#if you want to plot or something just drop me a line ^^

[angelsuecult]

perfect places | s. crosby

warnings: some language, sex jokes

summary: you and Sidney finally get time to yourselves, the aftermath isn’t pretty.

request: Maybe they go to one of Sid’s games and spotted by paparazzi or for one of his games he has on like pink laces or pink tape on his stick.

word count: 16.9k

a/n: okay so I feel like I strayed kind of far from the request on this one. i think I was just trying to sort of like do some build up/make a nice story for the two of them? I was also listening to you are in love by taylor swift basically on repeat while writing this one so that might explain it. It’s also super long so forgive me on that guys. forgive me original asker, i may have gotten carried away with this one pls don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it/love it/want more, anything really!

previous part | part two

—

Wednesday 

It has been close to 5 weeks now. 

The house smells like garlic and something just shy of burning butter. You’d stepped away from the pan for maybe—maybe—forty-five seconds to grab your daughter’s water cup from the other room, and now the sautéed onions were skating a little too close to the line between golden and scorched. You turned the burner down and stirred them quickly, murmuring a soft, “C’mon, work with me here,” under your breath like the onions could hear you.

Your daughter is in the living room, perched cross-legged on the carpet, narrating a story as her dolls enacted it all. Something about a hockey princess and her dragon friend who lived under the rink. It was cute—adorable, really—and it made the house feel full in a way that distracted from the low fatigue behind your ribs.

And then your phone buzzed on the counter.

You glanced over. Probably a reminder or maybe Owen’s mom finalizing drop-off times. You wiped your hands on a towel and tapped the screen.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. 

Sidney Crosby: How’s your week been? Hope you and the little one are doing great.

You blinked. For a second, the message didn’t quite register. You had to reread it once, twice. Then again, slower.

You hadn’t actually expected to hear from him.

Not really. It wasn’t that you thought he was rude or full of shit—Sidney didn’t come off that way. It was more that well, life was busy. His life especially. The man was a walking headline. With training, press, games, travel, probably a calendar booked for months out. You figured the meet-cute at the gear store and then at the rink had been nice but nothing more. Something to smile about and then file away under “fun moments that don’t go anywhere.”

But there it was. His name on your screen. His words, low-key and friendly. You smiled before you meant to. You: Hi :) we’re good. Someone’s got mystery sauce on her shirt and is telling a story about dragons under hockey rinks. 

You: So you know. Just a regular Wednesday.

He replied fast. Sidney Crosby: That sounds like a solid plot. Does the dragon know how to skate?

You laughed quietly. You: Apparently he was trained by the hockey princess herself.

Sidney Crosby: Smart dragon. Good mentor.A pause. Sidney Crosby: You doing good? How’s everything been since Little Penguins?

You leaned against the counter, phone still in hand, onions now perfectly golden. You stirred them absentmindedly while texting back, your thumb hovering as you paused to find the right words.

You: We’re great. She’s still buzzing from it. Talks about it like she’s been drafted by the Pens. You?

His reply made your stomach do a little flip. Sidney Crosby: Glad to hear it. I’ve been good. Busy, but not bad busy. 

Sidney Crosby: I’ve been meaning to text you, just didn’t want to bother you while things were hectic.

You bit your lip, smile twitching again.

You: You wouldn’t have bothered me. Promise.

He replied right away.

Sidney Crosby: Good to know. I’ve been thinking about you.

Your chest fluttered, breath catching in your throat just a little. You tried to keep it cool.

You: Oh yeah? Hope it was all good thoughts.

Sidney Crosby: Only the good kind.

Sidney Crosby: Wanted to see if maybe you’d want to grab dinner Friday? Just us. I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Your heart skipped. No—actually flipped. You stared at the screen, rereading the message at least three times before you even registered your daughter was at your side talking to you again.

“Mommy? I drew you a dragon,” she said, holding up her notebook proudly.

You blinked and turned around, clearing your throat. “Oh, baby, it’s beautiful.” You kissed the top of her head, smiling softly. “I love the wings.”

“They’re sparkly,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Even though I didn’t have glitter. Can I have a snack?”

“In a minute. Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, distracted now. Because your brain was still chewing on one thing:

I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Dinner. With him. This Friday.

You hesitated.

You’d already promised your daughter she could go over to Owen’s that afternoon. She’d been talking about it all week. And you were supposed to stay for a little while—chat with Owen’s mom, hang around until they were fully settled and playing nice. She’d been talking about it all week, literally had a countdown going. Two more sleeps till Owen’s!

You didn’t want to back out. Your girl counted on you to be steady. And maybe it was silly, but single mom guilt was just this constant shadow at your heels. It crept in during quiet moments and whispered things like don’t be selfish and she should always come first and is one night out really worth missing something for her?

So you didn’t reply to Sid right away.

Your thumb hovered over the reply box, and then you locked your phone instead.

Goddammit.

You wiped your hands again and grabbed your phone again, unlocking it, swiping out of the conversation and scrolling to the contact labeled Michelle—your best friend’s name.

You hit call.

“Hey,” Michelle answered on the second ring, over the sound of her dog barking in the background.

“I need advice,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And maybe permission to be a selfish bitch.”

Michelle immediately sighed. “Oh no. What did sweet girl do now?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “She’s perfect. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“That’s not news.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Okay so, remember Sidney? Hockey guy? Kid whisperer? Weirdly charming for someone who probably owns like eight matching suits and drinks protein shakes for fun?”

“You mean Sidney Crosby. The one you swore was just flirting for fun? Yeah, I remember.”

“Well. He texted me.”

Michelle went silent for a second, then: “Okay. Start from the top. Slowly. With details.”

You explained everything, from the text while you were making dinner to the sudden dinner Friday invite. You didn’t leave anything out. Not even the part where you felt like a giant jackass for even thinking about ditching your kid for a date, even a one-off, even with someone who maybe made you laugh more than you had in months.

“So say yes,” Michelle said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But the playdate—”

“She’ll be at Owen’s. She’s not gonna notice if you’re gone for like, two hours.”

“She might—”

“She won’t,” Michelle cut you off. “You’re allowed to have a goddamn life. You know that, right? Like you’re not chained to the hockey mom bleachers 24/7.”

You sighed. “It’s just… the guilt, you know?”

“I get it,” Michelle said, voice softening. “But she’s got you like, ninety-nine percent of the time. She knows she’s loved. She knows you’re her person. And hell, she’s five. If anything, she’s gonna forget you’re gone the second Owen pulls out a Barbie with a missing leg and calls it a zombie.”

You laughed, despite yourself.

“And let’s be honest,” Michelle added, “you’ve been talking about this man like he hung the moon since you met him at the gear store. You literally called me to say his forearms should be illegal.”

“His forearms should be illegal.”

“Exactly. So go let them ruin your life for a night. Worst case, you eat good food and get a story. Best case—your daughter gets a hockey stepdad and we get free tickets.”

You groaned. “I hate how reasonable you sound right now.”

“You deserve this, hon. It’s okay to want someone to look at you like you’re not just the snack-bag handler and the bedtime enforcer. Let him take you to dinner. Plus it’s not like he’s some random guy.”

Because yeah. It wasn’t just anyone asking.

It was the guy who’d helped you pick out shin guards and made you take phone notes like you were eighty. The guy who remembered your kid’s face—and yours. The guy who made it easy to laugh.

Your thumb hovered over the message thread again.

You were nervous. But you were excited, too.

So finally, you tapped back into your messages with Sidney. Read his last text again. Felt that flutter return.

You: I promised my kiddo a playdate Friday so I might be dropping her off late afternoon, but… if you’re still willing, I think I could be convinced.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

You held your breath.

Sidney Crosby: That sounds a lot like a yes.

You smiled.

You: That sounds a lot like cockiness.

Sidney Crosby: You’d know. 

You warmed all the way to your ears.

Sidney Crosby: Can’t wait to see you.

Michelle was still on the line.

“Well?” she asked.

You grinned. “I think I have a date Friday.”

“Hell yeah, you do.”

You stare at your phone for a second longer than necessary, dinner still sitting on the stove.

Then you tap out a quick message to Lauren, Owen’s mom. Your dinner plans with Sidney are suddenly very real, and you're kinda spiraling. Your kid’s singing a slightly off-key version of “Let It Go” from the bathroom, and you’re trying not to chicken out. So instead of overthinking it, you finally just type.

You: Hey! Super random, but is it still okay if I drop her off Friday afternoon for that playdate with Owen?

No context. You don’t mention why. You toss your phone on the counter like it burned you, turn the heat down on the stove, and grab a dishrag to clean up the mess like a functioning adult.

Your phone dings about a minute later.

Lauren: Um yes, of course!! Don’t worry, we’re all set. She can stay as long as you need.

You exhale. Relief. You’re about to text her back a quick thank you when your phone dings again.

Lauren: …Wait.

Lauren: Are you going on a date?

Shit.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. If you lie, she’ll probably find out anyway—either from your daughter telling Owen, or you just cracking because you’re terrible at lying. You’ve gotten close over the last few weeks; you text almost every day. She’s been there. And you trust her.

You: maybe?

You add a grimacing emoji. Then a shrug. Then delete both and just send the word.

You: Yes.

Another ding.

Lauren: OMG STOP.

Lauren: This is so exciting. Who is he??

Lauren: Wait wait. Is he a hot hockey dad?? Tell me he is.

You groan.

You: I’m not telling.

Lauren: Oh my goddddd it is one?? I knew something was going on at the Little Pens.

You cover your face.

You: I hate you.

Lauren: You do not. I’m so happy for you. You deserve this!! You never go out. You’ve earned this. Moms deserve sex too, babe.

You: WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT SEX

Lauren: Oh please. If you don’t at least consider it, I might be more disappointed than Owen when he found out goalie goals are rare.

You: Okay well if I do end up in his bed, I will let you know.

Lauren: You better. Full report. Details. DICK. STATS.

You: You’re going to hell.

Lauren: I’ll see you there, but you’ll be walking bowlegged so I’ll win.

You toss your phone face-down on the counter like that might help cool the blush creeping into your face.

Not that that’s what the night is about. You’re not even sure what the night is about. It’s just dinner. Just dinner with a guy you maybe haven’t stopped thinking about since he taught your daughter all about hockey and then turned around and asked you out.

No big deal.

Right?

You make it through dinner with your little one without your head exploding. She's in a chattery, giddy mood—spilling juice and telling you about how Owen says he’s gonna teach her how to “slide into the net like a penguin on his belly,” which frankly sounds like an ER trip waiting to happen.

Right before bedtime, sweet girl gets an idea, "Can we pick out my outfit for Owen’s house on Friday?"

"Sure, lovebug."

You try not to think about Sidney. You really do. But as you help your kid rifle through her drawers, all you can see in your head is his smile at the rink, that voice telling you he’d see you around, the text that surprised the hell out of you, and your dumbass grin when you said yes.

Your daughter picks out a shirt with glittery hearts on it and her favorite striped overalls.

“He’s gonna think I look cool,” she says.

You laugh. “He’s gonna be blown away.”

And you? You’re kinda feeling the same way. About someone else.

Thursday

The morning started like most of them did—too early, too chaotic, and way too dependent on the second cup of coffee you hadn’t even made yet. Just you and your girl, sleep still heavy in both your eyes, the kitchen too quiet aside from the soft clinking of breakfast and lunch prep. 

You stood at the kitchen counter in an old t-shirt—oversized, a little frayed, and soft from a hundred washes—and stared blankly at your daughter’s lunchbox like it had personally offended you. Her Disney princess thermos was already packed, and a granola bar was poking out of the side pocket like a tongue sticking out in mockery.

"Mommy," your daughter called from down the hall, “I can’t find the other sock with the kitty on it!”

“Check under your bed, baby!” you called back, sealing a sandwich into a ziplock. "Or the couch! Or maybe it's hiding with my last ounce of sanity!"

“Don’t know where sanity is,” she yelled, the word sounding all kinds of wrong coming from her tiny voice. “But the sock’s not under the bed!”

You chuckled under your breath and finally gave in, abandoning the last grape you were cutting in half to go join the hunt. Sock retrieved from the crack between the bed and the wall. Victory achieved.

Together, you walked back into the kitchen for a quick breakfast. Your daughter sat cross-legged at the counter in her school clothes while she demolished a bowl of Cheerios and raspberries.

You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes skimming the sticky note you’d slapped on the fridge the night before—a running list of things to pack for tomorrow, playdate logistics, your dinner plans, pick-up arrangements with Michelle. You’d been up late texting her and Lauren after finally responding to Sidney, your stomach tangled in a mix of nerves and disbelief. And now it was Thursday morning, which meant tomorrow was The Day.

“Hey, baby,” you said, voice still a little scratchy as you leaned on the counter across from her. “You remember how I told you about Owen’s tomorrow?”

She looked up, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk. “Mhm?”

“I was thinking,” you continued, kneeling down in front of her to put her feet into her shoes, “after school tomorrow, I’ll drop you off at his house for a little playdate, like we talked about. And then later, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come pick you up around seven-thirty, and she’ll bring you back to her place for a little while. Just for an hour or two. Then I’ll come get you when I’m done with dinner, okay?”

“Dinner?” she repeated, blinking. “Are you having dinner with Owen too?”

You smiled. “No, sweetheart. I’m gonna meet a friend for dinner tomorrow.”

Her little brow furrowed. “So… you’re not takin’ me to Owen’s?”

Your heart did a little flip. “No, no—baby, I am. I’m picking you up from school like always. I’m taking you to Owen’s. And then after you play for a bit, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come get you.”

She tilted her head, clearly trying to piece the sequence together in that curious way she always did, lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “But… why?”

You stifled a grin, because of course she’d ask. You leaned forward, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Because I’m gonna go meet a friend for dinner. Just for a little while.”

“Ohhhh,” she nodded slowly, chewing on the corner of her lip like she was mulling it all over in her head. “Okay.”

You watched her face carefully. “You cool with that, bug?”

“Yeah,” she said, but then after a second, “Wait… who are you having dinner with?”

You hesitated, then just gave her a warm little smile and said, “A friend.”

That didn’t satisfy her. Not even a little.

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes like a tiny detective. “Like a grown-up friend?”

“Yes,” you answered carefully.

“Like… a boy friend?”

“Sweetheart,” you said with a little laugh, turning to grab your coffee off the counter as you prepped for the next round of kid questions. “Why are you interrogating me like you’re the FBI?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Is it Auntie Michelle?”

“No, babe.”

“Uncle Danny?” (Michelle’s brother).

You laughed, shaking your head. “Definitely not. Uncle Danny would make me split fries and then not eat his half.”

“Uncle Alex?” (Michelle’s Boyfriend).

“Worse,” you said dramatically, “he’d make me go to that taco place that gives me stomach aches.”

She giggled, hand clapped over her mouth. “Then who?!”

You could feel it coming before she even said it. The question that always felt like a little paper cut.

“Are you gonna see my daddy?”

It landed in the space between you, just quiet enough to take the air out of your lungs for a second. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just curious. Just hopeful.

You exhaled through your nose, gently brushing your thumb over the back of her little hand.

“No, baby,” you said softly. “I’m not.”

She didn’t get upset. She rarely did anymore. Her disappointment was always gentle, quiet, like the way a balloon slowly deflates. You saw it cross her face—a tiny flicker of something—but then she perked up again, the way five-year-olds do when the gravity of things slips just slightly out of reach.

“Oh.” She stared down at her cereal for a second, then looked back up with big eyes. “Will you bring me ice cream?”

You barked out a laugh, louder than expected. “Absolutely I will.”

“Pink kind.”

“You got it. Pink as pink can be, the way you like it.”

“And a spoon.”

“Of course a spoon,” You said, pulling her into a tight hug, “What kind of monster do you take me for?”

She snuggled in, grinning against your neck. “A grown-up one.”

You tickled her under the arm, she giggled for a second before squirming away and bouncing off of her seat and toward the front door like the weight of the world had been lifted from her tiny shoulders.

You watched her go, your chest twisting with something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe relief. Maybe both tangled up in that knot you’d been carrying for the past five years.

You didn’t talk about her father often. He wasn’t in the picture. Never really had been. And your daughter never asked about him until she did, and when she did, it always hit you like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You shook it off, grabbed your keys and coffee, and followed her out the door. Because life didn’t slow down just because your heart felt a little bruised.

“And I get to stay longer than last time!” she cheered, kicking her feet excitedly.

“Yup,” you smiled as she climbed into the car. “You get a whole afternoon.”

“And you’re gonna go eat dinner?”

“Mmhm.”

She kicked again. “With your friend?”

“Yup.”

She paused. “Is he nice?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said it was a he?”

She gasped dramatically. “It is!”

You groaned. “You little sneak.”

She burst into laughter, her tiny voice ringing like a bell. “I hope he brings you flowers.”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause if he doesn’t I’m gonna be mad at him.”

You bit your bottom lip, eyes misting just a little. “Okay, tough girl. I’ll let him know he better come correct.”

“Yeah,” she said, her little voice so serious. “Or I won’t share my ice cream.”

The drive to school is a blur of her singing to the radio, asking if zebras wear pajamas, and reminding you to pack her purple leggings for tomorrow “in case Owen wants to see her do her spin.”

You drop her off with a hug that lasts a little longer than usual.

And then you're alone in your car, the reality of tomorrow settling somewhere in your chest like a weight and a spark all at once. 

You don’t even make it out of the school parking lot before your phone starts buzzing in the cup holder, Michelle’s name lighting up your screen. She’s lucky you love her.

You answer with a dry, “What?”

“Oh, don’t start with me,” she fires back instantly. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

You snort, backing out of your parking space as sunlight spills through the windshield. “Jesus, I don’t know. I was gonna try and dig around in my closet and see if I could make magic happen.”

Michelle makes a disgusted sound on the other end. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. You are not pulling some six-year-old clearance dress from the back of your closet for your first date with Sidney fucking Crosby.”

You sigh. “Do you hear how crazy that sentence sounds?”

“Yes,” she says without pause. “And I stand by it. You’re dating a national treasure, babe. You need to look like one. Get your ass to the mall. I’m already here.”

“You’re already—? Michelle.”

“Too late. I’m holding a coffee hostage for you. I will drink it out of pure spite if you make me wait.”

You groan but it’s hopeless. Of course you’re going. Of course she’s already there. She always is.

“Fine. But I’m not buying anything,” you grumble.

“We’ll see.”

You meet up in the parking lot half an hour later, both of you armed with reusable coffee cups and a sense of purpose—hers for fashion, yours to defend your closet’s honor.

“So what’s the vibe? Hot mom on the prowl? Shy suburban MILF? Undercover bombshell?”

“Jesus, Michelle.” You laugh, adjusting the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m just trying to make it through the day without stress-sweating.”

“Sexy and casual it is.”

You wander the center together, weaving in and out of shops, but before either of you so much as touch a grown-up blouse, you’re already lugging three shopping bags. All full of stuff for your kid.

Michelle squints at you over her cup. “You realize we’re supposed to be shopping for you, right?”

You shrug, holding up a tiny glitter-covered hoodie. “But look at this! She’d lose her mind. And these leggings? The little stars on the knees?”

Michelle narrows her eyes. “You are impossible.”

“She’s five. This is peak adorable clothing age. I’m just trying to seize the moment.”

She grabs your elbow and yanks you into a store that has nothing even remotely glittery or pint-sized. The mannequins are wearing things with underwire and lace and heeled boots that could end a grown man.

“Now,” Michelle says, eyes scanning a rack of silky tops. “We’re not leaving until you find something that makes you feel confident.”

You toe the edge of the plush fitting room rug and sigh. “Okay, but I need to tell you something first.”

Michelle side-eyes you. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Because if you are, I am not helping you baby-proof your house again. I will, you know I will but that’s besides the point.”

“No,” you laugh. “Not unless immaculate conception is real.”

Michelle grins. “Knew that man gave off holy dick energy.”

You groan and lean your head against the dressing room mirror. “Okay, seriously though. This morning, when I was getting her ready for school, she asked if I was going to see her dad.”

Michelle’s face hardens instantly. “Really?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I told her no, obviously. She was just curious. Said it kind of casually. But I just—I don’t know.”

Michelle’s silent for a moment, arms crossed as she leans against the mirror next to you. “He always shows up again, you know. When you’re finally doing okay. Especially if he thinks you’re seeing someone.”

“I know.” You sigh. “It’s like he’s got radar. He’ll go quiet for months, maybe longer, and then boom—he texts or calls or leaves a voicemail about ‘wanting to see her.’ Like clockwork.”

“Because he doesn’t actually want to see her. He wants access to you.”

The way she says it makes your stomach churn. Because she’s right. Every single time.

“He’s not gonna know,” you say, more to yourself than her. “I’m just grabbing dinner. It’s not serious.”

Michelle arches a brow. “With Sidney Crosby. Yeah, no one’s gonna catch wind of that.”

You rub your temples. “God. I hate this. I hate feeling like I have to ask permission to move on. Like every time I do something for me, I feel like I’m betraying her somehow.”

Michelle softens. “Babe, she’s not gonna suffer because you have a life. You’re not ditching her for a week in Cabo. You’re going to dinner. And you’ve made sure she’s safe and happy and with people who love her. That’s all she needs.”

You nod, eyes hot but holding back tears. “She asked for ice cream. After asking about her dad.”

Michelle lets out a laugh, loud and sharp. “See? She’s fine. She just wanted sprinkles and emotional security.”

You laugh too, the sound breaking through the heavy feeling in your chest.

“She’s lucky,” Michelle says, plucking a silky wine-colored wrap top off the hanger and handing it to you. “She’s got a mom who does everything for her, who puts her first, even when it costs her. And now she’s got a chance to see that her mom is also a person. With a life. And a beautiful man who wants to take her out.”

You roll your eyes but smile, holding the top up to your chest in the mirror. “Think he’ll like it?”

Michelle grins. “Bitch, he’s gonna lose his mind.”

You exhale slowly. “Okay. Dinner. I can do dinner.”

“Damn right you can,” Michelle says, already fishing around for matching heels. “Now let’s go find a bra that’ll make your boobs look expensive.”

You groan but follow her deeper into the store, your heart a little lighter. You still don’t know what’s going to happen. 

Twenty minutes later there's a zipper halfway up the back of a slate-blue blouse when your phone buzzes from the little cushioned bench in the corner of the dressing room. You pause, arms lifted awkwardly, blouse hitched halfway up your ribs like you’re in some kind of amateur striptease—glamorous, really—and squint toward the screen lighting up.

Sidney Crosby

You freeze.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware that one boob is definitely just out in the wild. You fix it fast, shimmy the shirt down properly, and fumble to grab your phone with one hand while smoothing the blouse over your stomach with the other.

It’s a simple message.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Just checking if we’re still on for tomorrow? :)

That fucking smiley face. Why is it cute? You hate yourself a little.

You type back quickly, before you can overthink it.

You: Yeah, definitely. Looking forward to it :)

Another smiley. You’re so goddamn embarrassing.

