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s1rawb3rry · 1 day ago

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Out of my Hands!

Synopsis: In the high-pressure world of motorsport, an engineer and her star driver at Ferrari fall into a connection as electric as the circuits they race on. But when one mistake on his part threatens to fracture everything between them — on and off the track — the race isn’t just for championship, it’s for redemption as well…

Pairing: F1driver!enhypen jay x engineer!reader

Genres: “second chance” romance, established relationship, forced proximity, F1 driver AU (?)

Warnings: jungwon mention lol, possible F1 racing inaccuracies, sun (jay) x moon (y/n), sub!jay x dom!yn, contains smut (mdni), is actually v smut heavy lmao i used this as an excuse to write subby jay (i love him sm), smut with plot, rom com if you squint, happy ending i pinky promise, angst-smut-fluff (in that order), body worshipping to the fucking max, fucking a closet, oral (f!rec), hes a munchhhh, hes v stupid but v adorable, jay is so unbelievably in love, yn is a little mean tbh sorry (not sorry), will probably add more

Word count: 7.6k

a/n: here's the little request from my anon hehe i hope you like it hun <3 just a reminder for all my girliesss it's unacceptable for your partner to forget your anniversary! This is pure fiction!

Taglist: @seungsoftly @xylatox @orxngebloods @yooonjnng @jaehoodies @hoonieyun @heesmiles @hoonsluvr @flowerwinds @cunty4hee @bambieheeseunglee @luvashli @eczlipse @sunnygirl-kait @leehsngs @enhaeil @bxcndd @firstclassjaylee @sumsumtingz @heekolazz @amazzwon @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @hazelira @princesslenars @heestoleurgirl @stariekis @morganaawriterr @luvashli @heekolazz (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

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Two days.

That’s how long it had been since I last spoke to him, not a single word. Just silence — sharp and deliberate, the kind that crackled louder than any screaming engine. The smothered quietness was louder than any fight we’d ever had. And yet, duty calls — making us stand in the same garage, breathe the same air, surrounded by the same chaos that usually held us together. But this time, everything was unraveling faster than he could hold it together.

The Ferrari garage buzzed with preparation for the Monaco Grand Prix. The hum of telemetry monitors was constantly glowing with live delta updates, ‘+0.156 vs. previous lap’ blinked on screens with clinical precision. Other engineers around me murmured about tire temps and brake wear.

“The front-left’s still running hot, Y/N,” one of the newer engineers reported, eyes flicking between the tablet in his hands and the tire data streaming across the screen. You could hear the respect in his tone, but also that nervous edge — the kind that comes with not quite knowing if you’re allowed to speak yet.

“Mm, I see it,” I said, already scanning the heat map on my own monitor. The wear pattern wasn’t dramatic, but the temperature spike had been creeping session by session. “We’ll swap compounds for FP3,” I added, calm but decisive. “Harder mix should stabilize temps, and I want the pressures adjusted by half a psi.”

He nodded quickly, already tapping in the update as the mechanics rolled out tire trolleys and the metallic clatter echoed off the concrete walls. The chaos of the usual pre-race rhythm filled the garage — sharp, fast, alive. It was the soundtrack of our lives, something that usually settled in the bones like second nature. But today, it pressed down heavier, as if even the noise knew something was off.

I kept my usual composed self — steady, measured, always perfectly in control.” Which is the exact opposite of the storm brewing inside Jay, who stood a few meters away, shifting on his feet while being suited up in red. But I could feel his gaze, I always could.

His arms were crossed over his chest like he was holding himself together with the tension and friction alone. I knew it hurt him to see me speak to others like everything is normal but not utter a word to him. The reigning world champion, the golden boy of Formula One — millions in sponsorship deals and beloved by fans — is completely helpless.

The low hum of monitors and the muted chatter of engineers, mechanics and technicians filled the garage — numbers updating in real time, tire compounds being swapped, heat maps pulsing across displays. The sharp scent of hot rubber and engine oil hung in the air. And still, none of it seemed to register with him. Not the car. Not the lap deltas. Not even the swarm of cameras lingering by the paddock entrance, hoping to catch his shiny-boy smile. They’d get nothing either way because he wasn’t really present with them. He was somewhere inside himself, unraveling slowly, quietly. And I knew exactly why.

Because I hadn’t said a word to him in forty-eight hours.

I could feel his stare occasionally, lingering like static on my skin, but I didn’t turn. My eyes stayed glued to the downforce distribution map in front of me, fingers casually adjusting the torque simulation overlay, just going through the motions like I wasn’t breaking my own heart.

If I looked at him, I’d remember every part of him I still ached for — like the way his smile would start slowly, tugging at the corner of his mouth before blooming fully, blinding and boyish. How he always leaned into me just a little when we talked, like his body couldn’t help but reach for mine. And the way his hands trembled after a race, adrenaline still spilling out of him — only ever steady once they were wrapped around me.

We met a year ago, when I was first assigned to his vehicle design team — a technical partnership on paper, a set of credentials matched to a championship-winning driver. It was straightforward and professional. But from the moment he walked into the garage, there was an unmistakable pull that was almost like gravity. He’d saunter in with that trademark charm, all easy smiles and too-pretty eyes. I admired how he has a habit of pushing his car, and himself, to the edge of physics. Even if it made me want to strangle him half the time.

It shouldn’t have worked — but it did. We work perfectly together.

What we have isn’t a secret, just privately ours. Away from the cameras, away from the paddock politics and sponsor demands. Jay was always careful with it, with me. Always made sure I never felt like a footnote in the shadow of his spotlight. Even when the weight of being the reigning world champion began to bear down on him — every appearance, every test run, every simulator hour — I never doubted he cared.

However, caring wasn’t the same as remembering. And on the night of our first anniversary, he didn’t.

We’d just wrapped a grueling 14-hour prep session — final calibration meetings, last-minute aero tweaks, and endless briefings. His world was racing, tunnel-visioned, every second accounted for in his pursuit of perfection. I knew the weight he carried. Knew how much pressure came with defending a world title. I’d seen it in the lines beneath his eyes, in the way his fingers twitched against his thighs even when he was still.

So I told myself I understood, that I do not expect much. But when I walked into the garage that night of our anniversary, still smelling faintly of burnt rubber and carbon fiber, and saw him bent over data sheets, not even glancing up — I knew.

He forgot. No flowers. No message. Nothing. Nada.

And when he found out by himself that he forgot — there were no tears, no dramatic exit, no slammed doors. It was like he hadn’t noticed he was walking on a tightrope until it snapped. He stood there stripped of the easy polish he wore like a second skin, and asked — softly, earnestly — if there was any way to make it right.

However, it wasn’t only the feeling of disappointment I felt, but also the weight of being invisible in the one place I thought I never would be. He remembered tire pressures and compound cycles and brake bias down to the decimal — yet somehow, not this.

