#Lessons from the kitchen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamersparacosm · 4 months ago

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jeon jungkook - handle with care

warnings ; oral (f recieving), he hits it from the back, hair pulling, blue collar dick🚨🚨

prompt ; in which your landlord sends an electrician to fix your power, and you end up learning firsthand the magic of blue collar dick.

note ; if you are reading this.. this is a queue’d post while im in MEXICO!!!!! you horny little sluts really thought i would leave you alone for 5 days.. i would never. i figured — hey if i can’t post part 5 of tpod i can at least give a life lesson on blue collar dick, right? backstory here is that the other day my best friend and i had a conversation about our sexy ass landlord and that got me thinking… jungkook..? blue collar..? big dick..? so anyways this is the product of that convo! (and also a standalone one shot bc yall be loving these!)

Later, when someone asks you to recap this story, you’ll say that in your defense, you weren’t expecting the electrician to look like he walked straight off some cringy Pornhub set. You’ll say you just wanted your electricity fixed, not to be spiritually humbled by a man who smells like sawdust and pine.

Your apartment is the kind of place that builds character. And by character, you mean mild trauma.

The kitchen light flickers like it’s been possessed since the day you moved in. The ceiling creaks when your upstairs neighbor sneezes. Your shower only has two settings (arctic and molten lava). There’s a weird stain on the ceiling you’ve been ignoring for three months. And today, of all days, the universe decided to cut the last thread holding your sanity together: the power.

No lights. No working outlets. No WiFi. Which means you’re sitting on your couch, in a hoodie and shorts, trying to hotspot your laptop with 3% battery left while rage-texting your landlord like you’re filing an official grievance with Satan himself.

You immediately text your landlord, fully expecting a five-day delay and a $30 deduction off your next rent.

You: hi. respectfully. what the FUCK is happening?

You: i work from home. i pay rent. i have needs. pls fix ASAP.

He replies five minutes later like he’s doing you a personal favor.

Landlord: sending my guy over. 15 mins.

Your landlord is somehow both your greatest nemesis and your weirdest emotional support system. He’ll ignore three maintenance requests, ghost you for a week, then show up unannounced with a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos. You’ve threatened to sue him in writing and sent him a happy birthday meme in the same month. And you’re already halfway into a mental spiral about “his guy” being a 60-year-old with pants that don’t stay up and opinions about the current political climate when there’s a knock at your door.

You swing the door open, fully expecting to see a crusty old man with a clipboard and a wheeze, and instead, you see… (and you’ll remember this moment until the day you die.)

Lip ring. Tattoo sleeve. Tool belt slung low over cargo pants. A black tee stretched across broad shoulders. Jesus Christ, the hair. Dark, slightly shaggy, pushed back on top but long in the back, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that should not be allowed near unsupervised women.

“Hey’,” he says, like this isn’t a pivotal moment in your sexual awakening. “I’m here about the outage?”

You blink at him. You are officially unfit for conversation.

This man has a mullet. A tattooed, lip-ringed, mullet-wearing man is standing in your hallway holding a voltage tester like its foreplay.

Suddenly, your pajama shorts feel too short for this moment. You fumble with the doorknob, “Uh. Yeah. Come in. It’s, uh.. yeah.”

Brilliant. Shakespeare could never.

He steps inside, and holy shit, he’s even taller than you thought. The kind of tall that makes your ceilings feel shorter. The kind of tall where you have to crane your neck just slightly to look up at him, which is offensive because you’re not exactly short yourself. He smells like a mix of sawdust, a hint of pine, laundry detergent, and a 2002 Nissan Altima. It’s oddly specific.

He glances around like he’s surveying a battlefield. “Power cut out completely?”

You nod, shuffling behind him as he moves farther into your apartment with the kind of confidence like he’s somehow been to your home before. His boots thud across your hardwood floor, scuffed and loud. The tool belt clinks. His shirt rides up when he stretches his arm to check something near the ceiling and there’s a flash of golden skin and low-slung cargo pants and—

You’re not doing well.

He pops open the panel in the ceiling like it’s nothing. “Y’all been having issues with this before? Flickering? Dead outlets?”

“Sometimes the kitchen light hums like it’s possessed,” you say, which you regret immediately. “I mean, not literally possessed. Not like.. haunted. Just… you know. Buzzing.”

He chuckles. It’s a low, gravelly sound that sinks its teeth into your spine and doesn’t let go.

“Probably a loose connection in the junction box. Nothing too crazy,” he says, grabbing something from his belt that you will now dream about tonight. “You work from home?”

You nod again, helpless. “Yeah. Marketing.”

He glances back at you. “Tough with no WiFi.”

You turn around under the guise of “letting him work” but really just to text your roommate, Sana, with trembling fingers.

You: help. our power went out and the electrician we got sent is so hot

You: he has a MULLET. a mullet, sana. he said “junction box” and i almost moaned

You hear him grunt softly as he stretches to reach something and you nearly drop your phone.

Sana: SEND A PIC RN

You sneak a glance back — he’s perched on your step stool, arms flexing as he reaches into the ceiling. His hair is curling perfectly at the back of his neck, a little messy from the heat.

You don’t send a pic. You can’t. It feels criminal. You feel like you’re watching live porn with consequences.

Then he speaks again, casually. “You smell something burning last night? Or anything weird before it cut out?”

You nearly say “just my ovaries,” but God reaches down and slaps your mouth shut.

Instead, you clear your throat. “Nope. No sparks, no smell. It just… died this morning.”

He nods, focused. “Might be a fuse then. I’ll check the basement in a sec.”

He drops down from the stool with a casual thud and wipes his hands on that rag in his back pocket. That ass, that rag. This is no longer an apartment. It’s a crime scene.

You glance up just in time to see him walking toward your front door, lifting the back of his shirt to wipe his forehead. You black out for a second.

You: he just wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his shirt. i saw ab muscle. like cut definition. i think it smiled at me.

Sana: you need jail or a CONDOM stat. get his number???

You’re halfway through typing “I don’t even know his name yet” when the front door opens behind you, and you almost launch your phone across the room like it’s a grenade.

He steps back into your apartment with that casual, unbothered energy he’s so good at carrying. Hair slightly damp at the edges now, cheeks pink from the walk up your stairs, tool belt still jingling.

“Basement breaker’s fine,” he says, brushing his palm down the front of his shirt. “Might be a wiring issue. Gonna check one more thing.”

You blink. Nod. Attempt human speech. Fail. “Cool. Yeah. Check… stuff.”

Christ. You sound like you learned English from Duolingo five minutes ago.

He smiles then, actually smiles. Full teeth, little bunny front ones peeking out. His lip ring glints as he does it, and your brain goes completely static for a second.

“Want some water?” you blurt, and immediately hate yourself. “Or iced tea? Or, whatever I have in the fridge that isn’t expired?”

He huffs out a little laugh, shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks, sweetheart.”

You freeze like you’ve been slapped by a porn star. He walks past you again like nothing happened, reaching for something in his tool bag, completely unaware that your soul just evacuated your body.

You unlock your phone immediately, fingers trembling, and text in all caps.

You: HE CALLED ME SWEETHEART.

You: arrest him. make him marry me. i don’t care just make it LEGAL

You barely get the message out when he turns slightly and casually, and says, “So… you live here with your boyfriend, or…?”

You blink hard.

The question hangs there, just slightly too relaxed. Like it’s not loaded with potential. Like it’s not every Wattpad plotline you’ve ever read come to life in front of your half-broken Ikea bookshelf.

Your brain short-circuits harder than your kitchen socket. Is he flirting? Was that… are you being flirted with? It’s been a minute. Like, a long minute since you’ve had someone show genuine interest in you. You can’t tell anymore. He could be asking because he needs to know whose ass he’s about to get chewed out by if he knocks something over, or because he’s just curious.

