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purplereina11 · 2 months ago

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In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 2: You meet again whilst on International Duty Other Parts

Word Count: 9.6K

⚽️

The engine hums beneath your seat. Your bag is stuffed into the overhead rack. Your boots still stink faintly of grass and adrenaline. Everyone around you is quiet — headphones in, eyes closed, half-asleep grief stitched across their post-match faces.

You’re sat by the window, forehead leaned lightly against the cool glass, her shirt folded in your lap. You’ve run your fingers along the seam a dozen times already. Number 11. You haven’t looked at your phone since you sat down.

Until it buzzes.

Ellie 🧤: What have you done to Alexia?

You blink. Frown. Sit up a little straighter.

You: What? Why? What have I done?

A typing bubble flashes. Then disappears. Comes back again.

Ellie 🧤: Irene told me. Apparently Alexia NEVER asks to swap shirts. Like, ever. And even when she ends up with one, she usually hands it off to staff. But yours she folded and packed straight into her own bag. Shrugged off one of the trainers when they reached for it. Just… packed it like it was gold.

You stare at the screen.

Still holding her shirt in your lap.

Your stomach does that thing — the shift. Like the drop before a fall, but slower. Deeper.

You: Stop.

Ellie 🧤: No. I think she likes you. 😏

You roll your eyes, but your heart flips anyway. You glance around the bus like someone might be watching your reaction — but no one’s paying attention. Everyone’s too tired, too sore, too wrapped in their own silence.

You look back down at the shirt in your lap. Thumb tracing her name along the back.

She packed yours.

Kept it.

Chose it.

And for some of the things she didn’t say on that pitch… maybe that said everything.

You lean your head back against the seat, letting your lips pull into a slow smile — the kind no one else on the bus gets to see.

⚽️

The familiar rhythm of international duty clicks into place the second you arrive — the crisp white kit, the echo of boots in hallways, the early morning call times, the sting of cold water recovery tubs. Different energy. Different badge over your heart. But your body knows the routine.

You’ve shaken the Champions League loss off publicly. But privately… parts of it linger. The ache in your calves. The phantom touch of her hand on your back. The shirt — hers — still tucked away, folded carefully like it’s something sacred.

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

Until now.

You’re sitting in your room, freshly showered, scrolling half-mindlessly through your feed, when you see it — a notification that pulls your breath short.

alexiaputellas11 sent you a message.

You stare at it for a beat. Then tap.

The message is short.

Alexia: So I hear we’re doing this again soon… 🇪🇸🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

Your lips twitch. That subtle stir in your chest kicks up again. You type back.

You: Afraid so. Home and away. Still time to switch sides though if you fancy it. We’ve got good biscuits in camp.

There’s a pause — a long one — like she’s reading it slowly, maybe smiling at it. You hope she is.

Alexia: Tempting. But I think I’m exactly where I need to be. Besides… I quite like chasing you around.

You inhale through your nose, deep, slow.

That’s not just banter. That’s loaded. That’s deliberate.

You: Chasing me? Bold of you to admit it. We’re 1–1, by the way. Just saying.

Alexia: I know. So let’s settle it.

Three words, and suddenly the fixture means more than points, more than friendlies, more than form.

It’s you and her again.

But this time, it’s in the sunburned air of Seville. Or the rain-soaked grass of Wembley. New battlefield. Same electricity.

And for the first time since the miss…

You’re itching for kickoff.

⚽️

The dinner hall’s a soft hum of laughter and plates, steam rising from trays, conversations criss-crossing down long tables. You’re in training kit, hair still damp from the post-session shower, hunger gnawing at your focus. You leave your phone face up on the table next to your water bottle, already halfway turned toward the food line.

Behind you, Beth Mead’s dropping into the seat next to yours, tray in hand, chatting with someone at her shoulder.

You don’t notice the buzz.

Not until you’re halfway back to the table, plate full, when you spot her eyes flick down to your phone — then up at you.

Just a flick.

Then, as you sit, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice.

“Your phone lit up,” she says softly, like she’s saying something far more dangerous than she is.

You shrug. “Ok, will look later, probably just my sister.”

Beth raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Nope. Didn’t say Poppy.”

She tilts her head, voice still low, barely above the clink of cutlery.

“Saw the name. Alexia Putellas Dm'ing you on Insta.”

Your stomach flips. Just a little.

You glance down at the screen — already faded to black again. But you know what it said. You felt it. Her name alone carries heat.

Beth’s watching you now, her grin subtle but sharp.

“Anything I should know?” she whispers, nudging your foot under the table.

You keep your voice steady, casual. “Just football talk.”

Beth gives you a look that says sure it is.

You shrug, eyes back on your plate. “She’s… friendly.”

Beth leans closer. “Friendly how?”

You smile into your fork. “The international rivalry kind of friendly.”

She smirks, shakes her head, and whispers, “You’ve got game, also a sly one, wouldn't think that of you” before returning to her food like she didn’t just poke a hole through your cool exterior.

You glance once at your phone, then again. Still dark. But it might as well be glowing. Because her name is still there. You wipe your fingers on a napkin. Eyes down. Discreet.

Beth’s still next to you, half-eating, half-smirking like she’s not paying attention. But you angle the screen away from her line of sight and unlock your phone, heart giving one subtle stutter as the screen lights up.

Alexia: Montse’s worried about you for next week.

You blink. Of all the things she could’ve said.

You stare at it, a slow smile tugging at the edge of your mouth. Beth, ever-curious, leans in slightly — not enough to be rude, just enough to let you know she’s very aware of your shift in posture.

You type back, careful and quiet.

You: Should you be telling me that? Bit of inside info, no?

A moment passes. Then the dots appear.

Alexia: It’s not a secret. She said it in a press conference this morning. Said you’re dangerous. That you know how to hurt us. She used the word clinical.

You stare at the screen for a moment, heart thudding — just a little heavier. Beth eyes you sideways.

“You okay?” she mumbles, poking a green bean with her fork.

You nod without looking up, thumb tapping the screen again.

You: Montse has good taste. I take it you didn’t correct her?

Alexia: No. I just smiled and pretended I wasn’t already picturing you breaking through our backline again giving me a headache.

Your eyes snap to the screen — heart officially off the rails. You swallow hard, and try — fail — not to smirk.

Beth whispers under her breath, “You’re so blushing.”

You shove a bite of food into your mouth just to distract yourself, eyes glued to the words glowing softly in your hand.

You: Tell her she’s right. I’m feeling a little dangerous this week.

Alexia: Good. I want your best.

And even though the dining hall is warm and full and noisy… You feel suddenly, completely alone with her again.

You’re trying to be subtle. Really.

Your phone’s tucked low in your lap, screen tilted just enough for your eyes only. You're answering slowly, carefully, but every few seconds, a ghost of a smile keeps tugging at your lips — you can feel it there, betraying you.

And of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

You hear the first one from across the table — Keira, of course.

“You’ve got that look,” she says, pointing a fork at you like it’s a truth detector. “That soft smile, eyes-down, texting someone you shouldn’t look.”

You blink up from your food. “What look?”

Keira raises her brow. “That look.”

Millie Bright leans in next. “Yeah, it’s giving ‘new crush’ energy.”

Ella adds through a mouthful of food, “I bet it’s someone in camp. That’s why she’s all hush-hush.”

You roll your eyes, trying to shrug it off. “It’s just a message.”

But the smile’s still there. And it’s not going anywhere.

You glance at Beth beside you. She hasn’t said a word. Just chewing, casually sipping from her water bottle, eyes low, completely unbothered.

Except… she knows. You can feel it in the side-eye she sends you — that quiet, satisfied smirk that says, I saw the name. I know exactly who you're smiling at.

But she doesn’t say a thing. Not to the team. Not to anyone.

Just meets your eyes for half a second, mouth twitching, and then goes back to her food like she’s never heard the name Alexia Putellas in her life.

You make a mental note: Beth Mead, queen of chaos and loyalty.

Meanwhile, Georgia’s getting louder.

“I’m starting a sweepstake,” she announces. “Whoever figures out who’s got her smiling like that first wins my snack stash.”

“Tenner says it’s the physio,” says Ella.

“It’s not the physio!” you groan, trying to hide your laugh. There was a new physio on this camp and you apparently blushed profusely when you first met her.

Across the table, Beth leans in slightly, voice low, only for you to hear.

“You’re welcome for me keeping your little secret by the way,” she mutters, a quiet grin playing on her lips.

You bump her knee under the table.

And you go back to your phone — where her name still glows.

Alexia: I'll pre-warn my keepers and defence you're feeling dangerous.

You smirk — openly this time. Yeah. Let them guess. Let them wonder.

Because this whatever it is. That’s just between you and her.

And Beth. Apparently.

⚽️

You’re the first one out.

Track jacket zipped halfway up. Head down, earbuds in, taking slow steps onto the pitch as the stadium breathes around you — quiet, clean, still holding its breath.

Except, you’re not alone out here.

Spain’s already out.

Clustered near the halfway line, talking lowly in little spin off groups. You don’t look directly at them — not right away. You keep to your side of the line, walking the perimeter like it’s habit, trying to stay in your bubble.

But you feel it. That stare. Her. You don’t need to look to know, Alexia’s watching.

You keep your head down a second longer than necessary before finally giving in — lifting your eyes just enough to glance across the pitch.

And there she is. Jacket undone, hands on her hips, speaking to no one in particular. But her eyes? Locked. On. You.

You quickly look away — too quickly. Cheeks warming, heart knocking against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape.

You take a breath. Try to shake it off. Stretch a little more, try not to smirk.

Then you hear footsteps behind you — fast ones. “Oi.” Beth.

Jogging ahead of the rest of the England girls, warmup jacket flapping behind her, face already halfway between outrage and disbelief.

She slows beside you and gives you a look. The kind of look that demands answers, no escape. “I’m sorry,” she starts, voice sharp and low, “but what the actual hell was that look she just gave you?”

You blink, innocent. Too innocent.

Beth crosses her arms. “Don’t do that. Don’t go all wide-eyed ‘who me?’ on me. That girl was burning holes through you. Like, not even subtle. I thought she was gonna sprint across the halfway line.”

You try to play it cool. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not!” she hisses. “I literally had to slow down just to watch it happen in real time. It was charged. Like, capital ‘C’ Charged.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing your hands down the sides of your thighs, trying not to let the blush hit your ears.

Beth steps in closer. “You’re not telling me something. And I’ve let you get away with it until now, but no. That look? That look was not casual. That was not football. That was something else.”

You raise a brow, amused. “Bit obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Beth snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m obsessed with drama. And you’re clearly serving.”

She glances back across the pitch, where the Spanish team is still gathered — Alexia no longer staring, but definitely aware.

Beth leans in again, lower this time.

“Just tell me this,” she says. “Do I need to buy a hat?”

You grin. “Oh fuck off” You laugh as the other girls catch up, "You're so fucking dramatic, it was a look. It's just a respect thing, professional"

She groans. “So there was a look”

You just laugh, finally letting yourself glance across the pitch again.

Alexia’s already turned away. Talking with teammates. Calm, collected. But you know what you saw. And Beth knows it too.

⚽️

You’re in the rhythm now.

One-touch passing drills. Sprint bursts. Finishing patterns. The kind of movements your body knows by muscle memory — but today, your mind isn’t cooperating.

Even without looking, you know where she is. You know the timbre of her voice when she calls for a ball. You know the way her ponytail flicks over her shoulder when she checks a run.

Spain’s warming up on the other half of the pitch, but somehow it feels like she’s still beside you. Not talking. Just… watching.

You’re doing a terrible job of pretending you haven’t noticed. Beth, of course, has noticed.

She’s jogging beside you during a passing drill, jogging backward now just so she can stare at you while you try to stay focused. “You’re being so obvious,” she mutters between touches.

You don’t even look at her. “I’m literally doing the drill.”

Beth gives you a look. “You’re doing the drill like a lovesick teenager hoping your crush sees you execute a textbook give-and-go.”

You snort. “Don’t flatter her.”

Beth grins. “Oh, I’m not flattering her. I’m mocking you.”

A stray ball rolls across your path from Spain’s half, and you instinctively jog over to knock it back. Just as you look up to return it-

She’s there. Alexia. Jogging to meet the same ball. You reach it before she does, as your eyes lock. And suddenly the air feels thinner.

She gives you a look — unreadable, but charged. Not a smirk. Not playful. Something steadier. Like she sees everything you're trying not to say.

You pass the ball and it falls right to her feet, she looks impressed, "Gracias,” she says lifting a hand, and you swear her accent clings to the word just for you.

You jog back to where you're supposed to be, immediately regretting the flush crawling up your neck.

Beth is waiting. “Oh my God,” she groans dramatically. “The tension. You could cut it with a bib.”

“Please stop,” you mutter, trying — failing — to keep your face neutral.

“She literally just thanked you and I felt like I needed to leave the stadium.”

“I’m begging you.”

Beth jogs ahead of you now, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry! I’ll let Wiegman know you’re emotionally compromised!”

You glare, but it’s no use — she’s too far gone, laughing now, looping into the next drill. You catch a few of the girls asking whats going on she simply shakes her head as you glance back across the pitch one last time.

And she’s looking again.

⚽️

The tunnel in Seville is narrow, warm with tension and humming from the speakers overhead — a thudding bassline pulsing through the concrete, vibrating in your ribs. Somewhere out there, just beyond the mouth of the tunnel, the crowd is already buzzing. You can feel it. Taste it.

Kickoff is minutes away.

You’re locked in.

Hands flexing. Boots shifting weight. Eyes forward.

The lineups are tight. Players shoulder to shoulder. You’re not near her — not today. She’s toward the front of the Spanish line, talking quietly to their keeper, shifting side to side like she’s been here a thousand times. Her captain’s armband gleams even under the fluorescent tunnel lighting.

You keep your eyes down. Focused. You’ve done everything right this week — prepped, trained, run drills until your legs begged you to stop. You’re here to play. To win.

But then, you feel it. You don’t even know why you glance up. But you do. And she’s looking. Alexia’s head is turned, speaking over her shoulder in quick, quiet Spanish — something clipped and serious. Probably tactical. But her eyes don’t leave yours.

Not for a beat. Not for a breath. You don’t look away either.

Your pulse skips. The music blurs behind the moment. You feel something like static in your spine — not nerves. Not quite.

Just her. And then a hand on your back. Light. Teasing. Beth. Of course it’s Beth. She leans in from behind, voice just low enough that only you can hear. “Saw that.”

You let out the softest exhale through your nose, barely a smile, still trying to keep your head in the game.

“I’m focused,” you murmur back.

Beth grins. “Oh yeah. Tunnel vision, clearly. Just with a little… detour through the Spanish lineup.”

You elbow her lightly, eyes back ahead. You have to be locked in now. The official’s whistle sounds from just beyond the tunnel.

The players start to move. Boots echoing against concrete.

You step out into the roar of the stadium, lights burning above, thousands of eyes fixed on the field. But the only eyes you’re still thinking about are hers.

The night air is warm, thick with the buzz of thousands of voices bleeding into one. Flashbulbs blink through the stands like fireflies. The stadium is alive, pulsing. But when your boots touch the grass, everything slows.

Your place in the lineup is already marked — far side, second from the end. You walk the stretch in a line of lionesses, shoulders square, chin high. The England anthem will come second. You know the rhythm of this.

You take your place. Hands behind your back. Chest lifted. Head steady.

The Spanish anthem begins. You don’t usually watch the opposing team during this part. But tonight… you do.

Your gaze slides — carefully, subtly — until it finds her

Standing at the beginning of the Spanish line. Armband snug around her bicep. Shoulders straight. She doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t look at the flag. Her eyes are straight ahead, at nothing in particular. And you can’t stop looking.

The music plays. Unapologetically proud. Fierce. And she embodies it — calm, resolute, carved from something stiller than the storm that surrounds her.

She doesn’t move her eyes until the final notes fade. And when she does, she leans forward clapping, her eyes glance down the England line and find yours. Just for a moment. Not a glance. A connection. Then it's your turn.

“God Save the King” rises from the speakers, strong and sure. Your teammates belt it out. You sing, but quieter — not out of nerves. Not even distraction.

Just focus. Just weight. Just her, still there on the edge of your vision.

When the anthem ends, applause breaks out. Whistles. Cheers. A brief burst of fireworks somewhere in the distance.

Now comes the walk.

Your team moves — captain first, then the line trailing behind, handshakes down the rows. You start forward, your body moving through routine, but your eyes scanning ahead.

You’re doing well — composed, steady, locked in.

Until it’s her. You reach her first. Alexia.

She’s half a step in front of you now, offering her hand before you even lift yours. Her grip is firm — not aggressive, but certain. Familiar.

Her eyes hold yours just a second longer than they should, your head having to move to maintain the gaze as you move by.

You try to read them — but you don’t have time to. Your lips twitch — the faintest smile, gone before anyone else can catch it.

You move on, heart pounding in your ears like a second anthem.

Beth’s behind you. As you get past Alexia, Beth mutters, not even looking at you, “You two need to get a room.”

You elbow her gently, but don’t stop walking. Not now. Because kickoff is coming. And you’ve never felt more ready. You however caught the look on one of the Spanish players had on there face before leaning forward catching Alexia's attention.

"I'll kill you" you mutter to Beth as you headed into your half to the huddle Leah going to the coin toss.

⚽️

The whistle blows. You don’t ease in. You explode.

From the second the ball rolls, you're in motion — a flash through the midfield, one-two pass with Georgia, touch out wide, then slicing through Spain’s line before they can blink.

The crowd barely has time to register what’s happening before you’re in the box, the ball bouncing kindly, keeper surging out—

You strike it. Not perfect. But close. Too close. It brushes the outside of the post.

The net ripples just enough to make half the crowd rise in anticipation — only to fall back with collective breath held.

You exhale hard, adrenaline pounding, hands on hips for a half-second before you’re already jogging back into shape. That was twenty seconds. Twenty seconds into the game and you nearly ripped it wide open.

You hear the crowd murmuring. And then you feel her. Alexia.

You pass her around the halfway line. She's turning, resetting, face unreadable — but her eyes flick to yours and don’t leave. There's a flicker there, something caught between admiration and awareness.

You hold her gaze. Then you wink. Not cocky. Just a little too casual, it borderlines cocky. Intimate even.

Her lips twitch. The smirk blooms slowly — like she wants to hide it, but couldn't. She shakes her head slightly, just enough to say you're unbelievable and keeps jogging.

You glance over your shoulder, smirk still playing at your mouth, and mouth one word, “Dangerous.”

She catches it. The cameras catch all of it. Somewhere, a commentator clears their throat. Somewhere else, a hundred phones clip the moment in real time. You fall back into shape, heart still racing — not just from the near goal. But from her.

After that electric opening burst, the game turns.

Spain take the ball. And they don’t give it back.

One pass, two passes, five — they’re stitching threads of movement like embroidery, pulling you left, then right, then back again. It’s beautiful football. If it weren’t being used against you, you might admire it.

But right now, you’re defending like your life depends on it.

And you’re good. You show it.

You press. Track. Intercept. You drop deep and slide clean, clipping the ball off boots before they can even load a shot. You shield with your back to goal, swing possession out wide, and sprint to recover before Spain recycles their shape again.

You feel Beth behind you, shouting, organising. You feel Keira lunging, Georgia grinding. You’re all under siege — but you’re holding. Until you don’t.

The 29th minute.

You know the build-up before it’s even complete. You see the triangle form between midfield and the wing. You sprint to cover — too wide. They slip inside instead.

Ball into the box. A flick. A stumble. A shot. 1–0. Not from her. Not yet. But she played her part.

You reset. Jaw tight. Breathe loud in your ears. No panic. Just work. The pressure builds. Spain push again. Tighter now. Crisper.

And this time… you see Alexia coming. Floating at the edge of the box like she’s not even part of the play. Hands down. Face calm. You should’ve known.

You close the gap, just as the cross starts to curl in.

You’re there. You think you’re there. But she’s already moving. One touch. One turn. Left foot. Back of the net. 2–0.

The crowd erupts — red flares of noise across the stands. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t celebrate wild. Just lifts her arms, turns, and welcomes her team into her.

You’re frozen. Not in awe. Not in defeat. Just frustrated. Because you know better. Because you read the play. And she still found the space.

You shake your head, hands on your hips, and breathe deep — trying to focus, trying not to look at her as she passes you again on the jog back to her half.

But she glances. Just once. Not smug. Not showy. Just knowing.

⚽️

You step back onto the pitch after half time with your heart in your mouth and fire in your legs.

Down 2–0. But you’re in it. You feel it in your chest — that tight, magnetic pull of unfinished business.

She scored. But now it’s your turn to answer.

Spain press high again, confident, sharp — but this time, you don't just absorb it. You counter.

49th minute. You pick up the ball on the right side, deep. Alexia is drifting to cover — late, wide. You feel her shift in behind you, ready to close off the inside lane.

So you show it to her. You drop your shoulder — once, left — and she bites. You flick it right. Gone. You hear her boot slide across the turf as you vanish down the flank, leaving her weight shifting the wrong way.

The space opens. You take three touches. Look up.

One clean pass across the box. Perfect weight. And Alessia Russo buries it.

2–1. Game on.

The away end roars. You don’t celebrate hard — just turn back upfield, nodding once, jaw set.

But your eye find hers. Alexia is already repositioning, breathing hard, lips pressed tight. Before shouting orders to her team as the defence hold a mini meeting.

She meets your gaze. Just for a second. Then looks away. You grin — just barely.

56th minute. It happens again. Different side. Same instinct.

You receive the ball near midfield. She's tighter this time, right on your hip. You can feel her reading, adjusting, trying to anticipate the same movement.

So you switch it. This time, a little half-touch with the sole, then a cheeky back heel into space. Gone. She’s turning the wrong way again.

You don’t even hear the crowd anymore — just the rush in your ears, the snap of the ball, the clean crack as you find your teammate’s feet.

This one’s even sweeter. Low shot. Bottom corner.

2–2. Bedlam. Your team swarms you — but all you’re doing is scanning across the pitch. And there she is. Hands on hips. Breathing heavy. Watching you. This time, you smirk. She shakes her head.

But there’s that flicker again — behind her eyes. Admiration. Frustration. Something else. You're even now. On the scoreboard. And in the story between you.

⚽️

The scoreboard reads 88:17.

You’re soaked in sweat, shirt clinging to your back, every muscle in your legs screaming for a break you’re not going to give them.

It’s 2–2.

Spain are pressing again, but not as crisp now. Not as sure. Your team has clawed its way back into this — you have clawed it back. One pass at a time. One feint. One drive. One stolen breath.

But it’s not over. Not yet.

Alexia is moving deeper now, floating like she always does, finding spaces that barely exist. You feel her near you again — not marking, not chasing, just there. Orbiting.

You intercept a pass in midfield. Ball sticks to your boots like it knows where to go.

She steps forward. You see her coming — read the angle, the pressure, the attempt to funnel you wide.

You cut inside instead. Your shoulder brushes hers. It’s not intentional — not fully — but it’s enough.

For half a second, your eyes meet in the tangle. And she knows.

She can’t stop you this time. You surge forward. The stadium rises with you.

You drive. Cut right. Another defender dives in — too late. You glance up. One teammate is peeling wide, calling for it.

But the angle is wrong. You take it yourself. Shot. Rising. Clean.

And— The keeper stretches. Fingertips. Just enough. The ball clips the bar. Over. The crowd gasps. So do you. Not out of disappointment — out of proximity to glory.

You fall to your knees for a second, hands on your head. 90:05.

No stoppage miracle. The ref’s whistle blows. It’s over.

Draw.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

You stay on your knees for a moment, the world spinning, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break out.

Then — footsteps. Quiet, close. You lift your head, already knowing.

It’s Alexia. Not smiling. Not smug. Just… there. Hands on her hips. Hair damp and sticking to her forehead.

She looks at you like you’re both made of the same breathless moment. “That was close,” she says softly, Spanish accent curling around the words.

You rise slowly, chest still heaving. “I don't like your keeper,” you murmur back. Cata struck again.