You toss the phone aside on the bench and try to focus on the skirt. It’s a midi thing, stretchy waistband—comfortable enough you don’t feel like you’re being punished but still cute. Michelle had waved it in your face. “Trust me, you’ll thank me when you’re not suffocating in shapewear.”

You’re just smoothing the skirt over your hips when your phone buzzes again.

Sidney Crosby: Nice. I’ll come get you around 7? Or do you want to meet somewhere?

You chew on your lip, thinking. It’d probably be easier to meet, but a bigger part of you—one that you’re trying really hard not to name or psychoanalyze—wants him to come pick you up. There’s something kind of… old-school about it.

You: Come get me? If that’s okay?

Sidney Crosby: Yeah, I’d like that. Send me your address later?

You smile. God, you hate how much you’re smiling. Your cheeks are already warm and your phone’s not even done buzzing.

Sidney Crosby: Also—is this a fancy thing? Should I not show up in jeans like an asshole?

You giggle. Actually giggle. Alone. In a dressing room. Like a teenage idiot.

You: Jeans are perfect. If you show up in a suit I might vomit.

Sidney: Noted. No suits. No vomiting. Sounds like a solid plan.

You're still smiling when the curtain jerks halfway open and Michelle pokes her head in.

“Oh my God, you’re blushing.”

“Jesus, Michelle!” you yelp, yanking the curtain closed again and trying to hide the visible glow of your screen.

“Oh my God,” she repeats, muffled now. “Is that him? Is it Sidney? Are you sexting? Are you telling him what kind of panties you’re wearing?”

“I will smother you with a blouse,” you hiss, trying to hold back laughter.

“You’re totally flustered right now. Like, your voice got all high. It’s like when I texted that hot Pilates instructor and spelled core like an apple core.”

You groan and push the curtain aside, stepping out in the outfit. Michelle immediately gasps like she’s just seen her favorite artist on stage.

“That. That right there. You’re wearing that.”

You glance down. “It’s just a blouse and a skirt.”

“It’s hot without looking like you’re trying to be hot. Which is, ironically, the hottest thing you could do. You just need tights, and new heels.”

You roll your eyes, tugging slightly at the waistband. “I dunno. It feels… almost too good.”

“Exactly. You deserve too good. Especially after dealing with your walking oil spill of an ex.”

“Michelle.”

“What? Am I wrong?”

You sigh, and sit down on the little bench again, grabbing your phone and reading through the texts again like a teenage girl re-reading a crush’s Snap streak.

“He said he’s picking me up at 7. No suits. No vomiting.”

Michelle tilts her head and clutches her chest. “He’s cute and considerate. God, you’re screwed.”

“I know.”

“Hey—listen to me.” She squats down to your level, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re not just someone’s mom. You’re still you. You get to have this. You get to be nervous and flirty and maybe even get laid by someone who actually cares about what gets you off.”

Your face goes hot. “Michelle.”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying. Sidney Crosby’s forearms alone could probably handle things you haven’t experienced since college.”

“Can we not talk about his forearms while I’m in a blouse this thin?”

Michelle cackles and claps her hands together. “This is so fucking fun.”

You shake your head, but you’re laughing now, too.

Your phone buzzes once more.

Sidney Crosby: Should I bring anything?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Michelle peers over your shoulder. “Say, only if it’s wine and strong arms.”

“I will kill you.”

You: Just yourself. And maybe an appetite.

Michelle groans dramatically. “You’re adorable. God help us all.”

You hit send, still smiling like an idiot.

You don’t know what tomorrow’s gonna look like yet. You don’t know how many times you’ll panic or second-guess or feel that sick twist of guilt when you leave your daughter at Owen’s and then Michelle’s. But right now, sitting in a dressing room with the world's most chaotic best friend and a phone full of texts that make your stomach do that stupid fluttery thing, you feel a tiny little flicker of something you haven’t had in a while.

Hope.

And maybe a little horniness. But mostly hope.

For now.

Friday 

It’s a mess of crayons, backpacks, and snack wrappers in the backseat, and somehow your daughter is still talking, even though you’re less than two minutes from Owen’s house. She’s in the middle of a long-winded explanation about how Owen told her yesterday that his big sister has a phone, and he might have seen a video, but he didn’t really watch it, not all of it anyway, because he weren’t supposed to be in her room but he was just getting a book and then it came on and it was only a little bit scary, like not bad scary, just—

“Okay, baby, pause,” you interrupt gently as you put the car in park in front of Owen’s house. “Deep breath.”

She gasps dramatically, inhaling like she’s trying to suck all the air out of the car.

You reach back and brush a stray curl out of her eyes. “Are you excited for tonight?”

She nods so hard her whole body wiggles. “I love Owen’s house. They have a trampoline and a dog and snacks with cheese sauce and—”

“I know, I know,” you laugh, unbuckling her car seat straps. “You’re gonna have the best time. Just try not to start a war in the living room, okay?”

“I never start the war,” she says as you help her out of the car. “It’s Owen. He throws first.”

“Sure,” you say dryly, grabbing her backpack and her water bottle. “That sounds completely believable.”

You walk her up to the front porch, holding her little hand in yours while she bounces at your side like a pinball with legs. You can already hear voices and something crashing—probably a toy, hopefully not glass—on the other side of the door.

Before you even ring the bell, the door swings open, and Owen barrels out in socks like a kid on fire, skidding a little.

“You’re heeeere!” he squeals, launching himself at your daughter.

She shrieks back, drops your hand, and immediately wraps her arms around his neck like she’s reenacting the final scene of a romcom.

“Okay, that’s enough romance,” you mutter, laughing as Owen drags her inside. You follow close behind.

“Owen, shoes!” comes a voice from the kitchen. “I swear to God—”

Lauren appears a second later, holding a juice box in one hand and a half-eaten cheese stick in the other. Her hair’s in a messy bun and she’s wearing a sweatshirt that says Mom of 3, Pray for Me.

“Hey!” she grins, tossing the cheese stick to her own mouth before you even get a word out. “You ready for your hot momnight out?”

You groan. “Don’t call it that.”

“Oh no, we’re calling it exactly that,” she says, grinning wickedly. “Come on, tell me—who is it? Do I know him? Is he a hockey dad? It’s a hockey dad, isn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“You suck,” she whines. “I let you dump your child into my chaos house and you won’t even give me one crumb of gossip?”

You smile and shake your head, watching the two five-year-olds disappear into the den like gremlins. You hear a thud, then maniacal laughter.

“Do I need to send you a waiv—”

“Just send me the bill when they inevitably break a lamp,” you say.

Lauren laughs and sets the juice box on the counter. “But for real, you look cute, Y/N. Like, date cute. Like, panty-worthy cute.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not even dressed for it yet,” you mutter, tugging your jacket closed even though it’s not even cold.

“Oh, come on! I saw you at the rink the other day. I saw that look you gave one of the coaches.”

You blink. “What look?”

“That one! The ‘I’m trying not to be horny in front of children’ look.”

“I’m gonna scream,” you mumble.

She gasps like she just cracked the code. “It is one of the coaches!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to!”

You point a warning finger at her. “Lauren. I’m serious. You don’t get to know anything yet. You’ll be the first to know if I end up married or murdered, I promise.”

She dramatically gasps again, one hand flying to her chest. “You promise-promise?”

“Swear on my bra drawer.”

“Oh, wow,” she grins. “That is serious.”

You both laugh. It’s loud and real, the kind that feels good in your chest. It’s nice.

She leans on the doorframe. “Well. I’m proud of you, babe. For real. It’s hard, you know? Letting yourself be a person again.”

You nod quietly. You do know. Maybe a little too well.

She nudges your elbow. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, if he hurts you, I will castrate him with a butter knife.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

She glances toward the playroom and lowers her voice. “Now go. Before you lose your nerve and end up back here with a tub of Goldfish and a kid in your lap.”

You smile. It’s small, but it feels solid. “Thanks, Laur.”

“Anytime. Now go get laid or fall in love or both. I expect a full debrief tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes and head back toward the car, heart hammering a little harder with every step.

You ended up driving home slowly, as if that would somehow slow down time. You probably ended up wasting like thirty minutes.

And your house still smells like the strawberry bubble bath your kid used the night before—faint but sweet. You’d barely made it through the door before you were stripping out of your jeans and sweater, heading straight for the shower. Hot water, eucalyptus body wash, and the slight panic of holy shit, this is happening, it’s really happening. Sidney Crosby is picking you up in a few hours for an actual date, and you are not okay.

You wrap yourself in your robe, hair towel still piled on your head, skin warm from the heat. You should be resting. Maybe sitting down, putting on an audiobook, eating something small. But your nerves don’t care. They don’t want calm. They want chaos.

So, naturally, you start cleaning the house.

You’re halfway through wiping down your already clean kitchen counters—again—when the front door opens.

“Are you—oh my god. Y/N.” Michelle’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re scrubbing the counter? In a robe? Towel in your hair?”

You glance over your shoulder. “I’m being productive.” 

“You’re being insane,” she says, dropping her purse onto the entry table and kicking her shoes off. “I’ve never seen someone try to clean anxiety off their kitchen island before, but you’re setting a new bar.”

“I just needed to do something.”

“Yeah, like relax?” She pads over to you and plucks the sponge out of your hand. “Sidney is not going to care if your counters are spotless.”

“I know that.” You throw your towel on the couch and exhale. “It’s not about him. I’m just—I don’t know. My brain is going a million miles a minute. I’m excited. But also nervous. And a little nauseous.”

Michelle grins and flops onto your couch. “You’re adorable when you panic. So where’s Lover Boy taking you?”

You grab a glass of water and your phone. “Here, he sent me this last night.”

She sits up eagerly, snatching your phone and reading it out loud. “‘Nice little private spot, they’ve got great food, super lowkey, so we’re not splashed all over the front page of dumb hockey blogs. Are we still on for 7?’” She looks up at you. “Oh, he’s good. He’s really good.”

You groan and snatch your phone back, clutching it to your chest. “Why does that message make me feel like I’m seventeen and going to prom?”

“Because he’s Sidney fucking Crosby and he’s into you.” Michelle wiggles her eyebrows. “God, I still can’t believe it. You met him buying pink skates for your kid. That’s a rom-com origin story.”

“Yeah, well, I hope it’s not a rom-com ending where I get stood up and end up crying in a diner.”

Michelle snorts. “Please. He’s obsessed with you. You’re golden.”

You nod, then glance at the clock. “I packed her overnight bag, by the way, in case she gets too tired after your ‘niece bonding time.’”

“Oh we’re going hard tonight,” Michelle says with a wink. “Movies, nail polish, a dance party, maybe a pillow fort. She’s gonna be too busy living her best life to miss you.”

You smile at that, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Of course. She’s my favorite tiny human.” Michelle eyes you for a second. “Speaking of being ready for all scenarios... please tell me you shaved.”

You choke on your water. “Michelle!”

“What? Just in case! You never know where the night will go.”

“It’s a first date!”

“Yeah, with Sidney Crosby. If you don’t think that man is capable of smooth-talking his way into your panties by dessert, you’re in denial.”

You roll your eyes and head toward your closet. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m just saying, if the opportunity arises, you don’t want to be caught with a winter forest situation down there.”

You groan again but laugh anyway, following Michelle into your bedroom and to the closet where she immediately starts rifling through your clothes.

“This is date night. No mom jeans. No oversized sweaters. No ‘I gave up on life at Target’ shirts. We agreed.”

You cross your arms, still in your robe. “I want to be comfortable.”

“Sexy and comfortable can coexist, Y/N. That’s why God invented wrap blouses and stretch fabric. And why we bought you that outfit.”

She starts pulling hangers out one by one—rejected looks piling on the bed. You shoot down at least five of her suggestions for being too revealing, one for being too sheer, and one because, in your words, “my tits are spilling out like an avalanche, Michelle.”

“That’s the point!” she argues.

“Not tonight it isn’t!”

Eventually, you both settle on a wine-colored blouse, soft and silky, with just enough of a dip in the neckline to feel scandalous without being too much. You pair it with your new black skirt that reaches mid-thigh, tights, and a simple gold necklace. 

Michelle gives you a once-over and sighs. “You look fucking stunning.”

“I look like I’m about to pass out from nerves.”

“You look like someone who’s about to have a night she’s gonna replay in her head for months. Maybe years.”

You give her a pointed look. “Please don’t jinx it.”

“I’m not. I’m manifesting,” she says, walking over to fix a stray piece of your hair. “Now go do your makeup and try not to second guess everything.”

You nod, your stomach tight, heart pounding—but you’re smiling. You can't help it.

You check your phone. 6:28 p.m. You slowly make your way to the bathroom.

Sidney’s going to be here in thirty minutes.

Oh God.

You're barely starting to put on mascara when your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. You freeze, wand mid-air, one eye closed like you're halfway into a stroke that'll definitely leave a smudge if you're not careful.

Your brain jumps to the worst immediately. Maybe your daughter’s sick. Maybe she’s sad and wants to come home. Maybe Owen bit her—he did that once during a disagreement over who got the last orange Popsicle.

You lean down and squint at the screen.

Lauren: Hey! Just passing on a message from a certain bossy little lady—she says, and I quote: “Tell Mommy to make sure he doesn’t forget the flowers. And my pink ice cream. Not white. Not purple. Pink.”

You blink.

Then laugh.

A surprised, full-body kind of laugh, the kind that bubbles up out of nowhere and makes your chest warm.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, still smiling as you pick up the phone to type back.

You: She’s too much 

You: I’ll do my best but I make no promises about the flowers. The ice cream though—non-negotiable.

Lauren: Good luck. She’s keeping track like it’s her business. You’re gonna get grilled the second she sees you. I’d prepare a PowerPoint.

You: Oh I’m already mentally preparing my closing statements. She’s a tiny attorney with pigtails and pink rain boots.

You pause a second, glancing at yourself in the mirror—one eye made up, one still bare. Your reflection looks like some chaotic mid-makeover movie montage. Hair pinned up with an emergency claw clip, your phone in hand and your cheeks still a little warm from laughing.

Lauren: So... hockey dad, huh?

You groan under your breath.

You: Lauren. No.

Lauren: PLEASE TELL ME. Is it one from the rink? The one with the jawline that could cut glass?

You drag a hand down your face, abandoning your mascara wand entirely.

You: Not confirming or denying anything. Just let a girl live.

Lauren: Live your life, babe! But you owe me details next time I see you. I’m talking who, what, where, if he smells good, and what his handshake says about his soul.

You snort, toss the phone down, and mutter, “She’s worse than Michelle.”

From the other room, Michelle calls out, “What’d I do?”

You grin, shaking your head as you go back to your makeup. “Nothing. Just getting bullied from multiple angles now.”

Michelle appears in the doorway with a bottle of sparkling water and a bag of gummy bears. “Ooh, was that Lauren?”

“Yup.”

“She know?”

“She knows something,” you say, adjusting the angle of the mirror as you finally finish your lashes. “Apparently sweet girl passed along a note.”

Michelle plops down on the bed. “Oh god. What’d she say?”

You spin around with a smile. “To make sure he brings flowers. And doesn’t forget her pink ice cream.”

Michelle wheezes, practically choking on a gummy bear. “That’s your child. Right there. A tiny romantic with a superiority complex.”

“She’s insane. Like, how does she even know to ask for flowers? I swear I didn’t teach her that.”

“Duh,” Michelle says, tossing a gummy into her mouth. “Disney. The princesses always get flowers and rides in magical vehicles.”

“Well shit,” you mutter. “Now I do have to marry him or she’s gonna think I got rejected by Prince Charming.”

Michelle laughs so hard she nearly rolls off the bed. “Don’t worry, babe. He’s way hotter than Prince Charming. You’re like... the hot queen who seduces him and then inherits the kingdom.”

You make a face. “Why do your compliments always feel slightly illegal?”

“I specialize in morally grey hype,” she says, then lifts her chin. “Anyway, did you text him about the flowers?”

“Oh my god, no. I’m not gonna text Sidney Crosby and be like, ‘Hey, bring flowers or my five-year-old will fight you.’”

“I don’t know,” Michelle grins. “Sounds like peak parenting to me.”

You just shake your head and go back to finishing your makeup, still smiling.

The next ten minutes pass with a weird sort of anxious energy—too much time to sit and think, not enough to nap or relax or even get anything productive done. You double check your bag twice. Reapply lip balm four times. Spray perfume, then wonder if you overdid it and spend ten minutes debating if you need to shower again.

Michelle eventually chases you out of the bathroom with a hairbrush like she’s wrangling a feral cat. “For the love of god, sit the hell down and breathe. You look perfect. You smell like a grown woman who knows what she’s doing. Stop sabotaging yourself.”

You sink into the couch, heart rattling like it's stuck in your throat.

Michelle hands you a small pouch. “Here. Lip gloss, blotting paper, mints. And an emergency condom.”

You nearly choke. “Michelle—”

“Just in case!” she sings. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Liar.”

You laugh, too nervous to argue. “I really haven’t. I mean, yeah, he’s... I mean look at him. But like. Not tonight.”

Michelle nods slowly. “Totally get it. You just wanna see if the vibe matches the look. Respect. Chemistry check first, horizontal tango later.”

You toss a throw pillow at her as she heads out of your front door, laughing despite yourself.

And then your house is quiet for the first time in what feels like weeks. No squeaky shoes darting down the hallway. No Disney songs humming through your phone speaker. No tiny voice asking how long it takes for ice cream to melt or how many dogs is too many dogs.

You kind of hate how still it feels.

Your fingers play with the edge of the couch, your heels dangling from your toes, heart climbing steadily up your throat while the digital clock on the oven ticks toward 6:50. 

The mirror in the hallway doesn’t lie. You feel good. You look good. 

And he’s not late. But you check your phone for the hundredth time anyway. Nothing.

And then there’s a knock. A soft, measured three-tap knock that somehow manages to startle the absolute hell out of you.

You freeze. “Jesus Christ.”

Your heart kicks up again.

You smooth your blouse, exhale once, then twice, and open the door.

Sidney’s standing there.

It takes less than a second for your chest to tighten, for all the nerves to snap into something fizzy and warm, crawling straight up your spine. He’s wearing a button-up and dark jeans, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair just a little tousled like he kept running his hand through it in the car. And in his hand—a bouquet.

Your mouth parts slightly. “You brought me flowers?”

His mouth quirks. “I did.”

You take them, stunned into smiling. Soft pinks and cream-colored blooms, wrapped with a small ribbon. You can’t even speak for a second because the smell hits you all at once—fresh and summery and kind of perfect.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says quickly, rubbing a thumb along his jaw. “But they looked nice.”

“They are,” you say, glancing down at them again. “They’re really beautiful. Thank you. Come in—I want to put them in water before we go.”

“Sure.”

He steps inside, slow and careful like he’s taking the space in respectfully. You can feel him behind you as you head into the kitchen, opening the cabinet above the sink for your one real vase—the tall clear one with the subtle twist in the glass. You fill it with water, trim the stems like your mom taught you, and set it on the counter.

“They match your place,” he says behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He nods at the flowers. “You. Them. All of it. It goes together.”

You laugh a little, not quite believing he just said that out loud. “You’re such a sap.”

He grins, unapologetic.

You watch him look around while you fuss with the vase just a little more than you need to. He’s not nosy—he doesn’t touch anything—but you can tell he’s paying attention. His eyes pause on the living room shelf with your daughter’s framed art project, the throw blanket crumpled on the corner of the couch, the light blue soccer ball tucked halfway under the TV stand.

And then he reaches the fridge.

“You guys got a lot going on here.”

You walk over, following his gaze. There are photos—her at Halloween as a tiny Elsa, her as a newborn, her beaming at a playground slide, the two of you with whipped cream mustaches. Scribbled drawings in crayon and marker and stickers shaped like stars. And in the middle, stuck by a magnet shaped like a cat, is a small sticky note in bright pink with the messy handwriting of your 5 year old:

“pink ice cream!!pleas thank ulovumommy”

You laugh. “That’s been there since yesterday. She made me promise.”

Sidney leans in, smiling. “What flavor is pink ice cream?”

“She doesn’t know sometimes it’s strawberry, sometimes it bubblegum. If it’s pink, it counts.”

He chuckles. “Smart.” 

There’s a beat. A warm silence. You look up and he’s still looking around, but softer now. Thoughtfully.

“You got a nice place,” he says finally.

“Thanks. It’s home.”

He nods, and then—almost like he can feel you growing too aware of the moment—he pulls his keys from his pocket.

“You ready?”

You glance down. Your shoes are on. Bag in hand. Your kid’s safe. Michelle has her overnight bag. You double-checked everything before Sidney even got there.

“I think so.”

“Good.” He opens the door for you. “Let’s go have dinner, pretty girl.”

You blink. Try not to smile like an idiot. Hard fail.

Outside, the sun’s hanging low, there are warm shadows across the sidewalk. His car’s parked out front—black, clean, low profile. He walks you to the passenger side and opens the door for you, which feels so absurdly nice you don’t even try to make a joke.

You settle in, smoothing your hands down your thighs. He closes the door gently, then walks around to the driver’s side.

You watch him slide into the seat beside you, glance over with a small smile, and say—

“Just so you know, I was early. Not because I was trying to be cool or anything.”

You raise a brow. “Then why?”

He shrugs. “Was excited. Figured being early was better than pacing around in my kitchen like a dumbass.”

You laugh.

It’s easy. And steady. And not rushed at all.

Not even a little.

The car falls quiet in the way late summer evenings are quiet—soft and golden, windows cracked enough to let the breeze in, the hum of the road a backdrop instead of a barrier. You fidget with the case of your phone, not because you’re uncomfortable, but because your brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that this is real. That he showed up early. That he brought you flowers. That now you’re sitting in his passenger seat like some alternate universe version of yourself who does stuff like this.

It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t make your skin crawl or your palms sweat. It’s the kind that fills in naturally between soft bursts of conversation, where the world passes by out the window and you can just exist in it without feeling like you have to perform.

Sidney keeps one hand on the wheel, relaxed, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Occasionally, he glances your way—quick flicks of his eyes like he’s making sure you’re still good. Still with him. And you are. You definitely are.

The sky outside slowly turns to that deep, navy kind of blue, just before full dark as you move. Streetlights flicker on. Shops glow warm behind their windows. And every so often, you catch the scent of his cologne again—something clean and just the slightest bit woodsy—and it tugs something low and soft in your gut.

“You always this quiet?” he asks after a few minutes.

You glance over, smirking. “Only when I’m trying to decide if my date is a serial killer.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

“Do you always offer women rides in cars that look like they came off a spy movie set?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m just saying—” you gesture vaguely at the sleek dashboard “—this feels like the kind of car where you press a button and it launches rockets or something.”

“Unfortunately, the rocket package was extra,” he says seriously. “I went with heated seats instead.”

You steal a glance out the window. “You always drive yourself?”

His eyes flick toward you. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Who I’m trying to impress.”

You smile. “So—me, huh?”