You manage to croak out, “Just my roommate. Sana.”

He nods and doesn’t press. He lets out a low, distracted, “Hm,” like that’s useful information. Like it slots into place somewhere in his head and he’s okay with it.

You, meanwhile, are mentally drafting a will because you’re not sure your heart’s going to survive the rest of this visit.

He leans over your couch armrest to reach the outlet near the floor. His cargo pants pull slightly tighter around his thighs and you look away so fast you give yourself whiplash. You try to look normal, like a woman who isn’t catastrophically horny over someone adjusting your voltage.

You: HE ASKED IF I HAD A BOYFRIEND

Sana: I AM SCREAMING. I’M IN LINE AT TRADER JOE’S. OFFER TO MAKE HIM LEMONADE OR SIT ON HIS FACE IDK CHOOSE FAST

He stands back up, wiping his palms on that stupid fucking rag again, and glances over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t take much longer,” he quips with that lazy, dangerous smile.

You nod, eyes wide, pretending you’re normal. “Cool. Thanks. No rush or anything. It’s not like I need power to… survive.”

He quirks a brow at that, like he finds you kind of funny, or kind of tragic.

You sit on the couch, phone hidden in your lap like it’s a shameful secret. He crouches near another outlet, testing something with one of those little gadgets that beeps and blinks.

“So, marketing,” he says over his shoulder. “Like… ads?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah. I work for a beauty brand. Mostly social media, some campaign strategy. Lots of pretending I know what I’m doing and hoping the algorithm doesn’t hate me that day.”

He chuckles. That low, amused sound that makes your toes curl. “That why you’re so good at talking?”

You freeze. “What?”

He glances back, smile creeping in slow and lazy. There’s an unfortunate amount of sarcasm behind his tone. “You seem to stumble a bit over words.”

You blink again, officially out of working brain cells. “Sorry. I—I can stop. I don’t mean to be annoying, I just—”

“I didn’t say it was annoying.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He crouches lower again, tapping something against the outlet. But you hear it anyway and feel it, low in your stomach like a dropped elevator.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, blessedly interrupting the moment before you combust.

Sana: girl. do i need to walk around the block or are you gonna fuck him. be honest.

You bite your lip so hard you nearly draw blood. He straightens up, wiping his palms again. “So do you like it? The job?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. It’s… stressful. But fun, sometimes. I guess,” You scratch the back of your neck.

“You good at it?” He grunts out, looking for something in his toolbox.

Your mind blanks. “What?”

He turns to look at you full-on now, arms crossed, shirt clinging to the curve of his shoulders. “Marketing. All that stuff. You good at it?”

You let out a nervous little laugh. “I mean, I hope so. I’ve been doing it for a few years now, and nobody’s fired me yet.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His tone isn’t aggressive. It’s low and relaxed. But something about the way he says it makes your pulse skip.

“I… I think I am,” you say, slower this time.

He nods once as if that answer pleases him. “You seem like you’d be.”

You’re gonna die. You’re going to actually die. This man is being nice to you, and it feels like your body isn’t prepared for that level of stimulus.

You glance at your phone again.

Sana: WHY ARE YOU TAKING THIS LONG TO RESPOND??? IS HIS DICK OUT. BLINK TWICE

You look back up and he’s leaning against the doorframe that divides your kitchen and living room now, arms still crossed, lip ring catching the light. “So your roommate…?”

You nod, trying not to choke. “Yeah. Her name’s Sana. We’ve lived together since college.”

“She at work?” You swear he looks at your legs in your shorts, but could also be wishful thinking.

“Not right now. She works night shifts at the hospital 15 minutes away from here.,” You twiddle your thumbs in your lap.

He hums, still watching you. “So you’re here all alone today.”

It’s not a question. It shouldn’t be hot. It’s just a sentence. But, the way he says it? The tone? The slight lilt at the end, like it means more than it says?

You let out a strangled sound that you hope reads as a laugh. “Yeah. Just me. Alone. In this… apartment. Where you are. Currently.”

He tilts his head, smiling again. “You’re kind of funny for someone with no electricity.”

You hesitate. Then, blurting before you can stop yourself, “And you’re kind of cocky for someone who still hasn’t turned my lights on yet.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly appearing. “Hm?”

You shake your head way too fast. “I mean—just—like, you’ve been here for a bit now and you’re fixing my power and it is taking quite long, but I promise I’m not mad about it.. I’m sorry.”

He lets out a real laugh this time. Full, low, and stupidly hot. He pushes off the wall and walks back toward the kitchen like he didn’t just wreck your central nervous system.

You take another breath and text Sana.

You: he’s flirting. he’s literally flirting. i want to crawl inside the oven

Sana: girl. jump on the counter and say “while you’re fixing things, i’m also broken.”

Almost like he was trying to prove a point to you, the lights come back on with a quiet click, a whirr of electricity humming back to life through your walls, and you swear the sound might as well be a death knell.

He steps back from the panel in your hallway, tapping the side of it with a knuckle like he just fixed your entire infrastructure. “There we go,” he says, “Should be good now. Might’ve just been a loose connection behind the breaker, it’s common in these old buildings.”

You nod slowly, like you understood a single word of that. All you really heard was competency and your brain whispered: breedable.

“That’s… great,” you reply, way too softly. “Thanks.”

He wipes his hands again on that same rag and starts packing up his tools, metal clicking together as he slips things back into place. His forearm flexes with every movement, tattoos shifting across his skin like they’re in on the joke.

“Need help with anything else?” he asks casually, not looking at you as he zips up the tool bag. His voice dips slightly.

Your heart stutters. You should say actually, yeah, my back is acting up and I think the solution involves that couch and maybe you using me like a handrail. But instead you go, “Nope. That’s all.”

Your phone vibrates against your thigh, dragging you back to earth.

Sana: have you ever heard of blue collar dick??? this is ur chance

You squint at that text, thumbs pausing mid-reply.

Blue collar dick.

The phrase unlocks something buried deep in your brain. A memory. A TikTok you watched half-asleep one night at 1:37AM, under the glow of your LED lights, while eating dry cereal out of a mug. The girl had looked straight into the camera, wide-eyed and deadly serious, and whispered: “Blue collar dick is not just a concept. It’s a lifestyle. It’s the kind of unholy grip someone develops on you after a man with calloused hands and a union paycheck fixes your sink and rearranges your soul in the same afternoon.”

You’d laughed. Scoffed, even. How dramatic.

He zips up the last pouch on his tool bag and stands tall, glancing toward the door like he might head that way but he doesn’t. He stays.

He rolls his shoulder a little, absently adjusting the strap, and you watch his fingers drag across the curve of his neck.

“You think everything working alright?” he asks, voice low and unhurried like he’s trying to fill the silence. Like he knows you’re still stuck in some sort of horny trance and he’s being generous enough to let you catch up.

“Yeah,” you say, breathier than intended. “Power’s on. Looks like the WiFi is back. I can check if my laptop came back to life.”

You gesture toward your computer like it matters. Like any of that is worth focusing on when he is standing six feet from you.

He hums, looking around your living room where you’re still on your couch. “Place is cute.”

You blink. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. It’s… falling apart slowly, but charming.”

He doesn’t really acknowledge that. “Anything else broken in here?” he asks, stepping away from the wall a little. “Leaky faucet? Shaky table leg? My dad taught me how to fix a ton of stuff, I’m pretty handy with anything. You want me to check something else?”

Your mouth opens and closes. Your brain struggles to find the words, and the words you want to say are not coming out easily, so you just respond with, “No. I mean… no, I think we’re good. You fixed the lights.”

His eyes flicker and stay on you just a second too long. Then he shifts slightly, sets the tool box down again with a thud, and stretches his arms overhead like he’s got nowhere to be. Shirt rides up just enough for you to see the line of his waistband and the shadow of toned skin beneath it, and you almost bite your tongue off.

