syrup or one of the loose-leaf teas steeping behind the counter.

Golden light glowed from mismatched pendant lamps overhead, casting gentle pools of warmth over each table. The walls were exposed brick in some spots, wood paneled in others, with chalkboard menus behind the counter and framed black-and-white photos from local artists spaced evenly between shelves of plants. There was a small stage tucked into one corner where an acoustic guitar rested against a mic stand, long since abandoned for the night.

Despite the hour–nearly 8:30–the place was comfortably full.

A couple sat curled up in the far window seat, sharing a laptop and a blanket. A group of college students clustered around a high-top with open notebooks and empty latte glasses. Two older men played chess near the back, barely speaking. And a solo woman in headphones was scribbling something in a thick journal, lost to the world except for the rhythmic tap of her pen.

It wasn’t loud. Just…Alive. Like a low hum of thought and warmth cascaded through the space.

Bob lingered just inside the threshold for a moment, taking it in with a kind of quiet awe. You turned back toward him, smiling softly as you said, “Pick a seat–anywhere. I’ll make us something.”

He blinked, then gave a small, grateful nod. “A-Any favorites?”

You tilted your head. “Do you trust me?”

He hesitated. Then–softly: “S-Sure.”

“Perfect.” You flashed him a grin and disappeared behind the counter, leaving Bob to find a seat–still smelling of roasted espresso, a little sweat, and you.

The window seat he settled on was a half-moon booth tucked just far enough from the counter to feel private. It curved around a small, round table, its surface worn smooth from years of coffee rings and notebook pages. A row of old brick made up the wall beside it, sun-warmed even at this hour, while the window next to it stretched nearly floor to ceiling–paned in black iron, like something out of a train station. The view looked out onto the sleepy street, where the occasional headlight cut past, slicing through the navy dusk.

Bob set his backpack on the low windowsill, where ivy in a mismatched ceramic pot hung lazily toward the floor. The bag slumped under its own weight with a soft thud. He eased himself into the booth seat, the cracked leather cool beneath his thighs through the fabric of his pants. For a moment, he just…Sat. Shoulders still a little tight, fingers twisting faintly at the edge of the table. His eyes traced the dim reflections in the window–people moving behind him, little streaks of amber light, your silhouette at the counter, as you turned to talk to one of your coworkers, sharing a bit of a laugh with them.

When you returned, your steps light across the wood floor, Bob straightened slightly, palms flat on either side of the table. You carried two drinks–your own in one hand, a paper cup topped with a thick, creamy cloud of cold foam. The other was clearly for him, and…Looked more like something from a sci-fi prop department than a café.

A glass full of swirling colour–bright blue bleeding into a soft, almost fiery orange. It shimmered faintly in the light as you set it in front of him.

Bob blinked at it, brows knitting as he tilted his head.

“…W-What is it?”

You gave a shrug and a cheeky smile.

“One of our new summer tea fusions. Blood orange and butterfly pea flower. I added a touch of lavender syrup to calm your nerves.” He raised his eyebrows, then glanced down at the drink again, swearing that he saw something glisten in it. You sat down in front of him, eyes shimmering with something warm, “Not that I mind you being nervous around me or anything.” You added.

Bob flushed–his whole face going soft pink, then red at the ears, his mouth parting as if to speak and then shutting again when no sound came. You stifled a small grin behind your sip of coffee.

Tentatively, he lifted the glass, fingers cool against the condensation on the outside. He paused just before taking a drink, letting the scent rise with the ice–a delicate swirl of citrus and something lightly floral. The orange was sharp and bright, but the lavender crept in softer, smoothing the sharp edges.

Then he took a sip.

The first taste was unexpected. The blood orange hit fast and tart, almost effervescent on his tongue–then mellowed into something more complex. The butterfly pea flower gave it an earthy, almost grassy base, grounding the citrus, while the lavender syrup lingered at the back of his mouth like the end of a slow exhale. Cold, but not numbing. Sweet, but not cloying. And under it all, something fizzy, faintly mineral, like it was sparkling even though it wasn’t.

His eyes widened a little. “T-Tastes like…Like citrus inside a flower shop.” You let out a soft laugh, taking a sip from your own drink again.

”Good citrus or rotting citrus?” You asked.

”G-Good, I-I mean…I l-like it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to cool down the skin with the cold temperature that seeped into his palm from his glass. Then his gaze dropped slightly. The truth itched just beneath his skin, and maybe the drink really had loosened something, because he added, softer this time:

“I-I’m generally a nervous p-person by the w-way. B-But the s-stuttering isn’t r-really from that.” You set your drink down on the table, leaning a bit forward on your elbows.

”Really?” He nodded, resting one hand against the side of his glass, swirling the ice gently so that it clinked against the inside.

“Y-Yeah…It’s not r-really something that can be c-controlled at this point. M-My doctor’s working on finding some h-help for me.” Another lie–but with threads of truth. He wasn’t going to come out and start talking about being an ex-meth addict, but the shell of what he said was enough to stitch something real between you.

You hummed quietly, processing, your eyes not leaving his.

“Interesting…Is it a neurological thing?”

He nodded again, not quite looking at you this time.

“G-Guess you could say that.”

The clinking of the ice filled the pause. Then your fingers curled around your coffee again and you took another sip. Steam curled toward your face.

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. Just…Settled, like the two of you were syncing up somehow, sharing the same brainwave.

Bob adjusted slightly in his seat, one arm draped over the curve of the booth now, and then–almost hesitantly–he broke the silence again.

“S-So you work at a coffee shop…” he began, “W-What else do you get up to? A-Apart from ballroom l-lessons…”You pushed your hair off of your cheeks, before sitting up a little bit.

”Well…I’m a part-time student at the moment…Went back to college this summer, just to pick up some credits.” You said it casually, but there was something behind it–something like hope and weariness wrapped in the same ribbon. “Trying to work toward a degree. Something that’ll help me get out of this place.”

Bob tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady and quiet. He didn’t ask what you were studying. He didn’t ask why you wanted to leave.

He just said–gently:

“G-Guess I’m glad I ran into you before you do.”

And then, as if it startled even him, his eyes widened a little and he looked away quickly, sipping from his drink again like he hadn’t just said the most honest thing of the night.

You smiled down into your coffee, and for a second, neither of you said anything else. The hum of the café continued around you–soft and unbothered, like the whole world had made room for this moment.

By the end of the night, Bob and you had spoken for hours, just getting to know each other. He walked you back to your apartment building, and you exchanged numbers, confirming that you would see each other next Tuesday for ballroom lessons before separating for the night, leaving both of your hearts skipping beats in excitement.

————————

Two weeks later, the sky was a different shade of blue. Cooler now—lighter around the edges, the kind that hinted at September quietly stretching its arms somewhere just over the horizon. It was the kind of afternoon that felt both too short and too slow, and inside the sharp, sterile chill of the suit shop, the world narrowed to the sound of shifting fabric, measured footfalls, and the occasional muttered curse from someone getting their inseam taken.

Bob stood stiffly in front of a full-length mirror, with one arm stuck out to the side while the tailor adjusted the seams of a crisp white dress shirt. The fabric clung lightly to his back and shoulders, still pinned at the cuffs and slightly rumpled along the side seams where it hadn’t yet been pressed.

His neck was bent, face half-obscured by the soft, sweat-damp waves of hair that had fallen forward over his brow. He was staring at his phone–his thumb moving with surprising ease for someone so often flustered, his lips curved in a faint, private smile that was practically a foreign object on his face. The tailor, a wiry man with rolled sleeves and a measuring tape slung around his neck like a scarf, gave a pointed little sniff before speaking.

“Head up, please, sir.”

Bob startled slightly, blinking back into the moment like he’d surfaced too quickly. “S-Sorry,” he murmured, tucking his phone sheepishly into the pocket of his jeans and lifting his chin.

Across the room, Walker was sprawled into one of the velvet-lined benches like he was trying to merge with it, both arms stretched wide along the back. He raised a brow at the exchange, then twisted toward Bucky, who was adjusting the cuffs of his own white dress shirt in front of a standing mirror.

“You seeing this?” Walker said, nodding toward Bob. “A few weeks ago we had to argue with him just to get him to answer a call. Now we can’t even pry the damn phone out of his hands.”

Bucky glanced up, eyes flicking toward Bob’s reflection. His expression shifted slowly into something caught between amusement and suspicion. “He’s been like that all week,” he said, letting his tone ride the line between dry and teasing. “Texting under the table during meetings. Saw him smiling at his phone yesterday. Like…Full-on smiling. I thought I was hallucinating.” Sam, seated in the corner with his feet up on a low ottoman, snorted into his lap as he polished the side of his dress shoe.

“Bet you five bucks it’s not a work contact…He wouldn’t type that fast if it was.” Bob’s ears were already pink. The colour bloomed up his throat like someone had tilted him toward the sun, and he ducked his head again, tugging lightly at the collar as the tailor worked a pin into the side seam.

“I-It’s n-not a big deal,” Bob muttered. “J-Just someone I met.”

“Oh-ho,” Walker interrupted, leaning forward “Someone you met? When was this? Did we miss the memo or something?” Alexei, who’d been quietly squinting at his own reflection as he tried to decide whether to button the top collar or leave it open, gave a low chuckle.

“He’s blushing like schoolboy,” He said in his thick accent. “Must be serious.” Bob opened his mouth to protest—but the tailor tapped his arm, and he shut it again with a resigned little sigh.

“It’s really n-not–” he tried, but Bucky cut him off with a knowing smirk.

”Is this the girl you met at those ballroom lessons you’ve been going to?” He asked, folding his arms loosely as he leaned back against the edge of the mirror, “Because you’re always in a rush to be on time now…And that’s very unusual for you.” At that, the room stirred with energy. Sam looked up, brows high. Walker turned fully in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head. Even Alexei paused, one hand on his belt buckle.