She tilts her head, just a little. That same smirk tries to rise — but it’s tired now. Honest.

She steps in close, as you both move in sync towards the post match handshakes. Just enough for her hand to brush yours. And this time, you don’t pull away.

You don't move apart more than a few centimetres milling around making sure to connect with each player on your team and hers.

You're still catching your breath.

Hands on your hips. Boots heavy with grass. The bar's clink still ringing in your ears like a cruel echo. You barely feel the ache in your legs anymore — just the weight of what almost was.

Then, there's a tap back on your back, Alexia steps in front of you, already tugging gently at the hem of her shirt.

“Again?” you ask, voice quiet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Her brow arches, but the corner of her mouth lifts. That same look — not a smirk, not a smile, just hers. Under the stadium lights, with the noise behind her and the heat between you.

She doesn’t answer with words. She just pulls her shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

And that’s when your breath actually catches.

Not just because of who she is. But how she looks in this moment, collarbones slick with sweat, and beneath all of it, the sharp definition of abs that look like they’ve been carved with care and discipline.

She holds the shirt loosely in one hand, like it’s nothing at all — like the moment doesn’t hang heavy in the space between you.

You try to keep your face neutral, try not to let your eyes linger too long. But you know she sees it, and she says nothing. Just steps a little closer.

You pull your own shirt off in return, matching the silence, feeling the night air hit your skin as you fold it and hand it over.

She takes it gently. No words. No fuss. Her fingers brush yours, intentionally.

And for the first time all match — for the first time in weeks — she lets her gaze drop. Just for a second. Down. Over you.

Then back up. “I like collecting things,” she says, her voice quiet enough that it barely survives the wind.

“Two now,” you say, nodding toward the first shirt you know she kept.

Alexia smirks. “Just the important ones.”

And just like that, she’s turning — shirt slung over her shoulder, hair pulled free, walking away with your shirt bold across her shoulder.

And you're left there — shirtless, heartbeat thudding, her sweat still warm in your hands.

The crowd is still thick with noise — cheers, whistles, music blaring faintly over the tannoy — but for the first time since kickoff, the tension has lifted.

It’s just noise now. Not pressure. Just atmosphere.

You’ve got her shirt in your hands, soft and damp, clutched loosely as you make the slow walk toward the away end where the travelling England fans are still singing. Still clapping. Still holding up flags like they’re proud of you — because they are.

You glance at her name stitched across the back Alexia. And with a quick glance around, you slip it on.

It fits looser than yours — hangs differently. But there’s something grounding about it. Like the match isn’t really over yet. Like some part of it is still here, wrapped around you.

You’re only a few steps in when you hear the softest voice beside you.

“Another one for the collection, huh?”

Beth. Of course.

You glance sideways to find her at your shoulder, arms crossed, trying — and failing — to suppress the grin on her face. “I didn’t say a word,” she adds, lips twitching. “But this?” She gestures vaguely to the shirt now draped across your body. “This says everything.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you keep walking. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m observant,” she corrects, feigning innocence. “You’ve swapped shirts with her twice now. That’s basically flirting”

You glance over at her with mock exasperation. “Do me a favour and don’t bring this up in front of anyone.”

Beth laughs, loud and sharp. “Oh please. They've definitely clocked it.”

You’re nearly at the away end now, pulling the sleeves straight, waving up at the crowd.

Beth leans in one last time. “You can’t keep pretending these swaps are 'football friendly'”

You don’t answer her.

You’re too busy turning toward the fans, hand raised, smile soft, Alexia’s name warm against your back.

⚽️

It’s past midnight.

The room is dark except for the soft blue glow of your screen. One arm behind your head, your hair still a little damp from the shower. Your suitcase half-open across the floor. Boots drying in the corner.

You’re tired. But not enough to sleep. You’ve watched your assist three times. Rewatched her goal twice as many. The cameras caught too much — the wink, the look, the shirt swap — and your name’s already trending in two languages.

You close Instagram. You close your eyes. Your phone buzzes. You don’t move — not right away. Just let it sit there on your chest for a second, until the screen fades to black again.

Then you check.

AlexiaPutellas11 sent you a message

You swipe it open.

Alexia: Still awake?

You stare at it for a moment. Then reply.

You: Obviously. You scored on us. I’m traumatised. Can’t sleep.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

Alexia: It was a beautiful goal though. Admit it.

You: Fine. It was very annoying how beautiful it was.

You pause. Then:

You: You meant it, right? The run, the finish. You knew I’d be half a second late.

There’s a pause. Long enough for your heart to notice.

Alexia: Of course I meant it. You’re the one I timed it for.

You sit up slowly, your heart suddenly louder than the quiet around you.

You: That’s unfair. That’s like psychological warfare.

Alexia: You started it. You winked.

You grin, can’t help it. Thumb hovering over the screen.

Then she sends another.

Alexia: You looked good in my shirt, by the way. I like the way it fits you.

You exhale through a smile, cheeks warming even in the dark.

You type slowly.

You: You going to keep asking for mine after every game?

Alexia: Only if you keep giving it to me.

And then one more message follows — this one simpler, quieter.

Alexia: I liked today. Even if it wasn’t a win. I liked being across from you again.

You lie back down. Let the silence settle. You stare at her words. You don't reply right away. Because you're thinking the exact same thing.

⚽️

The bus is rolling slow through the city streets — lights flickering across windows, the low hum of Spanish voices rising in bursts of laughter. Kit bags rustle. Boots thud softly against the floor. Headphones hang loose around necks.

They won the moment — didn’t lose the match, but they saw it happen. And they’re not letting her off easy. Alexia’s sat in her usual spot, third row from the back, by the window. Hoodie up. Arms crossed. Staring out like she’s untouched by the chaos around her.

But her teammates they’ve clocked everything. “Did anyone else see that wink?” Irene says, loud enough for the whole bus. “I nearly asked the ref if it counted as a foul as that was bold.”

The girls burst into laughter. Patri nearly chokes on her water. Alexia doesn’t move. She’s still gazing out the window.

Cata Coll leans over from the seat across the aisle, grinning like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment. “She’s not denying it.”

Alexia finally sighs, turns just enough to glance at her.

“I’m ignoring it.”

“Are you ignoring this too?” Cata says, holding up Alexia’s phone, where she’s clearly got your message open. “Just casually got her DMs open. Apparently your girl’s teammate can see it all too.”

Alexia arches an eyebrow. “What?”

Cata grins wider. “Beth Mead. Said it right there in the lineup — told her she needed to ‘get a room.’ You were staring too hard, apparently.”

The bus howls. Alexia lets her head fall back against the seat with a groan, covering her face for a second with her hand. “I was not staring.”

“Yes you were,” Salma sings from a few seats up.

“You stared,” Mariona confirms, practically bouncing in her seat.

“You telepathically confessed your feelings,” Irene adds. “And then swapped shirts. Again.”

Alexia’s face is pink now. Not quite blushing — but for her, it’s obvious. She lowers her hand slowly. Looks at Cata.

Cata shrugs. “You’re trending.”

Alexia shakes her head. But she’s smiling now — quietly, under it all. Because even with the teasing… Even with the firestorm they’re stirring up…She’s thinking about you. In her shirt. Wearing her name on your back. Smiling at your phone the same way she just did. And somewhere, in that space between the window and the chaos… Alexia wonders if you're thinking about her too

⚽️

You’re out early.

Wembley feels massive beneath your shoes — open and echoing in the way only the biggest stadiums can be. The arch curves high above, slicing the sky. The lights are already warming up. Cameras tracking movement. The first fans are filtering into their seats, waving flags, holding signs.

You’re in your jacket, headphones slung around your neck, doing your usual slow pitch walk — clearing your head, steadying your breath.

Trying not to think about her. But then you feel it. Before you even see her. That shift in the air. You glance up. And there she is. Alexia. Walking casually across the halfway line, her warmup top zipped halfway, sleeves pushed up. She moves like she’s done it a thousand times — comfortable, quiet, composed. But she’s coming straight to you.

You stop walking. Pull your headphones off, let them hang loose around your collar. She reaches you with no preamble. “Big stadium,” she says softly, glancing around, eyes sweeping over the empty seats.

You nod. “Feels like it stretches forever when you’re chasing the ball.”

Alexia smiles faintly, but doesn’t look at you right away. Just takes in the expanse — the history hanging in the air, the roar that’s not there yet, but soon will be.

“I’ve not played here for years,” she says. “Feels different.”

“It is,” you reply. “It swallows you up a little. In a good way.”

Finally, she looks at you. “You love it here?”

You don’t have to think. “I do.”

She nods once, like she already knew that. Her gaze lingers on the pitch. “I watched film from your last game here,” she says. “You played higher. More aggressive. You broke the press with one run.”

You glance at her, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Studying me?”

Alexia shrugs. “Preparing.”

You walk a few steps together in silence, shoes crunching against the turf. She breaks it again, voice softer now.

“I like how you move. You see things before they happen. Wembley suits that.”

You glance sideways. “That a compliment?”

She meets your eyes. “It’s the truth.”

There’s a pause — a long one. Then she adds, “Not going to make it easy for us today are you?.”

You grin, looking down at your boots. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Alexia smirks. “Good. Montse’s already nervous.”

You laugh lightly, the tension in your shoulders easing — just slightly. She doesn’t say anything else. Just gives you a small nod, then turns back toward her half of the pitch.

And as she walks away — sleeves pushed up, hair pulled tight, name already echoing in the stadium speakers — you watch her for a second longer than you should.

Wembley is big. But somehow, with her in it… It feels smaller.

⚽️

The tunnel is loud in that weird, hollow way — boots echoing against concrete, staff voices layered under stadium music thudding from above. The lineups are forming, captains already briefing with officials. The buzz is rising like a wave about to crest.

You’re not in line. You’re a sub tonight. Track jacket zipped, shin pads tucked in place, heart beating somewhere between frustration and focus.

You keep your head down as you walk the length of the tunnel, weaving between your teammates. Focused. Calm. Trying to look like this was always the plan. Then you feel a hand.

Fingers on your arm. Light. Just enough to make you stop. You look back, it’s Alexia.

She's already in position with her team, but she’s turned to face you, brow furrowed just slightly, eyes searching your face.

“You’re not starting?” she asks, voice low, confusion laced into the syllables of her accent.

You blink. You weren’t expecting her to notice. Weren’t expecting her to care. “Not this time,” you say quietly, shrugging.

She nods — slowly, eyes flicking down your body, like she’s double-checking, like maybe she’s trying to figure out why. There’s a pause, something uncertain in the way she presses her lips together.

Behind you, Beth slides in close and nudges your back gently. “Keep walking,” she mutters under her breath with a smirk, you roll your eyes and keep walking, pulse pounding harder now for entirely different reasons. Before following Beth turned to Alexia and adding sweetly, “Don’t miss her too much.”

Alexia’s lips twitch. Just slightly. Behind you, the confusion spreads. Leah turns her head just enough to whisper sideways to Mary Earps and Millie Bright. “What am I missing?”

Millie shrugs. “Dunno.”

Mary just raises her brows, clearly intrigued but out of the loop. They all look after you like you’re a puzzle piece they haven’t been handed yet. Meanwhile, up ahead, you glance back once — quick, quiet — and find her eyes still on you. She doesn’t look away. Not until you move out of sight.

⚽️

You’re sat on the bench, jacket zipped to your chin, legs bouncing lightly as you try — and fail — to still the restlessness coiling inside you. You’ve always hated watching. Always. Especially games like this. Big. Tight. Pulsing with energy. And she’s out there.

Already dictating tempo, pointing, shifting the lines with her fingertips, her voice cutting through the noise. She moves like the match belongs to her — like she’s not playing in it, but shaping it. Every touch is smooth, precise. She’s not flashy — she never is — but she’s everywhere.

You can’t stop watching her.

Your eyes track her automatically. Like gravity. Like instinct. The way she turns with the ball. The way her brow creases when she spots a space no one else has seen yet. The way she lifts her head just after every pass to check if you’re watching.

You think she’s doing it more than usual. And she knows exactly where you’re sitting.

Beth is on the bench next to you, pulling her water bottle from under her seat, catching your line of sight without even trying.

“She’s playing well,” she says casually, voice low.

You don’t reply.

“You’re watching her like she does you.”

You sigh.

Beth grins. “It appears mutual whatever this is, at this point.”

Back on the pitch, Alexia receives the ball near the touchline and twists — sudden and sharp — sending your teammate the wrong way before slotting a pass through two defenders. A near assist. Nearly cruel.

The crowd gasps. She jogs back into shape, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, breathing steady, unfazed.

You swear she glances at the bench again.

You shift forward slightly, elbows on your knees now, jacket suddenly too warm, boots tapping at the grass. You want in. Not because you need to stop her. Not even to score.

But to meet her in the middle of it. To play the game you’ve been playing since that first glance. That first tackle. That first encounter.

Not from the sideline. With her.

Sarina's voice barks your name down the bench. You look up. And everything in you stands. "Y/N, Beth! Go warm up, you're coming on after half time!"

⚽️

You’re along the sideline now, jacket peeled off, as you jog small circles up and down the touchline with Beth.

The crowd’s roaring behind you — full-throated, relentless — but it’s all white noise compared to the pressure unfolding on the pitch.

Because Spain is pressing. And Alexia is at the center of it all. You watch her glide through midfield like she belongs to the turf — weightless, elegant, always in space. Her passes are scalpel-precise. Her vision is five seconds ahead of everyone else.

She gets the ball, checks her shoulder once, twice, and releases it like it’s nothing. Like the shape of the game bends around her.

“Jesus,” Beth mutters beside you, breathing hard. “She’s everywhere.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching her again — how she receives under pressure and turns, drawing two midfielders like it’s a game of tag she’s already won. She barely even looks your way, but somehow that makes it worse. Because you want to be in there. You want to feel her steps against yours again.

“You okay?” Beth asks suddenly, flicking her eyes sideways toward you.

You nod, jaw tight. “Just want to be out there.”

She hums. “Yeah, well. You’re not the only one thinking you should be.”

You glance over, confused. Beth jerks her chin subtly toward the pitch. And sure enough — in one of those rare lulls between plays, when Alexia turns to scan her positioning… Her eyes flick toward the sideline. Toward you. Just for a second. No expression. No smile. No nod. But it’s intentional. You feel it like a wire snapping beneath your ribs. She turns away again before anyone else can see.

Beth grins. “She’s watching you.”

You exhale hard. “Yeah. Probably just wants a reaction, and to be fair she’s got the upper hand right now.”

Beth stretches her quads dramatically. “Not for long.”

And as you roll your neck and shift your weight forward, listening to Sarina barking from the sideline and glancing toward the fourth official... You get the sense that your time’s coming. And when it does? You’re not just stepping into the game. You’re stepping into the fire.

⚽️

You’ve been flying.

Your touch is sharp. Your legs are light. You’re playing like you belong here — not just in this game, but in this moment.

Beth finds you with a threaded pass just as you ghost between two midfielders, the space opening up in front of you. One touch, two. You see the top corner. You see it—

Then it happens. You don’t see her coming.

You’re focused — ball under your feet, cutting in toward the box, one touch ahead of the defender, eyes on the corner of the goal.

Then everything stops.

Olga Carmona slides in hard. Full weight. Too late. Too low. The contact is sharp. Blunt. Wrong.

Your knee twists under you, a white-hot shock up your leg, and you drop before the ball’s even gone. A cry tears from your throat before you can stop it — not frustration.

Pain. Real pain.

You clutch your knee instantly, curling inward, breath punching out of your chest in ragged, panicked gasps.

The whistle blows. Everything stops. Wembley falls silent.

It’s eerie. Like someone hit mute on 90,000 people at once.

The ref’s arm goes up. Spanish players freeze. Your teammates rush toward you — some shouting, others pale. You can hear Beth’s voice, strained and close. “Stay down. Don’t move. Medic! Now!”

You’re trying not to cry. The physios are sprinting on. You’re gripping your knee like if you don’t, it’ll fall apart in your hands. Pain pulses through you in waves. Blinding. Crippling.

A shadow falls across you, You don’t need to look. Alexia. She’s standing a few feet away, arms stiff at her sides, face tight with something that isn’t confusion or shock — it’s fear.

Not for the game. For you.

She takes a step forward, but a physio blocks her path, kneeling by your side.

“Just let us look,” the medic says, gently pulling your hands away.

You can barely focus, barely breathe, but out of the corner of your eye, you see her still standing there — not moving. Watching. Beth kneels at your side now, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead.

“You’re okay,” she says, voice low. “Just let them check. It’s okay.”

You nod — barely. Alexia hasn’t moved. Not until the ref walks over and gestures her back toward her half. She hesitates. Then finally, reluctantly, she turns. But not before her eyes catch yours.

You sit up slowly, hands still gripping tufts of grass, breath shallow, knee throbbing. But it’s holding. And more than anything — it’s not broken.

The physio looks you in the eye. “You want to come off?”

You shake your head instantly. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you—”

“I’m taking the free kick.”

Beth is already helping you to your feet, her arm steady around your back. The crowd is rising with you — slowly, all at once, voices lifting, 90,000 people on their feet because they saw the pain and now they see the refusal.

You limp a step. Then another. Then jog back toward the ball.

The referee checks on you once more — you wave her off. Your focus is already zeroed in. The ball is placed. The wall is set. Cata’s lining up, barking instructions.

You stand over it. Maybe 23 yards out. A few steps left of centre. A little too far to shoot, a little too close to ignore.

The angle's awkward. Unless you're you. They’ve called you the female Beckham since your spectacular viral free kick in the Euros in 2022.

But this is your moment. Another Wembley moment.

You take four steps back. One to the left. Plant your right foot. Deep breath. Wembley holds it with you.

Then you strike. It bends. Wide. Too wide. For a second it looks gone. Then it curls. Back. Arcing around the wall. Gliding over two defenders’ heads. Swinging like it’s got a magnet in the top corner.

Cata dives. Too late. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–0.

Wembley erupts.

You stand frozen for half a second, eyes wide, chest heaving, and then your teammates swarm you — Beth first, grabbing you from behind, lifting you off the ground even as you stumble with the landing.

The bench clears. Coaches shouting. Crowd losing it.

From the penalty spot, Alexia stands still. Watching. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Just breathes.

Her eyes never leave you. As the crowd chants your name, as your teammates pull you toward the sideline, as England finally leads… You meet her gaze. And her smile is small. But it’s real. She’s not surprised.

She knew.

The pace slows. Just for a breath.

The ball’s been cleared long, chased into a corner, Spain momentarily regrouping, England pulling shape. Everyone’s catching their breath — you included.

You’re jogging back into position, legs heavy, the sting in your knee still alive but manageable. You bend slightly, tug your sock back into place over your shin pad, heart still pounding, your breath fogging in the chill air.

She appears beside you. Close. Quiet. You don’t look at her. But you hear it. “You good?” she mumbles — just loud enough for your ears only.

Not dramatic. Not showy. Not even particularly soft. Just real. You nod. “Yeah,” you say, breathlessly. “I’m alright.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Just walks beside you for a few strides, both of you tracking the play, scanning the field like nothing passed between you. And then her hand brushes lightly against your back. A single pat. Firm. Reassuring. Acknowledging. Accepting your answer.

Then she keeps moving. No glance. No smile. Just a touch. But it lingers.

Like her hand is still there long after it's gone. And for all the intensity, for all the weight of the game, for the score, the pressure, the world watching. It’s that moment you’ll remember the most.

⚽️

The whistle blows.

The noise is instant — a wave crashing over the pitch as Wembley erupts behind you. 1–0. You held it. That free kick wrote the script, and you saw it through to the final line.

Teammates close in from all sides, arms around shoulders, heads bumping yours, laughter, relief, euphoria. The roar from the crowd is still going — high, rising, full of pride.

But your eyes are already on the other half of the pitch. Spain regrouping. Hands on hips. Heads bowed. Respectful. Composed.

You peel away from your huddle, weaving through the blur of bodies. You tap shoulders. Shake hands. Pat backs. Every “good game” automatic but genuine.

And then you see Alexia.

She’s moving toward you too, head held high, still all grace even in defeat. Her shirt clings to her back, sweat-dampened and brilliant under the lights. Her expression unreadable — until she locks eyes with you.

You smirk before she can say anything. “You’re not having my shirt again.”

Her brow arches — the smallest flicker of amusement in her eyes — but she says nothing. Just reaches her hand out. You clasp it. Firm. Familiar. Yours.

Your fingers wrap around hers — and they don’t let go right away. Neither of you rush it. The moment hangs. Not long enough to be obvious. Just long enough for her to know you let it.

Your thumb brushes against her knuckles. She smiles. Only just.

Then she releases. Keeps moving. So do you. You pat her back. Once. Firm. As you both pass each other like you didn’t just speak a language no one else in the stadium understands.

No shirts traded. No words left hanging. Just the echo of her skin on yours.

⚽️

Your room is dark except for the soft glow of your phone screen. You’re lying flat on the bed, one arm behind your head, the other scrolling through post-match clips and photos — and trying not to watch that free kick for the seventh time.

Your body aches. A good kind of ache. But your mind it’s still with her.

The pat on your back. The lingering handclasp. That barely-there smile. You’re about to close your phone when it buzzes. AlexiaPutellas11 has sent you a message

Alexia: You’re probably still replaying that free kick.

You smirk.

You: What, jealous?

Alexia: A little. But mostly just annoyed I couldn’t stop it.

You: You weren’t even in the wall. Weak defending, honestly.

A pause. Then another message comes through — slower, different. Weighted.

Alexia: That’s it for us, for a while. No more me v you. Not until the Euros this summer.

You stare at the screen. There’s no emoji. No flirtation. Just truth. She’s not just talking about fixtures.

You: Feels weird. Like we just found a rhythm.

Alexia: We did.

Another pause.

Alexia: And now we wait.

You lie there, letting those words settle into your chest. She’s not pushing. Not asking for more. Just naming it. The gap. The pause between this and whatever comes next.

You: Guess you’ll just have to miss me.

You’re halfway through typing something back — probably a joke, something to lighten the tension — when another message pops through.

Alexia: I don’t have to miss you. I could come see you. In Germany. If you want.

You freeze. Staring at the screen. At those words. Not flirtation. Not suggestion. A gesture. An offer.

Germany — where you play your club football. Your other life. The one she’s never been a part of. Not until now.

You read it again. She wants to come to you. And suddenly, your room feels warmer. You sit up, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with match fitness.

You type slowly, thumb hovering just a second too long.

You: You serious?

Alexia: You think I’d joke about flying to a different country just to see you?

Then — another one.

Alexia: I’d like to. If you’d have me.

That last sentence lands deep. Not just in your chest — lower. Quieter. Truer. You let yourself smile as you bit your lip. Then answer. One you wouldn't normally be so brave to send

You: I’d have you.

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1-800-styles · 1 month ago

Text

have you ever tried this one?

john walker x Bucky barnes x fem!reader

a/n: instead of searching for a fic. i figured i would just write it myself. thanks for @marveln4tural for the inspo ;)

warnings! contains sexual content, this is written for users 18+! established love triangle situation going on. lets just say they explore paris 💅

Post-Mission — Safehouse, Just Outside Madripoor

Rain lashes the windows. The team’s back from the mission, bruised, scraped, wired. It’s late. Everyone’s either asleep or pretending to be.

But not you. And definitely not them.

You’re in the kitchen of the safehouse, pacing in an oversized T-shirt and combat shorts, arms crossed, adrenaline refusing to die down. The door creaks behind you. John walks in first—wet hair pushed back, shirt clinging to his chest, a bandage sloppily taped to his side.

“You should sleep,” you murmur without looking at him.

“I should do a lot of things,” he says. “But none of them feel as good as this.”

You turn. He’s already close. You can see the pulse in his neck. but before either of you can speak, Bucky enters.

Quiet. Still. Soaked from the rain, towel around his neck, jaw locked tight. But his eyes—God, his eyes—are already on you. And he looks at John like he might throw him through a wall. per usual.