“You sure?” he asks again, tone casual, almost amused now. “You looked kinda… bummed when the lights came back on.”

Your head jerks up. “What? No. I wasn’t.. I mean, not bummed. Just surprised. Happy. Grateful. Electrified, if you will.”

Electrified. You’re going to throw yourself off the balcony.

He laughs again, and you swear it vibrates in your chest. “I could hang out a sec,” he offers, and it’s not subtle anymore. “Just make sure everything stays stable. Sometimes the lights will turn back off randomly.”

Everything’s stable, you repeat in your brain like an idiot. I am not.

He’s leaning one shoulder against the wall now, lazy and relaxed, eyes still on you like he’s just waiting to see what you’ll say next.

Before your brain can stop your mouth from doing anything reckless, you blurt out, “Have you eaten?”

His brows lift. “What?”

You clear your throat. “Lunch. Have you had any?”

He tilts his head, eyes flickering down to your mouth for one half-second too long. “Not yet,” he says, “Didn’t get the chance.”

You nod like this is normal. Like offering food to electricians with tool belts and stupidly sexy mullets is part of your daily routine. “I can make you something if you want.”

His mouth curves, slow and teasing. “Yeah? You feed all the guys your landlord sends over?”

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly eject from your skull. “Only the ones who save me from having to live in darkness.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Then yeah. I’m kinda hungry.”

He walks over to where you’re sitting, drops his bag beside the couch, stretches with a casual groan that shoots straight between your thighs, and flops onto your couch like he’s done it a hundred times. Like your couch is a perfectly acceptable throne for his man-spreading, bicep-showcasing, very-much-staying presence.

You twiddle your fingers, “If i make you food, it’s only right if I get your name.”

Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

“Jungkook,” He looks over to you, trying to bite back a grin. “And yours is [Y/N], right? Saw it on the assignment sheet.”

“Yup. Cool,” You gulp down some saliva that was lodged in your throat.

You march to the kitchen like a woman on a mission, flinging the fridge open with the determination of someone prepping for an exorcism. It’s not that you want to impress him. It’s just that… okay. No. You do want to impress him. You want to serve this man a sandwich so good he files a formal complaint against your thighs for being too far from his face.

You find good bread. Not the sad white slices. You find turkey. Cheese. Lettuce that isn’t slimy. A tomato you aggressively pat dry with a paper towel like a psychotic housewife. You toast the bread and add a little mustard. You even cut the sandwich diagonally, because if you’re going to be delusional, you’re going to be domestically deranged about it.

Your phone buzzes for the billionth time.

Sana: DID YOU FUCK HIM YET

You ignore her. You grab a little paper plate with a cup of water and a napkin and present this meal like you are some Michelin chef. You walk it out carefully, feeling like you should have a white linen apron and one of those vintage Coke ads playing behind you.

“Damn,” he says when you hand it to him, voice warm with surprise. “You really went all out.”

You shrug, trying to act chill. “Just a sandwich.”

He takes a bite and groans.“No, this is next level. Wife-tier sandwich.”

Your face goes hot. You sit down beside him on the couch, one cushion away, legs crossed, heart racing. You grab your phone and finally reply to Sana before she drives to the apartment and physically removes you.

You: sana i need you to take a lap. actually take a five-mile lap. this house needs to be mine for two hours minimum.

Sana: i will literally be gone until sunset

You set your phone down and glance at him again. He’s halfway through the sandwich already, clearly enjoying the hell out of it, crumbs on his fingers, lip ring glinting as he chews.

“So,” you say casually, “how’d you get into electrical work?”

He swallows, wipes his mouth, and shrugs. “Started out helping my uncle with his crew back home. Learned enough on the job that I stuck with it. Took the exam, got certified, picked up my own clients.”

“That’s hot,” you say before thinking.

He pauses, blinks, then smirks again. “Yeah?”

You want to shrivel into the cushions. “I mean, just like the hands-on thing. Fixing stuff. Being good with your hands.”

He glances at you, faintly amused. “It’s a bold choice… Flirting with the guy who knows your wires inside out better than you ever could.”

You’ve made your decision. You’ve committed to the bit. You’re going to have him. You don’t care how. You don’t care if it’s a terrible idea. You’re already halfway there, and if blue collar dick is a myth, you’d like to be the one to confirm or deny it firsthand. You smile, tilting your head. “I like living on the edge.”

He finishes the sandwich and sets the plate on your coffee table with a little sigh. “Damn. Guess I should’ve been in this line of work sooner.”

You let out a soft laugh, glancing at him through your lashes like you’re not actively in the process of losing your mind.

He shifts slightly on the couch, one arm thrown casually along the back cushion, knee brushing yours now, and your whole body tightens at the contact. You look down at his hand, rough, calloused, fingers spread just enough to imagine what they’d feel like anywhere else.

Focus. Focus.

“So,” you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere around unhinged, “do you, like… do this for a lot of people?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fix electricity?”

You laugh too fast. “No! Well, yeah. I mean. Yes. But like… do you do this for one person a lot? Regularly? Like… someone special. Like a client. A consistent client.”

He’s still watching you, brows slightly raised, clearly trying to follow your logic. “Huh?”

You look down, embarrassed. Shit. Too subtle. You double back. “Sorry, I meant… like… is there someone who, you know, gets their power fixed all the time? Like a… girlfriend?”

Oh my god. Girlfriend. You say it like you’ve never spoken English before, like the concept of casual inquiry never existed.

His lips tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re asking. “Nah,” he replies. “No girlfriend.”

He reaches for the glass of water you’d set on the coffee table earlier, and you watch his throat work as he takes a slow gulp. His lip ring catches the light again, and your brain completely flatlines.

No girlfriend.

No girlfriend. That’s… fine. That’s great. That’s also dangerous.

Your heart is pounding so loud in your ears you barely register that he hasn’t looked away. When he sets the glass down again, his eyes don’t drift back to his phone or the room or the vague distance.

They stay locked on you.

You shift slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close you’re sitting. His fingers are still relaxed against the couch cushion, a breath away from the curve of your shoulder.

“Should I expect a full background check with your next outage?”he says, voice low now.

You’re officially in the danger zone now with no intentions of stopping. “Already ran yours. Five star reviews all around. “

He chuckles, quietly. “I’m honored.”

Your breath catches. It’s a small sound. Barely audible. But his gaze dips lower at the sound of it, flickering between your mouth and your throat. He doesn’t hide it anymore. There’s no playfulness left.

“Stop staring” you mutter, trying to keep your voice even.

He lifts a brow. “I’m not.”

“Are you… thinking about kissing me?” This is worse than that one time in 10th grade when you got put in a closet with your crush and you practically slammed him against the door begging him to kiss you.

However, Jungkook doesn’t smile or smile. His gaze lingers on your lips still like he’s counting the seconds. “Would that be a problem?”

Your stomach drops. The air between you turns solid. “No,” you say softly. “It’d be the opposite of a problem.”

He doesn’t move right away, or lunge and lean in. He lets the silence fill with heat, with potential, like he wants you to feel the choice stretch out and make sure you want it just as much as he does. (Is he insane? Of course you do)

You want him to kiss you so bad it’s physically painful. Every nerve in your body is waiting for it, screaming for it, for the weight of his hand on your jaw, the feel of his lip ring pressing into yours.

You inch just slightly closer and your knee brushes against his fully now. Your face is tilted up toward his without even thinking.

“Are you gonna?” you whisper, voice barely there.

His eyes flicker again and then he smiles. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He leans in, not in some clumsy rush. He drags it out just long enough for you to feel your whole body tense with anticipation. His hand finds your jaw first, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers curling gently under your chin.

And then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like it’s his job, like he’s done this a thousand times but still finds something new in the shape of your lips. His mouth moves with intention, none of that awkward fumbling, none of the soft, shy hesitation. It’s confident. His lip ring drags against your lower lip and you actually whimper, because of course he knows how to use it.