“Oh my…You guys met at ballroom lessons?” Walker said, letting out a fit of laughter. Bob froze like he’d been caught in a tractor beam. His whole body tensed–shoulders drawn tight beneath the half-pinned shirt, jaw working in silence.

“…W-We’ve been…Talking,” He said finally, the words barely above a whisper.

“Talking,” Bucky repeated, his smirk edging toward fondness now. “Is that what they’re calling four-hour coffee chats and texting marathons these days?” Sam raised a hand up to try to stop the conversation.

”Wait, wait–how did this even start? Did you walk in there and trip over your shoes or something and she just swooned?” Bob, cornered and mortified, gave a helpless little sound at the back of his throat. He fiddled with a loose thread on the shirt cuff.

“I-It was…more like she ran into m-me.” Walker groaned.

”God…Two clumsy people together? Sounds like a match made in heaven.” He mocked.

“She spilled coffee on him,” Bucky added, still half-laughing.

“She didn’t spill it,” Bob corrected instinctively, then winced when they all turned toward him with shit-eating grins. “I-It jostled. A little.”

“So how serious is this?” Sam asked, letting his tone soften slightly. “You just texting, or…?”

Bob blinked. His eyes drifted back to the mirror–not to his reflection, but to the faint ghost of your last message still glowing on his lock screen. You had sent a picture of your view from the library you had been studying in, something casual, a little snippet of your day that you wanted to share with him–a half-drunk coffee on one side and a mess of notes and an open textbook scattered around the other. He had sent a picture of himself in his dress shirt, cringing awkwardly and said:

“Shirt fitting, hopefully I don’t get poked with needles.”

Your reply came fast and immediate.

“Hopefully if you do it doesn’t mess up your posture for ballroom lessons.”

That made him smirk.

You had gotten closer over the past two weeks, it was so easy especially with the rhythm you fell into. You made him feel comfortable, and even with the awkward moments ballroom lessons brought to the both of you, it was the thing that tethered you together and allowed that closeness to develop naturally. Bob was always excited to see you, and you had the exact same sentiment–you looked forward to the nights where you would sit at The Daily Grind and talk till all hours of the night, without expectations of one another. Neither of you could really describe what you had brewing between the both of you, but it was a closeness that Bob had not felt in a while–one that he burned for and craved long before you.

But now, standing in the middle of the suit shop, the words floated in the back of Bob’s head like sunlight through gauze. He cleared his throat.

”W-We’re just good f-friends, that’s all…” He muttered, trying to keep his voice even. There was a beat of silence. Like a collective inhale.

Then Bucky let out a short, knowing scoff. “Sure…” He said, as dry as sandpaper. “That’s what I said about Leila. Now look where I am.” He motioned vaguely to his reflection in the mirror, shirt half-buttoned and a pin in his collar. “Getting married at the ripe old age of one hundred and ten.”

That earned a ripple of laughter from around the room. Bob, however, turned a darker shade of red, the colour blooming like wildfire across his face.

“I-It’s not l-like that.”

“Why don’t you bring her to the compound then?” Walker said, folding his arms and leaning forward slightly, eyes glittering with challenge. “We’ll be the judge of that.”

Bob froze. Just a second. Barely perceptible unless you knew him. But his posture stiffened like someone had dropped a weight into the base of his spine.

The others noticed.

Sam exchanged a sharp look with Walker–then flicked his gaze toward Bucky, who had gone quiet.

“…She does know about you being part of The New Avengers, right?” Sam asked carefully, his voice softer now, less teasing. Bob’s expression twisted up like someone had turned him inside out, and exposed all his nerves to the sterile air of the shop.

”N-Not exactly…” There was a pause. A longer one this time. Walker let out a low groan, rubbing the back of his neck.

”So let me get this straight…” He started, “She knows nothing about your situations? Even with the whole…Killer Void and Sun God combo pack?” Bob shrugged–awkwardly, because the tailor was in the middle of pinning his sleeve, and the motion nearly knocked the man off balance.

“I-I have them b-both under control,” He mumbled, “A-And besides, it’s n-not like they’re going to appear o-out of nowhere. I usually f-feel when they need…Some…Air.”

Bucky pushed off the mirror and walked over, his voice low but direct. “Bob,” He said, eyes steady, “That only works until it doesn’t.”

“I-I know,” Bob whispered. “I-I’m careful. I swear.” The tailor, bless him, pretended not to hear any of this. He tugged the back seam taut, muttering something about shoulders and posture, but everyone in the room had tuned him out now.

Sam leaned back against the ottoman again, looking at Bob with something gentler in his face than before. “You like her.”

Bob didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“You like her,” Sam repeated, this time with a little smile. “That’s why you haven’t told her.”

“…Y-Yeah.”

Bucky folded his arms again, but there was less teasing now. “You think she’s gonna look at you differently if she knows?”

Another nod. Slower this time.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Alexei, still standing in front of his mirror, said simply, “You should tell anyway. Before she sees without your words to explain.”

Bob swallowed thickly. The tailor twisted him around to check the hem, and he didn’t resist. But his voice was low when he said:

“I-I know.”

The silence after that wasn’t tense. Just full. Like something unspoken had finally stretched out its legs.

—————————

The café was quieter tonight. Golden hour had melted into twilight, and the usual hum of voices had dipped into something softer–just murmurs at the tables, the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic. The sky outside was a deep, navy blue–no longer bruised, but soothed–and the string lights in the window cast a warm halo across your hair as you sat across from Bob, legs tucked under the booth, fingers curled around your coffee.

He was drinking the same thing he’d had the first time. You’d remembered–of course you had. He didn’t even need to ask.

Bob stirred his drink slowly, the colours long since faded into a dusky purple swirl. The lavender scent still lingered faintly, mixing with the sharper citrus that rose each time he took a sip.

His jacket was folded beside him. His hair was a little damp at the roots, a sheen of sweat still cooling at his temples from the final round of clumsy turns and near toe-steppings. He looked less wrecked by nerves now–more comfortable than the beginning of the ballroom lesson extravaganza–but there was still something taut around his shoulders, something unsaid bracing his spine. You watched him with a small smile.

“So…” You started, voice warm, curling into the space between you, “Now that we don’t have ballroom lessons together, what are we going to do? Join another class?” Bob huffed out a soft laugh, lifting the glass to his lips.

“I-I don’t think I-I can afford e-embarrassing myself e-even more than how I’m going to at the w-wedding on Saturday.” You smiled, but something in your expression flickered–just for a second. Your gaze dipped to your coffee for a moment.

”Darn,” You murmured, a soft, fake pout appearing on your lips, “Wish I could be there, but I’ve got my own embarrassing moment to display on Saturday too, hope all those lessons paid off cause if not I’m writing a bad review.” You joked, taking a sip of your coffee before adding,“Least we’ll be able to tell each other how it went though.” Bob nodded, setting his drink down with a soft clink.

“T-This is true…” He murmured. “H-Hope nobody h-has video evidence…M-Might have to break some phones.”

That made you laugh–low and warm. “The Cloud will always win, Bob.” He smiled at that, really smiled, but it faded a little too quickly.

Because this was it. The last ballroom night. The last excuse.

And you were sitting right there–still glowing under café lights, still looking at him like he was worth knowing–and he still hadn’t told you the truth.

His fingers tapped lightly on the condensation of his glass. Then stopped.

“C-Can I ask you something?” He said, quieter now.

You looked up, your gaze curious and soft. “Of course.”

He stared at the swirl of ice in his drink.

“If…If someone was k-keeping something from you…But it w-wasn’t because they wanted to lie. It was b-because they didn’t know how to s-say it right. W-Would…Would you be mad?”

You blinked at him.

“Depends on what it is,” You said carefully, the weight behind your words heavier now. “But…If it came from a good place–if they were scared, or trying to protect something important–I think I’d understand. At least I’d want to.”

Bob’s throat worked in a silent swallow. His hand curled tighter around the glass.

You leaned in a little, trying to meet his eyes.

“Bob…Is there something you want to tell me?”

He hesitated. Eyes darted to the window, to the ivy curling along the sill, to anywhere that wasn’t your face. The words clawed up his throat. Pressed into his ribs. But they still didn’t come.

“…I–” He started, then stopped abruptly.

“I-It’s just been…really n-nice. G-Getting to know you.” He finally whispered.

You watched him for a long moment.

Then you smiled, soft and understanding–even if you didn’t know what he wasn’t saying.

“It’s been really nice getting to know you too, Bob.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

But it lingered, unspoken. Like the beat of a song neither of you had quite learned to dance to.

—————————

The venue was buzzing.

People rushed like water down a narrowing drain–cufflinks being fastened, jackets thrown on backs of chairs, bouquets carried up and down the hall with the urgency of live grenades. Someone yelled about a missing pair of heels. Sam was still trying to figure out how to pin his boutonniere. Walker was texting Yelena between mouthfuls of protein bar crumbs.

Bob hadn’t eaten.

His stomach had curled in on itself hours ago, and the collar of his dress shirt tugged against his throat. His hands were shaking slightly as he buttoned up–slow and careful, even as the rest of the suite bustled with chaos. Alexei had already poured himself a drink from the bar cart, murmuring something about it being medicinal. Bucky had his sleeves rolled and was half-tied into his suspenders, texting Leila back updates with military precision.

The ceremony was at 3:00.

And it was 2:37.

Bob stood in front of the mirror, fingers fumbling slightly with the knot of his dusty pink tie.