“I figured I’d find you both here,” Bucky mutters, his voice low, unreadable. his eyes dart to john “You always follow her around like a lost puppy?”

John rolls his eyes. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not jealous,” Bucky says, stepping forward, locking eyes with you. “I’m just tired of pretending like this doesn’t matter.”

You swallow hard.

John doesn’t back down. He stands on your other side now, arms brushing yours. “So what? You wanna fight again, Barnes?”

“No,” his jaw ticks. “Not unless she tells me to.”

Their voices. Their bodies. Too close. Too charged. It’s all too much.

Your back hits the counter. Their eyes are on you. Waiting. two super soldiers practically cornered you. you feel like your standing between do high school boys pathetically asserting their dominance.

You finally say it—quietly, but it drops like a bomb.

“I don’t want you to fight.”

there’s a Beat.

“I just… don’t want to choose tonight.”

Something shifts. the months of absolute loathing between john and bucky shift. a mutual agreement shared through one exchange.

John steps forward, hand ghosting the edge of your thigh. “You don’t have to.”

Bucky’s fingers lift your chin. “Let us show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

Your breath catches.

The air is thick with heat, unsaid things crackling like electricity.

“You tell us to stop,” he whispers, “and we will.”

But you don’t.

Not even close.

Rain still taps the windows. Thunder rolls in the distance like a warning shot. You’re caught between two walking weapons—both of them breathing heavy, both of them looking at you like they’ve waited too long for this.

John’s hand is hot, rough on your thigh now. Not just grazing. Holding.

Bucky’s mouth hasn’t left your ear. You feel the whisper more than you hear it.

“We’ll be good. Only what you want.”

And you want. God, you want.

Because for months, they’ve been circling you like wolves—sniping at each other, showing off during missions, catching your wrist when you fall, brushing too close in sparring, watching you like they want to consume you whole.

You’ve pushed it down. Over and over. Because they’re soldiers. Because you’re teammates. Because this isn’t supposed to happen.

But tonight? The rain, the adrenaline, the silence of the house, the way they look at you like you’re the only thing tethering them to anything human—

You’re done pretending.

You twist in place, grabbing John’s jaw and pulling him down, crashing into his mouth. He makes a low sound—half a growl, half a groan—as his hands find your waist, greedy, practiced. His body is heat and strength and that smirk that always gets him in trouble.

But before it gets deeper, another hand—cool, metal—slides to the side of your neck, gently tilting your face away.

Bucky.

He doesn’t say a word. Just kisses you slow—like he’s tasting something he never thought he’d get. His lips drag down your jaw, linger at your throat.

John’s breath hitches. “Jesus, Buck—”

But Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

His voice is low, dark, still wrecked from the mission.

he looks at john “so you gonna keep talking, or are we finally on the same page?”

John lets out a sharp breath, his hands flexing where they rest on your hips, like he’s trying to ground himself—trying not to lose control completely.

But it’s happening. It’s already happening.

Because you’re here. Letting them. Wanting them.

And that look in your eyes? That soft defiance mixed with surrender—it undoes them both.

John’s mouth is back on your shoulder, his voice rasping against your skin.

“You really wanna do this?”

You nod once but it’s not enough for him. He wants to hear it. Needs to.

“Say it.”

You lift your gaze—stormlight flickering outside the window, shadows painting the room in a low blue haze.

“I want both of you.”

It’s not a confession. It’s a dare. And it breaks the last thread holding them back.

John’s hands are on your waist again, firm, possessive—pulling you back against him as Bucky steps in closer from the front. You’re sandwiched between them now, chests rising and falling, heat radiating in every direction.

They don’t touch each other. They don’t need to.

But you feel the unspoken truce hanging in the air like gunpowder.

Bucky dips his head again, lips brushing your jaw, then trailing down the curve of your throat. “You’re shaking.”

“Not from fear,” you whisper, breath hitching as John’s hand starts to trail lower.

And Bucky—he just smirks.

“Good.”

Everything is intentional. Measured. Heavy with meaning.

Bucky slips the edge of your shirt off one shoulder like it’s sacred. John kneels first, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing the exact moment you fall apart.

You laugh once—low, breathless, giddy. “You two always compete like this?”

John grins against your skin, teeth grazing.

“Only when it counts.”

And Bucky? Bucky doesn’t even smile.

He just tilts your chin again and says. “We’re not competing anymore.”

Bucky leans in to taste you again—not rough, but slow enough for his tongue to slip into your mouth. Your body lets out an exhale, hating to admit to yourself how weak you are in this very moment.

John slowly continues, his mouth leaving kisses up your thighs, his hot breath trailing closer and closer to your core.

Your back arches slightly, caught in the unbearable space between Bucky’s mouth and John’s teasing touch. Bucky kisses you like he knows every secret you’ve ever tried to hide—gentle but devastating, as if he’s taking his time memorizing the taste of your surrender. His hand slides to your jaw, grounding you in him, thumb stroking softly along your cheek.

John exhales a soft laugh against your skin, low and hungry, the vibration sending a shock straight through your spine. “You gonna beg for it, sweetheart?” he murmurs, lips brushing just where you’re aching for him. But he doesn’t give in yet. No—he just watches your thighs tremble, his fingers digging in ever so slightly, keeping them parted.

Bucky pulls back for just a second, lips swollen, eyes dark. “Don’t tease her, Walker.”

John grins. “She likes it.”

And you do. God, you do. Even as your breath comes in uneven pulls and your pride tries to claw its way out—you’re helpless. Wrapped in their voices, their mouths, their hands.

Then John’s tongue finally meets you upset thigh he pulls your shorts along with your panties, his tongue meeting your core. your body jolts. Bucky catches the gasp in another kiss, swallowing it down like he needs it to survive.

You’re shaking now—your body barely your own, your mind foggy with the pressure of their attention. John’s mouth works in slow, devastating circles around your clit, and it’s not enough—not nearly enough—but the way he holds your hips down says you’ll take what he gives you.

Bucky kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t get enough of you either.

“Doing so good,” he whispers, voice frayed with restraint, watching you fall apart under John’s mouth. His hand slides down your sternum, slow and deliberate, fingertips dragging just enough to make your skin buzz.

“Look at her,” John groans, voice gravel and fire. “She’s perfect like this.”

He’s watching you now—every little reaction, every breath that breaks too quickly, every twitch of your thighs.

Bucky leans in, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is barely audible. “Tell us what you want.”

And you try. You really do. But all that comes out is a desperate whimper, a hand reaching blindly for more. Any part of them. Both of them.

you sputter to get any words out of your mouth “i want you to fuck me”

They share a glance over your body, something dangerous and unspoken passing between them.

And suddenly it hits you—you’re not in control anymore.

they are.

John’s grip tightens just enough to make you gasp, holding you open like something fragile and meant to be worshipped. His mouth moves with more intent now, drawing you closer to the edge with slow, devastating patience. Bucky watches the way your body trembles, how you arch into every sensation like you’re chasing something just out of reach.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, brushing his knuckles over your ribs, then lower. “Just like that. Let go, sweetheart.”

You feel him everywhere—his words, his hands, his heat. Your fingers curl into his shoulder, the only thing anchoring you while John keeps pulling you under, over and over again.

John groans against you, low and wrecked. “She’s losing it. Fuck, Buck, she’s gonna—”

“Let her,” Bucky says, a quiet command, his lips brushing your temple. “Let her fall apart.”

And you do. You break in their hands, your body shaking with the force of it, pulse racing as the world tilts sideways and goes white-hot.

as you let out a guttural groan you feel your legs bucking down losing balance, Bucky holds himself onto you. John using his tongue like his a starved man.

By the time you come back to yourself, Bucky is holding you close, grounding you with soft touches, while John presses kisses to your inner thigh like he’s still not ready to let go of the taste of you.

You’re not sure who speaks first—maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s Bucky murmuring your name like a prayer—but suddenly they’re both hovering above you, faces flushed, eyes hungry and impossibly tender.

“Still with us?” John asks, brushing your hair off your face.

You nod, breathless. “Barely.”

Bucky smiles, just a little. “Good. Because we’re not done yet.”

You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts you with ease, carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing. His eyes stay locked on yours, even as he lowers you onto the cushions, and for a moment he just stares—like he can’t believe you’re real.

John’s following close behind, his lips still glistening, eyes dark. “She looks dangerous,” he says, voice low.

“She is,” Bucky murmurs, breath catching as your hands slide down his chest.

You rise to your knees between them, one hand on each of them now—gripping, guiding, claiming. “My turn,” you say softly, but there’s steel behind it. A warning. A promise.

Bucky groans as your mouth brushes his jaw, your teeth scraping just enough to make him shift under you. You trail kisses down his neck, slow and possessive, your fingers undoing his belt with practiced ease.

John chuckles behind you. “Fuck, I love this side of you.”

You glance over your shoulder, smirking. “Good. You’re next.”

You ease Bucky��s pants down just enough, watching the way his breath hitches when your hand wraps around him. You stroke him slow, deliberate, feeling every inch harden under your touch before you lean in, letting your tongue trail along the underside of him, lips teasing until he groans deep in his chest.

Then you take him into your mouth—inch by inch—your eyes locked on his the entire time.

Bucky’s head drops back, jaw clenched, hands fisting the couch cushions like it’s the only thing anchoring him. You take your time—watching, learning what makes him twitch, what draws those beautiful broken sounds from his throat.

John can’t sit still. He’s watching like a man starved, hand running down his own stomach, biting back a curse when your eyes flick to him with that wicked little grin.

“You’re gonna kill us,” Bucky mutters, voice wrecked.

You hum around him in response, the vibration making him curse under his breath as he tries—and fails—not to buck into your mouth.

You keep going, letting your hand twist at the base as your tongue swirls around the tip, tasting every inch of him until he’s panting above you, his thighs trembling.

And when you finally switch—turning to John with a look that makes his cock twitch before you even touch him—Bucky’s still catching his breath, chest heaving, pupils blown.

John doesn’t play it cool. Not even close. He practically falls into you, rough hands guiding your face up to his as he kisses you like he needs it to stay alive. His belt is already undone, pants halfway down when you push him back against the couch, sinking to your knees between his legs.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “That’s the plan.”

You wrap your lips around him without hesitation, taking him deep enough to make his hips jerk. He grits his teeth, one hand buried in your hair while the other grips the back of the couch, holding on like he’s afraid he might fall apart if he lets go.

You work him over with your mouth, your hand stroking what you can’t reach, letting him feel every inch of you—every flick of your tongue, every soft gasp and wet sound echoing through the room.

The room is heat and breath and sweat and sound—your name on their lips, their bodies writhing under your hands. You don’t stop. Not until they’re both wrecked, undone, ruined by your touch.

You’re barely catching your breath and wiping your mouth when John pulls you to your hands and knees on the couch—his grip strong, steady, guiding. Behind you, he settles in close, one hand on your lower back, the other pulling your top over your head and dragging slowly over your hip.

Then Bucky steps in front of you.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that completely contradicts the heat in his eyes. “Think you can take us both?”

You answer him with a look that makes his knees buckle—and then with your mouth, wrapping your lips around him without hesitation.

John groans from behind. “She’s already dripping,” he mutters, fingers digging into your hips. “Fuck.”

You hum around Bucky, the vibration making him hiss as you take him deeper, one hand wrapped around the base of him, the other braced against the couch. He cups your jaw gently, his thumb sweeping across your cheek, guiding your pace while his eyes stay locked on yours.

Then John pushes in.

The stretch makes your elbows buckle, your whole body arching, and Bucky groans as he watches the way your eyes flutter, your lips parting around him. He doesn’t thrust—not yet. He just lets you hold him in your mouth, breathing hard as John begins to move behind you, each roll of his hips pushing you forward slightly, deeper around Bucky.

“Just like that,” Bucky whispers, voice frayed. “Taking both of us like you were made for it.”

John lets out a ragged curse. “Look at her. Fucking perfect.”

You’re sandwiched between them, overwhelmed in the best way—John’s hands anchoring your hips, Bucky’s fingers threaded in your hair, both of them moving in sync like they’ve done this before, like they know exactly how to break you apart and keep you together all at once.

Bucky’s voice is hoarse now, every word punched out between moans. “You’re so good, baby. So fucking good for us.”

John growls from behind, picking up his pace. “Ours.”

And you—helpless, powerful, dizzy with the rhythm of them. You moan around Bucky, your body arching into every touch, every movement, caught between them in the most intoxicating way. You’re not sure which way is up anymore. You only know the heat, the weight of their bodies, the tension growing by the second.

“You feel how good you make us?” John growls, voice rough and unsteady. “You drive us crazy, baby.”

Bucky cups your cheek, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, his voice softer now—wrecked. “Can’t get enough of you.”

You can barely breathe, caught between their bodies, their voices—low, raw, praising. Every nerve in you is alight, every movement sending shivers through your spine. Bucky’s hand rests against your jaw, thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek as you pull back just enough to gasp for air.

“You’re a goddamn vision,” he mutters, awe bleeding through every word.

Behind you, John’s rhythm falters for half a beat—like even he can’t handle how good this feels, how utterly wrecked you look between them. His hand slips around your waist, holding you flush to him, like he needs to feel every inch of you, to keep you grounded while you shake.

“Can feel you falling apart,” he groans against the back of your neck. “Don’t hold back.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Your fingers grip Bucky’s thighs, nails digging in, desperate to anchor yourself as the tension inside you coils tighter, higher. Every breath is a whimper, every sound a plea. And they hear it all—feel it all.

Then it hits.

The wave crashes through you—body trembling, vision blurred, a sound breaking from your throat that doesn’t even feel like your own. Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair. John curses under his breath, losing himself to the feeling of you unraveling around him.

They don’t stop until they’ve wrung every last tremor from you, until you’re left limp and breathless, trembling in their arms.

Bucky’s the first to move, reaching out to catch you as John slowly pulls you back into his chest. “Got you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We’ve got you.”

a/n: holy shit i did not expect to write this much. enjoy you dirty little animals 💅

tags: @river-reads-things

#have you ever tried this one?#oh my god #john walker x reader #bucky barnes x reader #john walker #bucky barnes #john walker x reader smut #bucky barnes x reader smut #marvel #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#wyatt russell #sebastian stan

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kuronarnze · 2 months ago

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a/n: i have came back with a sae x reader oneshot... Idk this oneshot idea just randomly came to my mind, sooo i randomly made this oneshot, its pretty cheesy hehe, but enjoyyy !

Itoshi Sae x Reader !

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

“P.S. I Love You"

The mornings always started the same way. The smell of fresh coffee. The faint sound of a closing door. And a folded note on your nightstand, written in neat, sleepy handwriting.

Buenos días, cariño.

You looked too peaceful to wake up, so I didn’t. You kicked me in your sleep again, by the way. I think I bruised.

There’s breakfast in the fridge. Drink water. I love you.

—Sae

You smiled, pressing the paper to your chest, still wrapped in his blanket. He always left letters. Every morning. Without fail.

Sometimes they were just a few words, other times full of sleepy rambles about the dream he had (“we were fish… I don’t know either”) or small reminders like “Don’t forget your scarf, it’s cold today.” But always—always—signed with “I love you.”

You stretched and wandered into the kitchen. And there it was: another note.

Tucked behind the honey jar:

P.S. I’m watching you. Eat something. I mean it.

Inside the coffee mug:

P.S. This mug smells like you. I’m keeping it next time.

Under the potted plant on the windowsill:

P.S. I bet you didn’t expect one here. But now you’re smiling. Gotcha.

You giggled. “He’s such a nerd.”

Your phone buzzed.

Sae: Did you find the one in the sock drawer yet?

You gasped and ran back to the bedroom. Sure enough, buried under mismatched socks, was a tiny folded note.

P.S. I miss you already. Come visit me at practice later? You can pretend to be my manager. Or my wife. Or both.

Your cheeks burned as you fell back onto the bed, clutching the note.

That evening, when he got home and dropped his gym bag, you were waiting at the door with your own little folded letter.

He blinked. “What’s this?”

You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “P.S. I love you too.”

You had gotten used to Sae's morning letters.

Sometimes short, sometimes teasing, always left carefully by your pillow or the coffee pot or even inside your book, like little breadcrumbs leading you back to him.

But this morning felt… different.

There were no short notes on the counter. No hidden scribbles in the fridge or mug. Just one thing—an envelope. Thick, sealed with a little wax stamp you didn’t know he owned, resting on top of your folded blanket.

Your name was written across it in his handwriting. Not his rushed post-practice scribbles. This was slow, deliberate, careful.

You sat on the bed, the early sunlight casting gold across the page as you opened it.

Mi amor,

I know I leave you silly notes every day. Sometimes they’re not even full sentences. Sometimes I’m half-asleep while writing them, and I forget words. But I thought today I’d try something else. Something I’m not good at.

I wanted to write you a real letter. One I’d be proud to leave behind, even if I couldn’t write another one after.

I don’t talk much. You know that. I’ve always struggled to say what I feel in the moment. But when it comes to you, words get stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. Like I’m trying to explain the feeling of morning sunlight, or the smell of rain. Like no word really fits.

You make this apartment feel like the only home I’ve ever wanted. You laugh at my bad coffee. You steal my hoodies. You fall asleep with your face in a book and wake up saying my name like it’s something soft.

You make it easy to love you, and terrifying to imagine a life where I don’t.

I used to think football was everything. That I had to choose between chasing the future and holding onto something real. But you’ve taught me that love isn’t the thing that slows you down—it’s what keeps you grounded while you fly.

Every time I kiss you, I think: I’m lucky. Every time I leave a note, I think: I want you to smile when I’m not there.

And every day, I fall more in love with the way you say my name, the way you touch my wrist like I’ll disappear, the way you make even silence feel like music.

So… this is my way of saying it.

I love you.

Completely. Quietly. Wildly. In every language I can’t speak.

Yours, always,

Sae.

You read the letter three times, hands shaking slightly, heart aching in the gentlest way.

And when he walked through the door that evening, sweaty and tired and freshly showered, you didn’t say anything.

You just kissed him—slow, sure, lingering—until he whispered, “Did you read it?”

You nodded, eyes warm. “Write me a million more.”

He smiled softly, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “Only if you keep reading them.”

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! i hope you have a nice dayy (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) this one shot was super cheesy lmao

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sixflame438 · 8 months ago

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Chasing Lightning

Synopsis - Your girlfriend’s in a mood and locks herself in your room causing you to sleep apart. It starts thunder storming in the middle of the night but Minjeong is scared of lightning

Pairing - Kim Minjeong X Reader

Tags - Fluff, light angst, mild astraphobia, established relationship, grammatical errors probably, another 3am post

A/N - A short fic i wrote in one go (yay me), will try to get the other drafts out of the basement after my last 2 exams :D

Wordcount - 1726

Minjeong was mad again and you dont have a clue why. All you did know was that you finished your dinner alone and that your apartment was lacking the usual lively energy of your girlfriend. It was like winter had frozen over with how silent and chilling being in the apartment felt, not even the sounds of a drama playing quietly in the background.

You missed your girlfriend despite her simply being a door apart. And of course you tried multiple times to get her out, whether that was sincerely asking her to or attempting to lure her out with snacks they were all to no avail. She just wouldn’t budge.

If it weren’t for the muffled noises coming from behind the door you probably wouldve assumed you were home alone but they were very real and they definitely came from your girlfriend. You deduced the sounds to be crying and sniffling and it hurt you to hear them, even more knowing you had no way to stop them.

You couldnt even begin to figure out why she was in such a mood. It was like this when you came back from work.

No hugs

No kisses

No Minjeong

No nothing

You couldve easily spent the entire night trying to coax her out but you were tired and sweaty from work and all you wanted to do was crash out while snuggling with your favorite person.

If Minjeong wasnt going to let you in, youd just have to give her some time and space. You had no choice anyway.

She had locked you out of your own bedroom and left you to fend for yourself alone. (it was practically both of yours with how often she was in there with you but the audacity of this girl)

And since most of your stuff was in there you had to make do with what was left scattered around the house. It really wasnt that hard though since you were quite the clumsy mess, always forgetting and leaving things in places they shouldnt be.

In your scavenger hunt you had found a spare set of clothes to change into, some makeup wipes to clean your face with and half of the products required in your night routine.

You took a quick shower to freshen up and rearranged the couch so that you would have an easier time trying to sleep. There was a spare blanket bundled in the corner from your movie night 2 days ago which you could use and some cushions and pillows you could stack to provide another layer of comfort.

Laying onto your makeshift bed, you struggled with finding a good position to sleep in. The couch wasnt ideal to sleep on and the cushions kept moving out of place everytime you turned. It wasnt much but it would have to do, youd just have to hope it was enough.

————————————

It wasnt enough. You were certain just lying on that made you feel worse than you did before. The uneven feeling of the cushions didnt help either as different parts of your body were elevated while others were feeling the hard surface of the couch.

The weather didnt help much as a thunderstorm started as soon as you tried sleeping and no matter how hard you wanted to, you couldn’t will yourself into slumber either. The raging downpour of rain mixed with the thunderclaps created a painful symphony of pattering noises, uneven and aching to the ear, perfect to distract someone from falling asleep.

Lightning had also started coloring the dark skies with its striking flashes, loud and unpredictable. Since you couldn’t sleep you decided it would be fine to indulge in the lightning instead, pulling over a chair and opening the blinds so you could see the skies better.

The low dim light glowing from the moon and the dark midnight sky helped illuminate the lightning strikes and bright stars. If you were a photographer you wouldve definitely tried capturing the moment in physical form but keeping the scene in your head was alright too.

Other than the scene being quite stunningly beautiful (like your girlfriend) you found it quite funny as it kind of looked like the sky was trying (and failing) to play connect the dots with the stars. You dont know why but you were just so entertained by the sight.

It was rare but you had always enjoyed seeing the natural phenomenon nonetheless, finding it quite fascinating and inspiring.

Your girlfriend on the other hand?

Strong stoic Minjeong was never a fan of lightning, it was quite an experience the first time you both saw the flashing lights together. The high pitched squeals and screams could never leave your head and you didnt want them to. It was fun seeing that side of her and even more fun teasing her about it.

You remember bringing her close and spending the night in each others embrace, forgetting the world as it faded away. This time though you weren’t there for her, you couldn’t even if you wanted to all because of a stupid locked door.

You were really hoping Minjeong had already fallen into a peaceful slumber and hadnt heard the harsh sounds of the lightning. Considering you hadnt heard any noises from your girlfriend yet you took it as a good sign but the worrying feeling wouldnt leave so you remained unsettled.

That feeling was quickly sidelined though as another bolt of lightning hit. This one had a tint of red to it which you found absolutely amazing. You had learnt in a previous deep dive that lightning strikes could reflect any colour in the spectrum so seeing it in person was mind blowing.

You were so mesmerized by the colours and sounds of the lightning that you didnt hear the slight click of the bedroom lock or the soft padding of feet in your direction. It wasnt until you felt 2 tiny arms around your waist that you snapped out of your haze.

Part of you was still resentful of how quickly Minjeong shut you out (physically and mentally) but as soon as you registered the tears coming from your beloved you crumbled.

Even though Minjeong was stubborn and acting up all you wanted to do was wrap her up and cradle her in your arms. She was always there for you so the least you could do was be there for her as well.

As you turn around to properly to face your girlfriend a perfectly timed lightning strike allowed you to see her entire face in all of its glory. Minjeong mustve been crying for a while by the red eyes and flushed cheeks.

You physically soften at the sight, heart filling with sympathy and concern as you observe your girlfriend for any other signs.

There was nothing you wanted more than to pull her into your arms and spend the rest of the night comforting her. Even your ego tried to resist but you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out and doing just that.

You pull her onto your lap and with one arm rubbing her back in circles and the other running down her hair in a soft delicate motion you coax Minjeong into finally letting out the remaining tears. The weight of your comfort too heavy to bear.

A croaky im sorry is all you hear as your girlfriend starts sobbing into your shoulder. You’re not sure what shes apologizing for. Maybe for crying? For being vulnerable? For locking you out of your room? Her fear of lightning? Probably all of the above.