He groans low in his throat when your fingers knot in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. One hand slips around the back of your neck, the other finding your waist, pulling you across the couch and into him like he can’t stand even a breath of space between you.

He tastes like faint mint and the sandwich you made him. Your legs shift, tangling with his. His hand is already on your thigh, rough palm skimming under the hem of your shorts, gripping hard enough to make your breath stutter into his mouth.

You gasp when he bites down lightly, but enough to make you feel it. He soothes it with a kiss immediately after, dragging his mouth down your jaw, and murmurs into your skin, “You’re a good kisser.”

You could die. You could die right now and it would be worth it.

You tilt your head back to give him more access, voice breathless. “Yeah? You’re not so bad yourself.”

That earns you another groan, this one deeper, more possessive. His hand slides up your side, under your hoodie, fingers grazing bare skin and making your back arch instinctively.

He kisses you again, messier now and wetter. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing. His fingers sink into your thigh, pull you closer until you’re practically straddling him on the couch and you feel him, hard beneath his cargo pants, pressed against your hip like a threat.

“You sure you don’t need anything else fixed?” he murmurs against your mouth.

And all you can do is nod, eyes heavy, hands trembling against his chest as you whisper: “Hmm. I think my body is out of order. Needs fixing.”

Big hands grip your thighs, and with one swift, greedy motion, he’s pushing you back into the couch cushions. You land with a quiet gasp, hair fanned out, lips swollen, hoodie riding up over your stomach.

He’s hovering, body caged above yours, weight pressed into one arm braced beside your head, the other skimming up your waist and dragging your hoodie even higher. His silver chain dangles loose from his neck and every time he leans down to kiss you again, it smacks against your throat, cold and heavy, sending a shiver straight through you.

He groans when you arch up into him, letting your hips roll slightly, needy and desperate, and he feels it, feels how bad you want him and how worked up you are.

His bicep flexes beside your head, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you but you kind of wish he would. You let your hand drift up, fingertips grazing the muscle slowly, shamelessly.

Holy fuck, he’s strong.

Strong in the way that makes your thighs press together, that makes you want to find out what else those arms can hold you down against. You squeeze just a little, test the resistance, and he grins against your lips.

“That’s what you’re thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth to your neck now, teeth grazing your jaw. “My arms?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is literally melting.

He licks a stripe up the side of your throat and bites, just enough to make you whimper, and the damn chain swings again, cold against the same spot.

“You like that?” he asks, “Hmm?”

You nod frantically, whining. You’re gone.

His hand slides down to grip your thigh again, hiking it up around his waist, and the angle has you gasping. His hips dip into yours just enough to make it obvious: he’s hard, and he’s not even trying to hide it now.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he mutters, biting your earlobe. “Since you fed me and everything. Feels only fair.”

You nod again, breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, lips brushing yours. “Been thinkin’ about kissing you since the second you opened that door.”

His hands are already slipping under the hem of your hoodie, thumbs dragging across the skin of your waist as he mutters, low and sinful, “Lift your hips for me.”

You do instantly and he slides your shorts down so slowly it feels like punishment. They snag slightly at your thighs before he gets them off, flinging them somewhere over the armrest, and then he just stares. Lets his eyes drag from your knees to the place between your thighs like he’s about to pray and commit a felony in the same breath.

You’re not even fully naked, but you already feel exposed. Every part of you twitching with anticipation because the way this man looks at you? It’s like he already knows what you taste like.

He lowers himself, right between your knees and spreads your legs open with two hands and drags your body closer to him.

“You’re already shaking,” he whispers, lips brushing along the inside of your thigh. “What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?”

You want to answer. You try to answer. But then he presses a kiss right above your knee, then lower and lower. It’s like he’s savoring every inch of you, kissing a trail up your thigh like you’re dessert and he’s been starving all day.

When he finally gets to your underwear, he lets out a low hum.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, thumb dragging along the edge. “You’re soaked.”

You choke on your own spit. He hooks his fingers under the waistband, and looks up at you, eyes dark. You’re propped up on your elbows, watching him like you’re in a live-action fantasy, because that’s exactly what it feels like.

“Gonna take these off now,” he says, almost too gently.

You nod like a bobblehead. “Please.”

He tugs them down painfully slow, and when they slip off your legs and drop to the floor, he doesn’t even hesitate. He just dives in.

Tongue flat, broad, ruthless against you, dragging through your folds. You jolt, hips bucking off the couch, and his hands immediately slide up to pin you down, fingers bruising your thighs as he holds you in place.

He moans into you, tongue curling, lips wrapping around your clit with slow, maddening pressure. The suction makes you cry out, hand flying to grab at his hair, soft, messy strands you curl your fingers into.

“Fuck, J-Jungkook,” you gasp. His grip tightens on your thighs in response. He flattens his tongue again, licking long and slow, nose nudging against your clit just enough to make your legs shake. Then he shifts, tilts his head just slightly, and flicks the tip of his tongue in tight, fast circles.

You swear you see God.

He doesn’t stop, and it’s obscene how good it is. You can hear it. Mapping out every flick, every swirl, every suck that makes your thighs twitch and your head fall back in helpless, high-pitched whines.

He’s so good at it, it’s almost infuriating. Like he’s been training for this specific moment, like he knew your body before you ever laid eyes on his goddamn toolbelt.

“Shit,” you whimper, your fingers gripping the edge of the couch like you’ll fall off the earth if he keeps going.

He pulls back barely, enough to murmur against your soaked skin, “What’s that, sweetheart?”

You look down at him, wide-eyed and desperate, and the sight makes your stomach flip.

His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, locked on yours with zero shame. His lips are wet, his lip ring gleaming, his chain dragging down your thigh. His hands are still gripping your legs tight. “You’re already shaking,” he taunts, “You gonna fall apart before I even get my fingers in?”

You let out a sound you don’t recognize. Your hips buck without permission, trying to chase more friction, more pressure, anything, and he laughs.

“Thought you were gonna take it,” he mutters, kissing your inner thigh again, right where it’s already slick. “Thought you were tough.”

“Jungkook,” Your voice breaks.

“Yeah, baby?” he smiles, “Want more?”

You nod frantically. “Please. Please, please.”

“Mmhmm.” He drags his tongue back up, slow and torturous. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want—” you gasp as he suckles your clit again, just hard enough to make your legs spasm. “I want your fingers please. I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, way too calm. “You’re gonna. Not done with you yet.”

He slides one hand down between your thighs, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, slow and unhurried. You feel the first press of his fingertip at your entrance and it’s over.

When he finally pushes in just one thick finger, your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. It feels so good, too good.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he notes more to himself than to you. “Fuck. Gripping already.”

He curls his finger and you practically wail. You slap a hand over your mouth but he sees it, and then lowers his mouth back down to your clit like he’s starving for it.

His tongue and his finger move in tandem. Circles and pressure and heat all at once, building you up, pushing you higher, dragging desperate sounds out of you that you’ve never made before.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you sob, grabbing at his hair. “Please, I need—”

“You need what?” he murmurs against you, adding a second finger slowly, the stretch perfect, his mouth never leaving your clit.

“I need, need to cum, please—”

“Nah,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours as his fingers start to fuck into you even deeper, “Not yet.”

You’re near tears at this point.

He flattens his tongue and moans into you, and your hips jerk off the couch. Your hands are clutching at him now, your stomach tightening, thighs trembling around his head as he talks you through it.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he exhales, eyes locked on your face. “All needy and loud. Fuck, baby. I could eat you all day.”

You’re so close it hurts. He can feel it, the way your walls clench around his fingers, sucking him in.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice hoarse against you. “Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

And you do, embarrassingly hard. It crashes over you like a power surge, hot and fast and blinding. Your hips jerk, your mouth drops open in a silent cry, and you’re cumming so hard you forget your own name.