The colour looked softer than he expected–like rosewater steeped in sunlight–but it still felt foreign against the collar of his crisp white shirt. He tugged it gently, trying to center the knot without strangling himself. Bob’s eyes flicked to the mirror, watching everyone move behind him in a haze. Their voices rose and fell like static–buzzing, anxious, distant.

He exhaled slowly.

Then, just as he lifted his hand to adjust the collar one last time–

The door creaked open.

You stepped in, breath caught halfway in your throat, a tablet clutched to your chest.

“Bob?”

He turned sharply, eyes wide, mouth parted like you’d hit him with a flashbang. His hands stilled completely on the knot of his tie.

The room froze.

Bob wasn’t sure what he noticed first–the way your voice wrapped around his name like a question and an accusation–or the way you looked standing there in the hallway light like it had all been scripted by some wildly dramatic god of fate.

You looked…Stunning.

Your dusty pink bridesmaid dress was floor-length and impossibly flattering, hugging the curves of your waist before flaring into a soft, weightless sweep of chiffon that moved with every tiny breath. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light, not metallic, but with a dewy glow–like rose petals in the golden hour. The bodice was ruched, gathered slightly off the shoulder, dipping into a gentle sweetheart neckline that framed your collarbones and hinted at the soft curve of your chest. The dress had a thigh-high slit that revealed a glimpse of leg with every step, the fabric parting just enough to show off your nude heels and the soft shine of your skin beneath.

Your hair was pushed out of your face, and a fine gold chain with a single opal pendant rested at the hollow of your throat. You looked radiant and out of place in the groomsmen suite–like you’d walked through the wrong door and into the last person you ever expected to see. Bob stared like someone had just unplugged his brain.

“…Y/N?” He managed to say, voice cracking with disbelief.

You blinked, then your mouth parted into a wide, incredulous smile as you gave a stunned laugh.

“This–This is the wedding you were going to this whole time?!”

Bob’s ears turned scarlet. His tie hung half-knotted around his collar. And now every head in the room had snapped toward the doorway.

Walker raised a single eyebrow. Alexei took a long, slow sip from his skull glass. Sam leaned forward like he was watching a soap opera. Bucky didn’t even blink, he just said:

“Well…This is probably one of the weirdest coincidences I’ve ever witnessed.”

You took a half step inside the room, still clutching the tablet, your brows pulled together in amused disbelief. Bob’s lips parted, but the sound that came out wasn’t even a word–just a wheeze of disbelief.

“W-What are you d-doing h-here?” He finally managed, voice cracking.

You stared at him like the answer was obvious. “Leila’s my cousin.” You looked around the room slowly, eyes drifting from Sam to Walker to Alexei, then back to Bucky standing casually against the mirror with one brow arched like this was the highlight of his day.

Then your gaze landed on Bob again.

You raised your eyebrows, gestured loosely toward the group with your tablet still clutched to your chest, and said with mock curiosity,

“So this is what you’ve been hiding?”

Bob’s jaw dropped slightly, like his brain had blue-screened. “I–I…N-No, I mean–yes? I-I mean, I wasn’t hiding–I j-just hadn’t said anything–yet, I was going to, I swear–”

“Mmhm.” You tilted your head, biting back a smile as you crossed one arm over your waist and leaned a bit into your hip, amused, “Seems like a pretty big thing to hide, Bob.” Bob’s brows furrowed, his shoulders tightening beneath the unfinished knot of his tie. His throat worked around a lump, and when he spoke, it came out quiet. Raw.

“W-Why aren’t y-you mad?”

That made you pause.

You blinked at him, brows lifting slightly like you hadn’t even considered that as an option. And then, slowly, your lips curved–not in a smirk, not teasing this time. Just…Warm. Amused in a way that softened you all over.

”Well…I mean…Because I kind of figured this was what you were hiding, I just couldn’t fully prove it…Until now at least.” His mouth opened, but no sound came out at first—just the faintest flicker of breath, like he was still trying to reboot his brain. His fingers twitched near the undone knot of his tie.

“…W-What?” He finally said, so quietly it almost got lost in the chaos behind him.

You took another step into the room. The hallway light spilled around your figure like a spotlight, catching the shimmer of your dress and the soft flush along your cheekbones. You didn’t look smug, or accusatory, or even particularly triumphant. Just a little bashful.

Like you were telling a secret you didn’t plan on having to say out loud.

“I mean…” You glanced over your shoulder–once, quickly–then turned back to him with a faint, sheepish shrug. “Your eyes glowed once when we were out for coffee.”

The air in the room seemed to still. Or maybe that was just Bob holding his breath.

You kept talking, your voice gentle, as if trying not to spook him.

“It was barely anything. Just…this little flicker. I thought it was a trick of the light. Or my brain playing games with me.” You tilted your head slightly. “But then it happened again. At one of the ballroom lessons. You were laughing at something stupid I said, and it just–” You mimed a small spark with your fingers, “–Did it again.”

Bob looked like someone had physically unplugged his spine. His knees actually wobbled. Walker looked delighted. Bucky just stayed quiet, watching, his jaw flexed like he was trying not to step in unless it was absolutely necessary.

You gave a small, lopsided smile.

“I didn’t say anything because…Well, I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would. And I didn’t want to make it weird. Or embarrass you.” You shifted your weight, eyes flicking down for a second. “And now here you are,” You added softly, “In the middle of a wedding party I’m literally a bridesmaid for.” You gestured loosely around the groomsmen suite, as if this was the final piece of evidence in your long, slow build toward acceptance. “So…Yeah.”

Bob stared at you with such nervousness that it looked like he was going to burst, like he didn’t know what reality was going to hit you.

“Y-You’re…N-Not freaked out?”

You shook your head, slow and sure.

“Not really. I mean…” You looked him over, tie still undone, collar askew, ears pink with panic. “You’re still you, are you not?” Bob’s chest rose and fell like he was bracing for a hit that hadn’t landed yet.

“Y-Yeah,” He said finally, voice tight, shaky. “O-Of course I am. I’m still me. B-But…” His fingers fumbled against the loose fabric of his tie, like he couldn’t figure out where to look. “B-But I lied.”

Your head tilted just slightly.

Then–without missing a beat–you rolled your eyes.

“Bob,” you said, exasperated in the softest way possible. “You were delaying the truth more than anything.” Your mouth twitched into a warm half-smile. “But once again, the statement still stands. You’re still you. And I’m not mad.”

For a second, the room didn’t move.

Bob didn’t blink. His eyes were locked on yours like you’d just said something sacred. Like you’d handed him a version of himself he didn’t think anyone would ever see—and you hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t stepped back. You hadn’t run.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But something in his face shifted. Something deep. Like the air had finally made its way back into his lungs.

And then–your phone buzzed.

You glanced down and let out a soft, muffled laugh.

“Okay. I think that’s Leila. We’re about five minutes out from ceremony panic level four.” You looked up again and gestured loosely around the room. “Everyone good in here?”

She was asking the room. Not just Bob.

All four of them nodded.

Walker gave a mock salute. Sam lifted two fingers in a lazy peace sign. Alexei raised his glass in silence, like a Viking king offering a toast. And Bucky–smiling just faintly–gave a single, steady nod.

“Perfect,” You said, giving Bob a pointed look as you backed toward the door. “I’ll pass on the message.”

Your eyes lingered on him–just for a breath longer than they needed to.

“See you guys out there,” you added, then flicked your fingers in a soft wave. “And we’ll catch up at the reception.”

That last part was aimed at Bob. He knew it. Felt it like a tether in his chest.

You were gone a second later, vanishing down the hallway in a flutter of soft pink chiffon and grace-under-pressure poise. Bob stood motionless, still gripping the tail end of his tie, staring at the empty space you’d left behind.

The door eased shut.

A long beat passed.

Then Bucky let out the longest, most exhausted sigh known to man. “I didn’t know she was Leila’s cousin.”

There was a brief silence.

And then–chaotic, overlapping laughter.

——————————

The reception hall was a dream.

Golden light spilled from a chandelier that looked like it had been built to catch stardust–hundreds of delicate glass petals suspended in layered rings above the ballroom, glittering with every slow sway of air. The space was massive, wrapped in soft white drapery that billowed slightly with the hush of the HVAC, and warm-toned fairy lights threaded through the ceiling beams like fireflies caught mid-flight. Tables shimmered with crystal glassware and pressed linen napkins folded into neat fans, each centerpiece a floating bouquet of orchids and wild peonies suspended in water-filled vases, anchored with stones that gleamed like polished moonlight.

The dance floor stretched wide across the center of the room, polished to a mirror-finish sheen. At the far end, a live band was tuning up behind a gold-trimmed riser, their instruments already humming low with promise. Servers in black ties glided between guests with silver trays of flutes and hors d’oeuvres. The air smelled like citrus peel and champagne, like hydrangea petals and spice cake. Somewhere behind the partitioned side doors, the wedding party was being organized for the grand entrance.

And yet, Bob could only see you.

You were standing just inside the reception hall, your dress catching the low amber light in a way that made it look almost luminescent–like rosewater had been poured over candlelight and stitched into fabric. You had taken off your heels for a moment, holding them delicately by the straps in one hand as you rubbed the ball of your foot against the plush carpet. Your hair was looser now, a few strands falling into your face, and your tablet had finally been abandoned to a pile of bridesmaid clutch bags near the cake table.

When you turned and caught Bob staring, you smiled. That smile–easy, radiant, real–hit him harder than it should’ve.

He crossed the room toward you like he was moving underwater, slow and tentative, still stunned that you were here. That you knew. That you didn’t hate him.

“W-Want to grab a drink before everything starts?” He asked, nodding toward the open bar just beyond the floral archway.

You grinned, slipping your shoes back on and falling into step beside him. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The bar was draped in white chiffon and tucked behind a waist-high row of flower boxes. The bartender barely looked up as the two of you stepped forward–just gestured at the menu and asked, “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a Sprite,” You said, glancing over at Bob.