I just told him I needed space. And when I said it, I watched his whole face change — He looked gutted. Like the words knocked the breath right out of him. His voice cracked when he asked, “How much?”

“I don’t know yet.” i responded. I meant to sound firm, but I'm not sure if I conveyed that. The silence wasn’t out of spite of him or as a punishment. But because I didn’t want to shrink myself to fit into the background of his life. Not when I’d stood by him, through every pit stop and podium.

He didn’t try to argue or try to talk me out of it. He just nodded slowly, like he was trying to respect my words even as they cut him open.

And I was trying. God, I was trying — gritting my teeth, white-knuckling the line I’d drawn, even though every part of me was screaming to step over it. Every shift of his boots on the concrete, every sigh from his chest, chipped away at my resolve.

Every fiber of me was aching to reach for him. I missed the way he’d find me in the chaos of the garage, eyes soft even when his voice was sharp from that driver’s rush like I intensively calmed him. The way his fingers used to find mine under the briefing table, brushing knuckles in quiet touches when the room was too loud with strategy calls and tire compound debates. I even missed that smug little whisper he’d drop when he leaned in just close enough — pretending to fuss with his earpiece during the final checks, but really just looking for an excuse to be near me. Just low enough so no one else caught it, his voice thick with that familiar tease, “still my favorite shade on you.”

It was ridiculous, really. Didn’t matter what lipstick I wore that day — scarlet, berry, nude — I could swear he had a different favorite every morning. And those quick, almost impatient kisses he’d press against me before striding out to the grid, always with that faint smudge of my lipstick still teasing the corners of his mouth.

But I reminded myself: I was the one who asked for this space, I had to honor that.

“Jay, it's time.” The call came sharp and sudden over the radio: Jay was needed for a test run. The garage suddenly shifted — tires rolled, tools clattered, and the hum of anticipation filled the air. The team moved with practiced precision, but the chatter… it was different today.

Everyone noticed immediately. Two days without a single word between Jay and I was an unspoken record. They knew how we usually were — quiet smiles, casual touches, the kind of softness that didn’t need announcing. So this silence? It spoke volumes. They weren’t subtle about putting two and two together.

“Hey,” one of the engineers — Jungwon, always the first to break tension — leaned over, glancing my way as he wiped grease off his hands. “Is he… okay?” He asked, referring to Jay.

I met his eyes briefly, then turned back to the screen in front of me. “He’ll be fine,” I said, voice steady and flat, though inside I was anything but.

Jungwon nodded slowly, unconvinced but trusting. “It’s just… two days? That’s new for him.”

The telemetry graph overhead flickered with live data again — sector times, tire temps, brake wear. Numbers, curves, pulses of color that painted a perfect picture. But none of it matched with what we were seeing, because no matter how precise the car was running, Jay’s driving was the real glitch in the system.

“Bring the car in for pit lane after the run,” I said to the team, eyes still on the telemetry, “i want to do some tweaks.” I lied, the car is fucking perfect. However, with no hesitation, they all gave me small nods.

He loves me, I know and believe that. Truly, maddeningly, desperately in love. From the moment we met, it was like his heart found a home and decided mine was it. Without me he's all noise and no direction — like a car with no grip, spinning in the same corner over and over again. He’s a puddle in my hands, always was. And in these past two days, I’ve felt every quiet attempt he made to reach me, I can read him like a book. I see it in the way he stands too long near the telemetry table where I’m working. I catch the way his hand twitches toward mine before he remembers. Or the way he leans in out of pure instinct when we pass too closely.

Jay, the reigning champion, the media darling, Ferrari’s golden boy — reduced to a man struggling to remember how to breathe without me reminding him.

And yet, he never pushes.

Every morning, my coffee has been sitting on my station before I arrive. Just the way I like it — two sugars, no lid, sleeve already on. Whenever I step out of my hotel room or get back at night, there’s a fresh bouquet waiting outside my door — peonies, or roses, or marigolds, or tulips. Wrapped neatly with the team’s garage tape. All these gestures never had a note or a name or anything, but I didn't need it to know who they were from.

He never knocked at the door either, but his actions — conscious or subconscious — spoke how he felt. The guilt bleeds off him, he wears it in the slump of his shoulders when I walk past. In the way his fingers tighten around his gloves like there’s something else he wants to hold. In every look he shoots me when he thinks I’m not watching, eyes full of ache and apology and that quiet ‘please’ that he never says out loud but I hear anyway.

Jay pulled the car into pit lane with a smoothness that, to the untrained eye, might’ve looked fine. But to us — to the team that knew his driving like gospel — it was obvious something was off. He unstrapped himself with methodical hands, slower than usual, and stepped out of the cockpit, fireproof gloves already tugged halfway off as he handed his helmet to one of the mechanics.

His race suit clung to him, streaked in sweat and dust from the circuit. Normally, after a run, he’d have that boyish glint in his eye, shoulders loose, lip curled in a smug half-smile as he asked about throttle trace and corner exit velocity.

But today he looked like a man dragging his heart behind him.

“Jay,” one of the technical directors called out as he approached. “What’s up, son?” the director asked, slapping a hand gently to Jay’s back as they started walking toward the engineering bay. “You’re lifting too early. Car’s fine — hell, it’s better than fine. But you look like you’re driving through a fog.”

Jay blinked, then shrugged with a tight-lipped expression. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. I could feel his eyes flick over to me before quickly darting away, like even looking in my direction burned.

Miserable didn’t even begin to cover how he looks.

-*-

That night, the garage was quieter than usual, the usual roar and chaos of the paddock fading into a low, distant hum, as if the whole world was exhaling after a long day. The faint scent of burnt rubber and engine oil clung stubbornly to the air, a reminder of the day’s relentless pace.

The heat of Monaco clung to the space like a thick, invisible blanket — heavy, stifling, and impossible to ignore. It pressed down on everything, curling into the edges of the garage, seeping into concrete walls and steel beams. I shifted in place, uncomfortable in my worn-in denim shorts that are sticking to my thighs with every move. The waistband dug just slightly as I leaned forward, a sheen of sweat gathering at the back of my knees.

Most of the team had already left or were wrapping up their own tasks elsewhere, but I stayed behind, focused on finishing up Jay’s gear prep. His equipment was a silent extension of him — every buckle, every clasp needed to be perfect. This was his armor, and I was the one tasked with ensuring it fit just right.

The HANS device still wasn’t quite where it needed to be, not by my standards. I set it down and glanced up as Jay lingered near the entrance, hesitant. “Jay,” I said quietly, almost commanding. “Come here. Let me check your HANS.”

When our eyes met, something flickered in him — hope, or maybe desperation. For a moment, he seemed to brighten up, like the mere act of me talking again was a small victory. But I was still a block of ice, my expression unreadable, carefully guarded.