Humming in acknowledgment you continue to console Minjeong, whispering soft reassurances in between sobs. As the storm eventually faded out, Minjeongs crying evened out too. Soft whimpers and hiccups could be heard amongst the sprinkling of rain.

You have a feeling that Minjeong would’ve succeeded in staying the entire night alone in your room if it weren’t for the lightning scaring her out.

“Hey lets get some rest now that the rains subsided. Im gonna take you back into the room okay?” You dont wait for a reply as you gently lifted Minjeong off your lap and guided her to stand and lean onto you.

Slowly and steadily you lead her back into the bedroom and notice the soaked pillow doused in her tears. Hell no were you going to let her sleep on that. Luckily you were a person who loved sleeping with multiple pillows so you had some spare hidden away.

(Minjeong found it impractical having pillows to hug when you could just cuddle with her instead and your bed was only so big so you moved them to make room)

You pull out the unused pillows from your storage closet and tuck Minjeong back into bed with little resistance, her already tired state fueled by the lack of energy from all the crying.

Ensuring she was comfortable and safe you place an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

You were hesitant on whether you were allowed to join her or not, as you still didnt know why she was upset and if you had played a part in her suffering. But your questions get answered with a simple

“Stay”

Quiet and low but you heard it. Not allowing yourself to linger any longer, you climb into bed and tuck yourself in too. Gently wrapping your arms around Minjeong as you did before, careful not to set her off again.

It takes a while for Minjeong to calm down fully but with your soothing touches she eventually drifts off. As soon as you registered her breathing falling into a stable state, you allowed yourself to relax for the first time that night. Basking in the closeness of her company, you lay another tender kiss on her forehead and temple.

It didnt matter what had happened, as long as you were still able to kiss her goodnight that’s all that mattered. Youre still skeptical about Minjeongs behavior, being kept in the dark about something as important as this was not something you enjoyed but you had a feeling that it would work out. Tomorrow was new day and you had plenty of time to decode her then.

Now that Minjeong was back in your arms you were never letting her go (unless she tried to lock herself in again that is)

#✰W - Works✰#kim minjeong x reader #kim minjeong #aespa winter #aespa #aespa fluff #aespa x reader #aespa imagines #kpop gg x reader #kpop imagines

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ravcnism · 22 days ago

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Would you also maybe be able to write a bob reynolds x m!reader (obviously) where the reader is the bottom/sub? 🫶

NIGHT SHIFT. — BOB REYNOLDS x Male!READER (NSFW.) MNDI.

Summary: It’s almost 3 AM, you’re half-asleep, and Bob is bleeding at your door again—with a cut that barely needs tending. But when you let him in, it’s not just stitches he wants. One kiss turns into a blur of hands and heat.

## TAGS: Nurse!Reader, Pre-established relationship, Eventual Smut, Patching the other up, Top!Bob, Bottom!Reader, AMAB reader, Bob has a praise kink.

## WARNINGS: Mature language, Smut with some plot, Minor mentions of injury

Note: Felt a little unsure about this, but I did my best! I'm just gonna post it and forget I wrote it because I am genuinely so unsatisfied,,

The knock on your door wasn't urgent. It wasn't the kind of knock that spiked adrenaline into your chest, or sent your heart hammering a mile a minute. It was small, and hesitant, as though it was apologizing. You'd always been a light sleeper, but the sound had been so gentle that it took another try to finally pry you from your unconscious state.

You cracked one eye open, blinking blearily at the red glow of your bedside clock. 2:41 AM.

There was another knock. Then a pause, like thinking. Then a thump, the shifting of someone's feet. You groaned into your pillow before forcing yourself upright. Your blanket fell from your shoulders as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. You padded barefoot to the door and pulled it open.

Bob stood in the hallway, shirt slightly torn, his arm cradled to his side. Blood smeared his sleeve—not enough to snap you awake, but enough to make a mess. His hair was damp with sweat, curls clinging to his forehead. He looked almost entirely too large for the hallway, eyes gleaming like a dog caught in the rain. He had a sweet look on his face, that soft, hesitant smile. He opened his mouth to greet you, but quickly closed it upon realizing that he had woken you from what looked to be a very deep slumber.

“What do you want,” you mumbled, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes. It wasn't mean or dismissive, but clearly annoyed. And rightfully so.

Despite the dark, you got a better look at his injury. You looked up at him and sighed.

Bob shrugged. “Got caught in some shrapnel.”

“You know we've got other nurses in the med bay, right?”

He winced a little, his eyes flickering to the floor. “I-I wanted you.”

You melted in the invisible way that you did whenever he said such things.

Bob pressed his lips together. He let a beat pass, and then he lifted his arm slightly. The gash wasn’t deep, but it was raw and ugly-looking, red blooming through the gauze like a sunset. “I don't think it's that bad. I didn’t wanna bother anyone.”

“Oh, but my door was wide open, huh?” You scrubbed a hand over your face, forcing yourself to wake up entirely. You stepped aside, urging him in. “Sit. Bed. Now.”

He obeyed without question. He shuffled in, ducked his head like he thought he might bump the doorframe (he wouldn’t), and perched on the edge of your mattress with a cautious sort of reverence. Like it was sacred ground and he was lucky to even touch it. He sat patiently, feet to the floor, eyes following you as you moved to grab your first-aid kit from the nightstand drawer.

You flicked on the bedside lamp. Warm amber light spilled over him, catching on the edge of a forming bruise at his temple, the smear of blood on his forearm, the way he looked at you like you were already halfway to saving him. He was smiling like he couldn't help it. Like this was the highlight of his day, the only reason he got out of bed. And for all you knew, it might have been.

You didn’t say anything as you knelt in front of him, grabbing his wrist gently and peeling back the soaked gauze. He hissed a little. “I've barely done anything,” you muttered, but there was no real venom behind it. Just tired affection and the ache of being forced to wake up at 2 AM after a 17 hour shift. You looked up to catch a glimpse of Bob’s lovestruck gaze.

It had been awhile since the two of you had started dating. It wasn't one big explosion of a scene, but a cluster of—moments. Soft ones, quiet ones; Bob bringing you coffee without asking, you patching him up after missions and pretending not to stare at his physique. The late-night conversations that drifted from trauma to favorite songs, the way he’d sometimes knock on your door just to sit in the same room. Falling in love was as easy as finding a steady pulse under his skin.

He saw you often, and perhaps that was the main contributor. You'd been working for Valentina for as long as you could remember, and you were among the group of doctors that nursed her ‘Sentry’ back to health. Bob had caught your attention since way back then, but it had taken all that time for you to have finally done something about it.

You worked at the med bay, tucked into the lower levels of the new Avengers Tower. Despite your medical position, your reach stretched further than the rest of the professionals in your team. Your personal comm never went silent for long. Someone always needed something: blood tests, IV drips, a dislocated shoulder snapped back into place without anesthesia because "I’m fine, really—”. You’d seen it all. Broken bones. Super-serums gone sideways. Ava Starr's caffeine-induced migraines. Yelena’s sprains. Alexei refusing a tetanus shot because he thought he was immune to "American rust.”

And then, there was Bob. The Sentry. A seemingly regular guy housing a dormant eldritch being. Your favorite headache. You were working with him a whole lot. Valentina wanted him studied, kept under surveillance. They were eager to get him going again, to wake the powers that were once there. He'd visit your clinic almost every day of the week. You'd take his charts, list his results, stare too long, conduct physical tests. You had plenty of time to get to know each other.

Eventually, they'd been bringing him along on missions. Exposure therapy, as Valentina called it. Hence the reason as to why he currently sat bleeding on your bed.

He was quiet, watching you work. He had always been satisfied just staring at you, relishing in the gentle touch of your well-trained hands. Even in your grumpy sleep-deprived state, he found you worth adoring. His lips parted slightly, an apology hanging on the edge of his tongue. He kept quiet, unsure if it would make it better or worse.

The cut wasn’t deep. Sloppy, maybe. It looked like it had been caused by shrapnel or broken glass. Nothing urgent, nothing fatal. Just enough blood to look dramatic. Just enough pain to make him seek you out. You reached for the saline without asking. He winced again when the liquid touched his raw skin.

“Ow..”

“It's healing on its own, Bob.” You wiped around the wound, crimson gathering into the cotton ball you used. “Your body does that, remember? Enhanced physiology and all that jazz. You heal faster than most, you just have to let it.”

He briefly looked away, pretending to take interest in the view outside your window. “It still hurts..”

A beat passed. For a moment, he felt as though he could hear all the noise outside. The city, still awake. Cars blearing, people talking. You sighed; a little too loud. But your hands never stopped moving. Bandage, tape, antiseptic, all of it second nature. You could do this half-asleep. You probably were half-asleep. Bob’s eyes followed every motion, like he wasn’t sure if you were stitching him up or putting him back together.

“I’m not mad,” you finally said. “Just tired.”

“I know.”

You finished the last strip of gauze, pressing it down gently, brushing your fingers across his skin in a way that didn’t need to be medical anymore. You stayed kneeling there a moment longer, head bowed slightly, his wrist still cradled in your hand. You kissed his freshly-bandaged wound. Tradition. He claimed it made every single ache go away. You called it bullshit, but there had never been an injury of his that you hadn't kissed.

“Thanks for coming to me,” you said quietly. “Even if you’re annoying about it.”

His laugh was breathy and cracked and made your chest ache in that soft kind of way.

And then he was staring too long; too deeply, too intently. You caught the look in his eyes gleaming under the lamplight. His gentle, wordless plea. The two of you grew silent enough for the tension to turn palpable.

You gave in. You rose from your knees to kiss his lips, a messy but fevered act. It felt light, and dizzying, as though you were either waking up from a dream or falling into one. You ran your tongue over his lower lip and he gasped, allowing you entry. It took little to no time for heat to pool into your stomach, gathering like some molten puddle of want. You held his shoulders and straddled his lap, feeling a growing hardness beneath you. You kissed him deeper, hungrier. He held his hand against your back, the other clinging onto your waist, holding you closer.

You were the first to pull away, a string of saliva connecting your lips together. He looked up at you, dark-blue eyes dazed and half-lidded. You ran a thumb down his cheek. “I don't believe it,” you laughed. “An ulterior motive. You come in, injured, then you seduce me.”

Bob stammered a bit, his hands pulling you back again. “Didn’t… do anything,” he mumbled, breathless.

“No?” you teased, breath tickling against his lips. “Didn't you?”

He shook his head, but it was barely a gesture. It was more like a shiver rolling down his spine. His fingers dug into your hips like he was trying to anchor himself, like the warmth of your skin was the only thing keeping him tethered.

You leaned in, let your mouth ghost over his, let the air between you charge. “A full team of doctors in rotation, under night shifts, all in the med bay. And you chose to seek me out. Your boyfriend, in his bedroom.” You chuckled, darkly. “You didn't come here just to get patched up, did you?”

Bob whimpered. He dragged you into another kiss, like he couldn’t bear to be teased anymore. It was messier this time, frantic, all tongue and aching teeth, like he was trying to crawl into your mouth, into your chest. His whole body vibrated beneath you, thighs tense where they bracketed yours, breath stuttering as he kissed down your jaw, your throat, like he couldn’t decide where to land.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered, somewhere below your ear, voice shaking. “All day, it was just—just you. You in your scrubs. You chewing on that pen. That stupid laugh you did when I made that dumb joke—God, fuck.” His hips bucked up against you before he could stop himself. His breath caught like he had no control of what just happened.

You pulled back a little, just to look at him. He was wrecked, all in such little time. All because of a few words and a deep, wet kiss. His cheeks were pink, hair damp at the temples. His pupils were blown wide, so dark they almost swallowed the blue. He looked like a starved man, and you, his first meal in days. You had an inkling of an idea as to what might have been happening to him. Something told you that the inhuman amount of adrenaline that came with genetic enhancements weren't something he could always control. Something told you that it would present itself differently if it had nowhere else to go.

“Look at you,” you murmured. “You’re shaking.”

“I know,” he croaked, almost like he was ashamed of it. “I can’t—can’t stop. It’s like my body just—” He gasped as you rolled your hips down against his, and the breath punched out of him. “Please.”

That was the moment he snapped. Bob flipped you over before you could blink, hands fumbling with your waistband like he’d finally surrendered to everything he’d been holding back. His kisses grew sloppier, open-mouthed and hot, tasting every inch of skin he could reach. His whole body pressed down on you—solid, burning, trembling. “I need you,” he choked. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you around me or I’m gonna lose my mind.”

You barely managed a nod, dazed and breathless under him. You’d never seen him like this. So undone, so needy, so determined. It had your heart hammering in your ears.

You barely got the word out before Bob was kissing you again—no rhythm, no finesse, just need. He couldn’t keep still; his hands were everywhere, trembling slightly as they shoved your shirt up, pushed your boxers down. Your cock popped out and met the cold air. You drew a breath in through clenched teeth. His mouth followed every inch of exposed skin like he was making up for lost time, leaving hot, wet kisses in his wake.

“God, you’re so warm,” he breathed, dragging his fingers down your thighs. “I’ve been thinking about this all fucking day. S'like I couldn’t breathe.” He looked at you like he was going to apologize for it. Like amidst his frantic, frenzied self, he wanted to be softer.

You tried to say something clever, something to tease—but the words melted into a moan when his fingers wrapped around your cock in a clumsy, reverent stroke. His palm was still a little rough from the bandage you’d just applied, but that didn’t stop him. If anything, it made it feel real. Like even through pain, he couldn’t not touch you. You bucked forward, hissing into his touch. You rolled your hips and relished in the feeling of his palm.

“Fuck, Bob.” Your chest rose up and down, breathing as though you couldn't.

Then he was pushing your legs up, spreading you open with a groan that sounded like it came from his bones. “Fuck, look at you,” he whispered, and you felt his fingers slide lower, teasing over your hole, already slick with your precum. He groaned again, lower this time, guttural. “You’re already—Fuck, you’re already so ready for me.”

He didn’t make you wait. One thick finger pushed in, slow but steady, and he watched you with wide, fascinated eyes as you took him. Then another. His breath hitched when your walls clenched down, when your back arched, when you whispered his name like it was the only one you knew.

“Right there,” you murmured, and he sounded almost awed. “That's it, keep going.”

You clenched again, and he laughed, nervous, wrecked, head falling forward against your knee. “Is that good?”

You groaned. “Yeah, it's fucking good.”

He felt his face heat up, his ears practically ringing. He pushed deeper, slow and careful, the pressure steady but manageable. His free hand gripped your thigh, thumb digging in, grounding himself while he opened you up. One finger became two. He worked you loose, stretching you with deliberate intent, pausing every so often to murmur something breathless, how good you felt, how perfect you were, how he couldn’t wait any longer.

“There, is that good?” he asked again, needing to hear you. Needing to get something amidst your pleasure-filled sounds. Needing to know how he made you feel.

“Yes.” Your head lolled to the side. “Yes, Bob, keep going.”

“Am I doing good?” He was breathless himself, his cock wet and throbbing under his pants. “Baby, tell me, please.”

“Yes, Bob—fuck.” Your eyes fluttered shut. “You're being good. You're being a fucking good boy. And you'll be even better when you fuck me.” Your hips jerked without meaning to.

He made a needy sound. You lifted your head up just to watch as he frantically undid his pants and shoved them down to his thighs. You used your foot to pull his soaked boxers down, revealing his pink, pulsing cock. You felt your heart leap. You looked up at him and met his glazed eyes, grinning with a hunger that no one else could satisfy. You inched yourself further up your bed and he followed, crawling over you, covering your body.

“Baby,” he whined.

“I know.” Your hand met his curls and tugged, the other braced against his shoulder. “I know, Bobby. Go ahead. Come on, fuck me.”

Bob shuddered. He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, hips shaking, both hands on your waist like he needed to hold you down or he might fall apart. You were tight. The stretch was intense, and it pulled a groan from his chest, guttural and wrecked.

“Shit, shit,” he hissed through his teeth. “You feel so good. Fuck.” His damp hair fell over your face.

He bottomed out and paused, forehead against your shoulder, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. You could feel every inch of him pulsing inside you, twitching with restraint. Then he moved. He started slow, just enough to make you whimper, then picked up pace fast—every thrust hard, deep, slamming into you like he needed to bury something that’d been clawing at him from the inside. He was sweating, panting, swearing under his breath. Your bed creaked with the urgency of his movements.

You felt every drag, every slap of skin against skin. The way your body rocked with each snap of his hips. The way he gripped your thighs like he was afraid he’d wake up and this would be gone.

“Not gonna last,” he gasped, voice catching on a moan. “Can’t—can’t hold back—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, fingers digging into his shoulders, leaving scratch marks for him to marvel at in the morning. “Don’t hold back. You've been waiting all day, remember?”

Bob hissed. “I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “God, I fucking love you—”

He thrust once more, then again, rougher this time, before letting go with a loud, desperate moan. You grabbed his face, kissed him hard, swallowed the sound he made when he finally lost it—hips jerking, cock buried deep as he came with a desperate cry. You felt him spill inside you, hot and thick, his body trembling from head to toe as he gasped through it. For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of your breathing. The wet, ragged noise of two people completely undone.

Bob collapsed onto you, still inside, mouth open against your throat, whispering something low and broken you couldn’t quite make out. He was still panting against your shoulder, body flushed and trembling, but you were still hard. Flushed, throbbing, aching with need. He felt it, too. The way your cock pressed against his stomach, slick and twitching, silently begging.

“Shit,” he breathed, lifting his head to look down at you, dazed but suddenly very aware. “I didn’t—fuck, you didn’t...”

You quirked a brow, already smirking a little despite how wrecked you felt. “Yeah, no. You’re not done ‘til I’m done.”

That got a breathless laugh out of him—and then he was moving again, slipping out of you carefully before dragging himself down your body with the kind of reverence that didn’t match the filth in his eyes. His mouth hovered just above your cock, lips parted, breath hot. “I got you,” he whispered.

Then he wrapped his lips around you. No teasing. No slow build-up. He took you in, as much as he could handle, one hand wrapped around the base, the other braced against your thigh. His mouth was warm, wet, and a little sloppy from the urgency of it all. It made your spine arch right off the bed.

“Fuck—Bob, shit—”

He moaned around you like he liked hearing that, tongue swirling around the head before sinking back down again. His cheeks hollowed with every suck, and the tension that had been building all night roared right back with a vengeance. Your hand slid into his hair, fingers curling against the messy brown strands. He let you guide the rhythm, moving faster when you tugged, groaning when your hips gave an involuntary thrust. He didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch. He took it like he wanted it, and he did.

You were close. So close. Your thighs tensed, breath caught, and when your voice broke on a curse, he knew.

He moaned again, dragging his tongue along the underside just right. You came with a shudder, spilling into his mouth, gasping his name through grit teeth. Bob kept going, swallowing everything you gave him, mouth still working you through it until you were twitching from overstimulation and pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled off with a wet gasp, licking his lips and blinking up at you like a man who’d just survived something holy.

You looked at him through the gathering tears in your eyes. You were still catching your breath when Bob settled back into the bed beside you, arm draped over your waist, his face half-buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel the smile on his lips—smug little thing—like he was proud of himself for completely ruining you and now planned to nap there like a satiated beast.

You let the silence hang for a second. Let the warmth of him settle over you like a weighted blanket. And then, you turned to him, whispering, “Put it back in.”

Bob raised his brows at you, eyes drooping like he was already half-asleep. “Hm?”

You kissed his forehead, making his nose wrinkle. “I wanna fall asleep like that. Feels nice.”

He didn't argue. And even if he did, he knew he would never deny you. He kissed your shoulder, murmured something about you being the death of him, and shifted your positions to ease himself back inside you. Slow and careful this time. The fit was perfect. Warm, full, grounding. His arms held you, anchoring you in the dark. You sighed, your back against his chest, body soft and boneless now, every ache lulled by the heavy comfort of him being right there—in you, around you, with you.

“Hey,” you called, making him hum in response. “Next time you're horny, just say that. Saves me the gauze.”

He giggled, soft and shy, burying his face further into the back of your neck. “I love you,” he mumbled against your skin.

You smiled. “I love you too.”

You didn’t fall asleep right away. Not with Bob pressed so close, his hand rested just under your ribs, rising and falling with your breath. Content. Sated. But behind you, you could still feel the occasional twitch of his hips—tiny, involuntary movements like his body hadn’t quite gotten the message that the night was over.

You stared at the ceiling, blinking slow. You made a mental note.

Enhanced genetics appear to correlate with elevated stamina. Observe: insatiable. Serial. Fucking. Needs. Suggested course of treatment: rest, hydration, and a muzzle.

You sighed. Loudly. Not that it stopped the man behind you from nosing into your hair like he hadn’t just used you as his own personal stress relief. You turned your head to look at him, his sleeping face, his perfect lashes, his perfect nose. “Yeah,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “I love you, too.”

#bob reynolds x male reader #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts x reader #male reader #bob reynolds x male reader smut #marvel x male reader #m!reader

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pankowcrumbs · 1 month ago

Text

All Along X Max Verstappen (Requested)

Request: Max Verstappen x Reader The Reader is a childhood friend and Max finally realizes he loves her.

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Max's POV-

I’ve known Y/N since I was eight.

We met at a karting circuit in Belgium her dad was mates with my dad, and she was sat on the tyre wall swinging her legs and eating crisps, not caring one bit about the race happening around her. I thought she was strange at first, all quiet confidence and crooked pigtails, but when she looked up and asked if I’d won with a smirk, I instantly wanted to impress her.

We were inseparable after that.

Every race meet, every off-season, every awkward teenage summer I can trace every chapter of my life and find her there, etched somewhere in the margins. She’s the first person I text after qualifying, the only one who can get away with calling me a sore loser, and the one who knows how I take my coffee even when I forget.

But I never thought of her like that.

Or maybe I did. I just didn’t realise it.

Not until much later.

Not until the little things started stacking up.

It started with the way she wore my hoodie.

That old navy Red Bull one I’d left in Monaco last spring. She’d thrown it on after getting caught in the rain, sleeves swallowing her hands, hood half up, smelling like my aftershave. She didn’t even ask just wore it like it was hers.

Something about the way it fit her made something strange twist in my chest.

Then there was that time in Austin when she fell asleep on my shoulder during the post-race dinner. Everyone else was laughing, drinking, eating ribs, and she just dozed off like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I didn’t move for a full hour.

Didn’t want to wake her.

Didn’t want the moment to end.

I told myself it was normal. She was my best friend.

But slowly, quietly, things shifted.

I started noticing the way she laughed, loud and unfiltered, especially when she made me laugh. I started noticing the little things she did like how she always carried bandaids in her bag because I always got blisters from new boots, or how she knew when to leave me alone after a bad session, and when to stay even when I told her not to.

There was a day in Barcelona, early morning, golden sun catching in her hair as she leaned against the pit wall, chatting to the mechanics. She was glowing, like some golden-hour dream, and I caught myself staring.

Hard.

Cheeks warm, heartbeat off-beat.

That was the first time I thought, shit…

But I still didn’t say anything.

Didn’t do anything.

It wasn’t until Silverstone that it hit me full force.

It was the Saturday before the race. We were in the Red Bull motorhome me, her, my mum, and dad. She was laughing about something my dad had said, and the sound filled the room like sunlight.

She was just… there.

Like she’d always been.

Hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing my team shirt again because she “couldn’t be arsed packing properly”, one leg tucked under the other as she sipped her tea and chatted with my parents like she belonged.

And she did.

She always had.

I watched her as she threw her head back laughing at something my mum said, eyes crinkling at the corners, and something inside me just clicked.

It was her.

It had always been her.

Through the podiums, the travel, the pressure, the circuits and trophies. It was always her I wanted to come home to. Her who understood the world behind the headlines. Her who stayed. Who got me.

Not because of who I was, but in spite of it.

And I realised I was in love with my best friend.

I was completely, entirely, stupidly in love with her.

I didn’t say anything that day.

I couldn’t.

What was I meant to say?

“Hey, Y/N, by the way, I think I’m in love with you. Pass the salt”?