“Obviously.”

You laugh softly, letting your head fall back against the seat for a second. “Good to know I’m high on the priority list.”

“You’re at the top,” he says without hesitation, his voice low, sincere.

You glance at him again, heart tugging a little. That boyish grin he gives you in return nearly makes your chest cave in.

The rest of the drive is a mix of soft music and half-spoken jokes. He makes fun of your GPS voice (“Why is she British?”), and you threaten to reprogram it to a cartoon chipmunk just to mess with him. He tells you a story about one of the younger guys on his team showing up late to skate because he got locked inside his own apartment’s garage, and you laugh too hard, snorting once, which earns you an exaggerated look.

“Don’t judge me,” you say, covering your face with one hand.

He grins. “It’s a good laugh.”

You don’t reply to that. You can’t. You’re too busy trying to calm the heat blooming all across your chest.

By the time he pulls into the restaurant’s lot—a corner spot tucked behind a small row of trees—you’ve somehow convinced yourself that maybe you can do this. That maybe tonight doesn’t have to go wrong. It’s the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it—no flashy signs, just a small awning and warm amber lights glowing behind frosted windows. Quiet. Discreet.

He throws the car in park and turns to look at you, one hand already reaching for his seatbelt. “Ready?”

You nod. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

He actually leans in to check—eyes scanning your mouth carefully.

“Nope. Just lips.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite the rush of nerves twisting inside you. “Gross.”

He’s already out of the car by the time you’re unbuckling, moving around to your side before you can even reach for the handle. The passenger door swings open and he offers a hand—warm, callused, steady.

You take it and let him help you out. Your fingers linger a second longer than they need to. His thumb brushes the side of yours before he lets go.

Your heels click against the pavement, and his hand stays on the small of your back for just a second longer. It feels good. Secure. And you hate how much you notice it.

The restaurant is—just like the rest of this night—surprisingly you. Not fancy. Not too loud. Just nice. Dim lighting that makes everything a kind of soft gold, like candlelight even though most of the tables have tiny glass lanterns instead of actual flames. There’s a hum of conversation, laughter, the clink of forks on plates. It’s full, but not crowded. 

Friday night. Peak romance hour.

You glance around as you step inside, already cataloging the room like second nature—how many exits, who’s watching who, whether there’s a kid crying in the far corner or if it’s just the sound of silverware.

You’ve been doing this kind of thing for years. Comes with the territory. Mom mode never really switches off.

The host greets you both with a polite smile, but there’s a flicker of recognition behind his eyes when he looks at Sidney. His gaze lingers a beat too long—like he’s trying to figure out where he knows him from—before shaking it off and grabbing two menus.

“Hi there. Reservation?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Under Crosby.”

His eyebrows twitch. Confirmed. But he keeps it cool. “Right this way.”

Sidney walks beside you, close but not crowding. His shoulder brushes yours once, and it leaves your skin buzzing under your blouse. He notices it too. You can feel it.

You’re led to a small round table in the far corner, half-tucked behind a tall planter and shielded slightly from view. Cozy. Private.

Romance-y as hell.

You pull out your chair, about to sit down, but Sidney catches the back of it first and helps ease it out with a small, quiet gesture that feels old-fashioned in the best kind of way. He doesn’t say anything about it. Just does it.

The host sets down the menus and dips his head. “Your server will be right with you.”

Sidney thanks him quietly, and you swear you see the guy glance over his shoulder one more time as he walks off—probably trying to confirm whether or not that is the Sidney Crosby.

“You get that a lot, huh?”

He looks up from unfolding his napkin. “What?”

“The look. Like they’re trying to solve a riddle with your face.”

He tilts his head, then shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“And it doesn’t drive you nuts?”

He leans back a little in his chair, glancing around casually. “Not really. I mean, yeah, it can get annoying. But it’s not personal, you know? It’s just part of it.”

You nod, trying to play it cool. But your fingers tug lightly at your napkin under the table.

But your body’s used to being on alert. It comes with motherhood—hyper-awareness, that constant half-readiness in your muscles. You don’t let your daughter wander. You don’t take your eyes off her in public. You know what it means when someone’s watching a little too long.

And now, it’s not your daughter they’re watching. It’s you.

You take a breath.

His smile is soft. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Watching. Being aware.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re saying I’ve got eyes like a hawk?”

“I’m saying you’ve got mom eyes. That’s way scarier.”

You laugh—because he’s not wrong—and tilt your head. 

He smirks. “I play in front of thousands of people every night. But you? Yeah, you’re intimidating.”

You scoff. “I’m literally one person.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

Your cheeks burn. You look down at your menu, trying to hide the stupid grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. But you can still feel his eyes on you—steady, warm, a little amused.

“I feel like you like flustering me,” you mutter.

“I think you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, flipping the menu up like a shield. “Jesus. You’re worse than Michelle.”

He laughs—low and genuine.

“You’re gonna have to tell me more about her,” he says, scanning his own menu. “She sounds like trouble.”

“Oh, she’s insane,” you agree. “She made me shave my legs just in case I was ‘getting lucky.’”

Sidney nearly chokes on air, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. “Did she actually say that?”

“Yep. Right before rifling through my closet and telling me my boobs were ‘wasting their prime.’”

He laughs again—louder this time, drawing a glance from a nearby table—and shakes his head. “I gotta meet this woman.”

“You don’t,” you say quickly. “She’ll make you sign a contract in blood if you so much as try to ghost me.”

He leans forward slightly. “What if I don’t want to ghost you?”

You look up.

He’s not smirking anymore. Just looking at you—really looking. Like he wants to know what’s behind your eyes and not just your makeup. Like he’s willing to wait for whatever it is.

Something tightens in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Then I guess we’re safe.”

You feel your foot nudge against his under the table. Neither of you moves it. Neither of you says a thing.

Then he smiles gently. “Wanna order wine so we can pretend we’re not being watched?”

You huff a laugh. “God, yes.”

And just like that, the tension breaks.

The waitress is sweet, mid-thirties, and noticeably unbothered by Sidney’s presence. She even calls him “hon” at one point and tells you your shoes are cute. You decide you love her.

He orders for both of you after you admit you’ll probably just end up getting whatever smells the best walking by. You let him pick a wine too, because—truthfully—you’re tired of making decisions and he seems to genuinely enjoy this whole “taking care of you” thing.

You lean in a little, nursing your glass of water between your hands, eyes focused on him over the soft candlelight flickering between you. “So,” you say slowly, “how’s the season going?”

Sidney shifts in his seat. Just a little. Barely enough for anyone else to notice, but you’ve always been sharp. Especially since becoming a mom. It’s practically instinct at this point—watching for tells, reading expressions, knowing when someone’s hiding something. And he is.

“It’s fine,” he says casually, grabbing his water like it’ll shield him.

You hum. “Fine?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

That’s all he gives you. Just a yeah.

You let the silence hang for a beat. Raise an eyebrow. And when his eyes flick up and meet yours again, the tiniest bit of guilt blooms behind them. You bite down on a smile.

“You’re a really bad liar,” you say softly, tilting your head.

He actually laughs at that. “That obvious, huh?”

“Yup.” You grin, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You're just like my kid. I ask her if she brushed her teeth and she swears up and down that she did, but her breath smells like a pancake.”

He breaks into a real laugh then, leaning back in his chair, eyes crinkling in that way you’ve only ever seen on TV or in magazine photos. “A pancake?”

“Blueberry. Always blueberry.”

“Well, shit,” he mutters, and you both laugh again. Then he exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and drops the act. “It’s been rough.”

You nod slowly, giving him the space to fill.

“We’re adjusting,” he goes on, “some new systems, a couple guys out already. Typical early season stuff. But…” He hesitates, fingers tapping against the base of his glass. “You know how it is. When things are off, it gets in your head.”

You do know. You’re not playing professional hockey, but you’ve had your own fair share of spirals. Nights where everything feels out of step and wrong and too quiet once your kid’s asleep. Moments where the weight of responsibility feels like it might flatten you. So you nod again, more solemn this time.

“That’s a shitty place to be,” you say.

He looks at you like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Like he’s used to people giving advice instead of understanding.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You give him a small, crooked smile. “Well, for what it’s worth… I think your bad season still probably looks like magic to my five-year-old.”

That softens him. His whole face shifts.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. She’s obsessed. You’re basically her Elsa right now.”

He blinks. “I don’t—wait, like Frozen Elsa?”

“Yup.” You nod solemnly. “You have superpowers and everything. Do you not shoot ice from your hands? That’s disappointing.”

He snorts. “I can’t say I do.”

“Well,” you say, sighing dramatically, “there goes that illusion.”

Sidney grins, but you can see he’s holding something back. Like he’s trying to figure out how much he’s allowed to want to be a part of this life you’re talking about. You don’t blame him. You’re doing the exact same thing.

“So,” he says slowly, “have you brought her to any games yet?”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “No. Not yet. I mean, she’s watched a bunch of games on TV. More than me, honestly.”

His eyebrows go up. “Wait—you haven’t watched a full game?”

“Nope,” you admit, tugging at your napkin. “I… it’s not that I don’t want to. I just haven’t had the time. Or the patience. Or the attention span. Or—”

He chuckles. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“But she’s all in,” you add. “She’s got this idea in her head that she wants to visit every single hockey arena. I don’t even know where she got that from.”

He leans in, totally amused. “All of them?”

“All of them. She told me we need a map. I told her we need a trust fund.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “She sounds amazing.”

“She is,” you say without hesitation.

There’s a moment where you both sit with that. The weight of it. Of what it means to be someone’s parent. Of what it means to bring someone into that.

“You guys should come to a game,” he says suddenly, softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles. “I’m serious. It could be fun for her. And maybe it’d help you get into it too. I’ll get you good seats. Quiet ones.”

You stare at him, heart doing something completely irrational in your chest. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t,” he says gently. “But I want to.”

You chew your lip. “She would freak.”

“Good,” he says, smiling. “Let her freak out.”

You laugh under your breath, but it’s shaky. There’s something creeping up your spine now, something warm and terrifying. Like you’re tiptoeing along the edge of something bigger than you.

“She’d want to bring a sign,” you warn him. “And scream every time she saw you on the ice.”

“Good,” he repeats. “That’d probably help my game.”

You look at him—really look at him. Past the headlines, the persona, the name. And he just looks back at you like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile. You didn’t expect this. Not the ease. Not the sincerity. Not the way it all feels like something you’ve missed for a long, long time.

You’re terrified. But for the first time in forever… you’re also kind of hopeful.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We’ll come to a game.”

And you’re pretty sure that the grin he gives you after that could melt any rink in the league.

Dinner comes, wine is served, plates are warm and steaming. His hand brushes yours as he helps push your plate closer, a simple little thing that sends a rush up your spine that you pretend not to notice. You thank him with a quiet smile and pick up your fork, spearing a piece of whatever vegetable the place has made actually taste good.

For a while, it’s just the sounds of forks and clinking glasses and soft conversation around the room. You’re both chewing, glancing at each other now and then, and it’s comfortable. Weirdly. Like you've done this before. Like it’s not the first date but the third or the fifth.

You’re the one who speaks first.

“So,” you glance up at him through your lashes, playful but careful, “how’s it feel to be the most recognized person in a place designed to be lowkey as hell?”

He smiles, one corner of his mouth tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “It’s part of the job,” he says, shrugging. “I’m used to the peepers.”

“Peepers,” you repeat, snorting into your wine glass. “God, what are you, seventy?”

Sidney laughs—a real one, warm and crackling with a low rumble. “I mean, people are peeping,” he says. “I’m just calling it what it is.”

“They’re definitely peeping,” you admit, nodding. “One lady almost broke her neck trying to see if it was really you.”

“She probably thinks I’m out with my wife,” he murmurs, a little quieter, more thoughtful.

You glance up at that. The weight of it hangs between you for a moment. “Or your mistress,” you offer dryly.

Sid chokes on his water and laughs. “Christ.”

“Too far?” you ask, biting back a grin.

“No, no,” he says, still laughing. “It’s perfect. I like that you’re not afraid to say shit.”

“I am,” you confess with a shrug, twirling your fork around the edge of your plate. “Afraid. A little.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t say anything. You should keep it light and flirty and nonchalant like Michelle told you to. But something about the way he’s looking at you—patient, waiting, like there’s nothing you could say that would scare him off—it makes it easier to tell the truth.

“You could’ve picked the place,” he says. “I would’ve taken you anywhere.”

“I don’t think Chick-fil-A screams first date, Sid.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alright, maybe not. But I meant what I said yesterday—I didn’t want this to be, like… this whole big public thing. I wanted it to be just us.”

You look at him again, and this time you don’t hide the way your gaze lingers. He’s watching you too, and there’s something that simmers low and steady beneath the table. A gentle but unmistakable tension. Not the awkward kind. The kind that says we get each other. Like your knees might touch and it would feel like gravity instead of coincidence.

He tilts his head a little, tone shifting. “So how did she get into hockey? Your daughter, I mean.”

You pick at your food, glancing down before answering. “Street hockey, actually. Some neighborhood kids had a little game going on and she wandered in like she owned the place. Skinned both knees but refused to cry.”

Sid smiles, resting his chin on his hand, genuinely invested.

“She came home a mess—blood, dirt, leaves in her hair—and all she could talk about was how she almost scored. That was it. She was in. Wanted a stick the next day.”

“That’s the most badass thing I’ve ever heard.”

“She is,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your throat catches a little, emotions rushing your chest like they always do when you talk about her. “She’s so… brave. Loud. Fierce. Nothing like me.”

Sidney’s expression softens.

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Anyway. I panicked. Called everyone I know in case they knew anything about hockey. Ended up at that store.”

“And that’s where we met,” he finishes gently.

You nod, trying to keep your heart from thudding out of your chest. “Yup. That’s where I made a total ass of myself.”

“I don’t remember that part.” 

You pick up your fork again and say, “We’re a real pair, huh?”

He chuckles. “A skater mom and a washed-up hockey player.”

You laugh through your nose. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

He smirks. “You’re gonna keep me humble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I think you’re kind of amazing,” he finishes softly.

You sit back in your seat and stare at him. Words fail. You shift, trying to pull air back into your lungs. “So. Dessert?”

He smiles. “Absolutely. I have a sweet tooth.”

You nod slowly. “Let me guess… big cookie guy?”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying. You scream chocolate chip.”

“I’m deeply offended.”

You grin at him and for the first time tonight, you let your foot nudge his gently under the table.

“Fine. Surprise me then.”

He raises his hand to flag the waiter, and as he does, he leans toward you with that same glint in his eye.

“Just wait,” he murmurs. “I’m full of surprises.”

The check comes, and you barely reach for your wallet before Sid’s already handing over his card.

You try. Really, you do.

You give him your best raised-eyebrow Are you serious? look and mumble, “We should at least split it.”

“Nope.”

“Sidney.”

“Y/N.”

You groan, slumping back against your chair like he’s personally offended you. “You’re gonna make me feel spoiled.”

He grins. “Good.”

You narrow your eyes. “What if I wanted to pay?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping. “Then I’d say, next time.”

The waiter walks off before you can argue further, and you mutter into your wine glass, “Smooth bastard.”

He just smirks and downs the rest of his water like he didn’t just win the round. Again.

The air is cool outside, the kind of crisp that brushes over your shoulders and pricks at your collarbone. You don’t even realize how close you’re standing to him until his arm brushes yours and he murmurs, “Wanna walk for a bit?”

You nod without thinking, and he tucks his hands into his coat pockets, guiding you down the sidewalk like he’s done this a thousand times.

The streets are soft with traffic, not too loud, not too busy. The occasional clink of silverware from outdoor patios and quiet hum of Friday night laughter follows you both, but it doesn’t feel invasive. It almost feels peaceful.

Sid talks about his sister for a little, how she’s doing great, smarter than him by far, how you’d probably love her. You talk about how your daughter’s started adding random silent letters to words when she writes just to be “fancy,” and how she refuses to sleep unless her stuffed flamingo “Mrs. Pickles” is tucked in beside her.

He laughs so hard he nearly trips on a sidewalk crack.

“Mrs. Pickles?”

You nod solemnly. “She takes her very seriously. It’s a high-ranking title.”

He shakes his head, eyes wide with amusement. “That’s elite naming. Like, all-time great.”

“She said she couldn’t trust a flamingo without a diploma,” you add.

He actually stops walking for a second to bend slightly and laugh. Full-bodied. Warm. He looks at you after, hand pressed to his chest. “I love her.”

You smile softly. “She’s a little maniac.”

“She’s your maniac.”

You don’t know why that makes your eyes burn.

You both fall into a comfortable silence for a moment—your footsteps lining up, your shoulders brushing every now and then—and then he suddenly veers right, gently grabbing your hand.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.”

“Famous last words,” you mutter, but you follow.

He leads you a block over, then slows near a little corner shop lit up with warm, yellow lights and a soft-pink neon sign.

You stare at it, then at him. “Ice cream?”

He nods.

“It’s like 60 degrees out.”

“So?”

You squint at him. “I’m not judging.”

He shrugs, pulling the door open. “Told you, I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

You follow him inside, letting the scent of waffle cones and cold sugar wash over you. It’s cute in here. Narrow space, hand-written chalkboard menu, a bunch of mismatched chairs crammed into one corner.

Sid walks right up to the counter like he’s been here before.

The teenager behind the counter immediately does a double take, mouth twitching like he recognizes him but isn’t totally sure.

You nudge his elbow. “You’ve been here before.”

He glances at you. “Yeah.”

“Is this like your post-game craving spot?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. They’ve got good pink ice cream.”

You blink. Your heart does that annoying squeeze thing again. “Wait. The pink ice cream?”

He nods, voice casual. “The fridge note kind.”

You just stare at him. “You remembered that?”

“I notice stuff.”

You press your lips together and look away. Jesus. Of course he noticed. He probably remembers everything. And he’s out here hunting down pink ice cream like it’s a goddamn quest.

“You’re—” You shake your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “Is that a thank-you?”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “I’ll tell you when I’ve tried it.”

You both lean over the counter to look at the options. There is pink ice cream. Bright pink, obnoxiously so. Cotton candy, the little sign says.

“Rocky road for me,” you say.

“Cookies and cream,” he says like it’s a sacred declaration.

You burst out laughing. “You are basic.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And proud.”

He insists on paying. Again. You half-heartedly argue, but the truth is—it’s kind of sweet. And his look dares you to stop him.

“I’m never paying for anything again, am I?” you mutter.

“Nope.”

You both walk back out into the cool air, cones in hand. He passes you the second one—a tiny pink scoop in a little cup with a plastic spoon.

“For your kid,” he says casually. “You can give it to her tomorrow. Just stick it in the freezer when you get home.”

You don’t respond right away because your throat’s tight. And you’re not exactly sure what to do with the feeling of someone being that thoughtful just because.

Finally, you whisper, “Thank you.”

He bumps your shoulder. “Told you. Sweet tooth.”

You both stroll down the sidewalk again, slower this time. The night’s soft around you, quiet in a way that feels almost sacred.

“This is nice,” you say finally.

“It is.”

“It’s like… weirdly easy.”

He nods. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. I figured first dates were supposed to be awkward.”

“This one kinda is,” you tease. “You’re just too charming for your own good.”

“Oh, I’m the charming one?”

You smirk. “You literally ordered pink ice cream for my daughter after a fancy dinner. Don’t act like you’re not laying it on thick.”

“I just wanted to see you smile again.”

Your breath catches.

You look over at him, your heart banging around your ribs like it doesn’t know where to go.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything.

You both fall into a long, quiet stretch. The kind that carries weight. The kind that makes you wonder if you should stop walking and turn to face him just to see what might happen if you did.

But you don’t.

Instead, you glance over and say softly, “She’s gonna love the ice cream.”

He nods. “I figured.”

You don’t want the night to end.

But the air’s turned sharp, a little too cold now, nipping at your skin every time a breeze kicks up and skates down your arms. And maybe it’s the ice cream, maybe it’s just late—but you both slow your walk back to the car, lingering without really trying to.

The last few blocks feel different. Softer. Your laughter’s quieter, closer to a whisper. He’s walking a little closer too, brushing against you every few steps like he doesn’t want to stop either.

Sid reaches for the car door before you can, his hand warm even through your sleeve when he gently takes the pink cup from your hand to open it for you.

“Don’t drop it,” you warn, voice teasing but quiet.

He smirks. “You think I’d ruin the sacred pink ice cream?”

You slip into the passenger seat he climbs in beside you. The second the doors shut, the car feels warmer—more contained. A different kind of atmosphere than the wide-open air you’d been walking through. You settle in slowly, careful with your daughter’s prize, balancing it on your lap.

Sid glances over with a grin as he starts the engine. “So. You got more plans tonight or what?”

You blink. “What?”

He glances at you again, playful. “You know. Another reservation? Another guy waiting outside the ice cream shop?”

You laugh. “You think I double-booked?”

He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

You scoff, mock offended. “Please. I barely had enough energy for this one.”

“Ouch,” he grins. “That your way of saying you’re sick of me already?”

“No,” you laugh softly. “It’s my way of saying Michelle has probably run my kid into the ground and I should go pick up the remains.”

He chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“She feeds her sugar and lets her wear the same pair of glittery socks for days straight. It’s like Lord of the Flies in that house.”

“That explains the glitter on your hoodie skirt.”

You snort. “There’s always glitter on me. It’s like a curse. I’ll be buried with glitter on my corpse.”

He laughs harder than you expect, his eyes crinkling. “Okay, so you don’t have another date. That’s good.”

You turn slightly toward him, raising a brow. “Why?”

He shrugs, pulling up to a red light. “I don’t know. It’d suck if I wasn’t your favorite guy you saw tonight.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He grins again. That same small, almost-shy but not shy smile he’s given you all night when he knows he’s being just a little cocky. “Yeah? You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

You don’t answer at first. You look out the window instead, watching the glow of the streetlamps smear across the glass, the city sliding by like some sleepy dream. Then you look down at the pink cup in your lap and say softly, “You remembered the ice cream.”

He glances over at you. His voice is quiet. “Of course I did.”

That’s when the silence shifts.

It’s no longer just comfortable—it’s weighted. Full. Like a question neither of you is asking out loud yet, even though it’s there.

You tuck your hair behind your ear. “I really did have a good time.”

He exhales, nodding once, eyes back on the road. “Yeah. Me too.”

The drive the rest of the way to your place is quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind of quiet that feels settled. Like something important already happened, and now neither of you wants to break the spell.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, the cold’s settled back in your bones. You hold the ice cream cup a little tighter, not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

Sid parks but doesn’t shut the car off. He looks over at you slowly, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to say something meaningful—something heavy.

Instead, he smiles.

“So,” he says softly, “are you gonna give me a glittery high five or what?”

You laugh. “I don’t think you’ve earned that yet.”

“No?”

“No. Maybe after a second date.”

He freezes, just for a second, before that same soft grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You asking me?”