He nodded without saying anything, and slowly setting his helmet somewhere. Strands of his dark hair clung damply to his forehead, plastered by the long hours under the sun and the strain of the test run. He lowered himself onto the stool in front of me without a word, his movements quiet.

He was still wearing his Nomex shirt which looked like it was painted onto him. The material clung to his body, damp with sweat, outlining every sharp line and sinew beneath. It hugged the swell of his chest, stretched over his shoulders, and clung to his biceps, the fabric pulled taut with every breath and subtle movement. The collar was tugged halfway down, exposing the clean slope of his throat.

As I leaned in to clip the device into place, my fingers brushed along the edge of his jaw — light, barely a whisper of contact, but electric all the same. The stubble there was coarse against my skin, familiar. It should’ve been a clinical motion, routine, muscle memory. His gaze locked with mine, eyes dark and searching, filled with something unguarded and raw.

“I miss you,” he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. His lips trembled as they moved gently, pressing a tentative kiss to my wrist, then my palm. I didn’t speak at first. I just looked at him — really looked. The flushed pink in his cheeks from the heat or the yearning, I couldn’t tell. The way his eyes had gone heavy-lidded, hooded.

He looked wrecked. Needy. Not the Jay the cameras knew, not the star boy of the paddock — but mine. Just mine.

I slowly unclipped the HANS device and set it aside behind me with a deliberate click. The air between us buzzed, electric. I could feel the tension vibrating in his fingertips as they hovered just near my knee, waiting.

I leaned down slightly, voice low. “Show me, then.”

His breath caught, and before I could blink, his hands were at my waistband — unbuttoning my shorts with tentative, shaking fingers. He stripped them down in one smooth motion, panties sliding down with them to the garage floor, pooling around my ankles. Without hesitation, his hands smoothed up my thighs like prayer. Reverent. He kissed the inside of my knee, then higher, and higher still, each press of his mouth more devoted than the last.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered against my skin, voice breaking like a vow. “I’ll do it. I’ll fix it. I swear.” I looked down at him — still kneeling, still in his sweat-drenched Nomex, chest heaving like he’d just finished a full race stint. But this? This was his real endurance.

His hands curled around the back of my thighs, placing them over his shoulders with that practiced ease, thumbs brushing reverently along the curve just under my hips. His head dipped, the collar of his Nomex shirt tugging just a little further down, sweat still glistening along his collarbones as he exhaled against my skin.

He traced my clit with his lips like he owed me something, “Fuck, I’ve missed you. Every part of you.”

I didn’t guide him, I didn’t have to. He recalls every soft spot, every sound that caught in my throat, every twitch of my fingers as they tugged in his hair — not tender, but possessive. Testing him. Tethering him.

“Jay,” I gasped, my voice barely recognizable as my own. He looked up at me through his lashes, lips wet and parted, swollen. “Don’t stop.”

His grip on my thighs tightened — not painful, no, never — but full of desperation, like letting go meant losing me all over again. Every movement of his mouth was frantic, like an apology written in tongue and breath.

When that heat coiled in my stomach and snapped, one of my hands flew behind me to brace against the workbench, the other buried itself in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan against me.

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if the taste of me was his salvation.

When he finally pulled back, I could properly see those glassy eyes, faint sweat caught on his soft curls that clung to his forehead. But instead of leaving, he rested his head against my inner thigh, breathing hard, grounding himself like he needed the contact to keep from falling apart entirely.

My slick was still glistening on his chin, dripping slowly down his jawline. He made no move to wipe it away, too intoxicated by my taste to wipe it off. His eyes closed slowly like the world had finally gone quiet in his head.

A man of many talents, my Jay. Precision braking, top-speed control, knew how to make me come — except remembering dates, apparently.

- ᯓ -

The next morning arrived laden with humidity and tension, Monaco’s sun already spilling searing and merciless over the paddock before the engines had even started. I stood by the telemetry monitors, eyes trained on the scrolling data, but my attention kept wandering back to him.

Jay stood beside the car, half-listening to the race engineer walk through setup changes, nodding absently, helmet tucked under his arm. His race suit clung to him in the heat — red and branded, gleaming as usual — but his posture gave him away. There was a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw set rigidly.

In every post-breakup interview, every carefully worded press conference, I spotted the moment his fingers drifted up to tug gently at the curve of his ear. It’s a nervous tic he’d never quite managed to shake. He only did it when he was dodging something real — an uncomfortable truth, an emotional landmine, or just when reporters prodded a little too close to the subject of us.

‘You’ve had a stellar season, but are there any concerns heading into tomorrow’s race?’

‘You looked a little frustrated after FP2 — is there something off with the car or just track conditions?’

Tug.

‘You’ve always credited your inner circle for keeping you grounded. Everything alright mentally heading into this one?’

Tug.

I had watched it unfold on screen more times than I could count — his picture-perfect media-trained mask, every answer crisp, charming, noncommittal. But the nervous tug of his ear was his tell, the soft confession his mouth never made.

It didn’t fool me. It never had. I knew the difference between race nerves and something deeper. He was thinking about me, and he knew I noticed.

He was back in the garage after his morning media rounds and microphones shoved in his face, the sharp scent of heat and engine oil trailing faintly behind him, laced with just a hint of cologne clinging to the collar of his undershirt — one I recognized instantly. He moved through the space like someone half-present, greeting a few crew members with nods, polite but distant, eyes scanning out of instinct more than curiosity.

I didn’t look at him at first, I just did what I always did. I focused on the checklist in front of me, fingers moving over gear I could prep in my sleep. Torque specs, harness calibration, tire temps — all second nature by now. If I kept my hands busy, maybe the ache in my chest wouldn’t claw its way upward.

Around us, the team operated with quiet efficiency. A couple engineers moved toward the car, final checks being logged off with tight nods and murmured confirmations. One of the techs helped him shrug into his race suit fully and zipped it up, another crouched to help adjust the cuffs around his boots.

My hands moved on autopilot, finding his gloves on the workbench without needing to look or think. I folded them the way he liked: neatly, palms down, index fingers tucked in slightly, so they didn’t crease awkwardly when he slipped them on. The small reflex remained in my body, no matter how much I tried to unlearn it. It’s a habit stitched into my bones after months of doing it for him.

He stood there in front of me in full gear, helmet on, waiting. Not for the gloves. For something else — for the kiss.

It had started as a joke, once — something stupid and impulsive in the rush of his early podium days. I had leaned in and kissed the visor of his helmet before a race, laughing as my lipstick left a perfect red print over the clear polycarbonate. He won that race. And the next. And the next. And suddenly, it became a ritual — not a superstition, he’d insist, but something more sacred. “It’s not just the kiss,” he told me once, helmet already strapped beneath his chin, gloved hands resting against my waist. “It’s you. You win the races. I just drive.” He swore by it too, that faint kissprint above his line of sight calmed him, makes him focus, like he was already halfway to the checkered flag. He never raced without it.

Until now.