So, I kept it to myself.

But once you realise something like that, you can’t un-realise it.

It changes everything.

The way I looked at her.

The way I listened when she talked.

The way my whole body leaned towards her without thinking.

She’d touch my arm while talking and I’d feel it for hours. She’d call me “Maxie” when she was teasing and my stomach would flip like I’d just gone through Eau Rouge blindfolded.

And she had no idea.

Because to her, I was just Max.

The same one who once cried after losing a kart race at 11. The one who helped her sneak out of her house to watch a meteor shower at 2am when we were 15. The one who’d always been there. Her mate.

The thought of ruining that paralysed me.

But the thought of never telling her?

Worse.

It came to a head in Monza.

We’d gone out for dinner just the two of us, like always. Pasta, wine, too much bread, and conversation that flowed like we were the only two people in Italy. She was wearing this green dress, nothing fancy, but she looked… beautiful.

Undeniably.

She laughed, wiping sauce from her lip, and looked up at me with those eyes.

And I thought, I have to tell her.

I have to.

But I chickened out again.

Walked her back to the hotel, hugged her goodnight too long, and said nothing.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

I was a world champion, for god’s sake.

I could overtake at 300kph with a centimetre to spare but I couldn’t tell the girl I loved that I was in love with her.

It wasn’t until a week later, after Japan, that I cracked.

We were in the garage packing up. She was wearing a team jacket three sizes too big and talking to my race engineer about something I couldn’t hear. I was stood nearby, pretending to scroll through my phone, when she turned and caught me looking.

She smiled.

I smiled back.

And in that moment, I knew.

If I didn’t tell her soon, I’d regret it forever.

So I did.

I waited until we were back in Monaco. Until we were sitting on the balcony of my apartment, overlooking the sea, with beers in hand and bare feet on the railing. The moon was out. She looked relaxed. Happy.

“Y/N,” I said quietly.

She looked over. “Yeah?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

She sat up a little. “Everything okay?”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

My heart thundered in my chest.

She blinked. “You think?”

I gave a breathless laugh. “No. I know. I’m sorry it took me this long. I just every time I look at you, it makes sense. Everything. You make sense.”

She was staring now, eyes wide.

And then she smiled.

Soft. Slow. Like the sun rising.

“Max…” she whispered.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I rushed. “I just needed you to know. If it ruins things, I’ll deal with it. I just couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

She set her beer down.

Then she reached for my hand.

And laced our fingers together.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

My breath caught. “What?”

“I didn’t want to be the one to ruin it either. But I’ve felt it, too. For a while now.”

Relief. Shock. Something electric bloomed in my chest.

“Really?” I breathed.

She leaned forward and kissed me.

Soft and sure.

And in that moment, everything fell into place.

Like it was always meant to.

Like it had always been her.

All along.

#fanfiction #reader #x reader #one shot #requested #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x female oc #verstappen #max

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storytimewithnina · 2 months ago

Text

A Quiet Kind of Redemption (Bucky Barnes Imagine)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x Reader

Setting: Post-Winter Soldier, pre-Falcon & Winter Soldier series

Word count: ~5,000

Summary: In a quiet corner of the world, Bucky Barnes meets someone who makes him believe healing is possible.

————

Bucky Barnes didn’t sleep much.

Not really.

Not since 1943, if he was honest. The ice had offered an imitation of sleep—deep and dreamless—but now, awake and free and afraid, he slept in short bursts. Ten minutes here. A half hour there. Long enough for the ghosts to whisper. Long enough to remember what the Winter Soldier had done.

He hadn’t planned to stay in Romania.

But the little town was quiet, the air thick with cigarette smoke and distant music. People minded their business. That mattered more than anything.

He found a room above a bakery. The woman who owned it only asked for rent once a month and never pressed him when he came in bloodied. He fixed her sink once. After that, she left bread outside his door on Sundays.

The world moved slowly here. Bucky needed slow.

He walked most mornings, hoodie up, gloves on. No one noticed.

Until her.

————

You owned the secondhand bookstore on the corner of a cobbled street. It was more paper than walls. Old maps curled in corners. The windows fogged from tea and breath. You had music playing quietly every time he walked by—usually something old. Edith Piaf. Billie Holiday.

The bell above your door jingled on a Thursday.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Tall. Broad. Covered in shadows like armor. But your gaze didn’t linger on the hoodie or the scar on his cheek. You noticed the way he stood too still, like he was used to disappearing into walls.

You said, “Looking for something specific, or just wandering?”

He hesitated.

Then: “Something quiet.”

You smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

He left with a tattered copy of Les Misérables and didn’t speak again.

————

He came back the next day.

Then again. And again.

You didn’t ask questions. Didn’t comment on the gloves or the scars or how he sometimes stared too long at the walls like he was seeing something else.

You handed him books. Sometimes poetry. Sometimes history.

He never said much, but he always paid in cash. Never let his hands touch yours.

You noticed he didn’t like loud noises. That he kept his back to the walls. That he sometimes left in the middle of a sentence if the bell above the door rang too sharply.

You weren’t offended.

You just stopped ringing the bell when he came in.

————

One rainy night, just before closing, you found him standing under the awning, soaked and shaking.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you with haunted eyes.

You held the door open.

“If you’re running,” you said gently, “you can hide here.”

His breath caught.

Then he stepped inside.

————

You made him tea.

Neither of you said much.

You put a record on.

He looked around like he was seeing the room for the first time. Touching nothing, just watching.

Your shop felt like peace.

Like memory.

Like something soft he hadn’t earned.

————

Three weeks later, he finally said your name.

You hadn’t realized he’d remembered it.

It was barely above a whisper. “Y/N.”

You looked up from your stool behind the counter.

“Yeah?”

He didn’t say anything more. Just looked like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth. Like it grounded him.

————

A month in, you handed him a wrapped package after his usual visit.

He looked confused. “What’s this?”

“A new journal,” you said. “You keep staring at the same three pages in Les Mis—thought maybe you wanted to write instead.”

He hesitated.

Then took it.

His fingers shook.

————

He started writing. You didn’t ask what.

You just saw the way his shoulders dropped a little each time.

You were both ghosts in your own way. You carried loss like perfume. Quiet. Lingering.

Sometimes, when it rained, he’d sit near the back shelves while you restocked.

Once, he fell asleep there.

You didn’t wake him.

You just locked the door and turned the sign to Closed.

Let him have peace.

————

It wasn’t perfect.

One night, you heard shouting from the alley.

You found him curled on the ground, metal hand shaking, blood on his knuckles.

He wouldn’t let you touch him. Said things in Russian. Flinched from the sound of your voice.

So you sat beside him, just close enough for him to know you were real.

You whispered, “You’re not him anymore.”

Eventually, his breath evened out.

He didn’t look at you when he said, “You should run from me.”

You replied, “You don’t scare me, James.”

He looked at you then—like no one had ever called him that without fear.

————

Spring came slowly.

He started helping around the shop. Fixing a loose shelf. Rewiring a lamp.

You started putting aside books you thought he’d like. He started leaving folded pages of writing on your counter, unsigned but unmistakably his.

Once, he brought you flowers. They were inexpertly wrapped and a little wilted, but your heart ached at the gesture.

He said, “Didn’t know if you liked roses.”

You smiled. “I like the thought more than the flower.”

He looked away—but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

————

One night, as a storm rolled in, the lights flickered and the wind howled.

You lit candles. He stood nearby, tense.

You poured two glasses of wine. Handed him one.

“Tell me something real,” you asked. “Just one thing.”

He paused.

Then said, “I used to play piano.”

You blinked.

He shrugged. “Before the war.”

“What kind of songs?”

He closed his eyes. “Ragtime. Jazz. Stuff with soul.”

You whispered, “You still have soul.”

He looked at you then, fully—something fragile and wondering in his eyes.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved your kindness.

Like he wanted to believe he did.

————

Then the past found him.

A man came into the shop. American. Military bearing. Wrong kind of stare.

Bucky tensed. You noticed.

When the man left, Bucky said, “I have to go.”

You said nothing.

But the look in your eyes said please stay.

He hesitated.

Then kissed your forehead—so gentle, so broken…and said, “Don’t wait for me.”

You watched him walk into the storm.

And locked the door behind him.

————

Three weeks passed.

You didn’t hear from him.

Didn’t see him.

You left the light on.

Kept his journal safe behind the counter.

Tried not to cry when Billie Holiday played.

————

Then one night, the bell above the door rang.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Blood on his sleeve.

Bruises on his cheek.

But his eyes—his eyes were clear.

You ran to him.

He caught you, finally letting himself hold you with both arms.

No gloves.

No barriers.

Just him.

Just James.

“I had to end it,” he whispered. “Tie up loose ends.”

“And did you?”

His grip tightened. “For now.”

You touched his face.

“You came back.”

He nodded.

“I always will.”

#writing #artists on tumblr #books #art #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier imagine #winter solider x y/n #winter solider x reader #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel #bucky fanfic #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x you

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aeriikiessss · 2 months ago

Text

𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬

TAGS: fluff, mutual pining, first kiss, soft!hwang in-ho, au!hwang in-ho, a bit of slowburn (?), strangers to lovers

A/N: helloooo, this is my first time posting my fanfic here!! idk if this will reach the algorithm but im wishing on a star that it does, thank you for reading!! ><

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

DIVIDERS: saradika-graphics

AO3

It always began with the soft hiss of the espresso machine and the low hum of jazz melting into the corners of the café. Outside, the city moved like it was still half-asleep — puddles gathering on the sidewalk, streetlights flickering off one by one, the scent of last night’s rain still clinging to the air.

You liked this time of day.

Before the noise. Before the rush. When everything felt suspended — like you were the only one awake in a world that hadn’t opened its eyes yet.

That was when he’d walk in. Every morning. Exactly at 7:43.

You knew because you checked the clock.

At first, he didn’t seem remarkable. Not flashy, not someone who tried to stand out. Just another early commuter — tall, quiet, wrapped in a long black coat with a scarf wound too neatly around his throat. His hair was always slightly tousled, like he hadn’t looked in a mirror. Or didn’t care to.

But there was something about him that made you slow down.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself — like he was always listening to music only he could hear. Or the way his eyes never lingered on anyone too long, as if holding a gaze might reveal something he wasn’t ready to share. He moved with the quiet precision of someone who hated attention, but still earned it without trying.

And then there was the voice.

Low. Smooth. Controlled.

“Americano. Hot.”

Every time, the same order. No sugar. No milk. No hesitation. Like even his caffeine was emotionally unavailable.

He never gave his name, never lingered at the counter, never asked for anything more than what you could give him in a paper cup. But his hands — pale, long-fingered, a little too careful — always brushed yours when he took it. Lightly. Accidentally.

At least, you told yourself it was accidental.

You were the first one to break the rhythm.

One morning, when the sun spilled through the windows just right and the music was something you didn’t know the name of but suddenly loved, you wrote on his cup.

Hope today is gentle.

Just that. No smiley face. No flourish. Just something true.

He didn’t react when you handed it to him. Just nodded, took his drink, and sat in his usual spot — far corner, right side, by the window. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you wiped down the counter, half-expecting him to toss the cup without looking.

But he didn’t.

He read it.

He turned the cup slowly in his hands and stared at the words like they meant something. And for the first time, he didn’t sip his coffee right away.

He just held it.

You didn’t know what it meant, but it was something.

The next day, he came back.

Same time. Same coat. Same silence.

But this time, his eyes flicked to you as you handed him the cup. Not long. Not even a full second. Just a flash of something — surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Like he’d been expecting you to say something again, and when you didn’t, he almost looked… disappointed?

You didn’t know. You weren’t sure if you were imagining it.

But the next day, you did it again.

Good things take time. You’re allowed to take yours.

This time, he didn’t just glance. He stared.

Not at you—at the cup. At the words. At whatever they stirred in him. And when you turned back to the counter, pretending not to care, pretending you weren’t watching, you didn’t see him slip something under the sleeve of the cup.

You found it later.

A short line written in your own pen, the ink barely dry.

Gentle isn’t something I deserve. But thank you.

The handwriting was neat, slanted, cautious.

You stared at it for a long time.

From that day on, it changed. Slowly. Quietly. Like frost melting off the edge of a window.

He started looking up when he ordered. Not always. But sometimes.

You started brewing his coffee before he asked. Just as he walked through the door.

Some mornings, he left behind a book, or a napkin with a poem scrawled in the margins. Never signed. Never explained.

You responded with quotes from authors he hadn’t mentioned yet. Rilke. Han Kang. Someone had once told you that conversation could exist without speech. Now you believed them.

You didn’t even know his name.

But you started waking up just for 7:43. Just for him to walk in your cafe in time, doesn’t it feel so good when he walks in looking peaceful and calm?

The clock ticks at 7:43, you were ready for the moment he walks in. The bell above the door gave a soft jingle, and then he was there—tall, quiet, like a shadow folded into light. The soft beige colored coat and those black glasses, it looked absolutely perfect on him, there was nothing loud about him—not the way he moved, not the way he dressed. And yet, he had that kind of presence that made the room shift slightly to make space for him. “Oh hey, back for that bitterest thing on the menu?” You quipped, tone light but sharp. “I guess you remembered.” He huffed softly, amused at your quipping. “Hard to forget someone who orders black coffee like it’s a personal challenge.” You then reached for a cup, already turning towards the coffee machine. “Let me guess, the usual? No cream, no sugar, no joy?”

He smirked slightly, his lips quirked. Barely. But it was there. “Guess that’s one way to put it then.”

You busied yourself with the coffee machine, your fingers moving with practiced ease. You could feel his gaze, though, still on you. Quiet. Observant. But not unkind. “So, what’s the occasion today? Coffee and silent judgment, or just the usual ‘I’m here to exist in your café and make you wonder why you’re still making me coffee’ routine?” He chuckled, the sound barely audible, but it was there — a crack in the stillness. “No silent judgment today. I just… prefer things this way.” You handed him the cup, your fingers brushing against his for a moment. “Real cozy, huh?” The small touch sent a jolt through you, but you kept your expression neutral. He took the cup, his hand brushing yours, just a little too long, as if he was trying to hold onto something. Or maybe, just avoiding letting go. He didn’t speak at first, his gaze flickering to the cup in his hands. His fingers traced the edge of the paper, and for a second, it was as if he were thinking over something unsaid. “It’s comfortable,” he said quietly, eyes lifting to meet yours again. “More than I expected.” You raised an eyebrow, not quite hiding the small smile tugging at your lips.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I make a mean cup of doom.” You leaned against the counter, your gaze holding his.

“But if you keep coming back for it, I might start thinking you’ve got a thing for doom.” The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and for the first time, it felt real. Less like a formality. Less like a mask. “Maybe I do.” Your breath caught, but you didn’t let it show. You forced a nonchalant shrug, hiding the warmth that was creeping up your neck. “Well, I guess you’re not the only one who enjoys a little chaos now and then.” For a long moment, you both just stood there, the air between you full of quiet tension. Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the gentle hum of the café and the rhythmic clink of cups.

And then, just as he turned to leave, he paused.

“I’ll be back.”

You weren’t sure why, but his words—so simple, so casual—made something stir in your chest. The door swung open, the bell jingling lightly as he left, but you were still standing there, watching him go.

“See you, 무뚝뚝 씨.” (Mr. Blunt) You muttered to yourself with a half-smile, already looking forward to the next visit. He chuckled at the nickname you gave him, hearing it far away even as if he was heading out. “정말 예리한 소녀야.”(What a sharp girl.)

The days start to blur a little.

He comes in more often now. Not quite daily, but enough that you catch yourself watching the clock around the same hour, pretending it isn’t because you’re hoping he’ll walk through the door again.

And when he does, something’s different.

He doesn’t just nod or give that minimal “I’ll have the usual” anymore. He lingers. He watches you a second longer. His hands don’t stay in his coat pockets like they used to — they rest on the counter now, close enough that your fingers brush when you pass him his cup.

Today, he comes in early. No crowd, no noise. Just you, the hum of the espresso machine, and that quiet kind of morning light that makes everything feel softer than it is.

“Careful. Show up any earlier and I’ll start charging you rent.”

He doesn’t smile, not really. But his eyes do that thing again — like he’s holding something back. Something gentle.

“Maybe I just wanted to see what you’re like before the sarcasm kicks in.”

“What a brave man. Trying to catch me before caffeine? You’re lucky I haven’t banned you.”

It’s light, familiar. But the air between you feels different. Warmer. He’s not just a quiet customer anymore. You’ve memorized the shape of his hands, the rhythm of his voice, the way he leans a little to the left when he listens like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He sits at the counter this time, not by the window like always.

You slide his coffee over and grab a second cup for yourself. It’s slow. Deliberate. Like an invitation.

“You always drink it like that?”

“Like what? With regret?”

He chuckles. You don’t hear that often, but when you do, it stays in your chest for hours after. Not loud. Not deep. Just… real.

“With no sugar. Bitter.”

“Some of us have emotional range. Some of us drink black coffee and write poetry in our heads. Which one are you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes are on you, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“I think I come here for the warmth.”

You blink. That throws you. Just a little.

“The warmth of what? My glowing personality or the flickering heater in the corner?”

“…You.”

It’s quiet. So quiet you almost think you imagined it.

But he looks at you, and he doesn’t look away this time. His gaze doesn’t drift or falter or hide behind silence. He looks at you, steady and unflinching, and it lands heavy in your chest.

Your mouth opens. Closes. You can’t think of a comeback fast enough. And that scares you more than a little.

Because now, the air feels fragile.

Like something’s finally cracked.

The world slows down, was he serious? or was he just joking? You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. God you could just punch him in the face if he was joking. You try to laugh, but it doesn’t come out right. Too soft. Too uneven. “You’re lucky I don’t charge extra for flattery.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true.” You glance at him, trying not to look like it matters. But his eyes are still on you. Focused. Calm. You’ve gotten used to his silence, but not this kind — the one that hums like a secret just waiting to be told. “You always this charming, or is it just with baristas who tolerate your brooding?” He lifts the cup, takes a sip. His fingers curl around the warmth, and when he sets it down again, he doesn’t move away. “Only the ones who talk back.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… new. Like neither of you knows what to do with the space you’ve made between words. You pretend to clean the counter. He pretends not to notice. But he stays.

And you let him.

The stool creaks as he shifts. He’s not drinking anymore, just holding the mug like he needs something to do with his hands. You watch the way his thumb strokes along the ceramic edge, slow and absent, like maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Your own hands rest flat on the counter. You don’t move them. It feels like one small shift might break whatever this moment is trying to be. He clears his throat, and it’s the first sound in a while that makes you look up.

“You’re quieter than usual.”

“That’s rich,” you reply, voice low. “You’ve said more words to me in the last hour than in your entire first week coming here.” He lets out a soft sound — not quite a laugh. More like a breath that got tangled with a smile. “I guess I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This,” he says, and the word lands gently, without pressure. “You. Talking. Looking at me like that.” You freeze. “Like what?”

“Like you see right through me.”

You’re not sure when you leaned in. Maybe it was gradual. Maybe it was always going to happen.

He’s close now. His knee brushing yours under the counter, his scent—clean, familiar—threaded through the warm bitterness of roasted beans. His eyes are steady, holding yours like he’s trying to say something without saying it.

You tilt your head just a little, a habit of curiosity you’ve never shaken. “Maybe I do.” He watches your mouth when you say that. Not obviously. But enough.

You don’t smile. Neither does he.

It just… happens.

One breath.

One slow lean.

His hand brushes your jaw — hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

And when he kisses you, it’s not sudden. It’s not a crash. It’s a slow exhale. The kind that unfurls deep in your chest, warm and careful, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your lips part just slightly like you’ve been waiting for this, too.

His thumb grazes your cheek. You don’t know when your hand found the front of his coat, but you’re holding it now, fingers curled in soft wool.

When you part, it’s not far. His forehead rests against yours, breath shallow.

“You’re going to make my coffee taste sweet,” you murmur.

“You deserve that,” he says, just as quiet.

You stay like that for a while.

No rush. No words.

Just warmth, and the softest kind of silence — the kind that says, I see you, too. And for the first time since you started working here, you forget to flip the sign to Open.

#hwang inho x reader #hwang in ho #hwang inho x you #lee byung hun #squid game #squid game fanfic #lee byung hun x reader #fanfic #my fanfiction #player 001 #player 001 x reader #player 001 x you

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deardaichi · 27 days ago

Text

009. slowly, softly, surely — sakusa kiyoomi

wc: 0.7k cw: gn!reader. sakusa kiyoomi falls in love slowly but surely. i love him a/n: i love this man. i tried to do the request justice. i hope you enjoy <3 requested by @trafalgar-mine

first touch

he doesn’t like crowds. doesn’t like when people bump into him. doesn’t like when classmates lean too close just to ask for notes. but when you tug at the sleeve of his uniform to hand him a pen he dropped—he doesn’t flinch. he notices that. later, he thinks about the moment longer than he means to. not because it meant something. not yet. but because it didn’t bother him at all.

shared umbrellas

it rains hard one afternoon. you don’t have an umbrella. sakusa does. he sees you waiting near the school gates, backpack hunched forward to block the wind. he hesitates. then walks up beside you and holds out his umbrella. "come on," he says simply. you end up walking half a step behind him, trying not to laugh when the wind flips the umbrella inside out. you fail. he exhales through his nose. not annoyed. just...quieter. he walks home a little damp. he doesn’t mind it.

first text

graduation week is messy. everyone’s swapping notes and uniforms and promises they won’t keep. sakusa sends you a photo of a bacteria cartoon he drew on the back of his notes. you reply instantly: three crying emojis. then: "i’m posting this." he stares at the screen, thumb hovering. "fine. just cite your source." he doesn’t know why it sticks with him. but it does.

college check-in

you don’t talk for a week after moving to separate universities. then: you: "you’re still alive?" kiyoomi: “barely. You?” you: "barely :(" he saves the message. no reason. just does.

little routines

you don’t see each other often. just here and there — a random gathering when mutual friends are back in town, a chance encounter during holidays. eventually, it becomes habit to text when you’re both home. nothing heavy. just “coffee?” or “wanna walk?” one evening, it’s colder than expected. you forgot a jacket. he notices. he shrugs off his hoodie and hands it to you. “i’ll get it back eventually,” he says. you wear it the rest of the week.

matchday

you text him before his first big pro match: "no pressure, but everyone’s watching you 🌚" he doesn’t respond. he never does, on game days. but he checks it more than once. he reads it on the bench, right before stepping onto the court.

quiet dinners

it’s a small restaurant — clean, quiet, tucked between a pharmacy and a bookshop. you picked it by accident. he doesn’t complain. you’re sitting across from each other in a booth, reading from the same laminated menu. you hum under your breath — off-key, distracted — while writing your order with a pen. He pretends to care about the nutritional breakdown on the back. you split a curry dish that you chose. it’s a little too spicy, and the rice is slightly overcooked. “how is it?” you ask. “it’s fine,” he says. it’s not. but he still finishes his half. he doesn’t seem to mind that your knee brushes his under the table.

sick days

he hates being sick. hates the feeling of weakness. hates people seeing him like that. but you knock anyway. he opens the door. your hand is cold against his skin. he doesn’t pull away. "you’re burning up." he lies down. you sit with him until he falls asleep. you don’t fuss. you just stay. you exist quietly beside him. he dreams lightly. something warm. something with your voice in it.

the moment

he gets home late. the city’s wet. his shoulders ache. he pushes the door open and there you are. you were over again — invited last night for dinner, but the movie you chose ran late and it got too late to send you home. you’re curled up on the couch. his hoodie. his favorite blanket. a half-finished cup of tea on the table. you’re asleep. he stands there, watching. breath caught somewhere in his chest. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t wake you. just sits on the edge of the couch, beside your knees, and rests his hand against your ankle. he thinks: this is what home is. he knows. even if he doesn’t say it yet. he’s already yours.