You meet his eyes, heart pounding. “I’m just saying… you’ve set the bar really high. Next guy’s gotta buy ice cream for my kid, and for me, and walk me around the city.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” he says dryly.

You grin. “Right? Horrible.”

There’s another pause. One of those thick, almost-touching kinds.

He leans a little closer. Not enough to push, but enough that you feel it in your chest. His voice is low. “You should bring her to a game.”

You nod, a small breath catching in your throat. “Yeah. I think I will.”

“You too.”

You glance up at him. “You think I’d like hockey?”

“I think you’d like my hockey,” he murmurs.

God, he’s dangerous when he does that—quiet and careful and full of heat.

You open the door slowly, cold rushing in again. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming.”

You hesitate on the threshold of the car, the cup still in your hand, and then glance back at him. “Text me when you get home?”

He nods, just once. “I will.”

You step out, shut the door gently behind you, and walk toward the front steps, your pulse drumming loud in your ears. You don’t look back.

But you feel him watching the whole time.

You’re barely inside your place before you’re toeing off your shoes and fishing your phone out of your pocket.

Your fingers are stiff from the cold, and you fumble the lock screen once before getting it open. A few notifications wait for you—one from your mom checking in, a couple from that group text with the school moms that you still haven’t had the heart to mute—but one message stands out like it’s glowing.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Sorry to text so soon.

Sidney Crosby: I had a really great time tonight. Like really. Would love to do it again soon. Also—would love to see you and the little one at a game sometime. I think she’d love it. I think you would too. No pressure. Just… yeah. I had a great night. :)”

You exhale before you realize you’re even holding your breath, your shoulders sagging a little with it. There’s this weird ache in your chest—warm, fuzzy, deep. And unsteady. You tap out a response quickly but rewrite it twice before you finally send:

You: I had a really great time too. Thank you again for dinner (and the ice cream, you thief). We’d really like to go to a game. Just let us know when your schedule isn’t insane. No pressure either.”

And then you add, without thinking:

You: Pink ice cream is safely in the freezer. I think that automatically qualifies you for sainthood.”

His reply is nearly instant.

Sidney Crosby: Damn. I was going for ‘cool guy’ and accidentally landed on ‘saint.’ Rookie mistake.

You grin, your cheeks aching from it as you put your phone down just long enough to tuck the little pink cup into the freezer like it’s treasure.

Then you pad down the hallway, peeling off your coat, tossing your scarf over a chair, slipping into the bedroom to tug on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. You pause by the mirror, fingers grazing the corner of your mouth, like you’re still trying to feel if the smile’s actually yours.

You grab your keys again, double-check the ice cream, your phone, your charger, and then you head out. Michelle’s place isn’t far. You knock softly before letting yourself in, already knowing she told you to come straight up.

The lights are low and the apartment smells like lavender lotion and kettle corn, and you’re hit with that familiar wave of comfort—Michelle’s version of chaos is soft and familiar, a kind of organized mess that makes it easy to breathe.

You step into her bedroom and smile the second you see her—bare-faced, in her old college hoodie, hair piled on top of her head in a claw clip, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a bowl of pretzels.

“Oh my God,” she whispers dramatically when she sees you. “Tell me everything.”

But your eyes go first to the lump under the covers.

Your daughter is sound asleep, curled on her side in the center of the bed, cheeks flushed, her curls still slightly damp and sticking to her forehead. She’s in her favorite pajamas—the ones with the pastel dinosaurs—and the stuffed turtle you keep having to stitch back together is tucked under one arm.

Your throat tightens instantly. “She brushed her teeth?”

“Twice,” Michelle grins. “Because I told her that’s how she gets extra sugar out. You’re welcome.”

You shake your head, smiling as you quietly set your bag down and toe off your shoes. “You’re gonna make her a sugar addict.”

“She already is,” Michelle says proudly. “You just live in denial.”

You lean down, kiss the top of your daughter’s head gently, brush a curl off her cheek, and then slip into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. She stirs a little, but doesn’t wake.

Michelle’s eyes are glued to you. “Okay. Spill. Now.”

You stifle a laugh, tugging the blanket up and settling back against the pillows. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. From the moment he knocked on your door to the exact second he dropped you off. Everything.”

You sigh. “He brought flowers.”

Michelle clutches her heart. “Stop.”

“No idea they were expected. Just… did it. Like it was normal.”

“That’s so hot I’m actually nauseous.”

You smile despite yourself. “He noticed her drawings on the fridge. That ‘pink ice cream’ note? He took me to get some after dinner.”

Michelle stares at you. “You’re lying.”

You shake your head. “He remembered it. On purpose.”

“I hate him. I love him. Tell me what you wore. Wait—no—tell me everything else first. Dinner. Talk. Details.”

So you do.

You tell her about the restaurant, the dim lighting, the round table, how he held the door for you and helped you out of the car like it was second nature. You tell her about the conversations, the way he made you laugh, how he asked about your daughter like he’d been thinking about her all week. How he admitted to being a bad liar. How he said he wanted to see you at a game too.

You tell her about the cookies and cream and the rocky road and the way he refused to let you pay for anything. You admit you didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

Michelle’s beaming by the time you finish.

“So are you seeing him again or am I faking an emergency to force him to your door?”

You laugh. “I think we’ll see him again. He texted me as soon as I got in the door.”

“And?”

“And said he had a great time. That he wants to do it again. That he’d love for the two of us to come to a game.”

Michelle grabs a pillow and screams into it like a teenager, then flops dramatically back against the headboard. “I swear to God, if you don’t marry this man and let me give the most unhinged speech at your wedding—”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Stop it.”

“I won’t. You deserve someone good. Someone solid. Someone who buys your kid ice cream because he saw a note on your fridge and decided to make it a priority.”

Your chest aches again. “I know.”

Michelle looks at you more carefully then, her voice softening. “It’s okay to like him.”

“I do like him.”

“I mean really like him.”

You stare at the ceiling. “That’s what scares me.”

She doesn’t push. She never has to. She just slides further under the blankets and pats the space beside her. “C’mere. Stay. She’s out cold anyway.”

You nod, curling onto your side and gently lifting your daughter so she’s draped across your chest. She mumbles something in her sleep and goes right back to breathing evenly, face nestled against your collarbone.

Michelle flips the light off.

And in the dark, with the weight of your daughter curled over your heart and your best friend close enough to reach, you let yourself exhale all the way.

Not because the night is over. But because it feels like something else is starting.

Saturday

The first thing you hear is your daughter’s giggle. That kind of bright, unfiltered laugh she only does when she’s entirely unbothered by the world.

The second is Michelle, whisper-yelling something about eggshells and “oh my god, that is not how you whisk—okay, okay, yes it is if you’re Gordon fucking Ramsay, but he’s not here, is he?”

You roll over, squinting at the faint morning light bleeding through the blinds. The room smells like coffee and something sweet—vanilla or maybe pancakes. You blink a few times, gathering yourself. Your body is stiff from the way you fell asleep last night, half curled around your daughter, the other half pinned by Michelle’s absurd collection of throw pillows.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. The apartment’s a little chilly this morning—enough to make you tug Michelle’s extra blanket tighter around your shoulders as you shuffle down the hallway toward the kitchen.

And the moment you step into view, Michelle spots you.

She freezes.

She looks guilty.

You squint at her. “What did you do?”

Your daughter turns toward you at the sound of your voice, face lighting up instantly. “Mommy!”

She’s standing on a kitchen chair, proudly whisking a bowl of batter with enough enthusiasm to splash it halfway up the side of the fridge. Her hands are covered in flour. She’s never looked happier.

Michelle gives you a smile that’s too big and way too fake. “Hey! Morning! You want coffee? We’ve got decaf, full-caf, oat milk, existential dread—dealer’s choice.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says way too fast. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

“Michelle.”

She pivots to put sausage on the skillet, overly focused. “I mean… not while there are tiny, curious ears in the room. So maybe just enjoy this fine meal and we’ll circle back.”

You glance down at your daughter, who’s now humming some nonsense song while shaking sprinkles into a small bowl like she’s making her own Michelin-star dessert.

You decide not to push it. For now

You step in beside your daughter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You cooking, Chef?”

“I’m making pancakes!” she says proudly, pointing at the griddle like she’s orchestrating a Michelin-star breakfast. “I cracked the eggs all by myself.”

You glance down. There’s eggshell in the batter.

You make a mental note not to mention it.

You pour coffee, help her pour the batter onto the pan in slightly more controlled circles, and quietly enjoy the morning. It’s simple. It’s warm. It’s normal.

Until it’s not.

Because as soon as breakfast is over and your daughter trots off into the living room to line up her toy horses on the coffee table, Michelle turns to you with that same weird expression from earlier.

She looks like she’s bracing for impact.

You set your mug down slowly. “Okay. What?”

Michelle winces, like she was hoping you wouldn’t ask. “So… remember how I said I follow Sidney’s topic on Twitter?”

“Wait, you follow—?”

“I like knowing if he’s scratched or not! It helps with my fantasy team!” she defends. “I’m not stalking, okay? I just—look, you said he texted you after the date, and I wanted to see if he’d posted anything, maybe I wanted to see if the hockey girls noticed, I don’t know, I was curious, sue me.”

“What’d you find?”

She grabs her phone, opens it, and hesitates. “Okay. You promise not to freak out?”

“That’s literally the worst way to start this conversation.”

Michelle flips the phone around.

It’s a video.

Grainy, slightly zoomed-in, clearly filmed from another table. But it’s undeniably you and Sidney. At dinner last night. You recognize the way your hands move when you’re talking, the way he leans in when he listens. The angle’s tight enough that you can’t hear the conversation, but someone added subtitles anyway. And not just that—there’s a whole goddamn description in the tweet thread:

“Saw Sidney Crosby at dinner last night with a mystery woman. They later left together and got ice cream nearby. No idea on who she is yet but she seems nice enough??”

Michelle flips to the next tweet—screenshots from someone who’d apparently followed you both to the ice cream place. They circled your pink cup and captioned it “did she seriously get two ice creams? that’s adorable.”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s—that’s creepy,” you whisper. “That’s so creepy.”

Michelle nods solemnly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not even on social media like that,” you mutter, grabbing your coffee again just so you can hold something. “I have like twelve people on my private account. How the hell did I end up on someone’s gossip thread?”

Michelle tries to lighten the mood. “To be fair you are dating one of the most famous hockey players in the world.”

“We’re not even—” You groan, sinking further into your chair “Michelle. That was our first date.”

“And it was a good one!” she chirps. “Apparently so good people decided to record it.”

You shoot her a look.

She sits down across from you. “Look, I’m not gonna lie. It’s fucked up. But this might be something you deal with now. If things go somewhere. You know?”

You nod slowly. The pit in your stomach grows.

You pick up your phone.

Nothing unusual at first. Just the usual: a couple texts from friends, a notification from the school reminding you about pajama day on Tuesday, and—

A few messages from Sidney.

Sidney: Hey. Just wanted to say I’m really sorry about that video going around. I didn’t know someone was filming us. I don’t post about my personal life, ever, and I should’ve thought about that more. I hope you’re okay. 

Sidney: Text me if you want. 

Sidney: Or if you don’t. Just yeah. I’m sorry.

You stare at it.

And then, the one below it.

A number you know by heart.

Your daughter’s dad.

The text is a screenshot. The thumbnail of the video.

“Is this you? Really classy, Y/N.”

Jesus Christ.

You put your phone down like it burned you.

Michelle frowns. “What is it?”

You turn the phone so she can see both messages.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, slumping further in your chair. “This is too much.”

She eyes you carefully. “Have you texted Sidney back?”

“No.”

“You’re going to, though, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t know, Michelle.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. You wince and glance toward the living room, but your daughter’s still happily babbling to her horse figurines, completely unaware.

“I just,” You lower your voice. “I knew this could happen. I knew it. But I didn’t think it would be now. It’s been one night. And I already have some stranger subtitling my life and my ex texting me screenshots like I owe him a goddamn explanation.”

Michelle’s quiet for a beat. Then: “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not him. Not the internet. Not even Sidney if you’re not ready. But don’t punish him for something he didn’t do.”

You sigh. “I know. I know.”

Michelle leans forward. “And maybe this is fucked up, but I kind of love that the pink ice cream made it in.”

That gets a small laugh out of you, even if it’s watery.

You close your eyes, press the heels of your hands to your face. The panic’s subsiding a little. But it’s still buzzing somewhere behind your ribs.

“I just wanted something normal,” you whisper.

Michelle nods. “So what do you want to do?”

You power your phone off slowly, set it down face-first.

“I want to not deal with it for a few hours.”

She doesn’t push.

Instead, she calls out, “Okay, who wants to help me fold laundry and definitely not build a blanket fort in the living room?”

“Me!” your daughter shouts.

You smile faintly, pushing up from the table.

Michelle’s already moving, yelling over her shoulder, “And I better not see any videos of you folding laundry either, you hear me? This is a private fort construction zone!”

And somehow, even though your stomach still turns and your chest still aches and your phone still holds two unread messages—one from the guy you like, the other from the man you used to love—you find yourself walking into the living room.

—

[harkness-girl]

and now i’m covered in you

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Plot: agatha is not a housewife anymore, she’s your wife and you’re hers. one evening full of wine reveals some secret kinks.

Warnings: 18+, dirty talk, dom!agatha, strap on

Tip me 💰if you like my work and want to support me :)

Author’s note: this is an additional piece to the “my house of stone, your ivy grows” universe. you can find part 1 and 2 here and here

It had been a year.

Twelve full moons since the door closed behind Agatha for the last time, a small suitcase, no dramatic goodbye, just her keys dropped on the kitchen counter along with signed divorced papers. She’d walked out in jeans and a coat far too thin for the season, blinking into the pale light of early spring like a reborn woman.

Now, that same woman was your wife and was barefoot on the porch of your small cottage, sipping coffee from a chipped mug, her fingers stained by freshly harvested strawberries, her hair still sleep-mussed and curling in the damp morning air. She was wearing one of your old flannels, too big in the shoulders, open at the throat, and editing a piece for the local paper with her brows drawn together in concentration. You loved her like this. Soft. Focused. Free.

The town had been kinder than expected. Whispers at first, that strange pair living out by the tree line, one of them the wife of that man, but time, it seemed, had a way of silencing people.

Agatha’s first column had been a review of the annual town fair, dry, witty, observant. The editor asked her for more. Then more. Now she had her own column: From the Edge of Town. People read it religiously every Sunday over their eggs and toast. Even the ones who didn’t agree with her liked the way she said things.

You’d found a rhythm too. The herb business had started small, just you, your garden, and a few jars of dried chamomile and lavender sold at the farmer’s market. But it turned out people were hungry for the kind of care you offered. Not just products, but something magical. Soothing salves, teas, tinctures, bath blends. You got a name for yourself. 

You’d built shelves in the back room for drying bundles of lemon balm and rosemary, installed a deep sink for rinsing roots. Some nights the whole house smelled like rosemary.

The house was small, just three rooms and a loft, windows that sometimes required superhero strength to open, floorboards that creaked no matter how careful you were. But it was yours. And hers. And full of light and love. Books lined every wall. Herbs hung from the rafters. A kettle was always on the stove.

There were mornings like this one, where Agatha would glance up from her work and ask without words if you had time to come sit beside her. You always did. And there were nights where you’d close the garden gate behind you, sore and sun-warmed, to find her in the kitchen, barefoot, cooking by the glow of a single lamp, music playing low. She’d kiss you with flour on her cheek and tell you she’d written something today that scared her a little. You’d kiss her again and say good.

You had hard days, too. Times when the bills came too fast or Agatha couldn’t write a word for a week straight. Times when the silence between you stretched a little too long before it softened. But even those moments were worth it. 

Now you were enjoying a quiet Friday evening, Fleetwood Mac playing from the speakers, second bottle of wine empty. 

Agatha was barefoot in her chair, one leg draped lazily over yours, head tilted, cheeks flushed from wine and candlelight. She wore one of your old t-shirts knotted at the waist, no bra underneath, the line of her collarbone soft and visible when she laughed.

“You know,” she said, swirling the last of her wine, “I hated being a housewife.” She didn’t say it with bitterness, just the casual honesty.

You looked up. “Yeah?”

She nodded, gaze flicking toward the window, the night outside all dark, but warm. “Felt like I was playing a role I didn’t audition for. Wake up early. Cook eggs. Smile at the neighbor. Pretend that picking out curtains counts as fulfillment.”

She turned back to you, eyes sharp and glassy with heat. “But… now? Coming home to you, smelling like lavender and dirt, with flour on your thighs and your hands in bread dough… fuck. That’s hot.”

You blinked, then laughed, nearly snorted into your glass. “So what you’re saying is… you’re into housewives now?”

She blushed and looked down. “You know that I love the life we have built together and that we’re equal in every way…” 

“Agatha,” you said and she raised her eyes again. “It’s okay, I’m just joking around.” 

She breathed out and then grinned, slow and wicked. “Well, certain housewives who are not actually housewives are my weakness.” Her toe traced the inside of your calf, deliberately slow. “You, specifically.”

You smirked, setting your glass down. “Is this a kink reveal?”

Agatha leaned across the table, lips parted, the tip of her tongue peeking out just enough to be maddening. “It might be.”

You leaned in too, elbows on the table, your grin matching hers. “So you want me in an apron? Nothing underneath? Waiting at the door with freshly baked cookies?”

Her wine-dark eyes glittered. “Don’t put images into my head, woman.”

You laughed and then your voice dropped. “Would I kneel for you? Or would you want me sweet and flustered, bending over to dust the windowsill?”

Agatha's breath hitched, her fingers tightening on her glass. “Fuck. Don’t play with me.”

“Oh, I’m not,” you murmured, getting up, slowly, and stepping around the table. Her eyes followed every movement, the sway of your hips. 

You stopped beside her chair, trailed a finger down her shoulder. “I could serve you. Every morning. Every night. Take care of everything, let you just write and come home and use me however you want.”

She exhaled shakily, eyes locked on yours. “God, you’re dangerous when you talk like that.”

You brushed your thumb along her jaw. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That you like coming home to me. That you think it’s hot.”

She grabbed your wrist, hard and sudden, and pulled you into her lap. Her mouth was inches from yours, her breath wine-sweet and trembling.

“I love it,” she whispered. “Love coming home to you. Seeing your hands stained from the garden, your lips pink from tasting sauces…”

You kissed her hard.