”S-Same for me p-please.” You gave him a sideways glance, your lips curving slightly.

“Matching already. Look at us.” He flushed a little, accepting the glass the bartender handed him and taking a grateful sip before clearing his throat.

“I-I’m sorry again,” He said quietly, voice dropping beneath the swell of jazz starting to drift in from the band. “F-For not telling you about…all of this. I-I wasn’t trying to lie, I just… I was scared.”

You tilted your head toward him, your gaze soft.

“Bob…” You gave a quiet laugh, not mocking, just warm. “It’s alright. Really.”

He looked at you like he didn’t quite believe that.

You nudged his arm with your elbow. “You’re gonna make it up to me anyways.”

His brow ticked upward. “H-How?”

You sipped your Sprite, grinning as you looked out toward the polished expanse of the dance floor now being lit by rows of soft amber spotlights.

“Well…By dancing with me, of course. When Bucky and Leila have their first dance.” Bob blinked, feeling his heart fluttering in his chest like it had just heard its own name called.

“R-Really?” He asked, the question so tentative, so full of almost childish hope that it made your smile grow.

“We only did…what? Four weeks of classes?” You teased, “It would be a disgrace if we didn’t dance together.”

Bob huffed a soft laugh, cheeks blooming pink again. “Y-Yeah, I guess… It w-would.”

You turned toward him fully then, holding out your glass slightly in mock cheers.

“To not disappointing our instructors.”

Bob tapped the rim of his glass against yours. “T-To not tripping on your dress.”

You raised a brow. “You’re assuming I’m not going to step on your toes again.”

His laugh this time was real–soft and flushed, his hand brushing just barely against yours as you started walking back toward your table together. The laughter faded into a gentle hum beneath the music now blooming fuller from the far side of the room. The band had started playing something warm and dreamy–low piano chords underlaid with the sweep of a slow, golden-toned saxophone. The kind of song that didn’t just ask you to dance, it pulled you in.

At the front of the hall, Bucky was offering Leila his hand.

She took it with a radiant smile, her dress shimmering like liquid pearl beneath the lights, and the two of them stepped onto the dance floor with a quiet sort of ease that made everything else fall away. Their bodies moved instinctively toward each other–her hand settling on his shoulder, his palm resting carefully at her waist–and together, they swayed into the first few steps of the night.

The moment they did, something shifted.

The bridal party followed suit, couples pairing off without direction, like it had already been whispered into the room. The groomsmen turned toward their bridesmaid counterparts, smiles exchanged, laughter rising in gentle pockets. Shoes brushed against the floor. Champagne flutes were set down. The music held steady–soft, syrupy, rich-and the dance floor filled with motion.

Bob glanced toward you, uncertain.

You just smiled, tucking your half-empty Sprite onto the nearest table and offering your hand again, palm open and waiting.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

The moment his fingers closed around yours, something inside both of you relaxed–like you’d been holding your breath through the whole evening and only now remembered how to exhale.

You stepped onto the side of the dance floor together–out of the way of the other pairs–the sound of the band curling like silk around your shoulders.

Bob’s hands came to rest gently at your waist. His touch was light at first–tentative, like he was afraid to press too hard–but when your hands settled on his shoulders in response, steady and warm, he let out a soft breath. His fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your dress, pulling you just the tiniest bit closer. Your body moved into his like a puzzle piece slipping into place.

And suddenly, it was easy.

You were swaying. Not perfectly, not with the practiced elegance of ballroom instructors or fairy-tale waltzes, but something slower. Softer. A rhythm built just between the two of you, stitched together by trust and effort and four weeks of quietly falling for the way Bob Reynolds smiled when he forgot to be afraid of himself.

The music pulsed gently around you, and you let your eyes flick up to meet his.

“…Maybe we really didn’t have to take ballroom lessons if it was going to be like this,” you said, your voice quiet, almost teasing, but full of warmth.

Bob leaned in instinctively, the distance between you shortening by inches, his head tipping slightly toward your voice so he could catch it over the music.

The motion brought him close enough for you to smell the clean heat of his cologne–something dark and warm and faintly herbal, like pine and clove blended with skin and breath and the sharpness of new fabric. It hit you with startling intimacy.

You drew in a slow inhale, letting it wrap around your ribs.

Bob’s suit was slightly open now, the jacket unbuttoned at the front as the movement of the dance loosened him.

He looked incredible like this.

The white dress shirt hugged his frame perfectly now, smooth and fitted across his chest, the crisp fabric just beginning to wrinkle where your hands pressed into it. The shoulders of the jacket were sculpted with surprising precision, giving structure to the softer slope of his frame. You could see the tie now, knotted with quiet effort and just a touch crooked, resting against the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Every now and then, the suit shifted enough to reveal a sliver of his waist–the shirt tucked in clean, the fabric of his trousers tailored just enough to give the illusion of ease.

Your fingers flexed slightly against his shoulders, pressing into the thick weave of his jacket.

You’d expected it to feel stiff. Formal. But it was warm now–softened by movement and the heat of his skin beneath. It smelled like him, too. Like effort and starch and faint cologne. Like heat built from restraint.

Bob didn’t seem to notice you were cataloging every square inch of him.

His eyes were on you–gentle, a little shy, but impossibly blue beneath the amber lights. He looked at you like he was still trying to believe you were real.

He smiled faintly and leaned in a little more.

“I-I’m g-glad we did, though,” He murmured. “T-Take lessons, I mean.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, still swaying with him, the movement natural now.

“Y-Yeah,” He replied, “I-I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

That made your breath catch–just slightly.

He blinked, startled by his own honesty again, and you laughed under your breath, shaking your head fondly.

”You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?” Bob’s palm shifted slightly at your waist, his thumb brushing a slow arc across the fabric–whether intentional or not, it sent a little ripple through you, subtle as a breath.

And then he leaned forward.

Not suddenly, not all at once. Just…Closer. Slow and tentative, like he was testing the gravity between you. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and soft, and then–forehead to forehead—he rested against you gently.

The rest of the world blurred. The music, the clink of glasses, the soft rustle of gowns and the distant voices of guests. It all faded into static.

All that was left was the solid, careful press of him, the hush between your bodies, and his voice–quiet enough that only you could hear it.

“I-I d-don’t think it’s s-surprising,” he murmured, his words trembling like a held breath. “I-I thought it was p-pretty obvious how m-much I really a-appreciate what we h-have.”

Your lips curved into a slow, amused smile. You didn’t move at first–just let the words hang there between your bodies like fogged glass. Then, deliberately, you leaned back just an inch–enough to make him chase you ever so slightly.

It worked. He followed your movement instinctively, his hands tightening faintly where they rested on your dress. But you caught his gaze.

And held it.

His eyes–God, those eyes. Still impossibly blue. Caught between the amber haze of the chandeliers and the faint twinkle of fairy lights, they looked almost unreal. Like they were lit from within. The kind of blue that went soft at the edges, like twilight melting into riverlight–bright and vulnerable and so, so open. You could see every flicker of emotion in them.

You tilted your head, voice low and coaxing, deliberately teasing as your lashes dipped. “And what do we have, Bob?”

Your gaze flicked down to his lips—just for a second. Enough to make his breath catch. Then you looked back up, watching as his throat bobbed in a hard swallow.

He blinked rapidly, like you’d short-circuited the last five minutes of rehearsed restraint.

“I–I think…” He started, then faltered.

You watched the gears grind behind his eyes. Something about your tone–your heat, your nearness–had shorted the usual stutter filter. But he tried again, his voice raw and a little hoarse as he stumbled through it:

“I-I think…W-What we have is…” He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief as he met your gaze again. “Is the k-kind of thing that…Makes me w-want to stop d-dancing just so I c-can kiss you instead.”

That landed like a blow.

You flushed–visibly, instantly. The words weren’t smooth. They tripped out of him like they didn’t know if they were allowed to exist. But they landed, all the same. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the buzz in your fingertips where they clung to his jacket.

Your grip on his lapel tightened slightly.

“…Is that so?” You said softly, one corner of your mouth lifting in a crooked, breathless smirk.

His answering smile was smaller–but so much more earnest. Pink bloomed across his cheekbones and down his neck, but he didn’t look away this time. Didn’t hide from it.

“Y-Yeah,” He whispered, “I-It’s r-really hard n-not to.” Your smile deepened, but you didn’t look away. You didn’t tease him, or draw it out.

You just leaned in a fraction more–enough for your nose to brush the side of his, for the breath between you to go impossibly still–and murmured so quietly that only he could hear it:

“You don’t have to hold yourself back on my account…You can kiss me.”

For half a second, Bob didn’t move.

Then he did.

It was like a tide rising–slow, unstoppable, trembling with weight. His hands slid up the sides of your waist with the gentlest pressure, fingers curling into the folds of your dress like he needed something solid to hold on to. His breath hitched once, and then he kissed you.

Soft. Like a secret. Like he’d been dreaming about this moment for weeks and still didn’t believe it was real.

His lips brushed yours so delicately at first, like he was afraid to push too hard, like he was giving you every second to change your mind. But you didn’t. You leaned in fully, pressing into the kiss with a quiet sigh that sent warmth cascading through both of you.

Bob melted.

His mouth parted just slightly, deepening the kiss with a tenderness that made your knees feel weak. His hands stayed at your waist, unmoving except for the slow tremble of his thumbs against your sides. His lips were soft, warm, a little unsure at the edges–but so reverent, so grateful. Like he was kissing something holy. Like this moment was something he’d never let himself ask for but couldn’t stop himself from needing.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your palm rise to rest gently against the side of his neck. He shivered under your touch, but didn’t pull back. His hand tightened at your hip just faintly, grounding himself in the curve of you as he kissed you a little deeper–still sweet, still slow, but fuller now. Like the moment had bloomed fully open, and he was letting himself feel all of it.