He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until your legs are shaking uncontrollably and you’re pushing at his shoulder with a broken gasp.

Still, he doesn’t let up. His tongue is relentless, fingers even more ruthless. You’re sweating, teary-eyed and so close you’re practically vibrating, when you finally snap.

“Jungkook,” you moan, throat raw. “I need you to fuck me. Please. I can’t—“

That gets him to cease. He pulls back, mouth soaked, lip ring gleaming. His hand lingers between your thighs for a second longer before he pushes himself up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, panting.

You reach up, fingers clutching the front of his shirt, dragging him down so you can kiss him. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it just makes it worse, makes you needier.

He stands up, stripping down as fast as humanly possible. The black tee comes off first, revealing a chest that’s all muscle, abs that flex when he tosses the shirt aside. Then the cargo pants get shoved down, and…

Holy fucking shit.

It swings free and heavy into his palm, and you gasp.

That’s what they meant by blue collar dick. Thick, veiny, the prettiest goddamn cock you’ve ever seen. Long, curved just right, flushed and leaking at the tip as he wraps his hand around the base and starts stroking himself, slow and lazy.

He tilts his head back with a low groan, lashes fluttering, chain swinging over his chest and you just stare.

You’ve seen good dick before. You’ve had great dick, even. This is different. This is the kind of dick that installs central air and breaks bed frames. The kind that fucks through creaky floorboards, says “good girl” like a prophet, and pays in cash everywhere.

“Yeah?” he rasps, still jerking himself slowly, eyes dark as he looks down at you. “You want it, baby?”

You nod like your life depends on it. “Please. Need it so bad.”

He doesn’t waste another second. “Turn over,” he says, voice commanding. “Face down, ass up. I want that spine arched.”

You scramble to obey, flipping onto your stomach, shoving your hoodie up out of the way. You bury your face in the couch cushion, arms stretched forward, hips high in the air and the sound Jungkook makes behind you is inhuman.

“Fucking hell,” he licks his lips, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Look at you.”

You feel him line up behind you, thick head sliding through your slick folds, teasing but not pushing in yet, and your whole body twitches.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says, one hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades until your arch deepens. “Back all pretty, ass in the air, soaked for me. Fuck, baby.”

He leans forward, voice rasping hot in your ear. “You gonna take it for me like this, yeah? Gonna let me fuck you nice and deep?”

You moan out, whimpering into the pillow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“Atta girl.”

He pushes in slow, allowing you to feel every inch. You feel the thick, burning stretch of him as he sinks in deeper, splitting you open around his cock. Your breath catches on a whimper, eyes rolling back as he fills you.

“Fuuuuck,” you choke out, voice strangled. “You’re so big.”

Behind you, Jungkook lets out a guttural groan.

“Yeah?” he rasps, still sliding in, forcing your walls to open around him. “That too much for you, baby?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, cheek pressed into the cushion. “No, no, it’s so good, just, fuck—”

He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, and you swear you see stars. You’re so full it’s almost unbearable, like he’s in your stomach, You’ve never felt anything like it; your walls clenching, dripping, pulsing and he’s barely even moved yet.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in, then does it again… and again… and again.

His pace is brutal, deep, pounding thrusts that send shockwaves through your spine and bounce off the walls. Skin slapping, the obscene wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in over and over, the couch creaking beneath you. You’re a full mess under him, and he’s moaning now too.

“Fuck,”Jungkook growls behind you, breath ragged. “You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?”

You do. The sound of your pussy squelching around his cock is loud, echoing with every thrust as your juices coat his length and drip down your thighs onto the couch cushions below.

“Fucking soaked,” he growls again, hips snapping into you.

His hand finds your hair, grabbing a fistful at the base of your neck and pulling. Your head lifts from the pillow you grabbed from nearby in a panic, back arched to its limit, body bent like a bowstring as he fucks into you harder now that he has you right where he wants you.

“Taking it so good, baby,” he pants, yanking your head back just enough to make you moan. He keeps pounding into you, dragging that cock so deep it feels like he’s carving himself into your soul, keeping your head held high by your hair, whispering filth that makes your legs shake.

“You wanna cum, don’t you?” he growls, tone thick and mean. “Wanna fall apart right here on my cock?”

You’re shaking too hard to answer, all that’s coming out are some babbles you nor him have any energy to interpret. Somehow, your brain flashes back to that fucking TikTok. That girl that described “blue collar dick” like it was some natural disaster.

Now you’re living it.

You’re bent over on your own couch, spine arched, tears in your eyes, unable to even think as Jungkook wrecks you with his cock and whispers filthy praise in your ear like it’s his job. This is blue collar dick. This is the goddamn thesis statement of that TikTok. You’re going to send that girl flowers.

“Please,” you cry, “Please, Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” he pants, breath hot against your neck as his fingers reach down and work your clit cruelly enough to keep you from tipping over. “That desperate for it, sweetheart?”

You nod, choking out sobs, your body twitching around him, clenching hard enough that he starts to fall apart.

“Fuck,” he groans, cock twitching inside you. “You’re so tight. Keep squeezing me like that and I’m gonna cum before you do.”

You moan loud into the pillow, your whole body wrecked and burning, still locked in this purgatory he’s created, his cock fucking you deep and hard, his fingers rolling over your clit with precision, holding you right there.

“Say it,” he growls, “Tell me how bad you need it.”

“I need it, please, I need it so bad. I can’t, I’m so close, please let me cum.” Your self -control has exited the apartment.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he grits out behind you, “Fuck, baby, feel how tight you are? How bad your pussy wants to cum for me?”

You can’t answer. You’re drooling into the pillow, gasping, your body jerking with every thrust like you’re being electrocuted.

“Let go,” he groans, voice shaking. “You’re gonna cum for me now, yeah? Go on, baby. Fucking cum.”

The second his thumb presses tightly just right against your clit, you shatter. It hits you like a wave. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, back arching so hard it lifts your hips even higher as your orgasm rips through you, hot and overwhelming. You scream as your pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing and gushing as you cum so hard your vision goes white.

Your arms give out completely. You collapse forward onto the couch with a breathless sob, ass still arched up as your cunt throbs around him, wetness dripping down your thighs in sticky trails. Your face is buried in the cushion, your legs are trembling.

“Oh my fuck,” Jungkook groans, “Just like that. You feel that, baby? Feel how good it is when you cum on me?”

He curses, pulls out fast and you let out a weak little cry at the loss, at the ache he leaves behind.

But then he’s jerking himself over you, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, wrist snapping fast, hips stuttering as he pants over you, chasing his own high.

His head tilts back, bottom lip tucked under his top teeth. A deep, broken moan is ripped straight from his chest as his hips twitch forward and he spills across the curve of your ass in thick, hot ropes. His chain swings with the motion, clinking gently as he fucks his fist through it, painting your skin in messy, perfect streaks.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he groans, his eyes squeezed shut. “You’re… fuck, baby. You’re unreal.”

You’re too far gone to speak.

You stay face-down on the couch for a full minute post-impact, naked and glazed like a donut.

Jungkook exhales somewhere behind you, like he too is processing the life-altering events that just occurred in your living room. You hear his body move as he leans back, chest rising and falling, the distinct sound of a man who just came so hard he forgot his social security number.

There’s cum on your ass. Your hair’s stuck to your cheek. The throw pillow has a bite mark in it. You are not well.

You finally lift your head a fraction of an inch. “I think I just met God.”

Jungkook lets out a soft, post-nut laugh. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Tell him I said hi.”

You look over at him from where you’re sprawled out on the couch, now on your stomach. “…So do I owe you money, or…?”

He snorts. “For what?”

“For fixing my power?” You say it like it’s obvious.. which it should be.

Jungkook leans over and smacks your ass, casual, affectionate. “Nah. This one’s on the house.”