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia

#deardaichi 𖦹₊⊹#haikyuu ˚｡𖦹 #haikyuu #haikyū!!#sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #haikyuu sakusa #hq sakusa #msby sakusa #sakusa x you #sakusa x y/n #sakusa fluff #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x you #sakusa kiyoomi fluff #kiyoomi sakusa x reader #hq kiyoomi #haikyuu kiyoomi #kiyoomi x reader

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misshoneyimhome · 25 days ago

Text

What's up buttercups ♥️

We’ve made it—this is the final chapter of the series 😊 And I hope it’s brought you joy, tension, chaos, and all the closeness your heart craved. Though, while this may be the end… I won’t lie, a cheeky Chapter 20 epilogue might still be on the horizon. I mean—it’s Christmas (in the story), and who could resist one last gift? 😉🎁

So, feel free to drop your wildest wishes and softest dreams in the comments, darlings ♥️ And as always, happy reading!

P.S. Massive thanks to @tonyspep for sparking the idea behind that steamy moment with our favourite duo 🔥

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, Smut 18+: handcuffs, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected vaginal sex, cum inside, oral sex (f receiving), more unprotected vaginal sex, and yes, finally, more cum inside (what can I say, I want that Auston juice)

Word count: 9.1k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen; Chapter fifteen; Chapter sixteen; Chapter seventeen ; Chapter eighteen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter nineteen: The Benchwarmer*

Wednesday -

The soft buzz of your phone stirred you awake before the winter sun had even cracked through the curtains.

You blinked clearly, one arm still tangled in the duvet, the other groping blindly toward your nightstand. The screen lit up your face with a low glow as you rolled onto your side.

Auston: Missed your face. Even half-asleep. Two more days, babe.

Auston: Also, dreamt you were chirping me for my bedhead again. Woke up offended.

You snorted into your pillow, the sound half-sigh, half-swoon. Sleep was already dissolving from your limbs, replaced with a warmth that had nothing to do with the heating in your flat.

Two more days.

It had only been a short road stint—Pittsburgh, then Jersey—but you missed him more than you’d expected. You talked every day. Facetimed every night. Sent stupid pictures, voice notes, playlists, screenshots of memes that reminded you of each other.

You felt sixteen again. Like this was all brand new. Like he hadn’t already seen you cry, yell, unravel. Like none of the damage had happened.

But it had. And somehow, it still felt like something whole had been rebuilt from the wreckage.

You pulled your phone closer to your chest, stared at the screen a moment longer before typing.

You: I only chirp because your bedhead looks like a hockey helmet exploded.

You: Miss you too. Come home soon.

You: P.S. tell Willy he’s not allowed to steal your phone anymore and leave that many typos.

A reply came almost immediately.

Auston: That was literally one time. And I let him because he bribed me with Swedish chocolate. You’d have folded too.

You grinned. Rolled onto your back and let the ceiling fan spin above you in slow, lazy circles.

Everything felt weirdly… good. Like the air had finally cleared. Like you’d climbed out of some emotional foxhole and found sunlight again. Auston was texting you good morning and goodnight. Jess was staying over on weeknights just to hang out. The WAGs weren’t glaring daggers in your direction. Mr. Manion had even stopped side-eyeing you in meetings.

And The Benchwarmer?

Silent.

No new posts. No snide tweets. No grainy surveillance shots lurking in corners of the internet. It was like they’d vanished with the last of November’s rain.

You thought about it sometimes—how quiet it had gone. But mostly, you didn’t care. Not now.

Let them watch, if they were still watching. You were done living like the glass could shatter at any second.

Your phone buzzed again.

Auston: Practice in twenty. Gotta run. But call me later, yeah? Want to hear that sleepy voice again.

You: You’re obsessed.

Auston: Painfully.

You were still smiling when Jess wandered out of the bathroom, made a quick stop by the kitchen before coming over to you, a mug of coffee in each hand and a raised eyebrow aimed directly at you.

“Well, well, well,” she said, voice raspy with sleep. “Looks like someone’s getting their serotonin served fresh and daily.”

You reached for the mug she held out. “Shut up.”

“No seriously,” she said, crawling up the bed like she owned it and flopping beside you. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I just got railed in a dream and now I’m texting him like it wasn’t weird’ look.”

You choked on your coffee. “Jessica.”

“What?” she grinned. “I know the signs. Blissed out. Eyes sparkly. That little secret smile. Honestly, I’m just glad it’s him and not some emotionally unavailable barista named Milo or something.”

You laughed. “Why Milo?”

“I dunno. Feels like the type who’d ghost after making you an oat milk flat white and whispering that you ‘smell like spring heartbreak.’”

You snorted again, leaning your head back against the headboard. “No Milos here. Just Auston. And me. And… whatever this is.”

Jess’s expression softened. She nudged your leg with her knee. “Whatever it is, it looks good on you.”

You glanced back down at your phone. The screen was dark now, but the words from earlier still lingered in your mind.

Painfully.

You hadn’t expected this. Not really. Not after everything. But you also weren’t going to waste time doubting it.

Instead, you took a long sip of coffee, then looked at Jess. “We’re going on a real date when he’s back.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh shit. Like a real real one?”

“Yep,” you nodded. “Fancy outfit. Nervous energy. Actual table reservation. The whole deal.”

Jess beamed. “God, I love a redemption arc.”

You laughed, heart light, body warm, and for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

Maybe you were in one.

And maybe—for once—you weren’t just playing the part.

The bell above the café door chimed as you stepped inside, and for a second, you debated turning right back around.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t welcomed you back. The WAGs had seen the kiss. The kiss. You and Auston, wrapped around each other in the locker room like nobody else existed. There had been witnesses. There had been side-eyes. But no one had walked away.

Still, the nerves clung to your skin like static.

Jess brushed past you, giving your elbow a squeeze as she did. Naturally, she’d come along as moral support. “Relax,” she murmured under her breath. “You’re not walking into a courtroom.”

“No,” you muttered back, “just a table full of people I emotionally betrayed and lied to for two months.”

“Semantics,” she said, grinning.

The glamorous café was all glass windows and exposed brick, warm light filtering in through half-fogged panes. The smell of espresso and burnt caramel lingered in the air. A table in the corner was already half full—Aryne, Stephanie, Sanna, Tessa, Estelle—all mid-sip and conversation.

Aryne looked up first. Her eyes met yours. She curved a light smile.

You swallowed hard.

Then she lifted her coffee and tilted it in a silent toast. “Look who finally decided to join us.”

“Was fashionably late,” Jess cut in, sliding into a chair like she owned the place. “Obviously.”

Stephanie waved toward the open seats. “Sit. Before we start gossiping without you.”

You slid into your chair, pulse still elevated, but your shoulders loosened a little when Tessa leaned over and offered you a mimosa without a word.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

She just winked. “You’re gonna need it.”

And within minutes, conversations resumed like they had never paused. It wasn’t quite normal—but it wasn’t cold. It was like standing at the edge of a hot tub, acclimating slowly to the heat. There was laughter. A little teasing. Sanna passed you the butter with a soft smile that said: we’re not pretending, but we’re trying.

You sipped your drink, eyes darting between the group as they caught up on wedding plans and team travel rumours. Jess had already begun charming her way into the circle, leaning into the conversation like she’d slays been a part of the group. Her laugh was easy. Her presence warm.

It wasn’t until Estelle cleared her throat that the air shifted.

“So,” she said, setting her coffee down with a careful clink. “Are we going to talk about it?”

You blinked. “Talk about what?”

Stephanie leaned back, lips quirking. “The locker room kiss.”

Tessa grinned over the rim of her glass. “We need details. Was that post-concussion euphoria or…?”

“It wasn’t—I mean, he wasn’t concussed,” you said quickly, flushing. “He was… aware.”

“Mm-hmm,” Aryne hummed. “And you?”

You paused. Heart thudding.

Jess gave you a knowing look, daring you.

You exhaled. “Alright… my name is y/n, and I’m in love with Auston Matthews.”

The words fell like a feather—and hit like a brick.

The table went quiet for half a breath, and then erupted with ‘ooohhh’s.

“Finally,” Stephanie groaned.

“Oh, thank God,” Estelle muttered.

Tessa pretended to wipe a tear. “We have growth.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest splintering like sugar glass. Aryne was the only one who didn’t react at first. She just looked at you, eyes a little soft now. A little proud.

“I knew you were,” she said quietly. “Just didn’t think you knew.”

You blinked. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Conversation flowed easier after that. The teasing softened into something fond. You were no longer the girl on the outside. Not the liar. Not the story. Just another woman with a messy heart and the courage to say it out loud.

It felt like a beginning.

And then midway through your second mimosa, Stephanie suddenly turned to Jess. “Okay, your turn.”

Jess blinked. “My turn for what?”

“Your mystery man, of course,” Sanna grinned.

Jess raised her brows. “What mystery man?”

“Oh, there’s a rumour going around that a certain player’s been asking about you,” Tessa leaned in.

Jess rolled her eyes. “There are a lot of players. I think we should be more specific.”

“Big guy. Right wing. Starts with a W,” Stephanie said sing-song.

Jess’s ears flushed pink. She looked down at her napkin, suddenly far too interested in folding it.

Aryne squinted. “Wait… you don’t mean—”

Jess cut in quickly. “I’m not interested.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Stephanie said. “But he clearly is.”

There was a pause. You watched Jess, curious. She shrugged and reached for her phone, tapping at the screen to avoid the attention. But then something changed—her posture stiffened ever so slightly. Her fingers paused on the screen, her eyes narrowing at something in her messages.

It was quick. A flicker. But you caught it.

“What is it?” you asked gently.

Jess blinked and shook her head. “Nothing. Just work stuff.”

You didn’t press. But your gut whispered something else. Because it wasn’t the look of someone bothered by work. It was the look of someone reading something she didn’t expect.

It was almost dusk by the time you finally called her.

You sat curled in the corner of your couch, knees drawn up beneath an old hoodie, the half-melted candle on the coffee table flickering between citrus and smoke. Your phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Hello?”

Her voice was clipped, as always. Polished. Like she’d rehearsed being unimpressed.

“Hi, Mum,” you said.

There was a moment of pause., “I wasn’t sure if you’d call this week. You’ve been… busy.”

You winced. “Yeah. Things have been… a lot.”

“Hm.” A rustle of fabric on the other end. She was probably folding laundry or wiping down a spotless counter, still multitasking even while emotionally withholding. “I saw the video.”

Your stomach dipped. “Oh.”

“The one from the game,” she clarified. “Where he got hit. And you ran.”

“Oh,” you said again, softer this time. She didn’t ask how Auston was. Didn’t ask how you were either. She never did. “It was… dramatic. Even for you.”

You breathed out a dry laugh. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

Another pause. Then a shift in tone—still cool, but slower now. Almost thoughtful. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you care about something that wasn’t your job.”

You froze for a second. It wasn’t a compliment. Not exactly. But it wasn’t a critique either.

“I’ve always cared,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “Maybe not in ways you wanted me to.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t care,” she replied, and for once, she didn’t sound annoyed. Just tired. “I said you never made room for anything else.”

You looked at the candlelight wavering beside you. “I think I got tired of fighting for something that didn’t fight back.”

“Work?”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

“Well,” she said, voice softening so slightly you almost missed it, “people don’t give you trophies for loving someone. But they should.”

You sat with that. It wasn’t I’m proud of you. It wasn’t I’m happy for you. But it was something. A thread. A whisper of grace in her voice that you hadn’t heard in a long time—maybe ever.

“I’m trying,” you said.

“I know.”

You closed your eyes, holding the silence like a fragile thing between your palms.

Then she cleared her throat. “Your sisters say hello.”

You smiled faintly. “Tell them I say hi.”

“I will.”

There was a moment a silence.

“You’ll let us know how things go?” she then continued. Not a demand. Just a simple question. A tiny, tentative olive branch.

“Yeah. I will.”

“Alright, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mum.”

The call ended and the room suddenly felt quieter in its wake.

You set the phone down, your chest loose in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. It still hurt, in that deep-bone, childhood kind of way. But you didn’t feel angry. You felt seen. And maybe that was enough for now.

Thursday -

The office was grey.

Not just the walls—though they were painted in that corporate slate that felt like an apology for colour—but the air itself. The lights buzzed overhead with the soft hum of disinterest, monitors glowed with half-read emails, and the heat from the vent didn’t quite reach your corner of the floor.

You sat at your desk, cursor blinking in time with your heartbeat, your screen filled with placeholder text for a mid-season sponsor recap. A content calendar blinked behind it. Three drafts due by Friday. You’d done two this morning. All technically fine. Sharp sentences. Clean tone. Buzzword-laced and forgettable.

Your fingers hovered over the keys. Then stalled.

You leaned back in your chair and looked around the office. Everyone moved like machines—quiet and efficient with their heads down. A team of people running the PR engine for one of the loudest teams in the league. A few months ago, you would’ve been proud of that. You would’ve straightened your shoulders and taken the next brief with a smile. Pushed yourself harder. Gone above and beyond.

But not now.

Now, it just felt… quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. The hollow kind.

You turned back to your screen. Read the first paragraph of the copy again. You’d written it in ten minutes, and it read like it. Sharp enough to get through approval. Polished enough to pass.

But there was nothing behind it. No spark. No thrill. No little voice whispering this matters.

You rested your chin in your hand and exhaled slowly.

This used to be your dream. Not just the job, but the whole arc—the respect, the profile, the rising power of it all. You’d wanted to be the woman who could walk into a boardroom in heels and own every word she spoke. And for a while, you’d been her.

You were still her. Sort of.

But somewhere between the fake relationship, the scandal, the confession in a locker room and the way Auston kissed you like he meant it—you’d changed.

Or maybe you’d just finally told the truth.

You didn’t want to be a headline anymore. You didn’t want to chase perfect phrasing and client praise and metrics on engagement. You didn’t want to craft stories for people who couldn’t look you in the eye when things went south.

You wanted to write for yourself again. You wanted slow mornings and something warm on the stove. You wanted to work hard, sure—but for something that didn’t cost you peace. Something you could walk away from at the end of the day and still recognise yourself in the mirror.

You wanted softness. Stillness. Space to breathe.

You wanted love.

And for the first time, you weren’t ashamed to want that more than success.

You clicked out of the document. Saved the file. Took a sip of the coffee on your desk—it had gone cold an hour ago, bitter and thin.

Then, quietly, you opened your calendar and blocked out an hour at lunch next week. Just one. You titled it:

Career Strategy – Personal

Nothing dramatic. Nothing rushed. Just a reminder that you’d finish the season. You’d keep your head down, do the work, ride out the storm with quiet grace.

But after that? You were done.

Done chasing a version of yourself that looked impressive but felt hollow. Done sacrificing nights and feelings and family just to say you’d made it.

Because you’d made it. And now, you were letting it go.

You sat back, staring at the calendar invite. Your heart was still. Not racing. Not heavy.

Just… still.

And in that stillness, you felt something like peace. You didn’t need to be the best anymore. You just needed to be whole.

Friday -

Friday night came just in time.

Maybe it was the rush of work or the way the week blurred by in a haze of coffee, emails, and soft texts from Auston that made your heart race every time your phone lit up. Maybe it was because, deep down, some part of you was afraid it would fall apart before it ever started.

But it hadn’t. Not this time.

You stood barefoot in your apartment, staring at the small collection of outfits Jess had laid out on your bed. She stood beside you, arms crossed, mascara wand in one hand, her expression somewhere between stylist and drill sergeant.

“The black dress says, ‘take me seriously.’ The green says, ‘I’m emotionally available.’ The red says—”

“Trouble,” you finished, smiling.

Jess grinned. “Exactly. Which is also the vibe you’re giving off right now, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the green. “He’s already seen me in red. Half-naked. Screaming at him in a parking garage.”

Jess laughed. “Then we definitely pivot to emotionally available.”

The next hour passed in the kind of chaos that made you nostalgic for pre-party high school nights—curling irons whirring, highlighter dust in the air, the scent of dry shampoo and nerves. Jess moved through your space with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly how to make you feel beautiful.

“Breathe,” she said, hands in your hair. “You’ve already got him. Now you just get to enjoy it.��

You exhaled, steadying yourself in the mirror. “Do I look okay?”

She stepped back, studied you, and smiled. “You look like someone who’s about to ruin his life. In the best way.”

You laughed, heart hammering in your chest. Then you slipped into your coat, kissed her on the cheek, and walked out the door.

The city air bit at your cheeks as you stepped outside, heart pounding beneath your coat. A gust of December wind caught your hair just as you climbed into the Uber, cheeks flushed—not from the cold, but from what waited on the other side of the night.

By the time you arrived, the world outside had settled into that Friday-night rhythm: muffled conversations, golden lamplight pouring across the pavement, couples ducking into warm restaurants with laughter clinging to their coats.

You stepped into the place Auston had chosen—elegant, but not intimidating. It smelled like rosemary and wine and fresh bread, like something safe and thoughtful. Like someone had taken time to pick it. And that alone nearly undid you.

Then you saw him.

He sat near a table tucked into the back corner, jacket off, sleeves rolled neatly, hands shoved into his trouser pockets like he hadn’t quite figured out what to do with them. And when his eyes found you, everything else in the restaurant seemed to blur.

He didn’t smile right away. He just… stared.

“Hi,” you said softly, slipping toward the table.

There was a split second of silence.

“Holy shit.”

You blinked. “That’s your opener?”

Auston shook himself a little, like waking from a dream, and gave you a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I meant wow… but my brain short-circuited.”

You slid into the seat across from him. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Matthews.”

“I ironed my shirt and everything,” he said, mock-offended. “Didn’t even ask my mom to do it.”

“How heroic.”

Then the waiter appeared—Auston recovered just enough to order a bottle of wine, though he fumbled the vintage and ended up saying, “Whatever she wants,” with a lopsided grin.

And when the drinks arrived, he lifted his glass. “To real first dates.”

You clinked softly. “To not needing a PR plan to kiss you.”

He took a sip before he offered a soft smirk. “Although, for the record, I was excellent at planning those kisses.”

You sipped your wine too. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, leaning forward. “So… What are we talking about tonight? Sports? Politics? My devastatingly handsome dog?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean my emotional support dog, Felix?”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. First date and already stealing custody?”

“Just trying to find out what I’d get in the divorce,” you smiled.

“Too late,” he said. “You’re stuck with me.”

The banter was easy—familiarly sharp, lovingly annoying. You talked about stupid things at first: your Uber driver’s playlist, William’s latest ‘casual’ outfit that cost more than your rent, Jess trying to set her sister up with an Italian wine guy who turned out to be allergic to grapes.

But somewhere between the starters and the mains, something in the air shifted.

Auston casually leaned back slightly, his thumb tracing the stem of his wine glass. “Can I ask you something a bit… deeper?”

You nodded.

“What do you actually want? Not just tonight. But… after. From life.”

The question hit like a soft punch, causing you to swallow, setting your fork down.

“I used to think I knew,” you said. “Climbing ladders. Nailing campaigns. Being the girl who had her shit together.”

“And now?”

You looked down, then up. “Now I want something quieter. Someone to come home to. Less chaos. More… meaningful.”

His expression softened. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I used to think it was.”

Auston nodded, quiet for a moment. before he continued, “I used to think love had to be loud and dramatic. Something that made you bleed to know it mattered. But you… you make it feel as easy as breathing. Like I didn’t even realise how much noise I was used to until you walked in and everything went calm.”

There was a moment where you both simply allowed the silence to fill the space between you. Where your met and your breathings slowed down a bit.

“Are you trying to ruin me, Matthews?” You said softly with a gentle smile.

His grin was crooked, a little shy. “Maybe.”

You both sat there, smiling like idiots, the kind of smiles that made your cheeks ache. You didn’t say it out loud, but you both felt it:

Something had shifted.

And this time, it wasn’t for the cameras.

It was for you. It was real.

The ride home was quiet, but not silent. Auston’s hand found yours across the seat, his thumb brushing gentle arcs against your knuckles as the city passed by in a blur of lights and December chill. Every few seconds, he looked at you—like he couldn’t help it. Like he was trying to memorise this version of you: soft, open, warm from wine.

And by the time the car pulled up in front of your building, neither of you moved right away.

The engine ticked softly as it cooled. Outside, the streetlight cast pale gold shadows through the windshield, tracing the lines of Auston’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth—a mix of soft and serious.

Your hand was still in his, resting on the centre console. He hadn’t let go since the restaurant.

Silence settled in like a held breath, as you glanced over. “Well. That was… something.”

Auston smiled faintly. “Yeah. Kind of felt like a real date or something.”

You laughed softly, but your chest felt tight with something more. Nervous yet hopeful. Like you didn’t want this to end—not yet at least.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, slow, and thoughtful. “I should probably let you get some sleep.”

“Probably,” you said, though you made no move to reach for the door.

He then shifted slightly, turning toward you more fully. His eyes found yours, deep and warm and unreadable. “This was really nice.”

“It was more than nice Auston,” you whispered.

He hesitated for just a second, but then—very slowly—leaned in.

And you met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Careful. A whisper of a thing at first, like both of you were afraid too much pressure would break it. His lips pressed to yours, and for a moment it felt like time simply stopped. No game. No spotlight. No scandal. Just him. Just you. And the stillness of a December night.

But then something cracked open.

The kiss gradually deepened, hungry but not rushed. His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers threading into your hair. Your mouth opened to his, and he kissed you like he’d been waiting all night. All week. Maybe longer.

And when you finally pulled back, breath caught in your throat, his eyes stayed closed for a beat longer than yours.

He rested his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your lips. “Goodnight,” he said, voice rough—like the word hurt to say.

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s it?”

His lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. “If I don’t say goodnight now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to let you leave.”

You could still feel the shape of his kiss on your lips, like an imprint pressed into your skin. The space between you was too small to be innocent, too charged to ignore. Your heart thudded hard against your ribs.

“Maybe I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. Eyes searching and waiting.

“Aus,” you said, softer now. “You want to come up?”

His gaze held yours for a second longer as he smiled, “never thought you’d ask.”

The lift ride was short—but charged like live wire.

You leaned against the brushed metal wall, your pulse echoing in your ears. Auston stood inches from you, hands in his coat pockets like restraint was the only thing holding him together. His eyes never left yours. That lazy, hungry look.

There was heat in the air between you—unspoken, unhurried. Not a race to the finish, but a slow, sweet burn. You could feel it in the press of your thighs, in the hollow of your throat, in the way neither of you touched but every part of you wanted to.

And when the lift dinged, the sound was almost jarring.

You walked ahead, heartbeat in your mouth, keys trembling slightly in your hand. The hallway felt long, like it was stretching time on purpose. A final tease before the fall.

Then the lock turned. The door opened. You stepped inside.

The sound of your keys dropping onto the counter barely cut through the tension.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind him, his hands found your waist like instinct. He pulled you in gently, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. His lips met yours again—slow, reverent, a quiet exhale of a kiss.

You kissed him back just as softly. Until you didn’t. Until something once again snapped.

You pushed him back a step, your breath catching, fingertips fumbling with the buttons of his jacket as heat bloomed under your skin.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he whispered, voice rough with want, eyes trailing down your face to your chest, to your hands working quickly. “You drive me so fucking insane.”

You smiled against his throat as his coat hit the floor. Swiftly followed by his shirt. Then your coat and dress—the sleeves slipping from your shoulders like they’d been waiting all night for permission. You let it fall between you, and his eyes darkened.

He touched you like you were something delicate and dangerous all at once. His fingertips grazed your waist, your ribs, up to the lace of your bra, but didn’t unhook it. Not yet.

Instead, you took the lead.

You walked him backward through the apartment, every step a new brush of skin against skin. Your touch was confident and teasing—guiding him with hands at his chest, his belt buckle, the waistband of his trousers. Socks were lost somewhere between the hallway and your bed. His belt clattered against the floor. Discarded clothes forming a path. Your knickers were the final piece—tossed aside without fanfare, like gravity had grown tired of waiting.

He cursed under his breath as he felt your skin against his.

But you didn’t stop kissing. Not even as you fumbled together. Not even as you hit the edge of the bed, stumbled slightly, caught yourself with a laugh.