The chair scraped against the tile as she shifted under you, hands sliding under your shirt, warm and urgent. You felt the heat between you, the air charged now, thick with want and laughter and wine.

~~~

You didn’t rush. You’d been preparing.

You knew it’d been just a wine induced confession, that Agatha loved how equal and independent you both were, but you had seen the way her eyes darkened, the flush in her cheeks, and you’d be damned if you didn’t fulfill all her fantasies. 

The kitchen smelled like fresh bread and roasted tomatoes. A bottle of chilled white wine sweated gently on the table. Every light in the house was low and golden, just the way she liked. But it wasn’t the wine she’d be thirsty for.

You adjusted the apron one last time in the hallway mirror, soft linen, tied at the back, nothing underneath. Just bare skin, freckles, curves, and a mischievous glint in your eye.

The front door creaked open.

You didn’t move from the threshold of the kitchen. You let her see you.

Agatha froze in the doorway.

For a full three seconds she didn’t breathe. Her hair was windblown from the drive, her shirt rolled at the elbows, all of her sharp edges glowing from the sunset behind her.

You tilted your head, slow, teasing. “Hi, darling. You’re home early.”

She dropped her keys.

“I—” She blinked, still standing there like she’d walked into the wrong dream. “You actually…”

You stepped forward slowly, the soft pat of your bare feet on the tile the only sound. The apron swayed open slightly with each movement, revealing the warm, flushed skin of your inner thigh.

“Dinner’s almost ready. But I thought you might want a little appetizer.” You paused in front of her, let her eyes rake over you. “Did you have a long day?”

Her jaw clenched. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this—”

“You were good,” you whispered, dragging a single finger down the open line of your chest, stopping just above the knot at your waist. “You’ve been working hard. Thought it was my turn to take care of you.”

Her breath caught. She reached out and cupped your face. “You’re going to ruin me,” she said softly.

“That's the idea.”

She looked at you like she was ready to risk it all. “You’re playing dangerous games.”

You shrugged, a picture of faux-innocence. “I’m just a devoted little housewife. Waiting all day for her wife to come home and—”

She cut you off with a low growl, fingers tightening at your waist. “Keep talking like that and you won’t make it to dessert.”

Your mouth twitched. “Well, I did bake a pie. But I suppose I can always warm it up later.”

Her eyes sparked. She leaned closer, voice like honey. “Tell me, sweetheart. What exactly does a perfect little housewife do when she’s been left waiting too long?”

You smiled, slow and dangerous now. “She gets lonely. She touches herself thinking about her wife’s hands on her throat. And when that’s not enough, she puts on her prettiest dress and plans a little revenge.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, the surprise flickered in her expression at your words, at the affect they had on her, at the little show you were putting on just because she had drunkly confessed she found it hot coming home to you. 

You tilted your head, lips barely an inch from hers. “Still want dinner?”

“Not anymore.”

She pushed you gently against the wall, your apron crumpling between you. Her fingers slid under the hem of your dress, hot and urgent.

“I should come home late more often,” she murmured, dragging her lips along your neck.

You hummed, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. “Please don’t, wives get lonely, you know? And I’ve been so good for you.”

Agatha pulled back slightly, eyes locked with yours. “Oh, have you?” She leaned closer to your ear and whispered, “I think you’ve been a very bad girl.”

You gasped, but then your mouth spread into a grin. “You can spank me later.“

That earned a laugh, low and wicked. “God, I love you like this,” she said. “Sweet on the outside, filthy underneath.”

You kissed her this time, deep, commanding. 

You didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Agatha had you pinned against the kitchen wall, the scent of baking pie thick in the air, your apron twisted in her fist like she might use it to tie your wrists if you so much as teased her one more time.

Her other hand was already beneath your dress, fingers tracing just inside your thigh, close, but maddeningly not close enough.

“You wore this for me,” she murmured, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. “All sweet and domestic, making dinner and waiting by the door like some 1950s fantasy.”

You arched toward her. “Did it work?”

Agatha’s laugh was soft and dangerous. “Oh, baby. It worked a little too well.”

You leaned in again, lips grazing hers. “Then take what you came home for.”

Something in her snapped.

She turned you around, not roughly, but with purpose, pressing your front to the cool marble of the counter. The dress rode up easily. Your breath caught as her palm ghosted over your ass.

“So polite,” she drawled. “So obedient.”

You smirked over your shoulder. “Only when I want something.”

That earned you a sharp smack, more sting than pain, just enough to make you gasp and shiver.

“You want something?” she said. Her fingers slipped between your legs, finally, and whatever you were about to say dissolved into a choked-off moan.

“Oh,” Agatha said, grinning, “there she is. The real housewife. Desperate. Dripping. All for me.”

You gripped the edge of the counter. “You gonna ruin me before dinner, Mrs. Harkness?”

She leaned down to your ear, voice a dark whisper. “Darling… that’s the appetizer.”

And then her hand moved again, between your thighs, over your hip, pushing your hair to the side just enough for her mouth to find your shoulder.

She took you right there, slow at first, then with a rhythm that stole your breath. Her voice never stopped, praising, taunting, calling you her good girl, her sweet thing, her dirty little housewife, until your knees went weak and your head fell back against her shoulder with a cry.

She held you after, hands still warm, voice soft again.

You were still catching your breath when she turned you around and kissed you, long and slow.

Then she grinned. “Pie’s probably burnt.”

You grinned back, flushed and glowing. “You’ll eat it anyway.”

“Oh, I plan to.” She kissed your neck, lingering. “But first…”

She untied your apron and began unbuttoning the front.

“Dessert.”

She revealed your naked body with slow, deliberate fingers, the soft linen sliding down your front, brushing over your nipples as it fell, its straps still holding onto your shoulders.

Her eyes followed the fabric, hungry, reverent.

You stood still, bare and blushing, the warmth of the oven nothing compared to the heat rising under your skin.

“Wait here and don’t touch yourself,” she whispered against your collarbone and disappeared into your bedroom. When she emerged a few moments later, a strap on hang between her legs and you moaned at the sight. The contrast between the woman in robes surrounded by luxury and your wife with a strap on in your small cottage was breathtaking.

Agatha reached for you again, this time with both hands, palms grazing your waist, thumbs skimming the curve of your ribs. “Look at you,” she murmured. “My perfect little housewife, all naked in the kitchen, offering herself up like a gift.”

You bit your lip, leaning into her touch. “Isn’t that what good wives do?”

She growled softly at that. “I wouldn’t know, I was too busy fucking the gardener.” 

You smirked, turned around again to face the counter, pressing your ass into her crotch. “And the gardener loved every second of it.”

The edge of the counter pressed into your thighs as she grabbed your hips and bent you slightly forward, one hand at your hip to keep you there, the other roaming, exploring, worshipping.

You gasped when her fingers slid between your legs, confident and slow. She hummed, pleased at how wet you were already. “All this for me?” she teased, voice dark and soft. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? About me walking in and bending you over our fucking kitchen counter.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, breath catching as she brushed your clit.

“Maybe,” she repeated mockingly. “You were dripping before I even touched you before.”

Her fingers slid through you again, slow and teasing, not giving you enough. You whined softly, pushing back, aching for more.

“God, you’re needy,” she said. “You act like you’re in control, like you’re just playing the role… but underneath it all? You’ve been aching for this. You want to be used, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. I want you to use me. I want to be your housewife. Just yours.”

“That’s right,” she murmured, her fingers playing between your folds, slow and steady. “My sweet little slut.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, you’d never get used to Agatha’s dirty talk. “Please…”

Her rhythm stayed maddeningly controlled, measured, built for endurance, for teasing, for making you beg.

“I think you like this,” she went on, fucking you with her fingers while her hand drew circles on your ass. “Being bent over the counter like something I own. Like something I can just take when I want.”

You groaned, arching your back, desperate for more.

She leaned forward, breath hot against your neck. “You want me to fuck you here, like this? While dinner burns?”

“Yes,” you panted. “Yes, Agatha, please.”

She withdrew, and for a moment you whimpered at the loss. Then you felt her coating the strap with your wetness, slowly and your whole body clenched in anticipation.

She pressed against you, the heat of her body anchoring you there. You could feel the weight of her strap, the press of it at your entrance, teasing.

“You going to take it like a good wife?” she asked, voice low and sharp.

You nodded. “Yes. I’ll take whatever you give me.”

And then she thrust in.

You cried out, the stretch, the fullness, the fucking claiming of it, overwhelming in the best way. Her hands gripped your hips, steadying you, holding you open for her as she began to move.

She started slow, letting you feel every inch, every drag and push, every low grunt she gave behind you as your bodies found rhythm. You clung to the edge of the counter, bracing yourself.

“That’s it,” she groaned. “So fucking tight for me. So wet. This is mine, you hear me?”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Only yours.”

She drove into you harder then, the sound of skin meeting skin obscene and gorgeous, your moans echoing in the small kitchen.

Every thrust came with words, filth laced with love:

“Look at you, spread out for me like a perfect meal.”

“My beautiful wife, begging to be ruined.”

“Keep those legs open. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“God, you take me so well. You were made for this.”

Your eyes were wet, not from pain, but from the overwhelming pleasure, the way she saw you, praised you, claimed you.

You were close, so close.

“Touch yourself,” she ordered suddenly, her voice ragged. “I want you to come for me. Show me how desperate my good little housewife gets.”

You reached between your legs, fingers frantic, messy. Her rhythm didn’t slow, didn’t falter. She reached around with one hand, squeezing your breast, biting into your shoulder.

“Come for me, baby,” she whispered. “Come all over my cock. Let the whole neighborhood hear how good I fuck you.”

And that was it.

You came hard, with a cry that echoed off the tile, your body shaking, thighs trembling. You clutched the counter like it was the only thing holding you up. Agatha held you through it, fucking you through it, letting you ride the wave until you were almost sobbing in her arms, trembling from the inside out. 

Only then, only when you’d gasped and begged and gone pliant beneath her, did she slow, easing out of you with a groan that was more possessive than gentle.

Her hands smoothed over your back, down your hips, up your thighs. Worshipful.

You stayed bent there for a long moment, catching your breath. The air was thick with sex, with bread and burnt pie, with the smell of rosemary from the windowsill.

Then you turned in her arms and she held you. 

You buried your face in her shoulder, laughing into her skin, soft and wrecked and completely in love. “I think I ruined dessert.”

Agatha kissed your temple. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, breathless and smiling. “You were dessert.”

You laughed again, dizzy, glowing. “God. You’re such a sap.”

“And you’re still wearing my apron.”

You blinked. “I will never look at this thing the same way.”

She tilted your face up, looking at you like she was trying to memorize you again. “I love you, Y/N.” 

“I love you more,” you whispered and kissed her softly on the lips. 

[formulafanfics13]

can i request some gabriel stuff? i feel like there's a lack of his content on tumblr, in general, 😭.

a suuuuper in love gabi who is dating reader for almost a year when she finally gives him the heads up and, once he starts touching her, he can't stop and ends up both him and her, but she actually loves every second of it, 💔.

I hope this is what you had in mind! I also love writing for all drivers, there are just ones I come up with plots and ideas for more easily than others! It’s not on purpose, I just need ideas, which is why I opened my requests🫶🏼

and then you said yes - GB5 🔥

Masterlist

Summary It happens quietly. Softly. Not in the heat of a club or under camera flashes or champagne buzz, but on the carpeted floor of Gabriel Bortoleto’s apartment — two bowls of popcorn between you, sweatpants on, hearts already halfway given. You tell him you want him. Not just for a moment, not just for fun. For real. And Gabriel doesn’t hesitate. He’s been waiting, loving you in silence, and now that he has you, he takes his time. He carries you to bed like something sacred. He undresses you with trembling hands and kisses you like a promise. He worships every inch of your body, it’s love, written and whispered into every kiss. This is everything. And it’s only the beginning.

Warnings first time, mutual pining, gentle/soft dom Gabriel, emotionally intense sex, oral (f receiving), praise kink, virginity loss, condom use, deeply emotional intimacy, aftercare, crying during sex (happy tears), chest kissing, neck kissing, slow buildup, dirty talk (sweet version), hands shaking, sacred vibes, genuine love, established relationship, soft boy energy, overwhelming desire, worship-level affection, pure smut wrapped in heartache and adoration.

You tell him in a whisper. Not in the middle of some grand gesture. Not over a candlelit dinner or after a showy anniversary surprise. No, you tell him on the floor of his apartment, both of you in sweats, backs against the couch, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn forgotten between you.

“I want you tonight,” you murmur.

Gabriel freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth. His eyes flick to yours. “What?”

You swallow. “I said I want you. Like… really want you. If you still-”

“I do.” His voice is hoarse. Immediate. Like he’s been holding his breath for months. “I do. God, baby. You have no idea.”

You do. You always have.

Because Gabriel Bortoleto has never looked at you like he wanted anything else. Not the cameras. Not the trophies. Not the grid. It’s always been you. You in his passenger seat. You in his arms. You in his future.

But you waited. Held the line. Let yourself be sure.

And now? Now he’s blinking like he might cry, spoon forgotten, popcorn ignored, as he sets the bowl down and crawls over to you on the carpet like he’s scared to spook you. “Are you sure?” he whispers.

You nod. His hands are shaking when he touches your cheek. “Then tell me again,” he breathes.

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you like it’s the first time all over again, slow, reverent, like he’s learning every curve of your mouth in case he only gets this once. His hands cup your jaw, thumbs brushing beneath your ears, and when you shift your knees apart to let him settle between your thighs, he groans.

You feel the heat of him even through his joggers. “Bedroom,” you whisper.

He nods. Picks you up like you weigh nothing. Walks you there with his lips still on yours. Doesn’t stop until your back hits the mattress and he’s kneeling between your legs with the kind of look in his eyes that steals the air from your lungs.

“I’ve waited so long to touch you like this,” he says, almost in disbelief.

You reach for the hem of your shirt and he catches your wrists. “Let me,” he says. “Please.”

You drop your hands. Let him undress you like you’re made of glass.

He lifts your shirt slowly, revealing inch after inch of bare skin, pressing a kiss to every patch he uncovers. When your chest is exposed, he just stares, eyes wide, lips parted, hands trembling.

“You’re… you’re the most beautiful fucking girl I’ve ever seen.”

You can barely breathe.

When he leans down to kiss your collarbone, his lips are so soft it almost tickles. And when his hands slip behind you to unhook your bra, they’re careful. Like this is sacred. Like you’re sacred.

You help him out of his shirt and moan when his bare skin brushes yours. His hands travel down your sides, over your hips, slow and reverent, until they reach the waistband of your underwear.

“Still okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Please, Gabi. Touch me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His fingers slip beneath the fabric and he swears violently under his breath. “You’re soaked.”

You blush. He grins. “For me?”

“All for you.”

He drops to his elbows between your thighs and kisses you just above your cunt, soft, slow, adoring. Then he licks a stripe through your folds that makes you whimper.

“Fuck,” you gasp, clutching the sheets. “Gabi-”

“Let me taste you,” he says. “Please.”

And when he does, he groans like he’s been starving. His tongue moves slow and steady, working you open with a patience that should be illegal. Every flick, every curl, every moan, it’s clear he’s memorized this moment in his head a thousand times. And now he’s trying to make it perfect.

But it’s not just perfect. It’s devastating. You come fast, overwhelmed by the love, the pressure, the heat, your whole body shivering under his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re pushing at his shoulder, gasping his name like it’s the only word you know.

“Too much?” he whispers.

“Not enough.”

He grins. Kisses your thigh. Wipes his mouth and shifts up, kissing your lips even though you can taste yourself on his tongue.

“Condom?” he asks.

You nod. He grabs one from the drawer, rips it open with shaking hands.

“Baby,” you say softly. “It’s okay. I want this.”

“I just-” He swallows. “I love you. I fucking love you. And I want it to be good for you.”

You cup his cheek. “It already is.”

He kisses you again as he rolls the condom on. You feel the thick heat of him press against your entrance and tense slightly. “I’ll go slow,” he whispers. “Just breathe.” And he does. He slides in inch by inch, groaning the second he’s halfway in.

“You’re so tight,” he pants. “So fucking perfect.”

When he bottoms out, both of you freeze.

It’s too much. It’s everything. Your nails dig into his back. His face buries in your neck. You’re both trembling. And then he moves.

Slow. Controlled. Every thrust dragging the breath from your lungs.

“I love you,” he keeps saying. “I love you. I love you. Fuck, I love you.”

He kisses you between every thrust. Whispers your name. Worships you with every inch of his body. Until suddenly he’s not slow anymore. Until the rhythm gets sloppy. Desperate. Until he’s fucking you like he can’t stop. Like he won’t stop. Like years of restraint are all shattering at once.

Your legs wrap around him. Your back arches. Your voice breaks. “Gabi-fuck-don’t stop.”

“Never,” he growls. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You come again with his hand on your chest, his lips on your jaw, your body trembling under his. He follows seconds later, hips jerking, breath catching in a raw, ruined moan of your name.

He collapses on top of you. Sweaty. Shaking. Still inside you.

Neither of you speak. You just lie there. Your fingers in his hair. His arms around your waist.

Until he whispers, “I want every first to be with you.”

You smile. “They will be.”

[writingdarling]

Jealousy Is a Sin

Jealous V is the best V I would never lie

V (Killer Chat) x GN!Reader

Content Warning: Mentions of violence (past)

this is, once again self-indulgent

apologies if ooc >.<

V doesn’t get jealous.

That’s a fact of life, as true as the statement “Ronin is a psychopath”.

People could be actively flirting with you in front of him and the only thing he would do is pull you closer to him, shielding you from their eyes, only one simple sentence falling from his lips.

“Sorry, but they're already mine.”

Even Ronin, who you know he hates with the burning power of a thousand suns, can’t elicit a jealous reaction from him.

Protectiveness ? Of course ! Anger ? You’re surprised that he hasn’t gone gray yet with how much he loses his temper. Jealousy ? Never.

Which is why it’s all the more confusing that he’s currently staring down your ex with a murderous expression.

One could argue that this isn’t jealousy, rather a noble display of protection.

But V has never gripped you like this when he’s protective.

“V ?” You look at his face, watching the frown lines disappear, if only slightly as he looks down.

“Sorry, dearest. Were you saying something ?”

He turns to you, no longer glaring like your ex had just eaten one of his pets right in front of him.

“You….good ?”

V shoots a terrifying look to the general area where your ex is. A girl who looks at him at the wrong moment pales and runs off. V doesn’t notice.

“Terrific. Shall we move away ?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, gently tugging you through the crowd, closer to where all the tables are set up.

V had brought you along to a charity ball, one of the rare instances that you are reminded that, oh yeah, you are dating a multi-millionaire who moonlights as a vigilante.

He pulls out your chair and you sit down. He sits next to you, his hand immediately moving to rest on your thigh as he scans the perimeter.

“One exit to our right, another straight ahead…”

You’ve long gotten used to his mutters of potential escape routes if things ever got messy, especially after that one time where-

“You remember that ball we went to where that mafia gang had that shootout ?”

You pipe up and V’s eyes lose their focus. 

“Sorry love, what did you say ?” He’s incredulous. Good, you’re distracting him.

“That mafia shootout, you know the one where you threw me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes-”

“Why are we discussing this dear ?”

V looks at you, half amused.

“Remember how I asked you what was going on, you didn’t tell me then I almost got shot.”

This sentence of yours holds a small prick of venom. V straightens.

“..Yes ?”

You level him with a stare.

“So, you wanna tell me why you’re glaring at my ex like he tried to crowbar me ?”

V grimaces.

“You noticed ?”

“I think the whole room noticed how cold you got. It practically dropped to below freezing temp !”

V sighed, squeezing your thigh as if asking for moral support.

“You are certainly sharp my love. That’s exactly what I admire about you.”

Despite your attempted scolding, your ears turn red anyways because he’s looking at you so fondly and he’s touching you so softly and-

V removes his hand from your tight before you totally lose the plot and pushes his hair back from his face, sighing.

“It….what’s the word ? It just….pisses me off.”

He mumbles, so quiet you almost don’t hear. Maybe he didn’t want you to hear.

It’s so rare that he’s ever this shy with you so you’re stunned into silence.

“He….I suppose it’s idiotic of me to forget that I am not your first. My pride immediately assumed that, just like how you are all of my firsts, I would be yours as well.”

He reaches for your hand and you let him take it, enamoured with the way he gazes at you ever so softly.

“I should apologize for that first and foremost.”

“You don’t have to..” You mumble, starstruck almost.

Huh, you supposed he was right. V has told you previously that he had never had a special someone before. 

In a way, it was cute.

V was cute.

“It’s cute actually.”

For some reason, your usual brain to mouth filter isn’t working so you just spit out exactly what you were thinking.

V’s cheeks redden, something that no one else would’ve picked up.

But you aren’t everyone else.

A smile curls its way onto your lips.

“Trust me V, my relationship with that scumbag? It was basically like a free trial for a useless and annoying app.”

You squeeze his hand tight.

“All my firsts, the firsts that matter ? All of those are with you.”

V inhales. Exhales. Presses his other hand to his mouth and you can see the way his cheeks get even darker with how furious his blush is.

“.....You should consider writing a romance book beloved, I’m sure it’ll fly off the shelves.”

You giggle and act like you're twirling your hair. 

“You think sooo~”

V hits your hand softly while you laugh, the previous slight tension now dissipating into nothingness.

And if later, V grabs you and kisses you until you’re breathless, coincidentally right in front of your ex ?

Well, that’s nobody's business except your own.

WAHHHH V MY SHAYLA

Anyways did y'all see that one tiktok post where it has like V n Ronin in the bg and a tumblr post about homoerotic enemies ?

......I'm polyam so

I'm sorry y'all r getting Ronin/V/Reader rahh

[vaguely-concerned]

"I'm rather lucky," said Wimsey, with that apologetic air which seems forced on anybody accused of too much wealth. "I have an extraordinarily faithful and intelligent man, who looks after me like a mother."

I love it when a book looks me in the eye and goes 'yes my friend you are so completely and utterly correct and valid and always right well done'. bunter DOES look after him like a mother I am literally always saying this!!!!

(that note from peter's uncle where he describes bunter like... peter returned from the war with the man bunter, who was and is devoted to him. I have been thinking about this for weeks now. what a thing to say. what a way to sum up a situation a man and a relationship. *gazing pensively into the air with my chin resting on my interlaced fingers* was and is devoted to him.....)

[randomnameless]

i know you said hopes had negative character development for the cast, but who do you think is better in hopes than in houses?

Better like in better writing, or better as in I appreciate them more?

Without a doubt, I'd say Felix and Sylvain who are better in Nopes than their FE16 versions, and in a way... Rhea herself, thanks to having more screentime when she isn't PTSD'ing lol

Call it chauvinism, but Sylvain in Nopes was scrubbed out of everything that made him... unlikable/feel flat in Houses.

His sob story about people only wanting to fuck him for his title/crest really felt... straight out ripped from some High School AU, with John McChad acting like an ass because the only girls who want to date him are interested in his situation as a heir of his dad's big company, and not because they love him. Yay. Great. Perfectly what I'm looking for in my medieval fantasy game where you whack people with swords.

Add to that the focus on crusts being the supposedly only reason why people are lusting over him - and not because, hey, you're a member of one of the most important noble houses in the Kingdom - to play in the general "crust bad" orchestra that can lead on the Supreme path, and the fact it's never ever adressed, and we have... this, which completely, to me, hides the other parts of Sylvain's character - like being someone who thinks outside of the box and resolves to lessen the reliance on his relic to defend the border by... creating a situation where they'll be no tension at the border, aka, a peace with Sreng.

Now, Sylvain works so well in Nopes partly because all of his "wah ladies only want my penis because i'm rich :'( " is erased, so we see a character who takes his duties as the heir of Gautier seriously, assists his Lord and friends and bring "new ideas" to help everyone. Sylvain, under his frivolous appearance and behavior, actually thinks and learns and suggests a lot of things that are quite useful, a bit like a "what if Sain wasn't only interested in courtship, but was raised as a future lord and had insight and suggestions on what to do". So sure, it's not as quirky and memorable as John McChad's sophomore year of school, but it fits better, imo, in the FE series.

As for Felix, well, it's more or less the same, his entire "duh boar bad chivalry bad and stupid - but wait no don't die and i'm sorry to have hit you dad i liked you but I was too busy playing the tsundere that I never got to say it to you before you died" schtick felt... old and annoying in FE16.

Sure, Felix can have his own, personal feelings about Dimitri being a hidden boar, but Felix is also the only heir of Rodrigue, and will become the next Duke Fraldarius, aka the second most important person in the Kingdom after the King himself, and the one tasked to protect it. Should Felix completely ignore his feelings and do what is expected of him, or take his role seriously? No, and Nopes has him give some "boar this, boar that", but Felix isn't a petulant 16 years old who wants to be "edgy" anymore, Felix is the next Duke - something he never shied away from, especially in his FE16 paralogue! - and has to start learning the job, thinking about Faerghus in something else than small jabs thrown at Dimitri and how to protect its people and second the King.

Heck, Felix's support in Nopes with Dimitri where Dimitri confesses about the ghosts, where Felix tries to carry him, the more or less cutscene where the general feeling is him saying to Dimitri he can count and rely on them... Given how FE16's Felix was written, even in AM, I can't see it happen before Rodrigue's death... and yet, in AG, Rodrigue is still alive (his optional death doesn't change those scenes), so when FE16's Felix realises there were more important things to do to help both his friend and country and dad but he only noticed it too late because he was too busy... being edgy, Nopes has him drop the edgy act (not completely drop it though, else it wouldn't be Felix anymore!) and act (lel) as his FE16 self, but only, without needing his dad to die first.

As for Rhea...

Having more screentime seriously helps, just like being allowed to talk about non plot relevant things with someone else than Billy or about Billy, I gushed a lot about the Nabatean paralogue, but it depicts her relaxing with her family (pissing on the "u r the only person i can talk to myself not the archbishop" pandering shit from FE16 even if FEH pissed on it first) and making tiny baby steps at apologising and confessing part of her guilt (for something completely stupid like Seiros the Warrior "borrowing" Cichol's shield to gift it to Willy!) to a member of her family.

Would that mean she would have confessed about the rez Sothis plan to Seteth earlier on? I... don't know, don't think so, and we don't have enough interactions between the two.

Compared to FE16 where she is an oyster until Billy turns green and Seteth nags her again and again and again, here she willingly makes the first step to apologise... sure, it's for something silly and not, resurrecting their mother, but it feels like a small progression (tiny baby steps) from FE16 where she has to be reveal stuff due to forced circumstances.

I also like how it sort of teases (or maybe that's just me lol) Seteth realising that Rhea still misses days long past to an unhealthy degree (tfw too much nostalgia), or just, having to remind her twice that those days are gone. Would he later realise her strange nostalgia hides something more deep, and ultimately her wish to "return" to those days by resurrecting Sothis?