When you finally pulled away, it was with a soft breath. You didn’t go far. Your foreheads brushed, and you stayed there for a moment–close enough to feel his heart hammering through the space between you.

Bob’s eyes blinked open, dazed and wide, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“…I-I wasn’t planning to do that in front of everyone,” He whispered, flushed and breathless. “But…Y-You made it really hard not to.”

You laughed–bright and warm, your nose brushing his as you tilted your head slightly and whispered back:

“Good. That was kind of the goal.”

Bob let out a low, quiet laugh of his own, forehead still pressed to yours. His hand slid up to rest lightly against your back, grounding both of you in the moment.

Around you, the reception continued–dancing, laughter, champagne flutes clinking–but none of it touched the quiet bubble the two of you had just made for yourselves.

Bob leaned in again, not quite kissing you this time, but hovering so close that his words were like heat against your cheek.

“…W-We should keep practicing,” He murmured, voice low and shy and fond, “J-Just in case we ever have to dance at…You know…Another wedding.”

Your brows lifted slightly in amused curiosity.

“Oh yeah?” you said, cocking your head. “Yours or mine?”

Bob froze.

Then–completely pink in the face–he let out a choked, breathless laugh, one hand dragging down his face in mortified delight.

“W-Way too soon,” he managed.

“Sure,” you replied, leaning into his chest with a grin, “But not never.”

He looked at you like you’d handed him the stars. And maybe you had.

Because as the music rose around you, Bob Reynolds tightened his hold on your waist–and started dancing again. Not because he was told to.

But because this time, he wanted to.

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taegularities · 4 days ago

Text

upcoming… | (m)

Summary: Jungkook once planted a garden in your chest that he watered when he smiled and you killed when he left. But flowers withering isn't enough; that doesn't mend the ache. No – you want this entire story to die.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: exes to ?, college!au; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: heartache, past breakup, flashbacks, memories, memory erasure (eternal sunshine of the spotless mind vibe), tears, angst angst angstttt, fights but also such tender moments, college sweethearts 🥺, smut (details to be added when the fic drops)… the ending 👁 ➵ est. word count: around 25k ➵ a/n: another angsty taegularities special :D coming next, so stay tuned!! 👁

–

"I do fear… what if one day, it's just me and my thoughts, and you're nowhere to be found?"

Jungkook laughed; not at your worries, but about how improbable the words sounded. It flooded a sense of relief through you when he promised, "To leave… I'd have to un-meet and forget about you entirely, you know?"

Summary: Somewhere out there, a sinister castle roams the hills behind the dense fog. And somewhere hidden inside, there is a man you need to find; to charm; to wreck. Provided… he doesn't destroy you first.

➵ pairing: Taehyung x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: howl's moving castle au, fantasy au, s2l / e2l; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: magic and stuff, spy stuff, frenemies?, bickering and initial dislike, fights, sexual tension, based on the movie version of HMC, multiple (2) smut scenes (details to be added but expect… quite smth :p) ➵ est. word count: 20k ➵ a/n: this has been a wip for literal years now, and i think it's time i sent it out into the world :') since i'm rereading the book (but the fic is based on the ghibli movie!), i've been feeling some sort of way, soooo… howl oneshot soon?

–

“Do you feel anything?”

You can't. There is no heartbeat, no steady rhythm, nothing. Yet he breathes, walks, smiles as if he's missing nothing.

You shake your head, and he chuckles, a crooked smirk that confuses you in the best way possible. He loosens his firm grip around your hand, but you still leave your touch right there, rubbing over his chest until he adds,

“A heart's a heavy burden.” The warmth of your fingers sprawls across his torso, his eyes closing. “Especially if you’re me.”

Summary: Jungkook and you try something very, very new.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: fwb/fake dating/established relationship; fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: smut smut smut (everything else is redacted bc that'd just spoil the whole thing ha ha :D) ➵ est. word count: 10-12k ➵ a/n: this is part of my colour me in series – for those who don't know! the series is still paused, but i might continue it sometime this year if things work out. this drabble would come next <3

–

"I've been promising it for so long now," he whispers, fingertips wandering along your bare sides, beneath your crop top. "Haven't I?"

Summary: Jeon Jungkook barges into your unproblematic life unexpectedly. He's supposed to stay for the summer; but it doesn't take long for the bright days to turn grey, stirring, bittersweet; a trigger for bleak memories and a reminder that sometimes, closeness shatters more than it heals.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: s2l, summer/college au, dancer!jk; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: love triangle!!, yearning, thin walls lol, tears, fighting, old memories/childhood stuff, (mention of) drugs, abandonment, camping, multiple smut scenes (details will be added when the fic drops), plot twists, heartbreak, THE ENDING PLS ➵ est. word count: 40k lol; might split it in 2-3 parts if it gets too long ➵ a/n: i am most excited for this oneshot (?), and i have been for so long. it's a scary amount to write and i don't know when it'll be done. if i could, i'd write and post it rn… it's hella intimidating, but i love this story and i'm also hella excited, so… stay tuned and bring tissues <3

–

“Maybe… I don't know,” he pauses, blinking, and then starts anew, “maybe I'm this much with her, so I don't end up knocking at your door.”

A sting of guilt pierces your heart; you ask, “You… you guys hook up all the time. Doesn’t she feel… that way for you?”

“She doesn't.”

“And you? Do you feel anything for her?”

“I don't.” He hesitates again, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, friendship.”

“...Don't end up breaking hearts, Jungkook.”

Summary: In a world fractured by hatred, Yoongi seems your quiet salvation. But when a boy from your past returns, cloaked in secrets and unfinished memories, battle lines blur and you find yourself faced with a choice between the peace you built and the fire you never truly forgot.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader, Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: royal au, s2l, childhood bf2l, love triangle; angst, fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: there's a battle/war thing going on, love triangleeeee of the best sort, tender yoongi and fierce jungkook, some scenes are extremely tense – again in the best way possible, sexual tension, heartbreak, hate, betrayal (and nope, no cheating), multiple sex scenes (with both yoongi and jk (but not with both of them together lol)), falling in love hard, jealousy; the… the ending…… ➵ est. word count: 150-200k (around 10 chapters) ➵ a/n: THIS WILL LITERALLY RUIN US LMAO no seriously, i'm going to pour my everything into this. it's a story with quite some angst and heavy tension that even gave me trouble breathing when i was just outlining it :') yoongi in this is achingly sweet and jk is absolutely delicious. i think it'll be a piece i'm most proud of… and someday, i want to turn it into a novel. i hope you all love this 🤍

–

"I am in love with you," Yoongi whispers; your eyes water. "Even if you aren’t only in love with me. I know how this might go. And I am not saying we should make this official because – I am scared you might realise you need him more."

"It’s not about needing anybody…"

"But it’s about who sits in your heart so deeply that it feels like you need him to survive. I don’t know if I am that for you. But you’re that for me."

–

"Why are you still here, Jungkook? Why are you always around me? It’s not me you came back for."

"Sweetheart–"

"Would you have? If not for this?"

"If not for this… I would have come sooner."

Summary: A casual hook up morphs into a fierce fever dream when roommates slash best friends Min Yoongi and Jeon Jungkook bring heaven and hell to you – all at once, in one single night.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader x Jungkook ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: kind of fwb, threesome, college au; fluff, hella smut ➵ warnings: yoongi and oc are fwb, teasing, flirting, kissing booth stuff, jk wears glasses and has long hair (manbun beloved), sexual tension, mid-sex convos, threesome, smut (e.g., double penetration, degradation, spit stuff, manhandling,.. (will expand on this once the full thing drops), aftercare, valentino yoongi and ck jk!! ➵ est. word count: 12-15k ➵ a/n: back to the ruin you days, i guess. am super excited for this to finally drop. gonna give y'all the best version of it possible, love you <3

–

“I’m just saying. Tonight might be a little too much for you with the two of us, you know? I’m not as easy to handle as you think.”

“I don’t think you are,” you confess. “But I don’t want to handle you. I want the opposite.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes. A hint of desire, hunger growing in the predator’s big gaze. If he wants to reject you now, you’ll walk away.

But you don’t think he will.

And once more, courageous, you say, “Handle me, Jeon Jungkook.”

full teaser that i once posted!

Summary: You carve your name into Jungkook's mind with constant affection and care, and he keeps hoping that both your hearts beat in unison, synchronised and wild. But in reality, it’s only ever him who falls – you're as still as time... until, you're not.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: singer!jungkook, bf2l but also brother's best friend; angst, fluff, smut; trilogy ➵ warnings: jealousy, another love triangle lmao, namjoon is her brother and his best friend, oc playing wingwoman, confessions, pain, tears, moving away, yearning, idiots to lovers too tbh, smut <3 ➵ est. word count: around 60-70k in total ➵ a/n: this is part of my evermore series which was supposed to have a oneshot/twoshot/trilogy per member with unrelated stories; but since life has gotten so crazy, i might not be able to write all of them. but i still have tae's fic 'cotton candy' written and want to work on timbre; so these will drop at least and i am so thrilled to share them. especially this lil mini series 🤍

–

Jeon Jungkook has been in love with you since the very first time he met you.

At least that's what he'd tell you if you ever asked.

He won’t tell you that whatever respect he housed for you since you were teenagers evolved into something far more advanced along the way.

That it was over time that your friendship started blooming like the tiger lillies he liked so much. You must have been sixteen then.

Now, around eight years have passed, and the thriving musician and your best friend Jeon Jungkook is still in love with you. Boundlessly, irreversibly.