I handed him the gloves wordlessly, ignoring the way he tilted his helmeted head slightly forward like instinct. And when I brushed past him, his shoulders tensed because the kiss didn’t come. He froze and looked away like he could swallow down the sting.

“I can race without the kiss,” he said. “I just… don’t want to.” His voice cracked like worn leather.

Just then, the garage radio crackled to life, slicing the tension with mechanical precision: “Car 17, radio check.”

He blinked and turned slightly, fingers lifting to adjust his earpiece below the helmet. “Loud and clear,” he answered, but his voice was tight, strained. He gave a quick nod to the race engineer, murmured something clipped in return, and then turned on his heel, the movement precise but not relaxed like usual.

Honestly? After seeing him like this — so tormented, so stripped of that usual indestructible veneer, the one he wore so convincingly that even the cameras believed it — it did something to me, like a needle under my ribs. I had already forgiven him. Last night something cracked open in me, and the light had started to creep back in before I even realized it.

Seeing his restless hunger for my attention, still looking at me like I was the only way he remembered how to breathe… it poked at something low in my stomach. I could feel it coil every time his gaze flicked toward me, aching, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands unless they were on me.

And maybe that’s why I let it drag out a little longer. Just a little.

He made it too easy, like he couldn’t help himself. His body spoke volumes, louder than anything he’d said out loud. I wasn’t really being cruel… I just wanted to see how far I could push before he unraveled completely.

The pre-practice runs had already started, tires shrieking in bursts as Jay darted around the track — or tried to. I watched the monitors in silence, arms crossed, the sound of engines blending with the low hum of telemetry feeds.

“Telemetry is fine. Car is good,” one of the engineers mumbled beside me, his eyes narrowed at the stream of data pouring across the screen. His voice was clipped, laced with confusion. “But he’s still lifting too early, way too early.”

Another voice chimed in behind me, sharp and uneasy. “Throttle trace is inconsistent. He’s overthinking in sector two.” I’d seen this before — not often, because Jay was usually a machine behind the wheel. But when something emotional had its claws in him, it bled into everything.

“Driver feedback doesn’t match what we’re seeing,” someone muttered further down the pit wall. “He said brake bias is off—”

“But it’s not,” I cut in before I could stop myself, eyes fixed on the track display. “It’s him. Not the car.” No one argued back at me, they knew I was right. I knew my work was flawless.

A static crackle split through the comms: “Box, box, Jay. Let’s reset.”

A few more laps ticked by, each one dragging like an exhale held too long. The kind of silence that felt heavier than any noise — not because no one was speaking, but because everyone was waiting for something to snap back into place. But it didn’t. Jay was off. I could see it in the throttle curves, the braking points, the hesitation creeping into corners he used to crush. He wasn’t himself.

Then I heard his voice, faint and scratchy over the comms. “Coming in,” he said, just that, layered in a quiet kind of defeat that settled into my chest like weight. The static gave way to the overhead broadcast. The announcer’s voice cut through the background hum of the garage: “We’re on a 30-minute hold before second practice resumes.”

Jay pulled into the bay a few seconds later, the car rolling in clean but the atmosphere around him anything but. He was already wrestling off his gloves by the time the engine cooled — slow, mechanical movements like he wasn’t really present. His helmet was off, hanging from his hand, his hair matted to his forehead from the heat.

“What are you doing?” one of the assistant directors barked, arms flung wide in frustration. “The race is tomorrow, Jay. Tighten the fuck up.” but Jay didn’t flinch, just went to sit somewhere.

He wasn’t driving like the car was part of him anymore. He was second-guessing every movement, every intuitive knee and arm jerks that used to come without thinking. His mind was clouded, heavy, pulled somewhere else. To me.

And maybe the cruelest part wasn’t just knowing it — it was also knowing how easily I could fix it.

He sat on the edge of the bench beside the telemetry table, silent, water bottle in hand. His lips were parted slightly as he took small, unfocused sips, his eyes glued to the industrial fan spinning nearby like it might give him answers. But he just looked… hollowed out. Like someone had scooped the fire out of him and left the shell behind.

God.

Fuck.

Fine.

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose once I noticed how the team was too focused on whispered commentary and screen replays. “Jay,” I said, just loud enough for only him to hear. “I need your help with something. Now.”

He blinked slowly, stunned, like his brain couldn’t quite catch up with my words fast enough. But something flickered and rushed in, filled the space behind his eyes, and before he could think too hard about it, he stood and followed me without a word. Just like a lost kitten.

I led him down the narrow hallway, the hum of the garage fading with every step. We passed racks of spare parts and stacks of unused tires wrapped in warming blankets, the faint ticking of cooling engines echoing through the stillness.

I knew the sound of his footsteps behind me — cautious but eager, like he wasn’t sure if he was walking into forgiveness or fire.

The storage room door creaked slightly when I pushed it open. I stepped inside, the dim light flickering overhead like it, too, was unsure of what this was. He followed me in, breath hitching when the door clicked shut behind us.

“Y/N…” he started, voice rough and uncertain. I turned slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his chest rise harder with the weight of it. “You really think I don’t know how you operate, Jay?” I asked, stepping into his space. I was close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Just one more push to his buttons. Just one more time.

I tilted my head just slightly, lips brushing his — not quite kissing, just grazing. Enough to make him chase it. “You drive like shit when you’re heartbroken,” I breathed against his mouth.

That did it for him, his hands that were already on me tightened their grip. A quiet groan escaped his throat when his lips crashed against mine in something too messy to be called a kiss.

His hands were everywhere — roaming like he couldn’t decide which part of me he missed more. One palm flattened over the curve of my lower back, while the other gripped my hip with bruising certainty. He squeezed my ass like he was trying to re-memorize the skin he already knew by heart.

Clothes peeled away fast, forgotten. His hand palmed its way between us to pull at the waistband of my shorts, rough from haste. My back arched against the wall with a moan from me once his cock sank into me. His fingers dug in, dragging me down harder onto him with every thrust.

I gasped as his other hand slipped beneath my thigh, hooking under my knee and hauling my leg up, opening me wider for him. The shift had me taking him deeper, impossibly so. “God, you feel so—” he choked out, voice unraveling into a groan.

He moved his pelvis like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. Every roll of his hips, every bruising grip, every trembling inhale was a silent plea.

His fingers laced through mine, lifting them to his lips mid-thrust like he couldn’t stop himself. “You steady my fire,” he murmured, his mouth warm and shaking slightly against my knuckles. The way he looked at me made my breath catch. “You know that, right?”

I swallowed hard, a sound catching in my throat as his hips pressed deeper into mine. I couldn’t answer — not with words — just a soft whimper and the way my legs tightened around him in response, pulling him impossibly closer.

He drank in every sound I made like it was water after drought, his lips ghosting down my jaw, over my shoulder, anchoring himself in the softness I tried so hard not to show him anymore.