The sound barely had time to escape before it was swallowed by his mouth.

He lied back onto the mattress with a soft grunt, and you straddled him immediately. But then, you paused, and your eyes glinted in the low light.

“Remember the handcuffs you introduced me to?”

His grin broke through the haze. “The ones I used on you?”

You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Payback time.”

He let out a low, disbelieving laugh—deep, dark, hungry. “Yes, boss.”

With sensual movements, you pulled open the bedside drawer and retrieved a pair of black furry cuffs - a gag gift from a friend once, barely taken seriously. Until now.

And Auston didn’t resist. He just raised his arms above his head, letting you snap the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the headboard.

“You trust me?” you asked softly, eyes locked on his.

He nodded. “With everything.”

And just like that, the world slowed.

You kissed him again, but this time with purpose—starting at his mouth, then the corner of his jaw, then down to the warm skin of his bearded throat. He tilted his head back slightly, offering more, breathing harder with every inch your mouth travelled. You followed the line of his collarbone with your tongue, dragged your lips across the slope of his tattooed chest, your teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp.

Your kisses trailed down his torso—slow, methodical, and reverent. You licked along the dip between his abs, sucked gently at the skin just above his hip bone, and smiled when you felt his muscles twitch beneath your mouth. He was already getting hard, already waiting for you.

You pressed a kiss to the base of his cock, then looked up—his eyes dark and heavy, wrists tense in the cuffs above his head, chest rising fast.

“You’re fucking cruel,” he muttered, voice thick.

You dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to hear him hiss. “Am I?” you murmured, kissing the tip of his cock, your breath warm against him. “You’re the one who taught me this.”

He laughed—strained and hoarse. “I liked it better when it was the other way around.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you just flattened your tongue along the length of him—slow and deliberate. His groan rumbled in his chest, legs tensing as your hand wrapped firmly around the base. You took him into your mouth inch by inch, cheeks hollowed, lips tight, drawing out each pass like a dare.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned again, breathless. “You’re really going to do this to me?”

You glanced up, lips brushing the head of his cock. “What, this?”

Your pace gradually quickened—then slowed again. You built him up only to pull back at the edge, teasing him with every flick of your tongue, every tightened grip. His hips twitched upward, instinctive, but you placed a hand flat on his thigh to still him.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t touch. Could only feel.

And you knew he felt everything.

You kept him right there—on the edge, moaning your name like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to finish. His hands clenched in the restraints, chest glistening with sweat, body taut with restraint. He was unravelling beneath you, and you smiled against his skin.

“A little desperate, are we?” you teased, your breath hot against his sensitive shaft.

“Please,” he growled. “Let me touch you, baby.”

Releasing him from your touch, you then gently climbed up his body again, kissing along his chest, over his collarbone, your fingers trailing behind your lips. He was burning up beneath you as you paused, hovering over his mouth, your eyes flickering over his face—so open, so wrecked.

“Not yet,” you whispered.

Then, gently, you straddled him. Guided him to your entrance, and the moment his head breached your opening, both of you sucked in a breath.

You sank down inch by inch, feeling every stretch, every dizzying wave of fullness until he was buried completely inside you. You gasped at the pressure; at the way he filled you so perfectly.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours, his voice cracking under the weight of it.

You moved slowly at first. Grinding your hips in deep, delicious circles. He moaned helplessly beneath you, hips rocking up, eyes fluttering closed, jaw clenched tight.

His arms strained in the cuffs, his fingers twitching. Oh yes, you had him undone. Completely.

And you loved it.

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his. “You give me so much power,” you whispered, rolling your hips again, harder this time. “And you don’t even flinch.”

“Only because I want you to have it,” he whispered back. “All of it.”

The words punched through your chest like lightning.

That’s when you knew—this wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just lust or power or pleasure. This was trust.

So, you rocked faster, chasing the edge for both of you. Your palms pressed to his chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart. His moans filled the room like there was no performative restraint here. No masks.

Only you. Only him. Everything you were finally allowing yourselves to feel.

And finally, when you felt the orgasm begin to build, the knot in your lower; when you couldn’t take it anymore—when the ache between your thighs blurred into something urgent and shaking and begging—you reached for the cuffs.

Your fingers fumbled, slick with sweat, heart thudding as you unlocked one, then the other.

And the moment the metal clicked free, Auston surged.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. His mouth crashed into yours—fierce and unforgiving, all heat and hunger and gratitude. Like he needed to taste every second he’d spent waiting. His hands seized your hips, and then, with almost dizzying ease, he flipped you beneath him. The shift in power was immediate, almost electric.

He pinned your wrists above your head, fingers laced tight, his body caging yours.

“My turn,” he murmured, voice low and ragged with need.

Then he thrust. Hard and deep.

The breath punched out of you in a choked cry as your back arched off the mattress, your legs instinctively locking around his waist. Again. Again. Each stroke sharper, rougher—like he was trying to bury himself in you completely. Like he needed to leave a mark not just on your body, but on your soul.

His grip tightened around your wrists, grounding you while the bedframe slammed rhythmically against the wall, a percussion of chaos and want. His name tumbled from your lips, broken and wild.

He kissed your throat, your jaw, the soft dip beneath your collarbone—mouth greedy, almost worshipful. His teeth grazed your skin. His tongue soothed it. He was everywhere at once, inside and out, and you were coming undone beneath him.

And like every other time, you shattered first—your orgasm ripping through you like a lightning strike. Your whole body tensed, thighs trembling, breath caught as you sobbed his name. He made sure of that. And you barely had time to come down before he angled his hips, adjusted his grip—and hit that perfect spot again. And again.

You cried out, high and helpless. You didn’t think you had another climax in you. But naturally, he proved you wrong.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled into your shoulder, voice fracturing. “You feel so good—so fucking good—can’t get enough of you—”

You pulled your wrists free, arms winding around his back, nails digging into the flex of muscle as he drove into you with punishing precision. It wasn’t just about dominance. It was about passion. Mutual, unspoken, and complete.

You felt his body begin to shake, pace growing erratic, and a low groan building in his chest. He leaned down, lips brushing yours, as his fingers clenched the sheets.

“Fuck—baby—” he gasped again, and then the words tumbled out, unguarded and raw. “Fucking love you.”

He said it like it had been waiting in his throat for days. Maybe longer.

And then he came, shuddering violently, buried deep, his whole body bowing into yours as his release crashed through him with a fractured moan.

You held him as he collapsed against you, both of you panting, limbs trembling, skin slick and overheated. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

His forehead rested against your shoulder, and you carded your fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, Auston shifted—slow and careful—as he pulled out of you with a soft, quiet hiss. The motion made you both wince, tender and spent. He didn’t say a word as he rolled to his side, just reached for you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his chest like gravity itself depended on it.

His lips brushed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth—softly, sweetly.

But this kiss was different. It didn’t ask. It answered. It didn’t burn—it warmed.

You opened your eyes, breath still catching in your throat, and looked at him.

“I love you too,” you whispered, voice small but steady.

Auston let out a short, sheepish laugh. “Shit… I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

You raised a brow, though still smiling. “You didn’t?”

“Oh, I meant it,” he said quickly. “I’ve meant it for a while. Just… thought I’d do it better. More romantic. Less… mid-climax.”

You laughed, tucking your head under his chin. “When have we ever done anything the romantic way?”

He made a sound of agreement, rubbing his thumb across your lower lip. “True. But that doesn’t mean we can’t start.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes again. “Next time?”

His smile softened. “Next time.”

The apartment was quiet.

The kind of quiet that hummed beneath your skin—post-storm, post-bliss, post-everything. You were curled under the covers, bare and spent, your body still aching in the best way from the way Auston had held you, taken you, made love to you.

The soft sound of the fridge door closing echoed from the kitchen.

You turned your head just slightly, watching his shadow stretch against the wall as he moved—barefoot, in boxers, hair still messy from your fingers. He’d gone to get water. Said he’d be right back. Said it with a kiss to your shoulder and that boyish little smirk that made your toes curl.

You smiled to yourself, letting your eyes drift closed for a second, before suddenly you were interrupted by a buzz.

Your phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a soft glow. You reached for it lazily, expecting it to be Jess—or maybe Auston, sending something ridiculous from five feet away.

But it wasn’t.

Maya: Timing’s everything. Just a little more and it’ll all be over. Finally.

You blinked. Sat up straighter, sheet still pulled over your chest. The light from your screen seemed brighter than it should’ve been.

Something about it—the tone, the cadence—sent a ripple across your skin.

You read it again. And again.

You stared at the message for a moment longer, your heart beginning to beat faster—not with desire this time, but something colder.

It wasn’t what she wrote. It was how she wrote it.

The rhythm. The punctuation. The way it seemed to watch you, not speak to you. So, unlike her.

Like a whisper behind the curtain. Like a caption under a photo, you hadn’t meant to take.

And suddenly, you knew what it reminded you of.

You pulled open your message history, scrolling further back—weeks, months even. Maya didn’t text often. She was more of a meme-sender and voice-noter, short, sharp, always a bit rushed. But tucked in between the usual casual chaos, there were a few odd texts. Vaguely phrased. Almost… scripted.

You opened the most recent Benchwarmer post. The last one, before everything went quiet.

Your eyes scanned the lines. The phrasing and the tone. Then back to the message.

Your stomach flipped.

It wasn’t definitive. It wasn’t proof. But something in your gut—the same gut that had warned you when the first post dropped, when Chase made threats, when Auston was lying on the ice and not moving—twisted hard.

There was a voice behind the Benchwarmer. And it was starting to sound a lot like hers.

You barely heard Auston’s footsteps returning. But when you glanced up, he was already close to the bed, two glasses in hand, chest bare, hair damp from a quick shower.

“You good?” he asked, pausing in the doorway when he saw your expression.

You swallowed, locking your phone without thinking. “Yeah. Just… spaced out.”

He came onto the bed, offering you the glass. You took it with a faint smile, your fingers brushing his.

You wanted to say it. Wanted to say it out loud—Could it be her? What if it’s Maya?

But you didn’t.

Instead, you sat the glass on the nightstand and just curled back under the covers as he slid in beside you. His arm looped around your waist, warm and grounding.

Saturday –

The morning light slipped through the curtains in soft, slatted stripes, casting gold across the tangled sheets. The world was still, hushed by winter. You blinked awake to the warm weight of Auston behind you—one arm looped loosely around your waist, breath steady against the back of your neck.

You stayed like that for a moment, just breathing. Just existing. His presence was grounding, anchoring you to something real in a world that had shifted so much.

You knew he had training in a few hours, so carefully, you peeled yourself from the duvet and padded toward the bathroom, your body still pleasantly sore from the night before. You took a moment to just freshen up a bit, but you hadn’t made it halfway back to the room before you heard him stir.

“Where you going?” his voice rasped, still syrup-thick with sleep.

You turned, catching the sight of him stretching—shirtless, eyes barely open, hair a glorious mess. His hand reached for the spot you’d just vacated.

“I was letting you rest,” you said, padding back across the floor.

He made a sleepy, discontent sound and opened his arms. “Get your ass back here. Not done with you yet.”

You laughed quietly, slipping under the covers. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” he mumbled, already pulling you into him and flipping you onto your back. “And I don’t care.”

He kissed your bare shoulder—lazy and lingering—then your neck, slow enough to make your pulse jump. His hand drifted down, grazing the curve of your hip, then lower still, until his fingers slid between your thighs.

“You’re so wet, baby” he said, his voice suddenly alert, darker. “Is that for me?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The look in your eyes told him everything.

He then coaxed you onto your stomach, mouth trailing kisses down your spine. You gasped when his tongue found the back of your thigh—then higher, spreading you open with gentle hands and no shame. You buried your face in the pillow, breath stuttering as he began to lick between your folds.

Soft at first. Then deeper. More insistent. His hands gripped your hips as he worked you apart with mouth and tongue, moaning into you when your body started to tremble.

It was too much and yet not enough.

Your fingers clenched in the sheets as heat built and broke like a wave. But Auston didn’t stop—not until your hips were twitching and your moans cracked open the quiet.

And when he finally pulled away, his lips were slick, eyes dark with heat. He leaned over you again, kissing the back of your shoulder, your jaw, your ear.

“Still with me?” he whispered.

You nodded, dazed. “Please. Don’t stop now.”

You didn’t have to ask twice.

He simply guided your hips up a little, his chest pressed to your back as he slid into you—slow, thick, and deep. The stretch made your breath catch, your body arch. His hands flattened against yours on the mattress, fingers lacing.

He moved with reverence, hips rolling in deep, steady strokes. The angle—him above and behind, his mouth at your neck—made you ache in a new way. Each thrust stoked the pleasure again, not sharp like the night before, but rich and slow, a different kind of hunger.

You moaned his name, and Auston swore under his breath, driving in deeper.

“You feel so good, baby,” he gritted. “So fucking good.”

Your answer was a gasp, a tremble, a soft cry when his hand slipped beneath you again and circled your clit—just enough to make you tip over the edge again. Your body clenched, back arching, as you came hard beneath him.

And he followed fast, hips stuttering, breath ragged in your ear as he emptied himself inside you, still holding your hand.

You both collapsed onto the bed, chests heaving, legs tangled beneath the covers.

Auston’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you back against his chest. He kissed your shoulder once. Then again.

“Good morning,” he murmured, still breathless.

You turned your head just enough to smile. “Best one in a while.”

And you meant it.

Later that day, you sat curled in the corner of your couch, legs tucked beneath you, hands nervously toying with the edge of your phone case. The message still lingered in your inbox—cryptic, harmless on the surface, but soaked in implication.

Maya: Timing’s everything. Just a little more and it’ll all be over. Finally.

You stared at it, rereading it for the third time before you finally said, “Jess… can I show you something?”

Jess looked up from the kitchen, hair piled in a top knot. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and came over, her brow pinched in curiosity.

You handed her your phone. Watched her eyes skim the text.

She didn’t speak at first, but then opened her mouth slowly to speak.

“When did she send this?”

“Last night.”

Jess’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “That’s… weird.”

You nodded. “It’s not what she said. It’s how she said it.”

Jess read the message again, thumb hovering above the screen, then let out a quiet sigh. “I’ve thought about it before,” she said finally. “Back when the posts first started. Something about the tone—it always felt… personal. Like she knew too much. But I didn’t want to believe it.”

You looked at her, heart thudding. “So, you thought it too?”

Jess nodded slowly. “Yeah. But Maya’s been our friend for years. She was always just… there. Funny. So positive and happy. The least likely to do something like this.”

“She said she was fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Jess. “She always said she was fine.”

Jess’s voice softened. “Sometimes people don’t want you to see the cracks. Especially when they’ve spent so long smiling through them.”

You leaned back, phone still glowing on the coffee table between you. “I don’t want it to be her. I really don’t.”

Jess sat beside you. “But it makes sense. Doesn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because it did.

The phrasing. The timing. The way Maya’s messages always seemed to know just enough. Like someone writing from inside your house. Someone who once knew your passwords. Your moods. Your weakness.

“She’s not going to confess if we confront her,” Jess said, quiet but certain. “If we charge in, she’ll lie. She’ll deflect. She’s too proud to fold under pressure.”

“So, what do we do?”

Jess tilted her head. “We wait. We invite her out. Let her think it’s a regular catch-up. Let her bring the story to us.”

You looked at her, unsure. “And what if she doesn’t?”

“Then we know.” Jess reached out and squeezed your hand. “But either way, we do this smart. Not emotional. You’ve been the story long enough. It’s time you took the pen back.”

You exhaled, the weight of it all sinking in.

You: Hey, coffee soon? Haven’t caught up in a while.

Maya: Sure. Our usual spot?

You: Perfect. See you tomorrow?

Maya: Can’t wait.

You stared at the screen long after the chat went dark.

You weren’t sure what would happen. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to happen. But one thing was clear: you were ready to hear the truth. Even if it broke you.

Sunday -

The café smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon. It was your usual spot—warm light, scuffed floorboards, the gentle hum of indie music floating beneath clinks of ceramic. You’d met here a hundred times before. After work. On slow Saturdays. In moments when the world was a little too much and you just needed your girls.

But today, the energy was off.

You sat at the corner table with Jess beside you, her coat still on, fingers wrapped tightly around her coffee cup. Across from you, Maya stirred her drink in slow, lazy circles, the spoon clinking against the mug like a metronome marking the pace of something quietly unravelling.

No one spoke right away. Not really like you.

Jess was the one to try and open with something easy. “How’s work? Still chasing chaos?”

But Maya just gave a vague shrug. “Same old.”

You nodded. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

Maya looked up, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “So have you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just… unfamiliar. Like the three of you had been dropped into a conversation halfway through a play you didn’t audition for. Jess tapped her nails against her cup. You adjusted the sleeve of your jumper. Maya kept stirring.

“You seemed off the other day,” Jess said finally. “Everything okay?”

Maya gave a tight little smile. “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

You exchanged a glance with Jess.

“Maya—” you began, but she cut you off.

“No, really,” she said, louder this time. “Everything’s great. You’re back with Auston. Everyone forgave you. The WAGs are obsessed again. Even Jess is fielding hockey boy attention. Life’s peachy.”

The words hit with a sharpness you didn’t expect. “Okay… what’s going on?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Maya’s smile twisted.

Jess stiffened. “Get what?”

Maya sat back, eyes narrowing at you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like watching someone coast through life while you’re clawing for air the whole time?”

You frowned. “Maya, that’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” she snapped. “You had everything. Have everything. Talent. Looks. The job. The attention. And you never fucking appreciated any of it.”

Your heart stuttered. Jess leaned forward, voice calm but firm. “Okay. Let’s not do this here.”

“No, let’s,” Maya said, and suddenly her voice cracked—not angry. Just exhausted. “Let’s talk about how I busted my ass for years trying to get anyone to take me seriously. No internships. No by-lines. Nothing. And you? You waltzed in with your clean résumé and PR smile, and everything just fell into place.”

You stared at her. “You think it was easy for me?”

“I think it was easier,” she hissed. “Because you were you. Perfect. Polished. Marketable. You knew the right people. Said the right things. And when that wasn’t enough, you caught him.”

Auston.

The name wasn’t spoken, but it didn’t need to be.

“Maya…” Jess’s voice dropped, suddenly cautious.

But she ignored her.

“I loved him,” she said, eyes locked on yours. “And I know that sounds pathetic. I know he never saw me. But I saw you. The way you looked at him. The way you ignored it. Took it for granted. You had something I wanted more than anything, and you didn’t even know you were holding it.”

You swallowed hard; words caught in your throat.

“So yeah,” she said, voice hardening. “I wrote the first post. And the second. And every other one after that. Because I couldn’t be the girl who got him. But I could be the girl who ruined the one who did.”

The confession cracked through the air like glass underfoot.

You felt Jess freeze beside you. Heard the hum of conversation around you, far away. Maya looked away, jaw clenched, as if ashamed of herself—but not enough to take it back.

“I wanted to make you pay,” she whispered. “For never realising how lucky you were.”

The pain in your chest bloomed slowly.

“I was lucky,” you said softly. “And I fucked it up. And I hurt people. But I never tried to hurt you, Maya. You were my friend.”

She flinched.

Jess leaned in, voice low. “You didn’t just write gossip, Maya. You invaded privacy. You humiliated people. You targeted her.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Maya snapped. “You think I haven’t stayed up every night for weeks knowing this would fall apart eventually?”

“Then why not stop?” you asked. “Why keep going?”

“Because if I couldn’t be the one he loved—at least I could be the reason you didn’t get to keep it.”

The truth cut deeper than the cruelty.

But then Jess stood slowly, her hand brushing yours. “Come on. I think we’re done here.”

You allowed a second to pass before you stood too—slowly, like you weren’t quite sure how your legs were holding you up. Maya didn’t look at either of you as you turned to leave. But just before you reached the door, she spoke again.

“I didn’t do it for clout,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I did it because watching you be happy hurt.”

You stopped—but didn’t turn back.

Then after a moment, Jess gently nudged you forward. And you left the café without another word.

Monday -

The locker room buzzed with post-game chatter and the soft clicks of cameras. Reporters gathered in the usual scrum, microphones extended like antennae, eyes trained on Auston Matthews—still in partial gear, damp hair curling at his temple.

A reporter leaned in. “Auston, another strong performance tonight—two assists and the OT winner. What’s been fuelling your game lately?”

Auston shrugged lightly, towel slung around his neck. “Just… locked in, I guess. Trying to keep things simple. Have fun with it.”

Another voice piped up—this time from the back. “And off the ice? You seem… lighter lately. Happier. Anything—or anyone—to thank for that?”

He paused.

The corners of his mouth lifted into a slow, knowing smile. He didn’t rush the answer. Just let it linger for a beat too long before finally replying.

“Yeah. I’m in love.”

The room stilled for a second. Pens scratched faster. Cameras zoomed.

He chuckled softly, eyes dropping for a moment like the weight of the truth had just settled in properly.

“Happier than I’ve ever been.”

#The Benchwarmer #inexperienced!reader x Auston #auston matthews fanfic #Toronto maple leafs fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl romance #nhl imagines

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onlygirlaliveinnyc · 1 month ago

Text

slide away 𐙚 ˚ ⋆｡˚ ᡣ𐭩

pairing: 1993ish!noel gallagher x reader words: 1217 genre: fluff, soft!noel warnings: mention of him being a bit tipsy? none really :p summary: noel comes home late from the pub—tipsy, tired. you’re half-asleep in his shirt, the flat warm with the echo of him, and he just wants to be close. post roadie but pre oasis blowin up ! a/n: ty anon for the req i have no idea why i decided to do it slide away based but i thought it was cute <3; not timeline accurate cause we are all just yearners on this page. ++ listened to this version of slide away when writing so yall should too ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

he was still a bit drunk when he left the pub. coat unbuttoned, collar turned up against the cold, head full of lager and smoke and you.

bonehead had said something about staying for one more—some shite about “good vibes” and “potential birdwatching,” whatever that meant—but noel had waved him off. didn’t feel like sitting there without you beside him. didn’t feel like laughing if it wasn’t your thigh pressed to his, your voice in his ear saying something stupid just to make him grin into his pint.

he had a set of lyrics folded up in his coat pocket. scrawled earlier on a napkin between a small studio visit and a piss-poor meal deal. he’d been tweaking them all night, scribbling bits in the margins, muttering fragments into his pint. the lads had started calling him moz again just to take the piss. here he goes again, the tortured poet of manchester, bone had teased, but noel hadn’t minded. not really. not when the words were coming. not when they were about you.

his shoes thudded soft against the wet pavement, soles damp and worn. the air smelled like rain on brick, stale chip fat, car exhaust—somewhere between miserable and familiar. the wind tugged at his collar and numbed the tips of his fingers. still, he didn’t rush. hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched, head bowed slightly as he walked. he was thinking. humming. lyrics drifting in and out of his skull like smoke.

you’d been in his head all day.

he thought about the way you’d looked that morning—tangled in the duvet, bare legs wrapped around his under the sheets, wearing one of his old shirts with the hem just below your ass. the telly was playing some old Bowie video while you drank coffee out of a chipped mug and told him to please get that out-of-tune guitar off the bed before i chuck it out the window.

he’d laughed, but he’d also reached for his pen the second you turned your back.

he nearly tripped on the curb just thinking about it.

“fuck’s sake,” he muttered, not even annoyed—just dazed. tipsy. maybe a little smitten. maybe a lot.

—

he found the right key after a few tries and slipped into the flat as quiet as he could. the hallway light was out again, bulb probably gone for days. the front room was cluttered with the usual—guitar cases stacked two-deep against the wall, cables coiled like snakes on the floor, battered notebooks on every flat surface. someone’s half-broken amp sat in the corner, humming faintly even though it wasn’t plugged in.

he tripped on the corner of the skirting board and let out a low “fucking hell” that echoed louder than he wanted it to.