–

a/n: hey hey!! this is a small overview of all the things i shall start preparing very, very soon. i will work on these wips whenever i can, and i am excited about every single one of them. i will ofc also drop longer teasers to each story when we reach that point!

i do also think you guys will love each story! so i can't wait to drop them one by one :') this post is also sort of to motivate and inspire me, so if you want to talk about any of these or hype them up… let's talk :p

–

also, here's the taglist! <3

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #bts fanfic #taehyung x reader #jeongguk smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #yoongi smut #yoongi fluff

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goodluckchamp · 3 months ago

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KISS ME, SON OF GOD (18+)

PAIRING: Patrick Zweig x Art Donaldson x Reader WORD COUNT: 5737 CONTENT TAGS: Smut with a lot of plot, MMF, catholic church, purity ring, religious imagery, competition, corruption, coercion, cigarettes, blasphemy, bisexuality, college/coming-of-age, Catholic!Art, fwb!Patrick, inspired by Fleabag + my own religious trauma SUMMARY: Patrick Zweig, of all people, goes to church every Sunday. You find out why.

You’ve always thought it was odd for Patrick, of all people, to diligently attend the town’s church every Sunday morning.

As far as you’re aware, he’s the furthest thing from holy— partly because he’s got an asshole personality that could make anyone want punch him in the face, and partly because he’s fucked you more times than either of you bothered to count. If there’s anyone who’s ever seemed allergic to anything remotely pure, it’s Patrick fucking Zweig.

You just can’t picture the scene of the curly dark haired boy, sitting in a pew amidst the soft, colourful glow of the stained glass windows, finding solace in prayer— it’s utterly ridiculous.

So naturally, you find yourself walking down the aisle of the church in your Sunday best, eyes scanning the space for the familiar face. The air is heavy with incense and the people are scattered across the neatly organized benches. Everything is a little too serene, but it’s kind of a vibe with the huge stained windows in blues and reds. casting faint, vibrant patterns across the floor.

Your gaze drifts as you walk, where oil paintings hang all over the walls. Some have faded and some are confusing to understand— but there’s a clear image of Jesus in the centre of it all, hanging on the infamous cross, wearing nothing but a loin cloth. He is surrounded by fully-clothed men and women who stare at his suffering body in what seems to be awe. You squint at Jesus’ carved chest and muscles gleaming in the light, the bright halo behind his thorny crown, and the blood trickling down his chiselled face. You swallow.

You look back down at the people, sweeping the back of their heads until you spot the one that you want— sitting in the middle of a pew, his back straight, eyes focused forward, looking completely in peace. Not a hint of the usual loose-limbed arrogance, but just a young man looking to confess his sins and fly straight up into Heaven. Uncanny.

You slide right onto his side, pressing against Patrick like you came here together. He shoves you away with his body in a subtle way— but the sharp side-eye he shoots at you is definite. He arches a brow and you mimic him, returning the same look with a grin.

Before he can say anything, the priest lifts his hands.

“Let us pray.”

You stare at the man with a blank expression until you turn to the side to see Patrick with his eyes closed, hands clasped together, and head tilted slightly downward. Oh, fuck off.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

You copy his pose but lean into him, close enough to breathe on his skin. He sighs, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. He looks at you up and down, taking in your attempt at Catholic modesty.

“You clean up nice,” Patrick whispers. “Didn’t think you owned a dress that covers this much.”

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.

You roll your eyes. “Didn’t think you owned a bible.”

His lips curl at the edges. “You’d be surprised what I own.”

Give us this day our daily bread,

Your gaze flicks up to the front of the church, watching the congregation murmur the words along with the priest, who has his arms wide open like he’s absorbing the prayer through his chest.

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

You turn back to Patrick. “You come here to confess?”

His lip twitches. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

You snort, then quickly slam your hand across your mouth. Patrick’s shoulders shake.

And lead us not into temptation,

You give Patrick a slow, expectant stare, lips pressed together. Come on. Tell the truth.

Patrick peers back into your eyes for a moment, the familiar lazy smile forming on his face, before he shifts his gaze, flickering past you. You turn your head, following his line of sight.

But deliver us from evil.

Across the church, to your left, in one row ahead of you— is a boy.

A boy with the kindest, purest face you have ever seen, half-lit by the dramatic golden lights. He sits with his head bowed, his tousled blonde hair falling just over his forehead. He mouths the words with certainty like he has all the words memorized, and there’s just something so pure about his stance, hands tightly holding each other, devoted. He’s all soft edged and open warmth, the kind of pretty that feels delicate— almost sacred. Like he was meant to kneel at the altar, not sit among sinners.

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.

Around his neck, a silver chain with a simple cross resting against the crisp white fabric of his shirt, just above his heart. A matching ring is on his left hand, glinting faintly as he breathes.

You turn your head back to Patrick. He’s smiling.

You feel your own grin tug at the corner of your lips.

“Amen.”

Mass is long. You try to focus. But your eyes keep betraying you, drifting back to where he sits— perfect posture, attentive eyes, and hands absentmindedly fidgeting with his necklace. Every time you look, you expect to find something imperfect about him. A twitch, a yawn, a cough— but there’s nothing. He’s pristine, listening to the priest like he really, truly understands what it’s about. And it makes you want to ruin him, just a little. Just to see what he’d look like when he falls apart.

Patrick kicks your ankle.

“Dibs.”

You kick him back.

“You can’t call dibs on a person.”

It’s a childish back and forth of shoes to legs until the mass drags to an end. The priest delivers the final blessing, the congregation murmuring a chorus of amen, and then— movement. People get up from their seats, gathering their coats and purses and bibles, shaking hands and nodding heads toward each other.

Peace be with you. And also with you.

Patrick is already ahead, shaking hands and sharing peace with some old lady, while you attempt to follow him— only to be intercepted by a well-dressed man who gives you a firm, approving handshake and some peace to be with you. You return a tight expression before catching up to Patrick.

He catches your sleeve, pulling you slightly and tips his chin— towards the blonde haired boy. He’s standing just a few feet away, shaking hands and exchanging polite smiles with everyone around him. There’s a whole lot of sincerity in his form, like he’s actually able to distribute peace just by touching skin. You can’t help but notice how his fingers curl gently around each handshake, how his eyes soften when he listens to the replies.

“His name’s Art.”

You whip your head around. “You’ve talked to him?”

“Everybody’s talked to him.” Patrick shrugs. “He’s the deacon's son.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Poor guy.” He sighs, staring at Art with great concern. “Imagine being raised that close to God.”

The two of you gawk at him without hiding it, standing in the middle of the aisle, letting the flood of the leaving congregation split around you like a tide. He’s just a few feet away now, talking to someone who looks like his father, his fingers idly twisting the silver band on his ring finger.

“And what’s up with the ring?” You ask. “He can’t be married.”

“Purity ring.” Patrick answers, like it’s obvious.

You blink. “What’s a purity ring?”

Patrick stays silent. He catches Art’s attention with a small wave, changing his face to a far more honest one. Art’s face lights up, genuine— says something to his father before starting towards the two of you, weaving through the last bit of the crowd.

“Peace be with you.”

You hesitate. “Thank you?”

He laughs�� his sweet, brown eyes crinkling along with it— and it completely disarms you for a moment.

Fuck. He’s exactly your type. But he’s not Patrick’s usual type at all. Patrick likes people who bite back— someone sharp, who can keep him amused, at the very least— but this boy looks like he’s never seen that side of Patrick Zweig. Like Patrick hasn’t had the chance to pounce on him yet.

You sort of laugh with him, ignoring Patrick’s amusement.

Art calms. “First time?”

“Yes.” Patrick puts his hands on your shoulder. “This is (Y/N). She’s been having a tough time in her life, so I brought her here. Thought she could use some guidance in her life.”

Unbelievable.

“That’s really kind of you, Patrick.” Art’s face softens. He turns to you, eyes warm with ingenuous concern. “I hope you found some comfort here.”

You nod. “Oh, yeah. I can see why Patrick comes here.”

You earn a smile from him. He offers you a hand.

“I’m Art.”

You take it. He’s warm. Gentle. Like he’s trying to be reassuring, welcoming, but there’s a slight hesitation in the way his fingers wrap around yours, like he’s not entirely sure of the line between politeness and something else. You feel the cool surface of his ring against your skin.

“I like your ring." You glance down at the jewelry.

There’s a snort from Patrick as Art flushes, a subtle pink spreads across his cheeks. He pulls back from your grasp, his smile flickering into something a little less certain. He swipes his thumb over his ring, as if to hide it.

“Thank you,” he says with a nervous laugh.

You tilt your head, confused. Patrick fills the silence.

“She’s completely new to this whole thing." He sighs, shaking his head like you’re a real burden. “I’ve been helping her a lot, but, as you know, faith comes from opening yourself to the lord.”

You give him a look. “Are you saying you've opened yourself to the lord?”

“Oh, I’m wide open.”

“Well, I— um—” Art stops, like he’s trying to regain his composure, searching for the right words. It’s cute. “I’m really glad you’re here. I know it might feel overwhelming at first, but the church is always open. If you ever need anything, I’d be happy to help.”

Yeah, you definitely need something from him. You give a quick glance to Patrick— who cannot hide his excitement at Art’s offer.

“I’d love some help, actually.” You plaster on your sweetest, most hopeful expression on your face. “I’m so lost with this whole thing, and I could use some personal guidance.”

Art beams. This is what he’s good at. “Of course. Are you interested in participating in Bible study?”

You blink. “Is that like a one-on-one thing?”

“I— well, Bible study is usually a group thing.” He explains. “But I could help you out with some of the passages if you’re having trouble.”

Patrick cuts in, like the attention whore that he is.