I couldn’t think, barely holding on to a single coherent thought as he moved against me. Every part of me felt stretched tight, strung up in the kind of tension that hummed just under the skin, raw and unrelenting.

Jay wasn’t being gentle. No, he was desperate with it — like he needed to feel every inch of me to stay grounded.

The pressure coiled low in my stomach, slow and burning white-hot. It was too much and not enough all at once. My breath hitched as my nails dug into the back of his shoulder. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, chasing something just out of reach. And still, he was murmuring things under his breath — words I couldn’t quite catch, but felt more than heard.

Heat shattered through me, sharp and overwhelming, like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. My breath was caught between a gasp and a moan as I came around him, my muscles clenched tight and then shuddered.

His breathing was still uneven, chest pressing firmly against mine as we stood locked together. My fingers traced slow, wandering circles along the tense muscles of his back, feeling the heat and pulse beneath my touch.

A moment or two passed when then it just bubbled up in me — a laugh. Small at first, then unstoppable. I buried my face in his shoulder, trying to suppress but can’t quite manage.

Jay shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to glance down at me, confused and a little alarmed. “What’s so funny?” he asked, voice still rough around the edges, hair a total mess.

I bit my lip, still grinning. “I forgave you like… maybe ten bouquets ago.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait, what?” he blinked, trying to do the math. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head, still laughing. He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half an exhale of disbelief. “Oh, you’re evil,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder with a groan. “Cruel, evil woman.”

- ᯓ -

I was late. Of all fucking days to be running behind, today of all days — the race day.

The roads to the circuit felt like they stretched on forever, endless. Every red light taunting me, every delay was a reminder of how close I was to miss the beginning. My heart pounded as I dashed through the chaos of the paddock, adrenaline mixing with a creeping panic. Every second wasted was another second I wasn’t at the track, wasn’t with him. My phone buzzed — phone calls and messages — none from him. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t know, was that I was racing against time just to get there.

I barely caught my breath as I rounded the corner into the paddock, the thrum of engines and radio chatter crashing over me like a wave. I nearly tripped over the edge of my own boots, one hand steadying myself on the garage frame as I spotted Jungwon adjusting his headset.

He turned, brows lifting in surprise. “You made it,” he said, pushing his mic aside. “He’s already in the car. They’re rolling him out.”

My heart jumped, a mix of guilt and adrenaline pulsing through me. “Can I watch from the track?” I blurted. “I mean — pit side. Not from the monitors. I want to see him… really see him.”

Jungwon tilted his head. “You mean instead of the garage feed?”

“Yeah,” I nodded quickly, fingers twitching at my side. I’ve watched every lap of his from behind a screen. Every corner, every throttle trace, every sector split. But I don’t want to see him through data right now. I want to see him, live.

He studied me for a second, then gave a short nod toward the track edge. “Go. You’ve got two minutes before lights out.”

I thanked him under my breath and jogged toward the barrier that edged the pit lane. My lanyard flipped in the wind behind me, chest rising and falling too fast as the distant red blur of Jay’s car rolled into formation.

The moment his car rolled into view, a loud wave of sound exploded from the stands. The roar of his name wasn’t just noise; it was devotion, hundreds of voices rising all at once like a war cry for their champion. I felt it deep, the way the energy cracked through the air and wrapped around the track. They loved him, adored him. And as the scarlet flash of his livery passed, I could swear he soaked it in like fuel.

The lights went out, and with it, everything else in my head did too. The race started with the world narrowing to the sound of engines screaming down the straight, tires clawing at asphalt, and that flash of red — his red — slicing through the chaos. I watched him push, fight, every inch of the track a battleground for more than just speed.

Every corner he took with the kind of hunger that couldn’t be engineered. He was relentless, dancing that dangerous edge between brilliance and madness. And as the final laps blurred past, I realized I hadn’t unclenched my hands in minutes.

Then, just like that — it was over.

The finish line came fast, sudden and final. The scoreboard lit up a second later, and the numbers punched the air out of my lungs, flashing the impossible results that no one expected: a tie.

Meaning there was one more round. One more chance.

My chest tightened the moment I saw him. Helmet off, fire suit unzipped halfway, sweat clinging to the curve of his jaw — he looked utterly wrung out. His eyes scanned the paddock like he was searching for something he couldn’t name. Like he was still racing, even after the car had stopped.

He sipped from a water bottle someone handed him, barely swallowing before pushing it away. The crew buzzed around him, adjusting things, calling out data — but he barely registered them. I could see it in the way he stood, like his body was here, but his mind was miles away.

He didn’t know I was here yet.

Until I stepped into his line of sight. His shoulders dropped, like some invisible anchor had finally been cut loose. Relief hit him so hard, he stumbled toward me without thinking — like instinct, like gravity.

“Hey,” I whispered, catching him as his arms wrapped around me tight.

He buried his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in like I was the only clean air he’d had all day. I stroked the back of his head, gently, grounding him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here before the first round,” I murmured against his hair. “I got caught up, the traffic — everything. I was late. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh...” His voice was hoarse but sure. “You’re here now. That’s all I care about.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, soft eyes flickering.

Then someone called out from the other end of the paddock — “Jay, you're up. Let’s go, round two!”

He sighed, long and quiet, as he adjusted the strap of his helmet. I could tell that he wasn’t entirely ready to walk away, but he was about to with seconds ticking against his chest.

“Wait,” I whispered as I reached out, lightly touching his arm.

He paused mid-step, turned back toward me. Even though I couldn’t see his face through the tinted visor, I knew him well enough to feel the way his breath caught. That slight hesitation in his stance, the tilt of his head — like muscle memory pulling him back to me.

I stepped in close and lifted myself just enough to lean in, lips pressing against the visor in a kiss — right where my lipstick always left its mark. “Be safe,” I murmured, letting the words settle between us. “And win.”

He didn’t speak, just a firm nod, then his gloved hand found mine and gave it a gentle squeeze, like a silent ‘thank you’. Then he jogged off toward the car, his steps lighter — like he’d just been handed something back, like a reborn man.

I watched him leave — not as his engineer, not as a strategist or teammate — but as someone who knew the rhythm of his breath better than telemetry ever could. My chest felt tight again, like my heart was being held between two trembling hands, trembling with awe, with nerves and with love tucked in the space between every beat.

I’d made my way back to the viewing area, blending in with the sea of spectators. Just one among thousands, waiting for that light to go out. The countdown felt like it echoed inside me.

Three.

Two.

One.

The start lights disappeared again for the last time today, and the roar of the engines came back. His car launched forward, surging like it had been waiting to be unleashed, finally. The corners he took now are done with surgical precision, every overtake like a challenge flung down and answered without mercy, every sector time had my heart climbing higher into my head.

He wasn’t just fast, he was fierce. Clean lines. Ruthless moves. This wasn’t just him racing — this is him alive in that car, completely himself again.