idk, it's fuel for HCs and AUs, but for what it's worth, this paralogue and Nopes in general help flesh out Rhea more than what FE16 does, aka tying 80% of her mentions/appearances to Billy and Sothis.

(hell, in Nopes, she finally has lines with Flayn!)

[thisbrilliantsky]

u ever read a book that has cool ideas and compelling characters and the writing itself is decent but. there is just a total lack of actual storytelling skill. and it's 1000+ pages.

[artficlly]

show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand. 

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things. 

One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.

Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.

The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.

But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.

What even was normal?

This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.

There never would be again.

The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.

You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.

You hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil. 

This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.

The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.

“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him. 

Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves. 

His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.

His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass. 

He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.

Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.

You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next. 

“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.

Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.

You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.

“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”

Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.

Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.

You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.

You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely. 

Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.

Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.

The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food. 

On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster. 

You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today. 

Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.

You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.

Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.

Mystery soup it was. 

Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.

You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.

—

You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express. 

“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.

You shot him a look.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.

“Sit down.”

You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.

“Bland.” He commented.

You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.

“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it. 

It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up. 

“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”

Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.

“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.” 

“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.

Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.

You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”

He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.” 

You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word. 

Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.

“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”

You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.

“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing. 

It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.  

“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”

“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.

“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.

You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.

Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity

You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting. 

The cages.

The screaming—

Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.

“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.

“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him. 

But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.

Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving. 

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.

When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice. 

You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own. 

If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.

You already hated yourself enough.

The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour. 

Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.

You wanted to scream.

It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.

You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.

You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.

It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”

He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.

“No.”

You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.

“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”

He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes. 

“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.

Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Interesting.

You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.

The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.

You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.

The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.

“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.

He was a storm.

Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.

This was your only shot.

“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop. 

You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.

And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—

The world tilted.

You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.

You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.

When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.

“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.

You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”

Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.

“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.

But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.

“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”

Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.

“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.

His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.

“Put me the fuck down!”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”

“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”

“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”

“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”

You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”

“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”

You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.

He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.

You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.

Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”

—

Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path. 

He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.

You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”

“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”

But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.

“Sit. Down.”

You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.

Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.

Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”

Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.

He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—

You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.

He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.

“Stop squirming.”

“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”

“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.

That shut you up.

You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.

He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise. 

You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second. 

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”

Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.

The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.

“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”

You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.

He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.

The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.

“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”

You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”

That stopped him cold.

His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.

“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.  

You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash. 

“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.

“...Yeah.”

You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.

“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”

You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.

He was flinching from you.

Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.

Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?

And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?

When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.

What if this was different?

What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.

Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?

Would it make you… better?

Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.

His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.

Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”

He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.

His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.

You didn’t dare look up at him. 

Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen. 

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief. 

He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.

You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.

“You’re a—”

“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”

The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.

“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”

You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.

“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his. 

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.

Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.

It was that he cared.

Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.

“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”

You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”

When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.

“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”

His brow creased. “Pain?”

“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—” 

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. 

“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.” 

You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.

Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.

“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.

“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.

His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece. 

“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.

“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm. 

“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”

You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.

He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”

That startled you more than it should have. 

“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”

Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”

The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.

“No, I… I get it.” 

Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”

He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.

“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”

You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.

—

Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.

Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.

It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.

And the weather wasn’t helping.

The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.

“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.

Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret. 

His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.

He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.

But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile. 

You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.

“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps. 

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.

“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.

He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”

You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.

“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”

“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.

His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.

Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.

“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”

Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”

That made him pause.

His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not. 

Your heart kicked in your chest.

You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.

He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.

“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”

You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”

His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”

And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.

And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—

You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.

He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.

Your face burned.

You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.

So much for subtle.

You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath. 

He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.

He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.

“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”

The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.

“Shit—ah—”

A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.

“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”

You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.

“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”

You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”

You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.

“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”

You exhaled, long and slow. 

“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”

You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.

—

Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.

You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.

So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.

He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.

Your breath caught mid-page.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.

And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.

You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher. 

Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.

You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.

You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—

“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.

He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.

Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.

He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.

You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.

“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.

Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.

His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—

Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.

The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.

You jolted in fright. 

Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.

Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put. 

“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”

You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.

You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.

When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.

He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.

You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”

You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.

“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”

“I just—you let it burn you.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”

But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.

You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.

Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm

“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”

Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.

“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.

You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.

And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”

You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”

You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.

His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.

“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.” 

His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.

“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”

Your brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”

You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.

“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”

His hand stilled against your face.

“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.

“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.

For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static. 

“Come here.” 

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”

“Just... closer.”

You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.

When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”

Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.

God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.

You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away. 

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”

You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.

He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. 

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. 

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering. 

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks. 

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

hi, if you made it to the end, holy shit congrats. if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

✨ HOW TO ACTUALLY START A BOOK

(no ✨vibes✨, just structure, stakes, and first-sentence sweat)

hello writer friends 💌 so you opened a doc. you sat down. you cracked your knuckles. maybe you even made a playlist or moodboard. and then… you stared at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.

here’s your intervention. this post is for when you want to write chapter one, but all you have is aesthetic, maybe a plot bunny, maybe a world idea, maybe nothing at all. here’s how to actually start a book, from structure to sentence one.

—

🌶️ STEP 1: THE SPICE BASE ~ “WHAT’S CHANGING?”

start with this question:

what changes in the protagonist’s life in the first 5–10 pages?

doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. they could get a letter, lose a job, run late, break a rule, wake up hungover in the wrong house. what matters is disruption. the opening of your book should mark a shift. if their day starts normal, it shouldn’t end that way.

🏁 opening chapters are about motion. forward movement. tension. momentum. if nothing is changing, your story isn’t starting, you’re just doing a prequel.

—

⚙️ STEP 2: THE CRUNCHY BITS - CHOOSE AN ENTRY POINT

there are 3 classic places to start a novel. each one works if you’re intentional:

The Day Everything Changes most popular. you drop us in right before or during the inciting incident. clean, fast, efficient.

pro: immediate stakes con: harder to sneak in worldbuilding or character grounding

The Calm Before the Storm starts slightly earlier. show the character’s “normal” life, then break it. useful if the change won’t make sense without context.

pro: space to introduce your character’s routine/flaws con: risky if it drags or feels like setup

The Aftermath drop us in after the big event and fill in gaps as we go. works well for thrillers, mysteries, or emotionally heavy plots.

pro: instant drama con: requires precision to avoid confusion

📝 pick one. commit. don’t blend them or you’ll write three intros at once and cry.

—

🧠 STEP 3: CHARACTER FIRST, ALWAYS

readers don’t care about your setting, your magic system, or your cool mafia politics unless they’re anchored in someone.

in the first scene, we need to know:

what this person wants

what’s bothering them (externally or internally)

one trait they lead with (bold, anxious, calculating, naive, etc.)

that’s it. just one want, one tension, one vibe. no bios. no monologues. no “they weren’t like other girls” essays. put them in a situation and show how they act.

—

⛓️ STEP 4: OPEN WITH FRICTION

first scenes should create questions, not answer them.

there should be tension between:

what the character wants vs. what they’re getting

what’s happening vs. what they expected

what’s being said vs. what’s being felt

you don’t need a gunshot or a car crash (unless you want one). you need conflict. tension = momentum = readers keep reading.

—

✏️ STEP 5: WRITE THE FIRST SENTENCE - THEN IGNORE IT

okay. now you write it.

no pressure. you’re not tattooing it on your soul. this isn’t the final line on the final page. you just need something.

tricks that work:

start in the middle of an action

start with a contradiction

start with something unexpected, funny, or sharp

start with a small lie or a weird detail

💬 examples:

“The body was exactly where she’d left it - rude.” “He was already two hours late to his own kidnapping.” “There was blood on the welcome mat. Again.” “They said don’t open the door. She opened it anyway.”

once you’ve got it? keep going. don’t revise yet. don’t edit. just build momentum.

you can come back and make it ✨iconic✨ later.

—

📦 BONUS: WHAT NOT TO DO IN YOUR OPENING

don’t start with a dream

don’t info-dump lore in paragraph one

don’t give me three pages of your OC making toast

don’t try to sound like a Victorian cryptid unless it’s on purpose

don’t introduce 7 named characters in one scene

don’t start with a quote unless you are 800% sure it slaps

be weird. be sharp. be specific. aim for interest, not perfection.

—

🏁 TL;DR (but make it ✨useful✨)

something in your MC’s life should change immediately

pick a structural entry point and stick to it

give us a person, not a setting

friction = good

first lines are disposable, just make them interesting

and if you needed a sign to just start the damn book, this is it.

💌 love, -rin t.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[divinedomainn]

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

play previous song? || ◁ PART 1 ▷ || play next song?

summary : After another horny stream, you drop the bomb: fuck-a-fan fridays—seven weeks, seven fans, seven filthy videos. masks on, faces hidden, just you and one lucky subscriber tangled up on camera each week. All they have to do? strip down, get hard, and show you why it should be them. Auditions start now.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, horny simp men

A/N : and so it starts!!! is everyone ready to see the submissions from your favorite horndogs? :) (also i hope you can tell whose who hehehe) i'm trying to keep the writing inclusive for every sort of female presenting person so let me know how i've done!

The next few weeks passed in a blur of lace, lube, and direct deposits that made your head spin. What had started as a desperate half-joke had morphed into a full-blown empire - your empire. The girl who once contemplated selling her underwear for gas money was now clearing rent, tuition, groceries, and still had enough left over to drop serious coin on clothes and silk bed sheets.

You’d gone to the next level. Your friends were of course benefitting from your suspiciously newfound wealth, you casually said you had found a better part-time job, never letting them know the truth when you decided to take them shopping. Not yet at least.

Private requests were your bread and butter. You weren’t just good anymore - you were a professional tease, a digital siren with a library of toys, outfits, and vocal tones that could bring grown men to their knees. They paid for everything; soft whispers, rough talk, slow stroking, filthy roleplays. Some just oddly wanted to hear your moans on loop. Others wanted personalized videos where you called them by username and told them exactly what you’d do if they ever had the balls to show up in person.

You were making big bank. Like “accidental tax bracket change” big. Like “should probably consult a financial advisor” big.

And the men?

Oh, the men were obsessed.

Especially the regulars. Their usernames lit up your screen night after night, tipping with reckless abandon, flooding the chat with unfiltered thirst. You didn’t know who they were in real life, yet, but their personalities bled through the screen in such vivid, chaotic little ways.

EmoWithaBoner was yearning. Desperate in a way that made your chest clench and your thighs twitch. His messages were usually soft, almost sweet - You deserve everything, You looked so beautiful tonight - until something cracked open inside him mid-message and he’d type something crazy like: I would lick your cunt until you beg me to stop. Now that had gotten a small “Oh.” out of you. He wanted to worship you and ruin you all at once.

SixEyesOnly was a fucking menace. Flirty, cocky, constantly sending emojis that were way too smug for someone probably watching with only one hand available. His tips were ridiculous, like, spend $300 just to watch you eat grapes in a bad wig slowly sort of ridiculous, and his messages read like he was trying to fluster you on purpose. You assumed it was some sort of control thing with him, throwing money at people and getting them to do it. No complaints from you.

TempleOfSin was smooth, a little poetic, a little filthy. He asked for long, descriptive videos where you described what you were wearing, how you’d touch him, how you'd taste. He liked to also order roleplay videos where you pretended to worship him like he was some sort of God. Sometimes he called you his loyal little follower. You didn’t ask questions.

daddyissuez was feral. No other word for it. His requests were blunt, primal, always toeing the line of what the platform allowed and your own, now lacking, self-control. He liked spit, degradation, and power games. His tipping was sporadic and a lot less compared to the others, though, it was enough to keep him in your attention.

OfficeAfterHours was different. Polite. Polished. His messages came like little business memos laced with innuendo. “You looked stunning tonight. That color suits you,” followed by a $200 tip telling you to buy more in the same color. Never crude, always composed. It made him stand out more, somehow. Like a man who didn’t need to beg. A man who expected what he wanted, and always got it.

And then there was KingOfRot.

Unpredictable. Crude. Arrogant. He dropped tips like they were nothing. $500 just because you looked at the camera in a way he said was like a ‘deer in the headlights’. Odd, but $500 was a good amount to keep your mouth shut. He called you “pet,” “whore,” “delicious little thing.” You should’ve blocked him. Instead, you kept reading his messages twice over with your jaw unhinged and in wonderment whether or not he actually said that. His energy was intense and you hated how hot that was.

Which brings us to tonight.

You were perched in your new silk sheets, ring light warm against your skin, wearing your most transparent slip where your nipples were clearly on display and a smug little smirk behind that now iconic mask of yours. You’d hyped this stream for days - teased it on your feed, hinted at it in DMs. The chat was already on fire and you hadn’t even said a word yet. Tonight was a big one.

EmoWithaBoner: god ur so fucking hot tonight SixEyesOnly: i logged in 15 minutes early and i still feel late :(( OfficeAfterHours: You’ve outdone yourself this evening. KingOfRot: Come on, get to the fucking point, girl.

You grinned, slow and lethal, dragging your fingers along your inner thigh and ignoring KingOfRot.

“Well,” you purred, “I figured since you’ve all been very generous lately… it’s time I give something back.”

SixEyesOnly: oh fuck You licked your lips, loving the short little power trip it gave you. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice sweet and dangerous. “Maybe it’s time to start a little… tradition.”

You paused for dramatic effect.

“Fuck-a-Fan Fridays.” You bit your lip. Boom. Chat detonation. SixEyesOnly had sent you $200 just for the phrase.

EmoWithaBoner: you’re joking SixEyesOnly: oh shit baby TempleOfSin: Perfect. KingOfRot: You say when and where, pet. daddyissuez: i’ll be first. fuck the line OfficeAfterHours: I trust you've thought this through..

You leaned in close. OfficeAfterHours was cute in the way he was concerned for you. “I mean, why stop at one, right?” You giggled, cheeks burning behind your mask as you kicked your feet a little bit out of the view of your webcam. “I was gonna keep it casual, but um… yeah. What if I made it a thing? Like, a series?”

Another pause. You leaned in even closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried heat.

“One fan. Every Friday. For seven weeks.”

You crossed your bare legs over one another, your slip rising on your thighs as you did so. “Seven Fridays. Seven people. Seven chances to fuck the brains out of a very nervous, very willing woman who cannot believe she’s actually saying this live right now.”

You sat up again, brushing the slip back into place like your nipples weren’t clearly on display.

“I mean..obviously, we’ll keep it anonymous. Like, we’re not stupid here. Masks. No faces. Just hands. Bodies. And my camera.” The chat was still in full meltdown, comments stacking so fast the shitty platform could barely keep up. Your heart was pounding, your skin warm and tingling from the high of it all—of watching them fall apart just from your voice, your words, the soft shift of silk and skin. You hadn’t even done anything explicit yet, and they were on their knees.

God, it was addictive.

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft sigh, the movement pulling your slip just high enough to tease your hips. A final little gift before the curtain dropped.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” you said with a giggle, feigning innocence even as your gaze sparkled with something much dirtier. “You guys are gonna give me a heart attack.” SixEyesOnly: no no no don’t leave yettt!! :(( KingOfRot: You owe me for the buildup, woman. You tilted your head, lips curving into a sweet little smile as you leaned forward, giving them just one more generous view of your tits before the curtains closed.

“But before I go…” you said, voice slipping into something quieter, softer, like a secret you didn’t mean to share. “If you’re serious about Fuck-a-Fan Fridays… I want you to show me.”