Eventually, he helps you sit up, grabbing the nearest clean towel in your bathroom like this is all completely normal. You look at each other and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry or call your landlord and thank him for being so aggressively useless.

You’ll deal with that later.

Right now, you accept the towel, take a shaky breath. You blink at him, dazed, legs still jelly. “So if I break something else… just a hypothetical, should I call you..?”

He smirks, tugs his pants back up without bothering to button them, and says, “Depends. If you break something else, I expect a personal invitation. No middleman this time.”

masterlist + request

#im not online but my queue is! 🔔#jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts #bts x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jjk #jjk x reader

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eowynstwin · 7 months ago

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Price x Reader. Age gap. Divorced Price. Older BF Price. Vaguely smutty. Follow-up to this.

Price realizes you’ve never had a reliable man in your life exactly the second time he discovers you looking up DIY home maintenance for very simple projects.

It missed him the first time because he was deployed. You’d mentioned offhand how you were figuring out how to rebalance a ceiling fan, and he’d just automatically assumed that you were doing it yourself because he wasn’t there, so he simply praised you for your resourcefulness and lived for the next three weeks off of the way you’d absolutely glowed at his words.

But then he gets home, and one evening on the couch he catches you googling “how to fix a leaky sink.”

“What’s that?” he asks you, tamping down on the sudden feeling of masculine inadequacy that reared up almost immediately at the discovery.

“Faucet handle’s leaking all over my counter when I turn it on,” you say, not looking up from your phone. “Landlord’s out of town and can’t fix it.”

“I’m in town, ain’t I?”

You look up at him then, brows raised. You hadn’t even considered asking him, then.

“Oh—I didn’t want to bother you, John, you only just got back, and you’re tired…”

You trail off at the droll expression on his face.

Price has learned a lot of lessons from his previous marriage. The foundational one: just because he hasn’t been asked to help doesn’t mean he is believed to be unreliable. Adding that lesson to his knowledge base about you—young, modern, independent—calculates out an obvious answer that curtails any sour mood that might have sprouted up over the issue.

He puts his hand over your phone screen and lowers it down to your lap. “I’m fixin’ the sink,” he says simply.

He enjoys the way your eyes dilate at the assertion.

The next day, he shows up at your flat wearing old work clothes and carrying his heavy toolbox in his hand.

(You don’t live together yet—something he’s keen to rectify—but he has a toothbrush in your bathroom and permanent space in your bedroom drawers. He can be content for now.)

And you—you answer the door in the filmiest of sundresses, the ribbon tie on one shoulder hanging at a loose angle.

“Heard you need some plumbing done,” he says in the gruffest of voices, already understanding the game.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” you say, barely able to hide your giggle, “I’ve been so worried.”

He steps in close to you, close enough to feel the heat of your body radiating off of your bare skin. He has half a mind to put the charade aside and lift your skirt here and now, but another lesson helpfully springs to mind: anticipation of the act makes the finale all the sweeter.

“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” you murmur, looking up at him with warm, dreamy eyes.

When he gets under the sink, he finds the problem easy enough to fix—the cold water supply line simple isn’t screwed in tight enough, and when he wiggles the whole contraption by the valves he finds that nothing has been tightened up to standard. A couple of years knocking the thing around had probably loosened up the locknut.

He elects to fix the whole problem in one go, while in the meantime you stand off to the side, watching him. He feels your eyes on his legs, trailing up to the hair on his belly exposed by his shirt riding up.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I should’ve said before,” you simper, “but I’m not really sure how I’m gonna pay for this.”

His cock jumps in his jeans, and he feels your gaze move to it as if it’s a physical touch.

He levers himself out a little and meets your eyes, keeping a stern expression on his face.

“I’m sure you’re gonna figure it out,” he says. Looking down at his groin and then back up at your face might be a touch unsubtle, but clear communication had been the most important lesson of all.

He slides himself back under, and pretends he doesn’t feel you approach, or lower to your knees between his spread legs. He ignores your gentle hands falling on the closure of his jeans, the pop of the button coming undone, the parting of the zipper as you pull it down.

“Of course, sir,” you say, “I’m sure I will.”

The softness of your hand meets his growing erection, caressing the head of his cock with your thumb—followed very close behind by the wet, liquid heat of your mouth.

#price x reader #john price #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #price smut #mwritesprice #madi writes #this was a warm-up that got away from me

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schizononagesimus · 1 year ago

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apologies to my roommate for loudly grunting and yelling as i washed dishes while chapter 44 of harrow the ninth played on my speaker

#i was having a time #absolutely primal sounds coming from the kitchen as i clank dishware together #lessons of the hand and the mouth

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artficlly · 19 days ago

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lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face.

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer.

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away.

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.”

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath.

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it.

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower.

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen.

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly.

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing.

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side.

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger.

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need.

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth.

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.”

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache.

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter. “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade.

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed.

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs.

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up.

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare.

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much.

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder.

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace.

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you.

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—”

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.”

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough.

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.”

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat.

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed.

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long.

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.”

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something.

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop.

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole.

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling.

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?”

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either.

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace.

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him.

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above.

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium.

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words.

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle.

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore.

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected.

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it.

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel.

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard.

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in.

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you.

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap.

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure.

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you.

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic.

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you.

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt.

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips.

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene.

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

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

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happy2bmyownboss · 1 year ago

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Solar Eclipse Party Ideas

Whoa! It feels like this year is flying by! I’ve been working so hard on this new garden space and planning out some changes for our home and property that April just kinda snuck up on me. I was sitting down to do my monthly orders and I saw that I had some Solar Eclipse viewing glasses in my Amazon cart… had to get them ordered so we could safely view the eclipse next week. Then I remembered…

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obeythebutler · 2 months ago

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Ways in which You, the MC, raise the Characters Blood Pressure

All characters, except Luke

Cw: suggestive, spoilers and lesson 16 mentions.

Lucifer

You arranged the bottles of liquor in his study. It is order, you claim. In height and color, but for Lucifer it is chaos. It is a mess, he declares, his hands having to re-route every time they search for the intended bottle.

You do not wear weather-appropriate clothing. Look at the waistcoat on him, MC, with gloves and a dramatic flair which mimics a peacock. It is about to snow, and you do not have a jacket on. You're not cold, you affirm, but the goosebumps on your skin say otherwise. What a pity, here, have his coat.

You send him those god-awful, brainrot reels on Devilgram and expect him to watch every single one. Not his feed, not his brick, but it is there thanks to you.

You decide to climb the shelves to reach for the jar of choco-chip cookies. Yes, demons are taller, but please just use a stepping stool or ask for assistance. Imagine his plight when he walks into the kitchen half-dead from exhaustion and sees you scaling the shelves like a monkey, feet and hands gripping the wood for dear life.

You act flamboyant. Not too much, but with your head held high and that smirk on your face, fully aware of your capability and achievements, throwing him a sly glance as he takes the coat off your shoulders at a ball in the Demon Lord's castle. It gets him weak.

You participate in his brothers tomfoolery. They decided it would be a great idea to rearrange the dining room's furniture. Everyone is bickering about the ideal placement, there are streaks on the floor, and is that fire???!!! Mammon he can string up in the living room, Satan and Belphegor can be on bathroom cleaning duty, but you—what does he even do with you?? When you sheepishly apologise and give that godforsaken smile, he has no choice but to relent.

You get a little too buddy-buddy with Solomon. He's from the human world, sure, it is natural to bond with one of your kind, but when he sees you two together with almost identical smirks on your faces his brows furrow. In resignation. And a little bit of trepidation. What are you planning, MC?

Mammon

You threatened to take away Goldie when he did not listen to you. Stack it away nicely in a place where he can't reach it. Maybe the freezer. Maybe the toaster. He doesn't know.