Each lap was a war of nerves. Each sector bled seconds. When the checkered flag waved and dropped, it was like the entire circuit inhaled at once.

He won.

For a second, I didn’t hear the explosion of cheers around me. It was like I’d gone under, submerged in disbelief and wonder. I was still watching the scoreboard, hands over my mouth, eyes wide. Then the noise came rushing in all at once like a wave of sound. Applause, shouting, all strangers around me screamed his name and I smiled through my shock, hands still pressed to my lips.

Somehow, I knew what he believed with every fiber of his being that the kiss — that little touch of lipstick on his visor — had something to do with it.

The cameras cut to parc fermé, but he didn’t go to the others. He didn’t even look toward the podium gates. With his helmet in hand, freeing his wild hair, gloves forgotten, Jay ran.

He bolted straight past the team, past the press, past the sea of microphones and congratulations, the kind that usually dragged him in. He didn’t stop, he didn’t even hesitate. He made for the barrier like it was the only thing keeping him from breathing.

Then — he leapt over the pit wall.

Security shouted, startled. A few mechanics turned in confusion. But I saw him, eyes locked on mine like he’d never looked away. The world blurred around us.

He reached me in seconds, arms crashing around my waist, lifting me off my feet with the full weight of everything he’d held in. And when he buried his face in my shoulder, it wasn’t just relief — it was release.

“Don’t ever make me race without the kiss again,” he choked out, breath coming fast, smile blooming with that stupid, boy-ish recklessness I’d fallen for in the first place.

His earpiece was still buzzing: “Box for podium protocol, Jay. Jay? Jay — where the hell did he go?”

I laughed, half-shaking, half-melting into him. My hands slid into his sweat-damp hair, curling around the base of his neck, pulling him back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You don’t need luck,” I whispered.

He smiled, forehead resting against mine, sweat-slick and beaming, his eyes shining. “Yeah,” he breathed, “you’re right. I don’t need luck.” His lips brushed against mine, soft and sure, “I need you.”

332 notes · View notes

onetoomanyfandomfixations · 1 year ago

Text

Hazbin Hotel Characters React to You Asking for a Hug (PART 2)

Buckle in bitches, its time for some COMFORT

Lucifer

Guys he’s SO nervous

“Oh really? You, uh, you want a hug from me? Are you sure?”

Nervous laughter 100

Takes a hot minute for him to adjust, but DOES give good hugs

WING HUGS. Y’ALL KNOW HOW I GET ABOUT WING HUGS.

Y’all gotta remember he’s a dad

So good, firm dad hug

His hands are clammy af, but don’t mention that pls

Gives you the opportunity to talk out whatever’s going through your head

Actually has really insightful advice

Like his daughter, honestly so honoured you chose to come to him

Lute

“Must I?”

Begrudging as FUCK

But she’ll do it

If she has to

Stiff, awkward hugs that last for 5 seconds tops

No wing hugs :(

“Human souls are weird”

Tries to teach you how to fight so you can use sparring as a “normal” coping mechanism

Adam

As much as I hate him, would give BANGIN hugs

“Fuck, you wan’ a hug? Fuck yeah bitch, get over here!”

Super enthusiastic about it????

Like, gives you shit, but its still one of the tightest and most excited hugs you’ve ever received

Very very warm

You will probably overheat if you stay there too long

WING HUGS!!!!!!!

Will be extra touchy with you from here on out

Arm around the shoulder, etc

Carmilla

Is she mom, or mommy? Jury’s still out on that one.

Will never ever refuse you if you need a hug

Will, however, try to pull you aside and make it a private moment

Not a big fan on PDA, but your wellbeing takes priority

Makes you rest your head against her chest, no matter how tall you are

If you tell her what’s going on, will fix it

You don’t even need to ask.

She’s gonna check up on you after at LEAST twice

Rosie

Is she mom or mommy part 2: electric boogaloo

Drops EVERYTHING

Ushers you into a sunroom and brews you a pot of tea to share

And grabs snacks, of course

Definitely forgets if cannibalism makes you queasy

Holds you hand from across the table and encourages you to talk it out with her

A lil bit pushy about it, but its from a place of love

But if you need it, will definitely hug you

Another one with bone shattering hugs

Her hands are cold af tho, so beware

Vox

Tbh doesn’t hear you the first time, he’s super focused on whatever else he’s doing

Once he hears you/it registers to him, he’s pretty confused

“Why do you need a hug?”

Only hugs you if y’all are really close

Generally not a touchy person

He won’t stop whatever he’s doing though

Most likely will just sit you in his lap, so he can cuddle And work

Multitasking, bitch

Don’t do it while he’s actively broadcasting though

Super against PDA (bc he’s embarrassed) and will probably snap at you if you break this boundary

Velvette

“Wot. Why?”

Also confused

Like Vox, usually to busy to properly hug you

But will let you stick around and lay all over her while she works

Anyone who questions it dies Very quickly, and Very grotesquely

Very protective

“Babes, do I need to hurt someone? Coz you Know I’ll do it”

Probs takes selfies of you hanging off of her bc she thinks its cute

Will dress you up to try and make you feel better

Valentino

Seek psychological help 💕

I know he’s got a sexy voice, but you know I’m right

2K notes · View notes

byhuenii · 1 month ago

Text

Cake by the Ocean

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis a chaotic beach day turns into a bonfire full of bad karaoke, worse dancing, and you & bucky being dangerously cute. pure unhinged fun.

Word count 8.1k

Tags + Warnings f!reader, alcohol mention / drinking, mild language, reader is a little tipsy, flirty banter galore, so much chaotic energy, mentions of being tied up (in a funny way, not serious!), cringe but make it wholesome, lowkey emotional whiplash via Bucky’s soft side, drunk Tony Stark deserves his own warning tbh, off-screen violence mention, mock-violence / fake threats, light suggestiveness, mention of fresh 2022.

— Cake by the Ocean beach day with the avengers: 0% normal, 100% chaos.

The Avengers at the beach was either a masterstroke of genius… or a catastrophic miscalculation.

The sun was high, the breeze was warm, and the sand was hot enough to burn the soles off Thor’s flip-flops (which were, in fact, just two cut-up Mjölnirs Steve duct-taped together as a “punishment” for skipping beach duty sign-up). Everyone was in vacation mode—half of them should’ve been monitored, the other half were monitoring but gave up after Wanda spiked her floatie drink and levitated herself into a nap.

You were laid out on a pastel towel that had glittery pineapples printed on it, shades perched on your nose, tanning oil glistening on your skin. Beside you were Natasha, Wanda, and Kate sprawled in various degrees of sun-dazed glam, bikinis matching their sass levels. Music thumped from Tony's giant Bluetooth speaker setup, which was definitely not waterproof but “definitely is Iron Man approved,” as he declared while sipping what was definitely not a kid-friendly drink from a pineapple.