The pause that followed had its own kind of weight. You watched the chat stall for half a second. The anticipation was thick enough to choke on.

“Send me a message,” you murmured, “with a picture. No face. Just your body, and cock, obviously.”

You let your fingers trail down your own torso, to your hips, your thighs, hinting at what you wanted to see. “Let me see what I’d be touching.. What I’ll be fucked braindead by.” EmoWithaBoner: fuck i’ll take a hundred SixEyesOnly: don’t lose your mind too much baby KingOfRot: It’ll be mine you dream about when you touch yourself. OfficeAfterHours: Submission will follow shortly. No face. Clean framing. High quality.

You had to laugh—giddy and a little breathless. You honestly didn’t think they’d go this feral.

“Think of it as an audition,” you said, tucking your knees to your chest, playing sweet again. “Show me what you’re offering. How you’d fit against me. In me.”

You smoothed your hand up your own thigh, lazily now, teasing.

“And just so you know,” you added with a little grin, “I’m only really looking at the ones who’ve tipped enough to keep my attention. You know who you are.”

Oh, they most definitely did.

The seven of them were already scrambling—photos incoming, tips rolling, blood leaving their brains. You didn’t need names. Their usernames were burned into your memory. Their obsessions with you were paying your bills.

“Goodnight, boys,” you whispered. “Impress me.” The second you ended the stream, you collapsed backward into your pillows with a dazed little laugh, limbs spread like you’d just run a marathon and won a gold medal in filth. The glow from your laptop cast a soft haze across your legs, the screen already lighting up with the chaos you’d left behind—tips still pouring in, messages stacking, your inbox begging for attention.

And the photos?

Oh, they were already flooding in, from people you didn’t want, but it was there regardless - upping your activity.

You rolled onto your stomach, chin resting in your palm as you clicked open the first one with a half-curious, half-unhinged smile.

No face, just like you asked. Neck down. The guy was standing in front of a mirror, one hand wrapped tight around his cock, the other lifting his hoodie to show off his chest. His abs were flexed. His cock hard enough to cast a shadow.

You blinked. Let out a slow breath.

“…Damn.”

Another one came in. Different guy, different vibe—tattoos on his hips, hand slick and stroking himself in a dimly lit bathroom, captioned: Fridays look good on me. Want to see how I look underneath you?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, laughing as you pulled your legs up behind you. “This is real. I’m really doing this.”

And you were. One fan. Every Friday. Seven weeks. Seven videos. Each one getting posted to your feed, available for your hundreds of subscribers to watch, rewatch, tip on, comment under, and probably break their dicks to.

It wasn’t just a hookup. It was content. Premium content.

Still riding the rush, you opened your messaging panel and started typing.

New Mass Message Sent to All Subscribers:

Hey babes— If you missed the stream tonight (rip to you), here’s your official invite.

Fuck-a-Fan Fridays is happening. Starting next week, I’ll be choosing seven of you to spend one very intimate night with me. Every Friday for the next seven weeks, I’ll be posting a new video. One fan. One full-length scene. Just me… and whoever impresses me the most.

How to audition:- Send me a photo. - Neck down only. No faces. Masks will be worn on camera, so full anonymity will be protected. But I need to see everything. Cock out. Hard. Your body. Your vibe. The way you'd look on camera—underneath me, on top of me, behind me, inside me.

Show off a little. Or a lot.

Make me want it. Let the auditions begin.

xoxo,

—Your girl

taglist : @frozenmallows @90s-belladonna @moncher-ire @kunareads @blublublubby @grignardsreagent @soozeu @mochiivqi @sweetsformysoul @killak9mi @celloccino @gurlhere4fluff @syubseokie

[nekonaps0]

You are NAUGHTY!! Pt1

✦part2 part3

✦ characters: third years

✦ gn!reader

✦ dirty jokes

✦ their partner suddenly cracked a naughty, suggestive joke

Trey Clover

“Trey, your hands are always so steady when you’re baking… I bet they’d be just as good at frosting something a little more... sinful.”

Trey pauses mid-stir.

He slowly turns to you, lifts an eyebrow, and smiles… that calm, confident smile that betrays a whole lot of fluster he’s pushing down like a champ.

“Now… you know I’m sweet, not sinful… Unless you’re asking for a special recipe?”

He acts smooth, but his ears are a little red, and he starts avoiding eye contact as he stirs too quickly. If you catch him off guard again?

“You’re really playing with fire, sugar. Don’t be surprised if I bake you into something irresistible.”

Cater Diamond

“Cater, you’re always taking pics of your food… wanna snap one of me with just the whipped cream next time?”

He screams. Actually.

“OMG, bae!! You can’t just say stuff like that out loud… I mean, you can, but I might melt~!”

His phone is nearly dropped. He fans himself with his phone, bites his lip in mock-shock, then gets way too close.

“So when’s this whipped cream shoot happening? I gotta prep my lighting. And my appetite~”

You just turned this flirt-war into a full-on event. He's now plotting outfits and hashtags like:

#TooHotToPost #BlessedAndUndressed.

Leona Kingscholar

“You know Leona, if you keep growling like that, I’m gonna start thinking you want me under you for real.”

Leona stops. Smirks. Stretches lazily like a big cat about to ruin your life.

“Tch. You really wanna play that game, herbivore?”

He’s unfazed—in fact, he’s pleased. He loves a partner who’s bold and flirty, especially if it gets under his skin just enough to spark a reaction.

He’ll lean in close, voice low and teasing:

“Careful now… jokes like that’ll land you in a position you can’t handle.”

You’ve awakened the predator.

Congratulations.

Vil Schoenheit

“Vil, if you keep ordering me around like that, I’m going to start confusing your instructions with dirty talk.”

Pin-drop silence.

Vil looks at you like you just slapped him across the cheek and called him beautiful… Which you kind of did.

Then he slowly smiles like a cat that’s just noticed a helpless mouse.

“Is that so? Well, darling… perhaps next time, I’ll make the difference clearer. Shall I demonstrate?”

He lives for a well-timed, well-structured innuendo. You impressed him. And now he’s inspired.

Careful what doors you open with this man.

Rook Hunt

“Rook, I must be your next hunt… 'cause I can feel you stalking my thoughts—especially when I’m alone in bed.”

He gasps like you just confessed undying love and slapped him with a silk glove.

“Mon dieu! Ma chère, you wound me with your words… and thrill me all the same!”

He clutches his heart, swoons into a chair, and then grins like the predator he is.

“Such a delicious line, dripping with wickedness! Shall I pursue you now, or wait until the moonlight bathes us in temptation?”

You’ve turned the poet into a freak, and he is so here for it.

Malleus Draconia

“Malleus, you’re so tall. I bet even your horns are compensating for something~”

Malleus stares. Blinks. Tilts his head.

“...I was unaware you believed my horns served… compensatory functions. Should I… correct that misunderstanding?”

He’s 100% confused at first, not because he’s innocent, but because your innuendo feels like riddles to him.

But once he gets it, once Lilia or someone explain it later, perhaps?

Oh, he remembers it.

The next time you flirt?

“You’ve been teasing me my dear. Perhaps I ought to show you that dragons need not compensate for anything.”

And he’ll say it with that calm, deep voice and a tilt of his head that promises danger.

Lilia Vanrouge

“Lilia, you might look small, but something tells me you could absolutely wreck me if you wanted to.”

He chuckles. Like full-blown villain laugh.

“Oh ho~! My, my~ What a bold darling you are tonight!”

He floats toward you, arms behind his back, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Is that a request? Or are you simply hoping I take the hint?”

You’ve just turned on flirt-mode Lilia, and he’s dangerous. Expect teasing, whispering, and no personal space for hours.

“Now, let’s see just how wreckable you are, hmm~?”

Idia Shroud

“Hey Idia~ Wanna roleplay? I’ll be the innocent maiden and you can ‘hack’ your way into my firewall”

Idia dies.

Straight up collapses onto the floor, hood over his face, glowing like a neon strawberry.

“Wh—Whaaaaa—?! THAT’S—THAT’S NOT A DIALOGUE OPTION IN REAL LIFE!!”

He short-circuits. His hair flares pink. He makes incomprehensible noises.

The idea that you, his amazing, goddess-tier s/o, are flirting like this??

It sends him spiraling. In a good way.

Mostly.

Later, in private, he’ll try to flirt back:

“H-Heh… you keep this up and I’ll… uhh… overheat and crash, probably…”

He's trying, okay? Reward him with kisses.

..............................................................................................................................

Hehehe~ I’m back ✨

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ the broken sink

➤ summary: you walk in on your boyfriend fixing the sink and looking absolutely delicious, so you cannot resist him

➤ w/c: 1.2k

➤ warnings: porn without plot, unprotected p in v, cowgirl position, tits sucking

➤ a/n: inspired by the tiktok i saw not so long ago😋

masterlist

When you walked into your kitchen after going out for some groceries, the last thing you expected to see was Rafe lying on his back halfway under the sink. Without a damn shirt on. 

His grey sweatpants were low on his hips, showing a glimpse of his underwear, abs on full display for you, with a thin layer of sweat glistening under the sunlight from the window nearby. 

You swallowed harshly as you put the bag on the counter and looked back at your boyfriend, who was still unaware of your presence. The way Rafe’s muscles were flexing with every move under the sink and the way his toned and big arms moved back and forth with a wrench in them made your mouth water and left your head completely empty. 

“What are you doing in there?” You finally asked. 

His head peeked from under the counter, your favorite sheepish grin stretched across his face at your voice. “Hey, baby. Just though— you son of a bitch.” He cursed, and you heard a crunching noise of metal. “Just thought I would fix this thing you’ve been telling me about. I’m almost done.” 

Rafe sent you another smirk, and you were done for. You didn’t even think, your mind being completely blank, as you went closer and dropped to your knees near him. You swung your leg over, straddling his hips, hands flat on the lower part of his stomach, thumbs trailing the line just under the band of his boxers.

“What the—“ His deep voice was followed by a loud thud of his head against the sink as he moved, surprised by your actions. “Ah, shit… Babe, the hell are you doing? Like right now?” With one hand still holding a wrench and the other one instinctively gripping your thigh, Rafe’s eyes roamed over you with amusement and curiosity. 

You bit your lip, not even paying attention to his words, instead slightly lifting yourself and tugging at his sweatpants and boxers. The need and desire in you was excruciating, and you doubted that you ever experienced it in that way, but seeing Rafe like that—spread out on the floor, sweaty, half naked, looking like a fucking glazed donut—made you go feral. 

“I’m so wet, Ray.” You mumbled, barely able to think straight. 

“You’re wet because…?” He grinned, throwing a wrench near his head, and paying his full attention to you. He was slightly shocked, yes, but this is Rafe, and no matter what, he will never miss an opportunity to do something dirty and inappropriate with you. This man was obsessed, and when you showed initiative, he could get turned on in a second. 

Your hands finally managed to pull the pants down, just enough for you to pull out his quickly hardening cock. Instantly wrapping your hand around the base, you spit on the tip, working your hand up and down his length to make it nice and ready. Rafe’s hips buckled, a hiss leaving his lips at the skilled movements of your hand. “Holy fucking shit.”

“I’m wet because you look so fucking hot like that.” You moaned, your free hand desperately tugging at your dress, trying to pull it up. A frustrated huff left your lips when it kept falling down, preventing you from reaching your underwear and finally releasing the ache between your legs. 

Rafe’s head lifted off the floor, pupils blown wide at the sight of you on top of him, desperate as never before, angry at not being able to have him the way you wanted to. Your hand kept working with his cock, as he was already painfully hard. An amused laugh left his lips when your brows furrowed, a pout evident on your lips. “Lemme help you, baby.” 

He pulled the dress up, fisting the thin material in his hand, while you finally pushed your underwear aside. There was no teasing, no preparing yourself for his cock, or even giving him a chance to realize what you were doing with how fast you moved. You just sank on him in one smooth motion, throwing your head back and moaning at the stretch. 

Rafe’s fingers dug into your thighs, his mouth hanging open with surprise and pleasure, looking up at you with lust and need. “Fuck, baby.” He breathed, his voice rough and raspy. “You didn’t even give me a damn second to— shit!”

You shut him up mid-sentence, dragging yourself up and down his rock-hard cock, making his hand fall back on the floor with a thud. 

“Couldn’t wait.” You whispered, planting your hands on his firm chest, feeling every muscle shifting under your palms. “I’ve been thinking about you since morning, and then— then you were here looking so sexy…” You trailed off, eyes rolling back with a high moan slipping past your lips. 

“You’re crazy, baby, fucking crazy.” 

You leaned down, palms flat on his chest, lips barely ghosting his jawline as you dragged your hips slowly in circles. “You’re making me crazy.” You whispered, grinding down harder, pulling a ragged moan from deep in his chest.

Rafe’s hands trailed up your thighs, gripping your ass harder, pushing you down on him. You lifted yourself almost completely, then dropped back harder. Your pace quickened when you sat straight again, moving even though your legs started to feel tingly. 

Rafe couldn’t wait any longer. His fingers dug harder into your hips, bruising, as he started pushing up into you, making the filthiest and wettest noises fill the small and cozy kitchen. Your eyes rolled back, while his zeroed in on your nipples, picking through the thin fabric of your dress. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so hot right now.” He grumbled, propping himself on one elbow, his face now closer to your breasts, and catching the swell on your tit with his mouth. Rafe’s moan mixed with your gasp when he sucked on you through the fabric, dragging his teeth around the bud hard enough to make you cry. Your fingers threaded into his sweaty hair, tugging just a little, and Rafe growled low in his throat. 

You felt the heat in you building faster. The way Rafe filled you so perfectly, his cock kissing your cervix with every hard thrust, the way his hands and mouth were so desperate for you—it all made you spiral. “Need you to come, Ray…” He cupped the back of your neck, stopping his assault on your tits, bringing your mouth to his, and then falling back on the floor with you lying on his chest. 

“Fucking will, baby. You’re gonna cum on my cock too, hm?” Rafe asked, barely even stopping the kiss, before pushing his tongue back in your mouth—sloppy and borderline nasty. He started fucking into you again, feeling the way your pussy barely was letting him go. His cock throbbed inside, and with a few more thrusts, just when you couldn't hold back your orgasm anymore, you felt ropes after ropes of hot liquid painting your insides. 

You collapsed against him, both of you slick with sweat and panting, the only sounds in the kitchen your breathing and the distant hum of the fridge.

"Next time," he said, voice rough against your ear, "I'm not fixin' shit unless you're supervising like this."

You laughed, still too blissed out to even lift your head. "Deal."

He grinned, his hand smoothing up and down your back, lazy and possessive. 

The sink was still broken, tools were lying all around you, and your grocery bags were completely forgotten on the counter, but in that moment neither of you cared. 

[gojosconsort]

blowjob 101 with satoru

𓂃୨ৎ after a movie night, you confess to your older best friend satoru that you’ve never given a blowjob and he offers to teach you at your doorstep.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x older best friend!satoru gojo

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. oral sex (m receiving), age gap (consensual, reader early 20s, satoru early 30s), teaching, praise kink, cum

“you sure you don’t want popcorn?” satoru’s voice is a playful whisper, leaning close as the movie’s opening credits roll, his breath tickling your ear. you’re slouched in the cinema’s plush seats, shoulder brushing his, the dark theater hiding the way your pulse jumps.

he’s your best friend, ten years older, with his sharp grins and effortless charm, the kind of guy who makes your heart stutter even when he’s just being satoru. his arm’s slung over your seat, casual, like it’s always been—intimacy that’s normal, expected, yet electric every time.

“i’m good,” you murmur, smirking, nudging his elbow. “you’d just eat it all anyway.” he chuckles, low, hand dropping to your thigh, resting there like it’s nothing, fingers warm through your jeans. it’s always like this with him—close, tactile, a line you both toe without crossing. his thumb brushes idly, and you shift, pretending to focus on the screen, but your skin’s buzzing. he doesn’t move, just keeps his hand there, heavy, possessive in a way that feels safe, familiar.

the movie’s a blur, some action flick he picked, but you’re distracted, stealing glances at his profile—white hair catching the screen’s glow, blue eyes glinting when he catches you looking. “pay attention,” he teases, squeezing your thigh lightly, and you roll your eyes, shoving his hand halfheartedly.

“you’re the worst,” you whisper, but you’re smiling, and his grin says he knows you don’t mean it. the rest of the film passes in a haze, his hand never leaving your thigh, a quiet claim that makes your stomach flutter.

after, you’re in his car, a sleek black thing that smells like leather and him. he’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the gearshift, city lights flashing past. “that movie was bullshit,” he says, laughing, glancing at you. “next time, you pick.” you snort, kicking your feet up on the dash, ignoring his mock glare. “you’d just complain anyway.” he grins, turning onto your street, and the banter flows—easy, stupid jokes about the movie’s plot holes, his bad driving, your worse taste in snacks.

“speaking of bad taste,” he says, tone shifting, playful but probing, “you still dodging guys or what?” you groan, slumping in the seat. “not dodging. just… picky.” he raises an eyebrow, smirking. “picky, huh? what, no one’s good enough for my girl?”

the my hits, possessive, and you shrug, cheeks warm. “maybe. haven’t exactly been… practicing.” he laughs, loud, head tipping back. “practicing? what, like it’s a sport? c’mon, spill.”

you hesitate, then blurt, “fine, i’ve never given a blowjob, okay? happy?” it’s meant to be defiant, but your voice cracks, embarrassed. he goes quiet, then whistles, grin widening. “damn, never? that’s… wild.” you punch his arm, mortified. “shut up! it’s not funny.” he’s still laughing, but it’s warm, not mocking. “nah, it’s not. it’s cute. you’re cute.” you glare, but he’s pulling into your driveway, parking, and the mood shifts, his laughter fading, eyes on you, intense.

you both get out, and he walks you to your doorstep, hands in his pockets, the night air cool. you fumble with your keys, and he leans against the doorframe, watching, quieter now. “you serious about the blowjob thing?” he asks, voice low, no teasing now, just curiosity, something heavier.

you pause, keys dangling, heart pounding. “yeah,” you admit, shy. “never got the chance.” he steps closer, towering over you, blue eyes dark in the porch light. “want me to teach you?” he says, soft, serious, a challenge and a promise. “just you and me. no one else.”

your breath catches. he’s always been possessive—glaring at guys who got too close, calling you his in that half-joking way—but this is different. “you’d… do that?” you whisper, and he nods, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering on your cheek. “fuck yeah. you trust me, right?” you nod, pulse racing, and he smiles, warm, guiding you inside. “then let’s do this.”

inside, your apartment’s dim, lit by a single lamp. he leads you to the couch, sitting with his legs spread, patting the space between. “c’mere,” he says, voice gentle, and you kneel, heart hammering, the intimacy of the moment overwhelming. he’s so close, the faint scent of his cologne—citrus, clean—mixing with the wine on his breath. “relax, baby,” he murmurs, hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw. “it’s just me. you’re safe. we’ll go slow.”

he shifts, undoing his belt, the buckle’s clink making you flinch. “just gonna start easy,” he says, pushing his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free, thick, half-hard, intimidating. “shit,” you breathe, frozen, and he chuckles, hand on your shoulder. “don’t panic. you don’t have to take it all. touch me first.”

you reach out, fingers wrapping around him, tentative, and he inhales, guiding your hand. “like this,” he says, showing a slow stroke, base to tip, firm but patient. “not too tight. feels good already.” you mimic him, stroking, and he groans, “fuck, that’s it. good girl.”

the praise hits hard, heat pooling between your legs, and you shift, trying to focus. “you’re doing great,” he says, eyes locked on yours, possessive and warm. “wanna try your mouth?” you nod, eager but nervous, and he brushes your hair back, keeping it out of your face. “start with the tip. lick it, feel it out.” you lean in, tongue tasting the salty bead at the head, and he moans, “shit, just like that.” you lick again, circling, and he’s praising, “fuck, you’re a natural.”

you take him into your mouth, just the head, lips stretching, and he groans, hand resting lightly on your head, not pushing. “good, keep it slow,” he says, voice rougher, thighs tensing. “use your tongue.” you swirl it around the tip, sucking gently, and he’s unraveling, “goddamn, that’s it.” you hum, the vibration making him twitch, and he grips your hair, possessive but gentle. “fuck, you’re making me crazy.”

“look at me,” he says, and you glance up, meeting his eyes, dark with want, soft beneath the heat. “you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, and you moan, vibrating around him. “shit, do that again,” he groans, hips shifting, and you hum, sucking harder, feeling him pulse. “you’re mine,” he says, voice low. “no one else gets this.” you nod, mouth full, eager to please.

“try more,” he coaches, guiding gently. “breathe through your nose, relax your throat.” you inch down, taking more, careful not to gag, and he’s moaning, “yes, just like that.”

you bob your head, finding a rhythm, spit slicking your lips, and he’s losing it, thighs shaking. “fuck, baby, you’re perfect,” he pants, hand tightening, grounding. “use your hand too.” you wrap your fingers around the base, stroking with your mouth, and he groans, “goddamn, yes.”

you’re bolder, taking him deeper, lips tight, tongue on the underside, and he’s a mess, voice breaking. “you’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, and you hum, feeling him twitch. you pull off, panting, spit on your chin, and he cups your face, wiping it away. “you okay?” he asks, gentle, checking in. “yeah,” you say, hoarse, smiling. “it’s fun.” he laughs, possessive edge back. “fun, huh? you’re gonna kill me.”

you dive back in, sucking deeper, hand stroking faster, and he’s close, voice urgent. “fuck, i’m—shit, slow down if you don’t want—” but you don’t, wanting to finish, and he groans, “you’re perfect, fuck, i’m—” he cums, hot, thick, spilling into your mouth, and you swallow most, some dripping down. he’s panting, stroking your hair, “so fucking good, baby.”

he pulls you up, kissing you deep, tasting himself. “you did so well,” he says, arms wrapping around you, possessive. “no one else gets you like this, yeah?” you nod, melting, and he kisses your forehead, smitten. “want me to teach you something else too, baby?”

[cherrynpink]

between neighbours

pairing: perv!joshua x f!reader

genre: neighbours to lovers, smut (with a bit of plot) MDNI!

warnings: joshua is a perverttt lol, panty sniffing, perv yet still gentleman joshua (it is a fine line to walk), making out, mentions on masturbating, joshua in tank top (yes it is a warning), switch!joshua, switch!oc, dom!joshua? later, fingering, spanking, joshua is a bit mean but its ok bcs so is oc, oral (m! receiving), unprotected sex (DON'T do this!), he's hitting it from the back, creampie, lmk if i missed anything!

w.c.: 4.6k

for more of my work, check out my masterlist!

note: joshua in black tank top save me... save me joshua in black tank top. i wrote this bcs i love joshua in tank top if u can't tell n i saw a huge lack of perv joshua rep in the community.

also posting after so long did u miss me hehe (i will cry if u say no) anywaysss my requests are open if u have something u wanna read or just talk. i am very very open to making friends here so u can message me if u want. feedback is highly appreciated hope u like this one hehehe :3

Joshua was a nice guy.

Probably the nicest guy you’ve ever come across. He had been the sweetest to you ever since you had moved into the apartment next to him. It was your first time living alone as an adult, and he had been nothing but helpful since the day you met him. Setting up all your furniture because “What are neighbours for?”, helping you sort out all your stuff from your boxes and arrange everything, convincing your landlord to install a new AC unit, making you homemade meals until your kitchen was set up; you name it and Joshua had probably done it for you. You were nervous to move to a new city where you knew no one, but he made the transition so much easier for you. You found out he was a graphic designer and often worked from home, so he was literally there at your beck and call at even the most insignificant sign of trouble. Not to forget, he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, in fact so pretty it ached your heart- the way his eyes would widen as he laughed or whenever he was confused, the way his arms would bulge out of the black tank top he wore when he was helping you set up your bed, sweat dripping down his face which made you want to take him on the very bed he was arranging right then and there. Yeah, Joshua was such a nice guy.

Or atleast that’s what you thought and what his actions said. Because yeah he’s nice, but he’s not this nice to anyone. He would never admit it, but he’s followed you around like a puppy and helped you out so much because he just wants you so fucking bad. He would stare as your ass whenever you bent down to pick up the boxes, completely unaware of Joshua ogling your ass hanging out of your shorts. It got worse for him when the AC stopped working and all you would wear were stupid low cut tank tops. His eyes would travel to your cleavage, neck wet with sweat. You had to know your tits were out, right? Still, he was somehow coping, dropping his sweatpants down and fisting his cock as soon as he got home, your Instagram post open on his phone in his other hand as he came all over his hand staring at your pictures.

He wanted to be a gentleman, he truly did; but then came that fateful Saturday. Your living room and bedroom were almost set up, and you had asked him to get the blankets and bedsheets from one of your boxes. Now, Joshua would say what happened next was through no fault of his own. Packing is stressful, and one might often put things in the wrong box or label them wrong. Sometimes things might just fall into a box and you might’ve not noticed. So it was really not his fault when he lifted one of the pink sheets and found a red material peak through the bottom. Not thinking much of it, he unfolded the sheets, only to find your delicate red lace panties fall on his feet.

A normal person who was unaffected by you would just pick them up and put them right back in the box or in your drawers, as if they hadn’t even noticed them. But, he can’t for his life explain or justify what he did next, as he picked up the lace in his hand and brought it up to his nose without a thought, sniffing the soft material as he immersed his nose in the faint vanilla scent. Make no doubt, Joshua was not usually a panty sniffing creep; in fact till this very moment the thought hadn’t even occurred to him but even though your panties were washed and clean, he could practically feel the fragrance of your cunt and the taste of your essence. Your voice calling him from the kitchen brough him back to reality and as if his rational part of the brain had stopped working, he quickly shoved them in his pockets. As soon as you both were done for the day, he rushed to his room- a very familiar scene on his bed with his boxers still on him, just barely pulled down to take his cock out as he stroked it up and down eagerly as he moaned out your name with the newest addition of his face buried in your stolen panties.

Joshua feels so so guilty. He feels so bad for stealing your panties and then wrapping the warm material around his dick and covering them in his cum, ruining them. What he feels worse about is even though he feels guilty he cannot stop because there’s something so sick in him that loves it. He loves marking them. Loves to think of marking you the same way, marking him as yours. And what he feels even worse about is that ever since that day, whenever he goes over to your apartment to help you, he ends up stealing another pair, and another, and another to the point you’ve gotten concerned over your lack of panties. He's heard you complain to your friend over the phone that maybe you forgot to pack them since so many of them were missing but poor you, unaware of the fact they’re right across your wall in your sweet neighbour’s bedside drawer.

“Joshua, I think there’s a problem with my stove.” You call out to him.

“Wait, let me check.” He says, walking towards you. “Step back a bit.”

He checks the gas valves and calls the gas company to get it checked, which results in you finding out that the pipes need to be changed.

“Y/n, this won’t be changed until tomorrow morning.” He says as calmly, booking an appointment on his phone for a handyman.

“Why can’t anything go right!” you groan out as you fall on the coach, your head in your hands. “Maybe I wasn’t ready to live alone yet.” You mumble. “Fuck! Should’ve gotten a roommate, my mom was right.”

“Hey, this happens to everyone.” He says as he sits down beside you. “When I first started living alone I literally set my house on fire the second day, not even kidding, you’re doing much better than I am.” You laugh as his words comfort you.

“I’ll make dinner at mine today, okay?”

“No way Josh, I’ll just order something. I’ve already troubled you so much I can’t-”

“C’mon it’s no fun eating alone.” He says with a pout. “I bet once you’re fully set you won’t even want to hang out with me, let me enjoy the last few days I have left cooking for you.” He teases you as you laugh.

"No way i'm leaving you alone shua, you're gonna be cooking for me all the time." You giggle.