You run headfirst into danger. Listen, Mammon knows you are very strong. Capable and headstrong. But please, please, MC, thats an Abyss Snake! Those creatures have venom so potent it can obliterate demons, and you are a human! Blessed, even though, but still, have some consideration for his heart before he runs after you, who is insistent on petting it.

You get a little too close to others. Nothing wrong with that, but his brain can't stop but cry out in protest. Biology deems it so. He's your first man! Don't you forget it! Lesser demons don't get too close though, because his scowl is enough of a warning. And he's not just all bark. Second-oldest, don't you forget.

You own him. Others demons trying to get close to him, subtly trying to slot their bodies against him at a club, or even in public. You glare and with ease tug Mammon towards you, until your lips nearly touch, intent on showing them that he's not available. Only for you.

You ate his noodles, leaving none for him.

You don't pick up his calls when you're in the human world. Crows he can send in every corner of the Devildom to look for you, assured of your safety and wellbeing. But in the human world, he can't. Six missed calls, MC, better pick up the seventh, before he decides to conjure a portal and come down there.

Leviathan

You criticised the figurine in his room. It looks weird, you say, like a blob of soup. It's magic munchkin from Igotreincarnatedinto soupduringtheTangdynasty, he says. Normies don't appreciate art. Hmpgh.

You cosplayed as Henry 2.0. and crept into his room at 3 am. Imagine his plight when he opens his eyes because he feels as if someone is watching him, only to see you decked out in full fish, contacts and all. He woke up the whole house with that scream.

You don't react to every single Devilgram reel he sends you. Friends send each other reels, sure, but these are fifty reels in a span of an hour. Just an hour.

You denied sleeping in the bathtub with him when you came over to his room for movie night, choosing to sleep in your bed instead. You claim its because the bathtub is uncomfortable. He assumes its because you hate his presence. Please just bring a mattress next time, MC, our Envy Avatar is in low spirits.

You take control. Shoving him against his chair, sitting on top of him as if you own him. Your smile is just a tad cruel, hands finding their way to the spots where he reacts the most. It makes him go blank. Please don't stop please please please

You stare at another demon too long. His envy can't help but take over. What is it that the demon have that he does not? What is it that enchants you so? Self-loathing follows after.

You forget to send him AP and receive it from your daily in-game logins. Sin.

Satan

You took the liberty of arranging the pile of books in his room. Like Lucifer, he has a natural order for them in mind, which you disrupted. Physics on the left, biology on the right and astronomy in the middle. Now its alll goneeee. No order. Chaos, however orderly they make appear.

You pet a cat and did not send him a picture. He knows from the cat fur on your clothes and the happiness on your face. Where is the kitty, MC, send him a pic now. He needs to meet the feline.

You asked Solomon for help with your studies. Sure, he's a very, very renowned sorcerer with whom even the demon likes to debate with, but study sessions are you and Satan's thing. Not with Solomon. Now you have got two intellectuals helping you study, as Satan acts passive-aggressive towards the sorcerer.

You two throw debates on random topics head to head. Intelligence is sexy, and that smile when you've outwitted him? Satan is about to swoon like a Victorian woman.

You don't walk alongside him. MC has the habit of frolicking along the path like a sheep. Cute. Maybe they have a faster pace than him. But he can't help but feel as if you are trying to avoid walking alongside him, unintentional that may be.

You add irrelevant items to the shopping cart when you both are out. Stick to the budget MC, stick to the budget, Satan chides, as he slips in a pack of the chocolate you prefer into the cart.

Asmodeus

You used a beauty product which he hates. Yes, that chaos snail cream is trending right now, but it gave him breakouts! Stop that, MC, here, use this instead!

You don't comment on his latest post/story/reel. You've been too busy with studies and Sorcerer society, we know. But you know he anticipates your comments the most! He wants YOU to look at him!!! Admire him!! You better add some heart emojis next time, MC.

You insist on cleaning together. He denies. At first. Complains all throughout, then insists on taking a bath together to get cleaned off.

You go out in public wearing an outfit that would have been put together by the enemy of fashion themselves. No, MC, you're so sexy haha please don't go out like that, when you've got Asmodeus right here to style you! He's already taking off your jacket and shoes, ready to drape you in finery. Always looking like a snack, his MC.

You see him for him, not for Asmodeus, Jewel of the Heavens. Your Asmodeus. Not the public image of him, not the impression he's curated of himself, but just the the person you see at home. At his most vulnerable. This sets him on fire like nothing else. Also when you match his freak

You insist on doing his nails. He's sweating for his life as you work on his fingernails. A very interesting choice of color there, MC, and oh, this nail buffer, seems a bit too.....rough.

Beelzebub

You don't look both ways before crossing the street. Sure, you are an accomplished sorcerer, but the inhabitants of the Devildom are still getting used to the law and order declared by Prince. That includes speed limits. His heart nearly jumps into his mouth during those moments.

You surprise him after his Fangol match. Him, all sweaty and red in the face. You, electrolyte in hand and that saccharine-sweet smile on your face that makes him weak. You could shove him against the wall and he would crumble.

You don't think before taking risks. Nothing peeves Beelzebub more than when you disregard your own safety. Please think twice before making hasty decisions that involve potential injury. For his sake, please, and the integrity of your physical body. Let him fuss over you.

You don't try your hair after you bathe/shower. You'll get a cold, he says, and a hairdryer is already in his hand. Sit down MC, and let Beel dry your hair. It will be quick.

You go out without him to eat. Eating together is love for Beel, nothing better than sharing a meal with your partner. So please don't deprive him of your company, MC, food tastes better when you are there with him.

You kill a fly. That was his friend, MC. His pal.

Belphegor

You downplay your injuries. Anyone who saw you fall down the stairs in the library knows that it would have hurt. You laughed and walked it off. He noticed the way your pace faltered, the hiss of pain when no one was looking. Please, take care of yourself, MC.

You leave hair ties around the house. Belphegor woke up to one next to his pillow, another on the RAD bench. One on top of the cabinet. And it drives him crazy. You're wondering how your supply of hair ties is running out fast, meanwhile, his supply is full, ready to be given when desired.

You put him in his place. He knows he's bratty at times, being the youngest comes with its own traits. When you bite back at him, grabbing him by the hair, showing him how brats are treated, he's gone. A demon deceased. At your mercy.

You make cow puns. Yes, he can talk to cows, yes, his clothes have a similar pattern. But enough with the jokes now, MC, go along and get mooooving—

You take his favourite pillow to be washed. It is dirty indeed, but Belphegor cannot sleep without it. He's sitting by the washing machine and waiting. Until its ready to be used again.

You crack your fingers. The sound can't help but remind him of that time when you fell down the stairs, and he watched from above in damned glee—until he saw the expression on his brothers faces and the way you gasped in pain. Please do not do it in front of him.

Diavolo

You decide to serve him pickles. It's good to try new things, you say, content on eating your own serving of pickles. Diavolo stares at the offending item as if it has committed regicide.

You make him finish his work. Yes, there is a pile of reports waiting to be signed, but its only a ten minute break, MC, what harm can it do? You're like Barbatos sometimes, hovering over him. Maybe if he jumped out the window to make an escape it might work.

You challenge his authority. Diavolo has been questioned plenty of times in the past, when he was still new to governance without his father overseeing affairs. The House of Lords opposed many of his orders. But you, you are different. Standing in front of him, challenging his opinion, so bold in stating your opinion and your claim. On him. Only him. Excuse his meetings for an hour, minimum, there is a very urgent matter right in front of him, one whose wishes he's willing to bend to eagerly.

You team up with Solomon. Diavolo cannot tell what you two are planning. Nothing but chaos is guaranteed. He's already bracing himself for a surprise.

You refuse to accept his gifts. You deserve the best of the best. What do you mean, MC, that this hundred thousand jewellery set is too much? that the piles of gifts outside your room is too much? None of that now, none of that.