"[Name]’ Natasha said lazily, flipping a page in her fashion magazine, “your man’s about to launch Peter into the stratosphere.”

You lifted your sunglasses and peered out over the sand, and hoo boy—

Bucky Barnes was a sight. Saltwater in his hair, sand clinging to his back, sun glinting off that metal arm, and board shorts riding just low enough to make your heart consider doing cartwheels.

Peter was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, flailing. "Bucky, Bucky—no! I just ate! This is child endangerment—" "You think I care, Spider-Boy?!" Bucky barked in mock rage. “You touched my cold brew, you little menace!”

With a war cry that would’ve made Thor proud, Bucky ran full speed into the ocean and launched Peter into the water with zero hesitation.

You were full-on cackling as Kate snapped a shot with her vintage digital camera. “That one’s for the ‘Blackmail 2025’ folder.”

Wanda smirked. “I thought this was supposed to be beach therapy. This is glorious.

“I feel healed,” you added, reaching for your iced drink.

Meanwhile, under a leopard-print umbrella (Nat’s, obviously), the girl gang was in full gossip mode.

Kate, sporting sunglasses bigger than her head, was flicking through her digital camera, making running commentary.

“Okay, okay—this one of [Name] mid-scream while Bucky sprints toward the ocean? Art. I might make it your lock screen.”

“Send it to me,” Wanda said instantly. “Also, [Name]. Spill. That man feeds you strawberries, kisses you like he’s in a period drama, and looks like he could bench-press the jet. Are you okay? Emotionally? Hydrated?”

You laughed, hiding your face in your hands. “I don’t know what to do with him! He’s like… annoyingly romantic without trying.”

Nat nodded knowingly. “That’s how you know it’s real. Bucky doesn’t do things unless they mean something.”

Kate gasped. “He gave you his last bite of his breakfast this morning. I saw it. That was a symbolic gesture.”

“He literally carried me into the ocean as soon as we got here.”

“Symbolic and dramatic,” Wanda agreed. “Perfect match.”

Then—Steve walked by.

Soaked, abs shining like the sun itself, golden light haloing around him as if he were the lost Hemsworth brother.

He tipped his head toward your circle with a gentlemanly nod, lips quirking.

“Ladies.”

Every one of you blinked.

“...Did he just—” Kate began.

“—walk by like the cover of a firefighter calendar?” Wanda finished.

“Why was that so smooth?” you whispered.

Nat didn’t even look up. “It’s the serum. It gives them swagger.”

—

You were lying on your towel, sprawled like a lizard soaking up the heat, when a shadow fell over you.

“Flip,” Bucky said, a little gruff.

You raised your brows. “Excuse me?”

He held up a bottle of sunscreen with a single shrug, then crouched down beside you. “Gotta keep that pretty skin safe.”

You smirked but rolled over, propping your head on your arms.

And then—

Oh.

Slow hands. Gentle pressure. He started at your shoulders, thumbs working in careful circles, rubbing the sunscreen in like you were fragile or sacred or his. His touch dragged down your spine with a patience that made your breath catch. His metal hand stayed steady, cool, while the other lingered a bit too long at the dip of your lower back.

You shifted slightly, biting your lip.

“Concentrating,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move. Can’t miss a spot.”

“Sure,” you whispered, heart pounding.

And then—smack.

A quick little ass tap, shameless.

“Bucky!” you gasped.

He just smiled, leaned down next to your ear, and said, “I’m making sure everything’s covered, doll.”

—

It started as a joke—you sitting behind Bucky, legs on either side of his hips, twisting a small section of his hair while he helped Peter fix a busted floatie.

“Stop moving,” you said, tongue between your teeth as you focused.

“I don’t even know what you’re doing,” he grumbled.

“You’re getting a braid, soldier. Suck it up.”

Peter giggled. “You’re gonna be so cute.”

Bucky: “I will put you in the sand.”

But he let you finish. You tied it off with a tiny elastic Kate had in her bag.

Later, when Sam noticed, he snorted. “Barnes, you got a lil’ friendship braid.”

Bucky immediately went, “She attacked me. I didn’t know.”

“You let her,” Nat called from behind her sunglasses.

He huffed—but didn’t take it out.

Not for the rest of the day.

Not even during volleyball.

And when you kissed it later, gently, he muttered, “Might need another tomorrow.”

—

The sun was high, the waves lapping lazily, and suddenly—because Tony Stark doesn’t do casual—a giant, inflatable obstacle course had magically appeared on the shore. Bright colors, ridiculous twists and slides, even a little slip-and-slide that looked like it belonged on a water park commercial.

“Why?” you asked Tony, raising an eyebrow as he strode past with a grin.

“Because beach day is a competition,” he declared. “And I win.”

Peter’s eyes lit up instantly. “Challenge accepted!”

You glanced at Bucky, who gave you a slow smile, fingers tightening around your hand.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Always.”

Peter took off like a rocket, determined to destroy the course. But two minutes in, he hit a slippery patch, flailed wildly, and wiped out spectacularly—face first into the water.

“PETER!” Tony shouted from the juice bar. “Keep it together, kid!”

Bucky grinned, helping you start the course. He was steady and sure, careful as he guided you over the wobbly parts, his hands warm and firm on your waist.

Midway through, he suddenly stopped near the edge, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Hold on,” he said, and before you could protest, he pulled you toward the water, plunging you both in with a splash that soaked you from head to toe.

You sputtered, laughing as he leaned down and kissed you—wet hair, salty skin, and all.

“Worth it,” he murmured against your lips.

Meanwhile, on the sand, Wanda was conjuring floating glowing orbs—soft, warm spheres of light that bobbed gently above the ground.

“Try to juggle them,” she challenged, tossing one to Nat, then one to Clint, then another to Sam.

What started as a graceful display quickly turned chaotic as the orbs floated unpredictably, bobbing out of reach or colliding midair.

Clint tried to catch two at once and ended up tumbling backward, knocking over Sam who shrieked louder than Peter ever had.

Wanda just smiled mischievously. “Maybe next time, fewer orbs.”

Suddenly, a piercing shriek echoed from the other side of the beach.

“A CRAB!” Sam shouted, scrambling backwards.

Turns out a crab had found its way into someone’s beach bag, its claws clicking menacingly.

Clint, ever the animal whisperer, immediately got down on the sand and tried to coax the crab like it was a tiny puppy.

Bucky’s expression hardened, and he moved quickly to pull you behind him.

“Nope. Not today,” he said, eyes sharp as the crab advanced.

You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling safe and amused as Clint debated naming the crab “Sir Pinchy.”

—

Later, Tony was parked under the umbrella like a beachside DJ, spinning between '80s rock, summer pop, and aggressively inappropriate Pitbull songs. Kate was passing out juice boxes to Peter and the younger crew like a chaotic lifeguard mom. Clint was inexplicably playing volleyball while blindfolded. ("Training.")