Now Joshua had called you over for dinner so sweetly and nonchalantly, but between all this crisis management he had totally forgotten about the fact that your panties, that he stole, were littered all over his room because he wasn’t planning to bring you over tonight. But unaware Joshua just let you stroll into his apartment as you settled in there, talking to him as you “helped” him cook for the both of you. You weren’t really helping. Just letting him do all the work and whenever he did ask you to do something, you messed it up some way or the other so you just opted for sitting on the counter rocking your legs back and forth as you explained in detail the seven part Hailey Bieber stalker series from Youtube.

“Right? Okay so Selena has this ‘g’ tattoo behind her ear after her sister Gracie, and guess what! Hailey got the same-”

“You said that you would help me y/n.”

“I am helping! I’m entertaining you shua, if it wasn’t for me you’d just get bored.” You say as you shrug your arms. “Plus you don’t know about this triangle! It’s was all over my feed a few months ago, why are you such a boomer.” You whined, frustrated at the lack of his knowledge of pop culture.

“Okay, I’m sorry” he says as he adds seasonings to the pot. “Tell me what happens next, she copied her tattoo?”

“She DID copy her tattoo, but you’re so ungrateful I’m not telling you anymore.” You say, getting off the counter. Before he can protest, you say, “I’m going to the bathroom.” Heading towards his room.

As you enter the bathroom in his room, it is only natural for you to be curious as to what he has in there. You check all his cabinets and drawers. A cleanser? Tick. A shampoo that is not a 4 in 1 atrocity? A win for you. An actual moisturizer? You are very pleased. Once you get out, you examine his room. Books on his bed side table, laptop neatly shut on his work desk, a few clothes scattered on his bed but nothing too out of the ordinary. But as your eyes scan the bed, what do you see but something very familiar and very missing from your boxes under one of his shirts, before your hand is reaching down to grab it.

Now, it finally hits him. Joshua FINALLY remembers that he had left you alone his room, and if his memory serves him right, he had left a pair of your baby blue panties on his bed. Shit. Did you see it yet? Are you horrified at him? Do you hate him? Now it was time for him to panic as he turns the stove off and hurries towards his room hoping you weren’t out yet, only to find his worst fears come true as he opens the door, panties dangling from your hand as you stand in front of his bed, eyes wide and lips slightly apart, staring at him.

“Are these mine shua?” you ask innocently, even though you know the answer all too well.

“Y/n wait let me explain I-”

“How many more do you have?” not a single note of anger in your voice, but rather curiosity.

“I-” Joshua doesn’t have any words to explain his situation. How does he tell you he’s been stealing you panties and sniffing and cumming in them? He tries to find the words to not make you mad and think of him as a creep before he sees you walking towards him, standing so close to him that he can feel your breathe on his face as you reach up, your panties still bundled in your palm, and the next second you lips are on his, taking him by surprise as his eyes widen. He first stands there frozen, but is quick to keep up with you as he deepens the kiss, pushing you back with his hands on your waist. He can hear his heart beating in his ears and it’s insane how worked up you’ve gotten him over just a kiss. He feels your nails trance over his neck, making his shudder. You pull away, deliberately letting out a sensual sigh.

“Could’ve just asked me for them, why’d you steal, hmm?” you say as you lean in once again, this time slipping your tongue into his warm mouth, his hips pressing into you from under, making you gasp as you feel his hardened length against your lower abdomen.

“Not very gentleman like of you shua.” You say teasingly.

Eager to assert control over him, you push him towards the bed, your feet stumbling and stepping over his as the back of his knees meet the edge and he sits down, legs spread wide before you’re sitting in his lap, legs on either side of him. When you pull away from his lips the sight in front of you is one to see, Joshua under you in his stupid white tank top this time (another one of your favorites) that clings to him so tight you can see his chest bulging out, sweat droplets on his forehead, cheeks flushed and a fucked out look in his eyes. You get off of him as you kneel down beneath him, but not before handing him the very panties he had stolen from you. You pull his sweatpants down, watching his half hard length trapped in his boxers.

“Y/n, please.” He whimpers above you. It’s funny really, how you’re under him yet the one to hold all the control. Your lips ghost over his boxers, and he can practically feel himself burst when he opens his eyes only to see your big doe eyes in front of his trapped length, before you’re reaching down to wrap your lips around his clothed member, mouthing at it as a wet patch forms on his boxers.

“What do you do with them?” you ask with a small smile on your face as you tilt your neck slightly, eyes so innocent that if he himself wasn't there he would never believe the words coming out of your mouth.

“It’s embarrassing.” He whispers only loud enough for you to barely hear him.

“I won’t let you fuck me if you don’t tell me.” You say as you finally lower his boxers, his hips lifting to help you. “Do you sniff them?” your fingers rub his tip teasingly, spreading around the pre-cum.

“I- fuck, yes! I do.” He finally confesses.

“Mhm, what else?” you say, one hand still running along his hard length while the other reaches to play with his balls, making him moan out loud in surprise.

“Shit I- I wrap them around me and jerk off!” he says which apparently pleases you because you wrap your plush lips around his tip, sucking softly as your hand wraps around his base in a light grip and he sighs in relief; but that only lasts so long before you’re pulling away once again.

“Did you cum in them?” you ask, stopping all your ministrations and placing your hands in your lap.

“Y/n, please-”

“I won’t do anything if you don’t answer me.”

“I did, fuck please! Need your mouth.” He says and you decide not to torture him anymore, wrapping your lips completely around him as you take more than half of him in one go, and it was NOT as easy and effortless as you made it look because Joshua is bigger than you expected. You run your tongue all around, feeling the ridges and veins popping out and you might just cry out of happiness because you actually think his cock is the prettiest you’ve ever seen.

You just rest it against your tongue for a while, letting him feel the warmth before you’re pulling it out, only to deep throat him at once and oh, the sound he lets out is music to your ears. You continue to bob up and down on his dick, as it hits the back of your throat repeatedly whilst your hand pumps the part that you can’t fit, his head thrown back in pleasure and yours in a fucked-out state as his hand grab your hair a makeshift ponytail, manoeuvring your mouth on him as he pleases. His eyebrows are furrowed, eyes closed as the sounds of your gagging and his moaning fill the room. After a point, you give in to him, letting him use you as he pleases, like a doll- only for his pleasure, and you don’t mind it one bit.

“Fuck Y/n, you’re so much better when you shut up for once, doing so good for me.” He grunts out.

His other hand roams around the bed, finding the blue lace before he brings it up to his nose, taking in your scent. All you see when you blink up to him is his buff chest rising up and down, teeth biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood but that still isn’t enough to make control his moans. He’s shaking now, so so close to his high as his mind goes blank and he gives a particularly sharp tug at your hair, making you flood your panties beneath your denim shorts, your slick travelling down and escaping the fabric as you rub your thighs.

“Thought about this so many times, fuck!” he groans as he feels your throat close up around him. his heavy cock stretches your lips out completely as you struggle to keep him in, your jaw aching accommodating his cock. Tears begin to form in your eyes as his hips increase his face, his moans signalling how close he is to his release. His breathe turns erratic and his grip in your hair tightens, as his voice breaks and his warm cum fills your mouth with no warning. He rocks your head back and forth amidst it slowly as he’s still cumming in your mouth, his seed travelling down your throat as you gag on it further, tears streaming down your face and eyes rolling back. When he’s finally spent, he pulls you off of him, a string a saliva still connects you to the head as dribbles down to your chest and you see him smirk, your panties still bunched in his palm and your tears dried on your cheeks.

“Open.” He demands with a light tap on your cheek as you open your mouth, tongue out to show him his cum smeared on his lips and tongue, and you can feel the dynamic shift already.

“Good girl, swallow.”

He pulls you up to give you a messy kiss, as if he didn’t just cum in your mouth and it kind of warms you from the inside and makes your chest flutter because even amidst this, he does act like a gentleman (as if he didn’t just literally fuck you throat seconds ago). You’re flipped onto your stomach in a second as you see him rid himself of his bottoms. One second you’re begging for him to come back to you, next he’s on top of you, pressed against you so close, hands travelling along the curve of your spine before coming down to rest against your hip, pulling you up as he forces you on your hands and knees. You hear him kneel behind, murmuring out “fuck” quietly to himself as his hands reach forward to unbutton your shorts, pulling them down just below the curve of your ass as they fall to your knees and he’s face to face with your soaked covered center.

His long fingers reach between your thighs, pushing them apart just slightly as to look at the mess you’ve made when he’s barely touched as they make contact with your slick covered soft skin. And before you know it,

smack!

his hand is pulled away from you as it comes down to hit your plush ass, your entire body stumbling forward with the impact as a loud cry erupts from your throat in surprise. He’s pulling the lace material above your cheeks, his hand rubbing it gently, soothing your skin.

“You good baby?” he asks from behind- one hand stabilizing your body with its tight grip on your hips while the other continues to caress your ass. There’s a change in his tone, voice turning raspier and deeper, much different than the Joshua you knew but not that you were complaining. And it’s embarrassing for you to explain how much wetter you felt yourself get at his actions as he brings up the hand resting on your hips up your back, grabbing your hair from behind and pulling you towards him.

“You want more, or should I stop?” he whispers, mouth resting just above your ear as he towers over you. When you turn your head to face him, you see his lust driven eyes as he looks down on you- hand still in your hair before he’s reaching down to press a kiss to your lips once again. This one much different than the way he’s kissed you before- full of impatience and hunger. You manage to moan out a “more” into the kiss as he’s pulling away and forcing your face into the pillow once again.

He's returned to slapping your behind, stopping occasionally to rub against your skin to ease the sting. Your loud cries and the sound of his hand hitting you fills the room, but what is harder for you than to bear the pain is controlling how turned on you are right now, as you feel your wetness dripping down your thighs and you’re pretty sure he sees it too, one of his hands coming down to run the tip of his finger along your slit.

“Joshua, mhm, please!” you whine out, but it seems he’s not stopped with the teasing as his fingers gently graze against your clit for second before pulling away again, continuing to play with your folds.

“Fuck, you’re dripping all over.” He murmurs to himself. “You like being spanked? That’s what got you so wet? Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen baby.” He laughs cruelly, looking at you only to see you hiding your face in the pillow out of the embarrassment.

“What? Not so bold anymore Y/n?” he teases you. “Don’t be shy baby, it’s only me.” he says, spreading out your folds with his fingers as you clench around nothing, feeling another glob of your slick leaking out, the cool air near your warmth making you shiver. A familiar warm and giddy feeling runs through your chest and makes its way down your stomach, making you flutter and moan out in surprise as you feel him spit right on your heat. Without a warning, he’s pushing 2 of his fingers in at one go- your back arching and hips pushing behind, begging for more out of his fingers. His thumb is navigating its way through your folds, making contact with your enlarged nub as you moan out his name, fingers scissoring inside you in a steady pace.

“Joshua, more!” you grunt, your arms losing strength every passing second and the band in your gut getting closer to snapping as he continues to edge you, slowing down just as he feels you getting closer to cumming every time. Your legs are probably shaking at this point, your pleads and cries filling the room every time you feel his knuckles make contact with your insides curling them just enough to make your entire body jerk at his touch. You’re breathless, gripping the sheets clenching around his fingers hard enough to crush them as your legs tremble beneath, a high-pitched loud moan leaving your throat, bucking into his hand right as you’re about-

And he stops. Fingers stopping all their movement as they’re still inside you, knuckles just resting at your opening, but that doesn’t last long either as he’s pulling them out in one go and that’s enough to break you as you feel tears wet the pillow under you, whining out and complaining to him as the loss of contact.

“Want you to cum around my cock pretty.” He justifies, voice dripping in honey as if he’s not done the filthiest things to you just seconds before. You gather the strength to lift your upper body, palms laying flat on the sheets as you turn your head to look at him teary eyed, hoping he’ll show you some mercy, only for him to lock his gaze right into yours and licking your essence off his fingers. It’s obscene really, you watch him swirl his tongue around his fingers, tasting all of you as he moans out.

“Gonna eat you next time baby.” He coos as he pulls your hips towards him by force, your back arching in reflex, pushing yourself onto him. He’s taking his length in his hand and tapping it’s head against your spent core, digits reaching to draw 8 figures on your clit, making you squeak as you hear a low deep throated chuckle from behind you. He keeps running his tip up and down your slit, teasing you till no return and all you can do is whine and beg him to give you more.

With no warning, he’s shoving his entire length inside you- giving you no time to adjust as you jerk forward, a loud cry erupting from you as he groans out due to the warm feeling. You can practically feel him throb inside you because of how deep in he is, and just as a tear is about to drop from your lashes you feel him pulling more than halfway out, only to slam right back into you until you hear his balls make contact with your cunt. Your fingers cramped from the way you’re holding onto the sheets as his hand travel up your spine and grab your hair once again.

Joshua loves your pussy. Now that he’s had it once he’s not sure he can go without it. Your tight walls are clenching around him so hard he might come right then and there. He musters up some strength in him, rocking his hips into you at a steady pace at first as to not overwhelm you with his length, but you’re apparently not satisfied, begging him “harder, more!” under him. And who was he to say no to you? he laughs with a particular strong thrust of his hips into yours, showing you no mercy. He fucks you hard, fucks you fast, fucks you like a man depraved. Because all this time he had been dreaming of your warm wet cunt wrapped around him, and now that he had you he wanted to savor every second of it.

His grip on you in tight, chants of “good girl” leaving him as you mutter out incoherent nonsense. Tears are streaming down your cheeks, overwhelmed with the pleasure that overpowers the pain of his hardness slamming inside you again and again. And he feels so close to his edge, so he chases it- skin slapping against yours as his hand on your clit speeds up, your hips rocking back to meet him instinctively. Your eyes roll back, the knot in your stomach tightening as you begin to tense up. Brows furrowed as he repeatedly hits the very spot that drives you over the edge.

“Fuck shua! Gonna- gonna cum!” you whine out. “Please baby, please- oh!” and with that you’re letting go, eyes going blank, limbs going numb as you crash head onto the pillow as you cum with a broken sob, squeezing him so hard that his hips too falter, as he paints your insides white, not a care in the world that he’s not wearing a condom. You’re probably on birth control, right? Even if you’re not, he would love to see you swell with his baby. But he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

He pulls out of you, his cum leaking down your thighs as he falls besides your completely spent body. You turn onto your back, running your hands through his hair as he kisses you, much gentler than before this time.

“You did good.” He murmurs against your lips with a slight smile looking at your tear-stained cheeks.

“Fucking pervert.” You tease him.

“What? As if you didn’t stare at my chest whenever I helped you lift boxes.” He says, hands running against your back. “I felt objectified!”

“Hey! I didn’t steal underwear!”

“Want me to beg for them next time?”

He is a nice guy after all.

[hearts4hughes]

i would love for some ex-bf rafe who learns ur going on a date... oh i'm dizzy

the words didn’t sound right coming out of topper’s mouth. rafe’s brows furrowed, his ears started ringing, and his blood began to boil. “what?” he stifled out a laugh, staring at topper like it was a dare. “say that shit again?”

“y/n, bro,” topper chuckles, slapping rafe’s back like he’s telling the punchline to a joke. “she’s got a date with that douche who’s family owns the country club.” he leans back, taking a swig of his beer like he single handedly didn’t ruin rafe’s night.

“you gotta be fucking kidding me.” he mutters, white fingers clenching around his glass. his heartbeat is loud in his ears. skin hot to the touch. his mind swirls like a tropical storm in his head.

topper stops drinking mid sip. he holds the glass to his lips and looks at rafe who’s staring into space like he’s plotting murder. all amusement drains from his face as he realizes. “yo, man, i didn’t think you’d care. i thought you were broken up with her.”

“the fucks that matter for?” rafe answers fast, defensive. his eye twitches as he looks at topper like a predator waiting to pounce. he places down his glass with a slam that causes the room to go silent.

topper’s jaw hangs agape, eyes wider than a child’s. “n-no, it doesn’t matter. i just don’t want you to freak out or anything.” he says. “johnny’s a good kid, anyway. she’ll be fine-”

“i don’t give a shit. ok, top?” rafe’s voice is thunderous. it bounces off the walls and guests try not to look towards the two boys. “frankly, i don’t care if he’s prince fucking charming.”

topper nods, eyes falling to the floor. a light blush floods his cheeks as he mutters some excuse to get away. rafe doesn’t even acknowledge his voice, just stares him down like he did something wrong.

he doesn’t even blink until topper’s gone. until the echo of his footsteps fades down the hall. then, and only then, does rafe move.

his jaw tightens, grinding like he’s in pain. you’ve got a date. with some clean cut, buttoned up, generational wealth little bitch who probably thinks chivalry is buying you a glass of wine and not commenting on your ass when you walk away.

his girl.

his tongue runs along the inside of his cheek, slow and venomous. you’ve probably already picked out your outfit. probably did your makeup all soft and glowy the way you knows he likes it. probably squealed about it to the same friends who told you to break up with rafe.

his body moves before his mind, and before he realizes it, he’s halfway to your house.

~

you’re swiping on lipstick when the knock hits the door. three sharp raps, fast and aggressive. not the soft kind that says hey, just checking in. no. this knock sounds like a warning.

you freeze, lipstick tube still in hand. a pit forms in your stomach as if your body already knows who’s there. you weren’t expecting anyone. your date isn’t supposed to pick you up for another hour.

you set the makeup down and move through the apartment with that weird feeling that you’re being watched. you already have a feeling, but it still steals the breath from your lungs when you see him standing there.

rafe.

polo shirt buttoned up enough to be classy, and show off his muscular chest. his jaw is tight, hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself back from something dangerous. his eyes drag over you in a way that makes your skin burn, even with two layers of makeup and your prettiest dress between you and him.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just looks at you. looks through you. he’s always been able to read you like a book—it’s one of the things you hated.

“you really goin’ out lookin’ like that?”

you blink. your spine straightens. “you can’t just show up here, rafe.”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t budge. he tips his head, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek like he’s chewing on something bitter. “wasn’t gonna. wasn’t planning on it.” his gaze drops down the line of your body and comes back up slower, meaner. “but then i heard some shit..and suddenly, i couldn’t stay away.”

you fold your arms across your chest, lips tightening. “you heard i have a date. that’s what you mean.”

“a date,” he repeats, scoffing. “yeah. with the fuckin’ golden boy. you got bored of people who make your life messy, huh?”

“i got bored of people who lie, rafe,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. the words taste bitter, too real, and you hate that he still makes you say them.

for a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. something like guilt. something like loss. but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“he’s not gonna know what to do with you,” he murmurs, stepping forward. just one inch, but it makes the air shift. “he’s gonna try and play it safe. ask you about college. open doors. kiss you soft.” he tilts his head again, eyes flicking to your lips. “you gonna let him?” he asks, voice rough and close now. “you gonna let him kiss you like you’re some glass doll?”

you swallow, throat tight. the silence stretches between you, hot and coiled, and he watches you like he already knows your answer. he always does.

“yeah,” he chuckles, breath hot on your face. “that’s what i thought.” his hands find their place on your hips, bringing you closer. now, you were flush with him—the same man you swore never to talk to again. “now cancel that date before i go pay him a visit, yeah?”

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife

[gh0stsp1d3r]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ That’s not a thermometer.

cw: fem!reader, they’re also married, anxiety, pregnancy, doubts of being a good father, mentions of daddy issues, but mostly fluff

A/n: the people REALLY wanted more nerd!rafe… and my baby fever is crazy rn so… this is curing it

MASTERLIST

A few weeks ago, you’d been panicking at the thought of it. As you stood there, waiting in the bathroom for the lines to show up, your mind ran wild.

What if you were pregnant? Would Rafe stay? Or would he be scared and leave?

No, you told yourself. Rafe was better than that.

You saw the two lines, and you just about passed out. Oh god, oh god. You took another test, just to be sure. Positive again.

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, Rafe knocking on the bathroom door while clearing his throat.

“Y/n? Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while.” He asked, voice full of concern. The movie buzzed on in the background, but it was long forgotten at this point.

“Uhm- yeah! I’m- I’m fine!” You replied, taking both tests in your hands, looking around the bathroom. You thought of tossing it into the trash, but Rafe was very oddly observant. He’d probably notice it while he was taking out the trash or something.

You shoved it into the pockets of your hoodie, telling yourself that it would be okay, and that Rafe wouldn’t know anything as you opened the door.

He had a small frown on his face, leaning against the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” He asked you, immediately sensing something was off. You wished he couldn’t read you so well, sometimes.

“I’m alright.” You repeated, him quirking an eyebrow, pushing himself off of the doorway.

“Alright.” He replied, although not convinced at all. He decided not to press any further, sitting down on his bed. You sat down next to him, your head still spinning and swirling.

He laid down, waiting for you to do the same. When he looked at you, however, you were completely zoned out, your eyes glossed over and your face unreadable.

“Hey,” he spoke quietly, putting his hand on your thigh. You jerked slightly, turning to him with wide eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re looking a little pale…” he noted, moving his other hand onto your forehead.

You gave him a tight lipped smile, nodding as you pushed his hand off of your face. “I’m finee, Rafe. Quit worrying about me.” You told him, going to lay down with him in an attempt to act normal.

“I can’t help it.” He replied, kissing the side of your head, pulling you closer to him, his arm now lazily slung over your stomach.

The movie became less and less interesting, Rafe speaking over it at times and saying how the main character was “pissing him off.”

“Oh, are you serious? Whoever wrote this movie sucks. This doesn’t even make sense. The plot is all over the place and they just completely mischaracterized their own character.”

You didn’t reply, already knowing how deep he analyzed these movies and shows. Usually, you’d agree or laugh with him about it, but today you didn’t. You were quiet the entire time, actually.

Rafes worries grew. ‘Did I do something?’ He thought, replaying every moment with you recently. He couldn’t think of anything. So, he remained quiet after a while, deciding to not bother you.

He felt you slowly grow more limp in his hands as the movie played on, slowly dozing off with your head resting against his shoulder.

He had a soft smile on his face, glancing at you. That smile faded when he felt something cold touch his hands, dropping from your pockets. He furrowed his eyebrows, feeling the shape of it. At first, he thought it was some thermometer. He had felt the body of it, nothing more.

Why would there be a thermometer in your pocket?

He glanced at your sleeping figure once more, before moving his hand and pulling the object out from underneath the covers and your body.

That’s not a thermometer.

His eyes widened and his grip loosened on the object, dropping it for a moment. He quickly reached over your form, grabbing it and holding it close to his face as if it was unbelievable.

He examined it closely, looking over the two lines multiple times. He swallowed, looking back down at you. He sighed quietly, putting his hand on his forehead and staring up at the ceiling.

Okay, he wasn’t upset at you. He was more so confused and worried. He thought for a moment, would a child really be that bad? He had taken his father’s business over now, money pouring in like it was nothing. That wasn’t a problem. The main thing he was worried about was how good of a dad he’d really be.

He wouldn’t leave this child, god no. He knew that much. He loved you far too much.

Plus, you’d spoken about this before. Neither of you were against the idea, he just didn’t think it would be this soon.

But, living his whole life without a proper father figure screwed him up more than he’d like to admit. He didn’t know how a father should act, how a father should really treat a child. What if his child ended up like him? What if he needed to go to anger management and fucking therapy all because of Rafe?

His thought were interrupted when you began to squirm around in your sleep, your eyes beginning to flutter open. You saw Rafe staring at you, his eyes glossed over. He gave you a small smile, moving the hair from your face.

You gave him a tired smile back, and for a moment, he made you forget about everything else. When his arms wrapped around you again, there was nothing else in the world.

“I love you, you know that?” He rasped out quietly.

“I love you too.” You replied, although very confused at the random statement.

He pulled away, looking you in your eyes for a moment. He sat up slowly, you furrowing your eyebrows worriedly at him as you did the same.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him, him shaking his head.

“I..uhm..” he pulled out the test, letting it speak for itself. It was like the words had gotten stuck in his throat.

“Oh.” You mumbled, dropping your gaze down.

“I know this probably isn’t how you wanted me to find out.” He spoke, you looking down at your lap still, avoiding his gaze. “And I want you to know-“ he paused, looking at you.

“Y/n.” His hand moved, grabbing your face in his hands, moving closer towards you. You looked up at him finally, tears brimming your eyes.

“I love you.” He repeated. Those words meant more to you than he could imagine at the moment. You started full on sobbing, him wrapping his arms around you, letting you cry into his shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.” He told you in a murmur, your hands bunching up the fabric of his shirt.

“I love you.” You cried out, him letting out a quiet laugh, continuing to let you cry.

“Hey, hey,” he spoke when he heard nothing but little sniffles coming from you. You pulled away, looking at him again. He brought the pad of his thumb, wiping away any remaining tears.

“I meant it. I- I really, really wanna be here for you. For the both of you. Okay? I’m gonna- gonna get my shit together, ‘m gonna… figure it all out.”

“Thank you.” You replied quietly, him giving you a soft smile, pulling you in for another hug.

“You’re gonna be a really good dad.” You murmured against him, him smiling at the thought of it. With those simple words, all his anxiety was eased.

“You’re gonna be the best mom.” He retorted.

You giggled at him, leaning up so you could kiss hm.

When you pulled away, you both got back down into the sheets.

“You know, I think it’s gonna be a girl.” You told him quietly, him tilting his head to the side.

“Well, you’d probably be right. Most people think that the likelihood you’ll have a boy or a girl is inherited through the father… considering that I’m literally the only boy in the family, then, you’d probably be correct.”

“I’m trying to be cute and you’re spewing facts at me.” You teased him, him shrugging.

“Well, you knew about the deal when you decided to marry me.” He pulled his hand out from under the covers, showing the ring on his finger.

“You should have put it in your vows.” You replied.

“How would I word that, exactly?”

“I, Rafe Cameron, promise to never stop giving you extremely random science facts, even when you’re pregnant.” You spoke in a deep, mocking voice. It made him laugh out loudly.

“I do not sound like that.”

“You kinda do.” You laughed.

Rafe shook his head with a soft smile, and he knew, despite everything he’s gone through and everything that’s happened, if it led him to you, he’d do it 10 times over again.

Taglist:

@moonssyrup @koibleufish @anamiad00msday @wearemadeofstardust0 @10ava01 @mileyraes