You wear a strong perfume. His nose is sensitive, and the scent is so harsh that it makes him nauseous. Too polite to comment, he silently bears it while you wonder as to why he keeps leaning out of the window. Maybe there's something going on outside.

Barbatos

You don't tie your hair up while cooking. It gives him the ick like nothing else can, and before you can even start on chopping up the potatoes he's already working on tying your hair, clips and a headband magically appearing.

You showed him Ratatouille. Barbatos dropped the item he was holding. You thought he had gone catatonic after.

You serve him instead. He's accustomed to being the one assisting others, but when you do it it's different. When you straighten out his tie in the way you deem satisfactory, hands running down his chest for a brief moment, he's a demon gone.

You decide to make tea incorrectly, or incorrect in his eyes. The temperature has to be a perfect 40 degree celsius, MC. Ginger has to be shredded, not cut. Milk has to be warm, not straight from the fridge. MC—just let him—he'll do it. Just sit down and he'll make you a cup. With a bloody strawberry pastry.

You went inside his room, and ten different versions of you came out. He had to spend an hour trying to ensure all your versions did not meet each other, with Diavolo asking for him every fifteen minutes.

You go to the port market without him. Sacrilege. When he sees you with fresh groceries in hand, Barbatos feels betrayed. Without him?! He'll subtly make quips at you, and the next outing will be at the port, and you're going to be besides him. For safety, he says.

Simeon

You decided to stay at Purgatory Hall for the night, but not in his room. See, MC, he has a bed right here for you! And cookies!! Four pillows!! Please don't deprive him of your company.

You fold clothes incorrectly. The sleeve is hanging out, wrinkles already forming on a pair of trousers. The handkerchief is crumbled up into a ball. Simeon just sighs. Takes the clothes from your hands, gently sets it aside.

You act as the knight in shining armour. Sweeping in with just what he needs. He gazes at you in longing, perhaps one of a thousand years. Just kiss him MC, he'll be so good. He promises.

You text him in lingo he does not understand. "So true, bestie." ??? "Not very sigma of them." ???? "I've got major tea about the two demons who made a ruckus during curses and hexes." Tea???? Send him some reels, MC, maybe then he will get it.

You chew on a pen. People do it when they're in deep thought. Sure. But Simeon can't help it when he sees the indentations left on the body and the head. That poor pen. Crime committed.

You decided to teach Luke slang. Now he's cursing like a sailor. What will he do now, MC? Look at that sweet boy, now yapping. You've spoiled him with bad influences. How will he undo this?

Solomon

You don't sit on his lap. Never mind that there are plenty of seats around. His lap is the best seat. The chair on which you are currently sitting on feels like nettles. The sofa is too hot. His lap is the only option left.

You get a little too close to Asmodeus for his comfort. Solomon can't help but feel a pang of jealousy in his heart when you warm up to him. He's not so subtly interrupting you both, and acts as if everything is alright. Yeah, just apply that facemask on him too, he'll eat the cucumber.

You shove him into a nearby closet or an empty classroom. He barely has time to breathe before you are on him, hands fisting in his shirt, all his senses occupied by you. It drives him mad like nothing other.

You wake him up in the morning. He's catatonic at that hour. Any attempts to wake him up will be met with groans and grunts. Shaking him awake does not work. Mandatorily kisses are prescribed to wake him right up. Doctor, he needs them to wake up!

You deny his help. He knows you're a capable sorcerer, your power immeasurable. But let yourself rely on him sometimes, he's more than happy to help you. He'll drop everything to come to the aid of his beloved apprentice.

You dress up to go outside, expectedly staring at him. Solomon's sweating bullets internally, wondering if he missed a date. A special event. His book lies abandoned while he racks his brain. Was it today? Or tomorrow? Oh no no no no

Thirteen

You brought a bug in the house once. Claimed it cute and adorable. Thirteen climbed on top of the closet, did not come down till you let it outside. Banned, she tells you, from bringing them inside.

You didn't admire her latest creation well enough. She spent such a long time on it, MC! The giant bazooka!! And you gave it a glance and nodded!! Her heart!!

You get too chummy with Solomon. She declares it a crime. His cooking made her see stars during the day, and she woke up a whole day later on top of a bridge. Why do you have to hang out with that loathed sorcerer, MC?

You give her that smug smirk of yours, and she feels weak in the knees. Getting too close to her, acting so nonchalant. Her heart is doing cartwheels in her chest.

Mephistopheles

You forget titles while referring to Lord Diavolo. It's "Your Majesty," and "Lord Diavolo," MC. Don't be so rude towards his sovereign. He'll spend the whole day correcting you.

You ruffle his hair. Such an innocent gesture, but Mephistopheles can't help but stutter when you do it so casually. He's stuttering. Face hot.

You don't read the latest edition of the R.A.D. newspaper. He spent so long proofreading and collecting information, MC. And you still haven't read it. The demon is hurt. Better read it now, MC.

You bring out a chihuahua from your bag and place it on the desk. During a meeting. The tiny thing trembles. He sighs.

Raphael

You sew hastily. He can see the haphazardly put together stitches. Raphael is already gesturing you over, needle in hand. Sit down and let him fix it.

You find yourself in trouble due to the brothers shenanigans. He walks out of Purgatory Hall and sees you upside down on a tree. He sighs. Takes his spear and removes the branch, catches you in his arms.

You manhandle him. Something about the way in which you effectively guide him away from your path by grabbing his hips, or even pulling him closer gets him going.

You stop him from sampling Solomon's cooking. Its a culinary delight, he says. It is assault on the tastebuds, you claim. He's offended, already grabbing a spoonful of his food. Heaven, he sighs.

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goorgeousz · 14 days ago

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girl crush | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first. content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something! word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible) a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽 dividers by @uzmacchiato

masterlist

The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.

Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.

“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.

He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.

Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.

You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.

Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.

Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.

“Beth!”

Oh.

“Oh”

“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”

Oh (but harder).

“That’s… good?”

“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.

“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.

You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.

“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.

“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.

They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?

Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.

So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?

Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.

As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.

When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.

And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.

You felt like an outsider.

The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut.

When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.

Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.

It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.

You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.

When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.

Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.

One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.

Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.

When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.

You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.

You wanted her gone.

The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?

It was maddening. It had to stop.

It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.

When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.

Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.

You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.

Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.

But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.

So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.

It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.

You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.

“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.

Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.

“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.

“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.

Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.

“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”

You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.

Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.”

Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.

“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.

“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.

“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.

Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.

When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.

“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.

“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.

Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.

“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.

Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”

He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.

“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”

“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”

“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.

“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”

And that’s when it hit you: he knew.

“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.

“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.

“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.

“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.

“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”

You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”

“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.

“Stop.”

“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”

“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”

“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”

“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.

“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”

“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”

“And you don’t?”

You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”

“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”

“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”

“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”

You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.

“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.

“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.

Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.

When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.

Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”

Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.

You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.

“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”

Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.

“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.

He blinks. And then chuckles.

When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.

“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.

“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.

“Your name?”

“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”

“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.

“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.

“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.

You try again “It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t.”

That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.

His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?”

“I… there’s a lot going on.” you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”

Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.

“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”

He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.

“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”

“Bullshit.” he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”

“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.”

He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”

“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?”

“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.

“I didn’t, you did.”

“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.

“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would never…”

“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.

“There's no he. It’s Beth.”

Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”

“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”

“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”

Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”

“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.

“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.

“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”

“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”

The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should.

When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.

You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.

A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”

“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”

“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”

Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”

Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.

How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.

“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”

You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.

“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”

“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.

“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.

“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”

“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.

“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”

After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.

He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.

Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”

“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.

“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”

You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.

When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.

“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”

“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.

“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.

“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.

“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”

“Jack will see it.”

“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.

“That’s rude. And humiliating.”

“That’s what you get for stealing.”

Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”

“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.

“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.

“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”

You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”

Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna

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