“You know,” He taps his finger on his brand new Bible. “I think I could use some guidance too. My faith needs some deepening.”

You tilt your head. “Oh, I thought you already opened yourself to the lord.”

“I can always go deeper.” He grins. “So, Art. Your place? Sometime this week?”

Art, sweet, oblivious Art, looks between you both, overwhelmed at the sudden pressure. His hand fidgets with his necklace as he looks at the Bible in Patrick’s arms, then the expectant expression from your face.

He nods. Earnest.

God bless his soul.

The three of you eventually figure out a time. You ask for Art's number— only so that he can text you his address, of course— and he gives it to you, easily. You and Patrick keep up your good behaviour, but just as Art leaves, you snap towards Patrick.

“Tell me what the ring means.”

Patrick licks his lips, before leaning in. You catch the hint of a smile in his voice as he whispers the answer into your ear.

Oh. Oh.

So that’s why Patrick hasn’t…

You let out a breathy giggle, a rush of heat crawling up your neck. The pieces start to fit together. That soft, pure little lamb you’d just been around. Art. Untouched by anything except the passion of his faith. You never knew such purity could exist in your life, but here he is.

“That’s insane." You sigh, a rather delighted smile on your face. “Why would anyone do that to themselves?”

“Well, not everyone is a slut like you,” Patrick hums. “Some of us are trying to focus on our spiritual journey.”

You roll your eyes, heading towards the entrance. “You’re so fucking fake.”

Patrick swings his arms around you, lowering himself to be face level with you. “I’m not the one who spent half of mass eye-fucking the deacon's son.”

You jab him in the ribs and run out of the church.

Art lives alone in a small apartment on campus. It’s small, but neat, curated with annotated religious books on shelves and a wooden cross hanging on the wall. He’s studying theology in university, because apparently, he wants to be a deacon like his father.

“So do deacons need a calling?” Patrick asks. “Or is that for priests?”

“No, deacons can have a calling too.” Art smiles, a bit sheepish, eyes flicking downward.

You’re sitting on the ground, across from Art with your back against the base of a couch. Patrick sits beside you, touching your knees, fidgeting a pen between his fingers. He nods to Art’s words, lips pursed, hungry. On the coffee table ahead are three Bibles spread open on top.

You nod too. “And you’ve had a calling?”

“I think I always have.” Art looks into your eyes with a soft confidence. “It’s always been a part of me.”

He is so quiet in his certainty, which makes you wonder if it's even certainty at all. You peer into him and he turns his attention back to the Bible, like you’d catch something in his eyes that you’re not supposed to see.

Art isn’t the slutty, easy romance you’re used to, rather, he holds an innocent kind of beauty that only alludes to his chastity. The men in your life, including the asshole next to you, have been wolves, but Art— he is but a gentle lamb. Always so bashful, so honest around you.

Such purity begs to be tainted.

The three of you have been studying Genesis since 8PM. The basics. The origins of the world, of human life, of sin. It’s not particularly radical to your knowledge but it’s been fun, being able to picture the nakedness of Adam and Eve in that perfect garden, untouched by shame. You wish the Bible was a picture book instead— you’re a visual learner.

Art continues down the page. “That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.”

“One flesh." Patrick repeats, slow, savouring. Like he’s rolling something sweet on his tongue. “This is about sex, yeah?”

You bite your lips, a breath away from a laugh, but you hold it in. Patrick’s been so good for the whole evening— so good. Didn’t even twitch when you skimmed his thigh under the table, didn’t even blink when you adjusted your shirt, just enough to expose your skin a bit more. You’d started to think he was actually behaving.

But his comment is like a switch— it breathes permission into the room.

Art flicks the thin page of the Bible. “It’s about unity.”

Patrick persists. “A physical unity.”

Art looks at you, like he’s asking you for help— but you shrug, pressing into the couch behind you, settling in for a show. He’s a bit thrown off by your silence, like he’s been betrayed— but turns to Patrick anyway. Courageous.

“Yes, the physical act is part of it. But it’s not just—” He swallows. “Sex for the sake of it. It’s about two people coming one in marriage. It’s part of God’s design.”

“To have sex?”

“To be fruitful, and to multiply, and to replenish the Earth.” Art quotes.

Dear God. It’s your turn to strike. “You can do that without being married.”

“But it’d become an indulgence.” His voice is steady, firm in that self-assured way— but his burning face gives away how he really feels, that only makes it more fun to push him. “It prioritizes pleasure without the sanctity of commitment.”

Patrick bites the inside of his cheek at Art’s answer, eyes taking over his form to measure just how deep that conviction really runs. He eventually grins, pulling back.

“Okay, no sex before marriage, got it.” He nods. “What about self-unity?”

“What?”

“You know.” Patrick mimes an exaggerated jerking motion.

You see Art’s finger graze his ring— like he’s reminding himself why he’s here, doing this with the two of you. “It’s not about the act itself but the lustful thoughts and fantasies that lead to it.”

“So if I just jerk off with no thoughts, head empty, then I’m good?”

“You can’t not think about anything while—”

Art stops.

You see it happen— the exact second he realizes what he’s said. The way his lips press shut so fast like he’s trying to shove the words back in. It’s a tiny sliver of vice— that allows the two of you to corner Art like a pack of wolves.

“Oh?” Patrick’s grin sharpens. His voice drips with delighted mockery, knowing he finally has the upper hand. “How would you know?”

It's quiet until you start to laugh— you really can’t help it. It’s barely contained as your facade slithers away. The sound eases the tension a bit, coiling through Art’s sides— and he shakes his head with a tight smile, like he’s made a mistake. But he can’t take it back. None of it.

“It’s okay if you’ve jerked off before, Art. We’ve all done it,” You say between giggles.

Art stares at you like he’s never considered that before. That you, sitting across from him, knees touching Patrick’s, have done it. And is willing to talk about it.

“So, when was the last time?” Patrick sings.

Art closes his eyes. “I’m not answering that.”

“So recent, then.”

"No, we're not doing this."

"Do what? We’re just talking.” You tease, sweet. “What do you think about?”

“No,” He groans, pressing his hands to his face, though it does not hide anything. Not the raging colour of his skin, not the rigidness of his structure, and not the silver ring holding the promise of his chastity. “This is wrong, okay? It’s sinful.”

You let the word curl around your chest. Sinful. He says it like it’s meant to scare you, to twist some guilt into your insides. It’s a word he’s clinging to like a shield, the word he thinks is going to save him from the overwhelming heat that's seething in the room. Like he’s afraid to admit anything else that could be available to him without the thought. Suspense. Pleasure. Relief.

Patrick turns to you with a face of amusement and sympathy— as if to say, Pitiful, pitiful Art. He just doesn’t get it. Patrick knows he’s responsible for Art’s conflict. He should be the one to fix it.

“(Y/N.)” Patrick tilts his head. “Come here.”

You glance back at Art, who lowers his hand, slowly. He’s a stifled, frantic thing, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nothing. You slink closer to Patrick, legs ending up in a kneeling position beside him.

You smile at Art. It’s okay.

“Does this look sinful to you?” Patrick asks, before pressing a short kiss to your lips. As if it’s nothing. Just a little taste.

The two of you turn to Art, who is clutching the bible with his hands, fingers digging into the worn leather cover. “No, but—”

“Okay, what about this?”

Patrick pulls you closer, taking your face, pushing your hair behind your ear before his mouth brushes against yours. It’s slow, purposeful, measuring every bit of his actions to be as tempting as possible. He checks Art, gauging his reaction— ears flushed red, legs pressed together, and eyes completely focused on the two of you. Patrick grins, and it’s you who lean into the kiss, the impatient feeling growing between your legs.

Patrick’s hands find the back of your neck, gripping you a little too tightly. You open your lips to let him in, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with practiced ease. His lips move against yours like he's starved, dragging each sound, each movement out with an almost theatrical precision. You let his hand roam down your sides, barely grazing the places that feel good. It’s not about satiating your pleasure, not yet— he’s just showing you off.

“Does this look sinful to you?” Patrick murmurs between kisses.

Art does not answer. His eyes, wide, dark— flicker from your mouths to your body, watching your thighs press tightly together, rubbing against each other like you need something more. His lips part slightly, a shaky breath escaping as if he’s forgotten how to properly breathe. The Bible, now closed, rests against his lap, blatantly hiding his bulge straining beneath his pants.

You pull back, gasping for air as your lips sting from the rough pressure. Patrick laughs at the swollen state of your lips, wiping the side of it with a playful kindness. It’s sweet, and it’s not an action easily forgotten by Art. His gaze locks on the action, as though he’s memorizing the way Patrick touches you, the way you both exist together in this moment. It’s intimate. Easy.

“Art.”

He flinches at Patrick’s voice, like he’s been under a spell until he spoke his name— and Patrick reaches out, turning your face gently toward Art by your chin. There’s a deliberate edge to it, like he’s claiming you in front of Art.

“Does she look sinful?” He asks, still holding you, framing you.

Art’s eyes flicker, darting between you and Patrick— his mouth, still wet from the kiss. His hands on your face, holding you— you, with your chest rising and falling too quickly, still shaken from the intensity. Legs bent at the knee, leaned against Patrick— letting the residue of the kiss hang between the three of you.

And there’s nothing about you that looks shameful. Nothing desperate or untamed. The way you breathe, the way you look at him— there’s nothing that makes you feel wrong. No fear, nor indignity. It’s just… you. It’s funny, because, you’re the one he’s been warned about. The kind of promiscuous, corrupt girl that haunts the message of every sermon, the kind that makes men stumble and question their every thought.

And yet. You’re beautiful.

He shakes his head. No. No, you’re not sinful.