“wall’s a fuckin’ prick,” he muttered.

he shrugged off his coat and let it fall over the arm of the couch. kicked off his shoes with a muffled thump. the flat smelled faintly of cigarette ash and your shampoo—something soft and floral and warm, the kind of scent that stuck to his pillowcases and made him want to bury his face there in the mornings.

he padded soft down the hall, the floor cold beneath his socks. the radiator clanked faintly from the front room, like it was trying its best. the bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open.

and there you were. curled beneath the duvet, one arm flung over the pillow he’d been sleeping on before the last gig run. your breathing was slow, steady, the kind of rhythm that made him want to stay awake just to listen. you wore his shirt again—the one with fraying cuffs and a hole near the hem. the fabric had stretched slightly at the shoulders from being tugged off him too many times. the sight of you in it, soft and half-lit by the glow of the streetlamp outside, made his chest ache in that specific, familiar way.

you stirred when the door clicked shut.

“love?” his voice came out rough. soft.

you hummed, barely awake.

he crossed the room in a few quiet steps and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down over you with a sigh. his hair was a mess from the wind, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and the drink. his breath smelled of Guinness and smoke and spearmint gum he’d bought hours ago and forgotten to chew. his eyes traced over your face like he was still catching up to being home. like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked.

“wasn’t,” you mumbled, “’til you started swearin’ at the lamp.”

“that lamp had it comin’,” he muttered. then leaned down and kissed your cheek. his lips were warm, and the kiss lingered a second longer than necessary. he kissed your jaw next, then the corner of your mouth. “missed you.”

you rolled onto your back as he shifted, half-climbing into bed, limbs heavy and warm. he exhaled deeply as he settled—his head dropping to your chest like he’d been waiting all day to do exactly that. one arm wrapped around your waist. his other hand slipped beneath the hem of the shirt on you, thumb tracing slow circles into the soft heat of your skin. not wanting. just needing.

you curled your fingers into his hair, soft under your hands. “you alright?”

“had some lyrics,” he mumbled. “wanted to show you.”

“yeah?”

he nodded, breath fanning warm against your collarbone. “wrote it before the pub. couldn’t get it out my head after.”

“let me hear, then.”

he propped himself up on one elbow, the bedsprings creaking faintly beneath him. cheeks pink. eyes bright in that way he got when he was just back from a gig—still half there, adrenaline not quite worn off. he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the napkin, unfolded it with the same care he might give to something breakable. sacred.

but he didn’t read from it. just looked at you. something soft, almost shy, flickering in his expression.

“i dream of you,” he said quietly. “’n all the things you say.”

his voice cracked a little on the next line. “i wonder where you are now.”

you thumbed over his jaw. he leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed like a cat in a sunbeam.

“pretty,” you whispered.

“it’s not done,” he muttered. “just words. no chords yet. just hums in my head.”

“then hum it,” you said. “i’ll remember it for you.”

he let his forehead drop to yours and closed his eyes. for a moment, everything went quiet. then he hummed. low and unsure, more breath than sound. a handful of chords, soft and clumsy, tumbling around in his chest. shaped by a shitty pint and a crowded pub and the way you looked that morning with sunlight in your hair.

he trailed off after a few seconds. let out a long, shaky breath. like he’d let go of something he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

you kissed his temple. “i think you’re a genius.”

“nah,” he mumbled. “just broke and obsessed.”

his hand found your hip again, thumb drawing lazy circles. grounding himself. his calluses were rough, fingertips slightly cold, but the touch was featherlight. reverent.

you smiled against his shoulder. “you’re warm.”

“you’re better,” he whispered.

#oasis #oasis fanfiction #britpop #britpop fanfiction #noel gallagher #noel gallagher x reader #noel gallagher/you #noel gallagher/reader #noel gallagher x you #noel gallagher fanfiction

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sugardollcurse · 2 months ago

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idk if you've heard the song Paul by big thief but it got me thinking about if reader was also a singer & wrote a song post-break up about one of the bugs & it got real popular....at least in paul's case i firmly believe the man would go NUTS. like late night phone call to you or on your doorstep within the week hoping there might still be a chance kinda mad, but all of them would probably in their own way.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x reader

꒰ contains ꒱ exes-to-maybe-again

꒰ summary ꒱ your song about paul becomes a hit. he hears it once, twice, twelve times... and then he’s outside your door

꒰ note ꒱ i screamed because i love big thief.. i'm inhaling this.. also doing paul for this cuz you mentioned him! :b the ending is left open on purpose, so you decide what happens next! do they try again? do they let go for good? it's up to you!

The studio was quiet when you recorded it.

One microphone. A single guitar. A couple takes, and not much fuss.

You hadn’t planned on it being anything. It had started out as a confession you didn’t have the nerve to speak aloud, a quiet half-song you’d been playing to the walls of your flat in the weeks after it ended. You’d written it sitting cross-legged on your bed, with a mug of cold tea on the windowsill and a Polaroid of the two of you still tucked inside your journal like a bookmark. Paul smiling with his eyes squinted shut, you laughing in motion. Summer clung to your skin then. Now it just sat heavy in your chest.

And so you played. You sang it once. Then again. Then one more time, barely above a whisper.

The engineer asked if you wanted another go.

You said no.

That was the take.

And just like that, it existed. A thing separate from you. Still bruised, but real.

You didn’t think it’d go anywhere. You certainly didn’t think anyone would hear it, outside your team, a few friends, maybe the odd radio station that owed your label a favor.

You didn’t expect it to move people.

But it did.

Like wildfire.

You found out when you walked into a café and heard it playing from the overhead speakers.

Your heart froze before the chorus.

You stood there like someone had poured ice water down your back, then turned and walked out before anyone could recognize your face.

It was already in the charts. Already in everyone’s mouths. People whispered about it with reverence and awe, like it was sacred or scandalous or both. They asked who it was about. Some guessed. Others knew. Beatles fans weren’t stupid.

Paul didn’t say anything publicly.

Not yet.

━━

It’s not the radio that kills him.

It’s George.

They’re in the car together, some charity thing in Hampstead, Paul half-asleep behind his sunglasses, and George is fiddling with the dial, quiet as ever, until something catches.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks over, still.

Then: “That one’s about you, innit?”

Paul frowns. “What?”

George nods toward the speaker.

The song’s almost over, but the voice, your voice, filters in like smoke through cracked windows. Familiar and soft and sharper than he remembers.

Paul goes still.

George lowers the volume. “Didn’t know Y/n was puttin’ out a single.”

Paul doesn’t answer.

George glances over. “You alright, mate?”

He isn’t.

But he lies. “Yeah.”

━━

But then came the night.

Three weeks after it dropped. A week after it reached #1. Five months since the two of you last spoke.

It was nearly 1:00 a.m. when you heard the knock.

Three of them, steady and insistent. Not drunk-persistent, not a neighbor with a complaint.

You froze where you stood, halfway to brushing your teeth.

Another knock. Louder.

You padded to the door, heart thudding, every cell in your body already knowing before you looked.

And there he was.

Paul.

In the dark. In a coat that didn’t quite match the weather. Rain in his hair, on his collar. His eyes were huge in the porch light, like he couldn’t believe you were really standing there.

You opened the door without a word.

“Hi,” he said, and his voice cracked.

You didn’t let him in.

Not at first.

You stood just inside the doorway with your hand on the knob and stared at him like he might vanish. But he didn’t. He just shifted on his feet like he didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore.

“I weren’t gonna come,” he said. “Kept tellin’ meself I wouldn’t.”

“Okay.”

“But then you-Christ, you sang it. And I thought…” He swallowed. “Maybe you wanted me to hear it.”

You didn’t say anything.

The porchlight buzzed quietly above you both. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded.

“I’ve been going mad,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You know that? Proper losin' it.”

“Paul-”

“You wrote a song,” he went on, voice raw, “and now every bloody café, every car, every soddin’ club’s playin’ it. You’re hauntin’ me.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t write it for you.”

“You didn’t write it for me?” He laughed, once. Bitter. “I’m in every bloody word.”

“You’re in the feeling,” you said. “Not the audience.”

“Well, I heard it.” He took a step closer, rain dripping from the edge of his fringe. “And I know what you meant. You said things in that song you never said to me.”

You looked away.

That was true.

Because the truth was: you hadn’t known how to say it then. Not while everything was unraveling, not while he was in motion all the time, flying to cities you couldn’t follow, disappearing into interviews and egos and late-night mixing sessions. The version of Paul you’d fallen for, the one who made tea barefoot in the mornings, who hummed melodies against your shoulder, who used your ankle as a footrest while strumming his bass... he got harder to find.

And when you’d tried to talk, he’d said “we’ll figure it out.” But figuring it out never came. Just more miles. More silence. Until it collapsed.

You rubbed your arms and stepped back. “Do you want to come in?”

He nodded once. Like it hurt.

Inside, the flat smelled like old books and chamomile tea.

Paul stood awkwardly near the table while you fetched him a towel. He used it to blot his hair, his hands trembling faintly.

“You still listen to records?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“I figured you’d gone all posh by now.”

You gave him a look. “It’s not a palace.”

“No,” he murmured. “But it smells like you.”

You ignored that.

He turned to face you fully now, eyes flicking across your face like he was memorizing it. “Why did you write it?”

“Because I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You sighed and sat down, curling your legs beneath you. “I had all these feelings, and nowhere to put them. So I wrote a song. That’s what people like us do.”

“People like us,” he echoed. “Right.”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. “You know what it did to me?”

You looked up.

“It wrecked me,” he said. “I’ve played it more’n a hundred times. Know every breath, every pause. I put it on in the dead of night like I’m tryin’ to torture meself.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Didn’t you?” His voice rose, not loud, but sharp. “You didn’t just bleed, you broadcast it. You put the ugliest bits of us on show.”

“No,” you said, steady. “I put myself on display. My heartbreak. My mistakes. The parts I never let anyone see, even when we were together.”

Paul stared at you, shoulders heaving. You could see the walls cracking.

“I loved you,” he said.

You closed your eyes.

“I still do,” he added, quiet.

You looked at him again. “Then why didn’t you stay?”

Silence.

Rain pattered on the window.

He dropped into the chair across from you and buried his face in his hands.

“I didn’t know how,” he said, muffled. “I thought I’d have time. Thought you’d wait. Thought everything else’d calm down eventually and I’d come back to you.”

You stared at him. “That’s not how love works.”

“I know,” he snapped. Then softened. “I know. Now I do. But then… God, everything was noise. You were the only quiet thing I had, and I-” he looked up, eyes red, “I let you slip away.”

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. A wind rattled the windowpane.

Paul leaned back, arms crossed, like he was holding himself together with the fabric of his coat.

“D’you think,” he said slowly, “that we could ever try again?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m not askin’ to fix it all. I just…” He leaned forward. “I miss you. You. Not the song. Not the idea of you. Just… the person who’d sit up with me at 3 a.m. talkin’ shite. The one who made up daft lyrics for my tunes when I couldn’t think of any. The one who looked at me like I wasn't disappearin’.”

Your throat closed.

“I want to be that person again. For you.”

You swallowed. “That’s not just something you want. That’s something you do. Every day.”

“I know.”

You looked at his face. Really looked.

There was no arrogance left. No public Paul, no charm turned up for a crowd. Just a boy, wrinkled around the eyes, wet hair curling at the temples, desperation clinging to his words like moss.

He was asking.

But he wasn’t begging.

He was offering you the first version of honesty you’d heard from him in months.

And still…

The pain hadn’t vanished. The trust hadn’t rebuilt itself in an hour. The song still existed. So did the silence that had followed your breakup. The long nights. The hollow mornings. The feeling of being unloved in someone else’s spotlight.

You rose slowly and walked to the record shelf. Ran your fingers along the spines. Stopped at the blank-labeled acetate, your demo copy, and turned it in your hands.

Paul watched you.

“What are you thinkin'?” he asked.

You set the record down gently.

“I don't know,” you said.

Paul frowned.

And you turned to face him again.

He left a little after that.

You didn’t say yes.

You didn’t say no.

You stood in the doorway again, barefoot, as he stepped into the street and looked back once, waiting. Hoping.

You nodded.

That was it.

Not a door slammed. Not a kiss in the rain. Just a look. A maybe.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

#paul mccartney #paul mccartney imagines #paul mccartney fanfic #paul mccartney oneshot #paul mccartney x reader #the beatles #the beatles x reader #the beatles oneshot #the beatles fanfic #beatles x reader #beatles #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #x reader

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wlntrsldler · 1 year ago

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poisoned mercury | pink skies

a/n: bf!luke, who else cheered?; suggests that five star and luke spent the night but nothing explicit! i decided not to let the angst monster touch them. they're my babies!!!! five star and luke get behind me!!!

viii. pink skies by lany

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there were many things about luke castellan that surprised you. one being that he wore glasses, or at least is supposed to wear glasses. he refused to wear them, against the sound medical advice of his optometrist and his mom’s insistence. his first adult responsibility was buying his own contacts because his mom refused to set up the appointments for him out of spite. he only wore his glasses when he was around the boys and poisoned mercury’s management team, but never out in public, and definitely never on stage.

two, he loved jazz music. only a handful of people knew this about him and half of those who do, don’t believe him. he supposed it was hard for people to believe that a pop punk lead singer would have an appreciation for jazz music, but luke loved it. jazz always sounded romantic and sensual and there was something calming about it. he listened to jazz before each show. he’ll never admit this unless you twist his arm, but he wept like a goddamn baby when he first watched la la land.

third, he was a polyglot, which he says is a little ironic because according to his mom, he spoke his first words in english significantly later than his peers, but he picked up on other languages quickly. he first found out about his talent in high school when he started hanging out at the rodriguez household and chris’ mom and sisters started saying phrases to him in spanish. he started taking spanish classes in high school and kept teaching himself when he dropped out. so far he can speak spanish, italian, and a bit of french. he attempted to learn greek, but it never clicked for him. he knew how to read it but his pronunciation was atrocious. he promised he’d try again sometime soon, but who knows if that’ll happen.

fourth, his idea of pillow talk was the two of you asking random questions to each other to get to know each other better, which is how you learned all these things about him. after one thing led to another last night, you fell asleep to the sound of luke’s voice against your ear. it wasn’t even that late; the group hadn’t come back from their trip to get food after they left the party, but you and luke were sleepy as you lay in the tangled sheets of your bed, at peace.

you learned that he was ticklish on the side of his ribs and that he planned to get a tattoo there but when the artist tried to put the stencil on his skin, he giggled and moved around so much that the artist warned him about his placement. he didn’t end up getting the tattoo there, but instead got it a little lower on his torso. luke had six tattoos, making him the one in the band with the least amount. the stolls were tattoo fiends and made it their mission to get a small tattoo from each place they visited on tour. luke’s personal favorite was the single line on the side of their index finger. it was a messily done stick-n-poke after one too many drinks in new jersey.

when he was younger, he used to climb on the roof of his house in connecticut. his parents warned him that he was going to hurt himself one day, but he, being the rascal that he was, never listened. until one day, after a light rain, he’d gone up there and slipped on the shingles and fell face-first against the roof. he scratched his face pretty badly, hence the scar on his face now. he told people that he got the scar from a bar fight because it sounded cooler. one day his childhood pictures will be posted on some website and his cover story won’t be as believable anymore, but that’s a bridge he’ll cross when he gets there.

it was weird to fall asleep next to someone. you hadn’t found yourself in this position in a long time, longer than you’d care to admit. when you hooked up with people in college, you purposefully made up some excuse about why they had to leave before sun up. “my roommate will be back soon.” “i have a huge test tomorrow morning.” “my friend just called and said she needed my help so i gotta go.” but with luke, you didn’t feel the need to make up an excuse to kick him out. you didn’t want him to go.

he asked the silent question as he was putting his clothes back on, hesitantly approaching your bedroom door to exit. he didn’t know if he was overstaying his welcome. he didn’t want to rush you when it came to things like this. so when he’d asked where his other shoe went, not caring about where it landed in the heat of the moment, you shrugged your shoulders and said, “dunno. we’ll figure it out in the morning, come back to bed.”

you didn’t need to tell him twice.

luke woke up before you did. you were lying on his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck. your breaths made his skin tingle. he twirled the ends of your hair around his fingers, taking in the view of you next to him. he could get used to waking up like this every morning, he thought. he couldn’t imagine a better way to start his day.

you stirred, craning your head to face him as your eyes fluttered open, a subdued smile on your face, “g’mornin.”

“g’mornin’, five star,” he replied, lips immediately leaning over to press against yours. he frowned when you pulled back, shaking your head, “let me kiss you.”

“i have morning breath,” you cringed, moving your arm from under you to caress the nape of his neck. you placed a kiss on the corner of his lips, making him groan.

“i don’t care,” he pouted, nudging your nose with his own. you rolled your eyes but let him kiss you. the kiss was lazy and languid, lips moving gracefully against each other. it was sweet and slow like you were both trying to soak in this feeling with each other. you broke the kiss when you broke out into a smile, suddenly feeling shy.

“it’s noon,” you said, glancing at your clock behind luke. “we need to get up soon.”

“five more minutes,” he placed a string of kisses on your shoulder blade, grinning at the red marks he left on your skin from last night. “let’s stay here a little longer.”

you had a feeling here meant something more than just the comfort of your bed. here was the bubble you both allowed yourself to stay in for the last twelve hours, a little universe that was just for the two of you. it was different kissing luke in the darkness of the night. you could blame it on the secrecy of it all, shadows hiding your feelings for him, no expectations or weight of the dreaded conversation, but in the morning light, you felt vulnerable. you knew the mature thing to do was to ask him about what last night meant. was it just a one-time thing? would things change between the two of you now that the chase was over? you didn’t know.

little did you know, luke was thinking the same things as you. he would prolong this safe haven for as long as he could in case he would never get to experience it again. luke tightened his grip around your waist, breathing in the scent of your shampoo as he kissed your forehead. he couldn’t stop himself. he got a taste of what it was like to be with you and now, he couldn’t get enough. he’d find any excuse to have his lips on you. he grinned at you as he pulled away, “you snore, you know that?”

you buried your face in your pillow, embarrassed, “stop it.”

he laughed, “it’s cute, five star! i don’t mind it.”

“are you sure?” you asked, scrunching your face up in disgust, “i can’t in good conscience let you sleep over again if you don’t even get any sleep because i snore.”

“consider your conscience cleared because i really don’t mind,” luke pressed his lips against yours again. gods, he couldn’t get enough of you. “this makes up for it.”

“ew,” you shoved him playfully, sitting up to start getting ready for the day. luke remained flat on his back on your bed, “you’re so fucking corny.”

he propped his head up on his extended elbow, a smirk on his face. the rays of sunlight that peeked through your blinds illuminated his toned chest. faint scratches and pink marks contrasted his tanned skin. “guilty.”

you got up from bed, digging out a clean sweater from your closet. you wandered around your room, organizing things as you went on. luke watched you from your bed, eyes following your every move. his white shirt was peeking out from under the sweater. your sleep shorts showed off your toned legs perfectly. your hair was a mess, braids undone, but you still looked gorgeous. he blinked as your eyes darted to him, “you look beautiful.”

you rolled your eyes, narrowing your eyes at him, “you can’t even see me properly. you don’t have your contacts in.”

he’d taken them off before he fell asleep. he hated sleeping with contacts in. he’d snuck out in the middle of the night to grab his glasses from his nightstand before slipping back into bed with you. he was thankful you were a pretty heavy sleeper because he didn’t want you to think he was sneaking out to leave you by yourself after last night. when luke returned to his side of the bed, you rolled over and cuddled into him in your sleep, like you’d been waiting for him to return.

luke reached over to retrieve his glasses from your bedside table and placed them on his face. he pushed them up on the bridge of his nose and shrugged, “still beautiful.”

you walked over to him, sitting on his lap with your thighs caging him in. you held his face in your hands, admiring how he looked with the frames on his face. luke’s hands made their way to your waist, steadying you. you smiled, “i like how you look with your glasses.”

a lopsided smile appeared on his face, boyish and charming. “yeah?”

“mhm,” you hummed, “you look like a nerd. s’cute.”

“pfft,” he scoffed, poking your side, “i’m not a nerd. i’m a rockstar.”

“shut the fuck up,” there was no venom in your voice, despite your words. you couldn’t muster any resemblance of annoyance when he was looking at you all doe-eyed and pouty-lipped. you moved from on top of him, crawling over to your empty spot, “luke?”

he turned to you, “five star?”

“what are we doing?”

“we’re spending the day in bed,” he replied, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. he knew that the conversation was coming in soon. he was scared of what you’d say next.

your smile vanished as your shoulders hunched over, “you know what i mean.”

luke rubbed his jaw, “you tell me.”

luke didn’t know what he should say. he didn’t want to say that last night meant nothing to him because he’d be lying if he said that and he didn’t want to lie to you, but he also didn’t want to scare you off by telling you how he really felt. it felt like a situation he couldn’t win. his pessimism was hounding him. he didn’t want to mess this up before it had the chance to start.

“are we just fucking around? is this casual because i–”

at first he thought he could handle it. he’ll let you take the lead, he’ll follow you. whatever you wanted, he’s game for it, even if it meant that he got hurt along the way. but then the word casual left your lips and it felt like he was slapped across the face. he thought he could handle it if you wanted you guys to be casual or friends who kiss sometimes or friends who occasionally do more than kissing sometimes, but actually hearing you use those words made him tense.

“please don’t ever use those words about us again,” luke breathed out, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “i don’t know if you’ve noticed five star, but there’s nothing casual about how i feel about you.”

“i think we need to start talking to each other more,” you pondered. “because there’s nothing casual about how i feel about you either.”

“throw a guy a bone sometimes. you’ve tormented me for two months. how was i supposed to know that?” he teased.

you cocked an eyebrow, “but yet you like me so really what does it say about you?”

just like that, the indecision faded. it was back to just you and luke. the same way you’d always teased each other and pushed each other’s buttons. you’d both been stressed about what the other was thinking when you should’ve just talked to each other. perhaps all the poets and the writers in the world were onto something when they said that communication is key because you two wasted so much time running away from what this could be. it was funny really, how the two of you were both keeping these things to yourself, too scared of how you felt for each other to make a move. how much sooner could this have happened if you told him how you felt the minute you realized it? would he have kissed you a month ago? would you have been waking up with him beside you on your bed for weeks? who knows?

“it says more about you, to be honest,” he said, “you’re irresistible. even when you’re mean to me, i adore you.”

“you’re such a flirt, castellan.”

“i need to up my game,” luke chuckled, “yeah, i got the girl but now i gotta work to keep you.”

you placed a hand on your chin, pretending to think, “i don’t recall being asked to be anyone’s girl.”

“you’re breaking my heart, five star,” he sighed dramatically, clutching his chest. he dropped his body weight on yours, making you squeal and attempt to push him off. he laughed at your efforts. “be my girl?”

“on one condition.”

“anything.”

“let me hear the song.”

luke let out a full belly laugh, rolling over on the bed. he shook his head, biting his bottom lip. there was never a moment where he wasn’t on his toes when he was with you. he didn’t expect you to say that. you really were stubborn when it came to things you put your mind to. that fucking song. “no, i told you it’s not ready!”

you stuck your tongue out at him, “then no.”

luke’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as a goofy grin appeared on his face. he pulled you on his lap again, back pressed against his chest. he moved your hair to one side, kissing down the other side of your neck in soft, quick motions. he mumbled into your skin, “fine, but i’m following you around like a lost puppy. i’m yours.”

you sighed dreamily, reaching over to place a hand on his arm. you couldn’t help but make fun of him despite the butterflies in your stomach, “simp.”

you felt him nod against your body, “that’s me.”

“we really need to get out of bed.”

“five more minutes?”

it had been at least fifteen since he last asked for more time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to deny him. you gave in and got back under your covers with him. you let him be the small spoon this time, your arms wrapped around his toned back, smiling at the soft sighs that left his lips when you ran your fingers down his spine. he kissed your collarbones, face relaxing as sleep overtook him again.

you watched him fall asleep and reached for your phone, trying not to disturb his rest. you snapped a quick picture of him, smiling as you admired his features. you were falling for luke castellan.

#frances writes #poisoned mercury #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x yn #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x y/n #percy jackson fanfic #percy jackson

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