He feels a knot tightening in his chest. He looks at your eyes— calm, innocent. There’s no sin there. No, it’s not about you— it’s him. He’s not looking at you the way he’s supposed to. The heat pooling in his body, the way his pulse races— it isn’t about you. No, it’s his body that’s betraying him, reacting to the most innocent thing in the most unholy way.

His throat tightens as he shakes his head harder. He looks down at the Bible pressed against his erection and he’s ashamed— how wicked is he to react like this? And he knows— he knows the two of you are staring at his erection, and it feels like the whole room is closing in on him.

“I’m sorry,” He stammers, barely able to make out the words.

Holy fuck. Patrick practically revels in his apology, dropping his hands from you like he got what he wanted. You’re unsure if Art’s saying it to you, to Patrick, or to God— it doesn’t matter. You’ve come so far, so close.

“Art, it’s okay.” You crawl towards him. “I’m flattered.”

You slowly pull the Bible away from his crotch, and he watches your eyes stare at his bulge with desire. It’s wrong. He should move away. But he finds himself letting you gently grab his face, body stiffening under your touch. You can feel the tension of his muscles beneath his skin, as if he’s bracing for something sharp, something brutal— but it never comes.

You worry he might pull away, but then, so quiet you almost miss it, he exhales. It’s small, broken in half, but it’s enough to know— he has fallen.

You smile, before leaning into him, planting your lips against his.

Art kisses like he’s scared. Like one wrong move and he’ll be electrocuted. He waits for you to make the moves, completely immobile at first. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, his legs, his erection— and lets you guide him through the whole experience, making Patrick snicker as he slides towards Art.

“You kiss like a middle schooler,” Patrick jokes, turning Art’s face away from you. His fingers grab at his neck, just how he did with yours. Art fuses with it, slowly kissing Patrick, trying to copy how you did it before. And Patrick doesn’t ease him in— he’s been waiting for this, longer than you— he devours him. It’s sloppy, a little more tongue than you think you were putting out, but adorable nonetheless. A whimper breaks from Art’s throat, and you reach for his chest— you want to know what other sounds he can make.

The thin shirt does nothing to protect him from your touches, prodding and feeling the warmth of his skin beneath. You start from his chest, down the centre, where his heartbeat pounds under your touch. You drag it lightly over his ribs, his stomach, then all the way down— and he shudders in response. You palm him through the fabric of his pants, and he jerks away from Patrick’s mouth with a startled gasp.

“Wait—”

Patrick pulls him back, crashing his lips against Art’s. He makes a muffled, helpless noise, protesting— but it’s all tongue and teeth. There’s nothing gentle about the kiss— rough, relentless. For a moment, you think it might be too much. But Art doesn’t push either of you away. His hands twitch uselessly at his sides, not knowing whether to grab onto Patrick or you.

You press your palm against his boner, firmer this time, fingers curling slightly. His hips buck up before he can stop himself, like he’s working purely on instinct now— and he makes a noise broken in half— soft, wrecked. He’s bigger than you assumed— this guy should not be allowed to be a virgin. You work him up, rubbing him through his pants, watching the way he tenses and shakes.

It happens faster than any of you expect. Art gets loud, the sounds choked up in his throat— and you barely register what’s happening until he pushes Patrick away, hips stuttering, legs squeezing together like he’s trying to stop it.

“Wait— no, I’m gonna—” He grabs at your wrists, weak. “I think I’m gonna—”

You stop.

Art makes a confused sort of sound, eyes fluttering open as his whole body shakes, struggling to process the sudden absence. You can see it— how it takes him a second to register that you really, truly stopped.

“We should probably go back to studying, huh?” You tilt your head, picking up the Bible discarded on the floor. “Got a little sidetracked.”

Art’s stomach twists— he feels dizzy, overheated, aching in a way that makes him go insane. He tries to keep his mouth shut, swallowing the moan in his throat, trying so hard to keep himself controlled— he knows what you’re doing. He knows what Patrick is doing.

But fuck— he’s still shaking. Chest heaving, staring at you like he’s been betrayed.

Art breathes as you flip the book open. He turns to Patrick, like his stunned silence will somehow mean something— but Patrick shrugs, moving to pick up his Bible from the table.

Art’s finger reaches out, grabbing onto Patrick’s sleeves. “Wait.”

His eyes are wide, tear-stricken, vulnerable— but the sense of fear has disappeared from his form— like he has forgotten all about the ring on his finger. Like his desires are finally biting him in the neck, puncturing his skin and replacing his voice with pure impulse.

That’s all you need to see before kissing him again.

For Art, It has always been quick. Under the blankets. Lights off. No moaning, just furious shame-jacking until he finished, quietly cleaning himself up before falling asleep with his heart pounding in his chest.

But Patrick’s slow. He’s got one hand around Art’s cock, stroking it slow, patient. His thumb occasionally teases the tip, stopping Art from coming too soon. His boxers are down to his knees, legs splayed and twitching. His shirt is rolled up to his collarbone, exposing his chest— pink and damp, heaving.

You’ve been playing with him, feeling the insides of his thighs, tracing his hips, brushing over the curbs of his stomach with your nails to watch it contract. He’s a mess, mouth slack, breath catching in his throat as he struggles to let his words out properly.

“Don’t be mean,” You scold. “It’s his first time.”

“I’m not being mean,” Patrick murmurs, kissing the side of Art’s cheek. “He’s enjoying it. Right?”

Art makes a strangled sound in response, his hand gripping your wrists, grounding himself— but not stopping anything.

You give Patrick a look and he sighs. Fine. He picks up his pace, working Art faster now, no more teasing, slow strokes. Just clean, focused jerks that have his hips lift erratically, like he doesn’t know whether to thrust into Patrick’s hand or run away to your embrace.

“Good?” Patrick asks, knowing the answer.

Art nods helplessly, eyes squeezed shut, noticeably reaching closer to the edge.

“Put your hand on his stomach,” Patrick orders, going faster and faster. “Want you to feel when he comes.”

You don’t have to be told twice. You press on his stomach, leaning close enough to feel the heat off his skin. You can feel the intense contractions of his muscles, convulsing as Patrick pumps him to the edge.

“Wait, wait—” Art sobs, fisting your shirt. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming—”

You and Patrick watch in awe as Art comes. He throws his head back, back arching as he sobs through it, hands gripping you as Patrick strokes him through his orgasm.

“Holy fuck,” Patrick groans, deep and satisfied. He knew Art had it in him.

White liquid splatters over your hand and Art’s stomach as he jerks through the aftershocks. It’s messy, embarrassingly loud, practically obscene— and he folds onto himself like he wants to collapse inwards and hide— but you hold him down by his hips, whispering in his ear that it’s okay, this isn’t sex. He was so good. He’ll be alright.

When he finally blinks back into himself, looking down— he’s mortified. He presses a shaking hand at his abs, but it only makes it worse. The wet, shameful stickiness stains his palm and he hiccups, jaw clenched tight, like he can’t believe what just happened.

You can see the way he fights his blissed-out body with his escalating thoughts; I tried to be good. Please forgive me. Please. Please.

He tries to hold everything in but his tears fall anyway, shoulders shaking as he goes limp in your hold. Patrick brushes his hair away from his face while you pepper kisses and lick the guilt off his cheek.

You’ve half-expected him to taste sweet, mirroring his honeyed hair and mellow eyes.

But he’s all salt, and the taste lingers between your teeth.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

A giggle slips out, high and breathless, before you can swallow it down. The weight of your words, which are none, loiter in the dim confessional. It’s 1 AM and church doors have no locks, apparently— so you and Patrick have slipped in, a bit tipsy and horny, which seems to be the default setting when the two of you are together.

“Isn’t this blasphemous?” You whisper, eyes darting to the wooden partition, where the outline of Patrick sits.

“Probably." He huffs, letting cigarette smoke pass through the patterned holes. “You scared?”

“No.” You pull your leg up, hugging it with both arms, knees tucked against your chest in the small wooden seat. “It just feels wrong.”

“Go on, then.” Patrick lowers his voice, something akin to divine. “Confess.”

You roll your eyes, but smile nonetheless.

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I had impure thoughts.”

“Shocker.”

“Shut up.” You swallow. “There’s this boy. He’s…”

Soft, delicate, quiet. With unkissed lips parted open with curiosity and a burdened, guilt-ridden heart. Devout.

“...Good.” You close your eyes. “And I think we may have ruined that goodness, a little.”

“A little?” Patrick snorts. “He’s going to burn in hell because of us.”

You’re both thinking about him. The way he shook under your touch, the way he gasped when Patrick wrapped a hand around him— the way he twisted himself to deny the pleasure, trying, trying so hard to be righteous and good. All of that, wasted in the span of an hour.

God, you can still taste his tears.

“Do you feel bad?”

“Nah.” Patrick shifts, taking another drag of his cigarette. “It was the kind of good that was hanging by a thread anyway.”

Hm. Your head tilts back against the wood.

“Maybe next time I can give him a blowjob.” You chew your lip. “That’s not really sex, right?”

“With that logic, you should just ride him. Technically he won’t be doing anything wrong if he just sits there.”

It’s meant to be a joke, probably. But the image hangs in the air, and your appetite only heightens. Patrick notices, catching it from your lack of response. He blows the smoke and it slithers through the tight space, hissing into the preceding scent of age and stale prayers. Stifles you as it furnishes your lungs and presses your chest from the inside.

“We’re such assholes,” you mumble.

“Yeah.”

“We should probably leave him alone.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence is all it takes to know that neither of you believes the other. Then you both dissolve into laughter— outrageous and wicked— foreheads pressed against the wooden panel. Sinful, shameful creatures. And you always will be.

NOTE: My first work that doesn't mention Tashi? I miss her already !!!

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