"Alright, nerds!" Sam shouted, bouncing the volleyball in his hands. "Court's open! Battle of the century. Let’s go!"

Teams were chosen with chaotic precision:

—You and Nat: Code Red Dream Team.

—Steve and Clint: Super Soldiers and… Steve’s emotional support Hawkeye?

—Peter and Tony: The Smartasses.

—Sam and Bucky: The Trash-Talk Titans.

Kate and Wanda stood at either end with whistles, caps, and printed referee cards. (Where did they get those? You didn’t know. You didn’t ask.)

Kate had on her biggest bucket hat, clipboard in hand like an Olympic coach. Wanda stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes glowing red for “ref dramatics.”

Kate blew a whistle she definitely stole from a lifeguard stand. “Game one! First serve—[Name] and Nat. Try not to get sand in your egos!”

You stepped up, squinting in the sun. Nat stretched beside you, looking entirely unbothered.

“This is for our honor,” you whispered.

“And our thighs,” Nat replied. “We’re going to look amazing spiking this ball.”

You served. Clean. Perfect. The ball zipped straight into Tony’s chest.

“Ow! Ow, okay, someone deflate her,” he wheezed.

“I like her inflated,” Bucky muttered from across the court.

“EXCUSE ME?” Sam hollered, eyes wide.

Wanda didn’t even blink. “Penalty for being horny during the serve.”

Bucky: “What?! That’s not—”

Kate blew the whistle again. “Shut up and rotate!”

Cue a montage of mayhem:

—Clint accidentally spikes the ball into Steve’s face and yells “friendly fire!”

—Tony tries to use repulsors to hover for a save. Wanda floats him two feet backward out of bounds. “No tech, Stark.”

—Peter dives for every ball like it’s the end of the world and somehow takes out three umbrellas and a cooler.

—Nat is scarily good and no one’s shocked.

—You score a point on Sam with a fake-out set and Bucky whoops so loud you nearly trip over yourself laughing.

“You’re going down, Barnes,” you called, flipping your ponytail as you took your position.

Bucky winked from across the net, already spinning the ball in his hand. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re not ready for this heat.”

The match that followed could only be described as Olympic-level drama.

Steve dove for a save that turned into a sand-eating faceplant. Peter accidentally webbed the ball into the snack table. Tony screamed “I AM IRON SPIKE” and hit the ball into low Earth orbit. Sam and Bucky somehow did a coordinated dive that was both completely unnecessary and utterly majestic.

Wanda kept giving out yellow cards. Kate took it so seriously she was threatening to call Fury mid-match.

You? You spiked that ball so hard on Clint he tripped into a cooler.

“You’ve got arms of mass destruction!” he yelled from the ground.

Then, the moment of cinematic chaos:

You’re off court, catching your breath, and Bucky’s mid-play. He’s shirtless (rude), sweaty (ruder), and concentrating so hard he doesn't notice he's being watched. But then he hears it—your voice.

“Let’s go, Barnes!” you shout from the sidelines, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Use those arms!”

He glances back mid-run, smirking—

And immediately eats it face-first into the sand because Sam passed the ball without warning.

Tony shrieks. Peter yells “man down!” and Clint wheezes from laughter.

From the sand, Bucky groans, turning over slowly. “You did that on purpose.”

You jog over, hovering above him with your hands on your hips, trying not to laugh. “I was literally cheering for you.”

He grabs your ankle.

“Bucky—!”

And just like that, he hauls you down onto the sand, flipping you until you’re under him, his metal arm braced beside your head.

“Now we’re both out,” he says smugly, eyes sparkling.

“You’re gonna get sand in my—”

He kisses you.

“Penalty!” Kate calls, blowing her whistle wildly. “You can’t kiss during a timeout!”

“Wanda, enforce it!” Sam shouts.

But Wanda just shrugs. “They’re cute. Let them live.”

—

The ocean had calmed, volleyball lines now half-faded, and the team gathered under a massive sunshade Tony had somehow rigged with repulsor-powered cooling fans. (Because, “sweating is a war crime.”)

Lunch was a full spread: sandwiches, fruit platters, chips, a suspicious amount of guac, and desserts Wanda had magicked into existence with a flick of her wrist and zero FDA oversight. Everyone sat scattered on beach towels and folding chairs, lazily reaching for snacks, plates balanced on knees, drinks in sand-embedded cupholders.

You were perched between Bucky’s legs, your back resting against his chest as he sat up behind you, legs on either side of yours, his vibranium hand holding a plate while his other casually plucked a strawberry and lifted it to your lips.

“You first,” he murmured, low and soft, that small smile he always gave just for you on his lips.

You gave him a look. “What, you’re not gonna eat unless I do?”

He shrugged. “Can’t let you waste away before dinner. That would be irresponsible.”

“Is this your love language?” you teased, biting the strawberry.

Bucky leaned closer, his scruff brushing your jaw as he kissed your temple. “It’s classified.”

Across from you, Sam let out a loud, exaggerated groan. “Aww, would you look at this domestic mess. Sergeant Barnes out here like he’s in a beachside rom-com.”

Peter snorted through a mouthful of sandwich. “He’s literally feeding her. Feeding. Like—did I miss a Hallmark movie casting call?”

Nat smirked around her drink. “Let them be in love, boys. It’s cute. And if you tease him too hard, he will launch you both back into the ocean.”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Try me.”

“Not you, Nat,” he added quickly. “You’re safe. They, however?” He pointed at Sam and Peter, expression flat. “Flight risk.”

Lunch had settled into a lazy lull. People were stretched out in the sand, limbs heavy and sun-drunk. Tony had dozed off with his sunglasses tilted sideways. Sam and Clint were arguing about who had the better volleyball serve (still). Nat and Wanda were deeply focused on making an elaborate sand sculpture of the Quinjet. Kate was editing photos and muttering about “perfect Instagram lighting.”

And you? You were still tucked between Bucky’s legs under the umbrella, full and smiling, when he leaned forward, arm brushing yours.

“You got room for dessert?” he murmured, already holding out a mini chocolate cupcake like it was a sacred offering.

“I thought you were the one who said I was gonna waste away earlier,” you said, grinning as you took it.

“Still true. You burn calories faster when you laugh. And you’ve been laughing all day.”

“Because you keep threatening to throw Peter into the ocean.”

“And I will.”

You laughed again—and Bucky looked like he might melt into the towel from how hard he was staring at you.

You bit into the cupcake, humming at how rich and gooey it was. He watched you with a tilted head, that classic Bucky Barnes soft-smile that meant danger, you’re about to be ruined by how tender he can be.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said too innocently. Then, he leaned in and kissed you, slow and warm and tasting like chocolate and heat. His hand curled gently around your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek. When he pulled away, just barely, he smirked.

“Had to taste the sweetness.”

You blinked, breath catching.

“Was that a line?”

He kissed you again. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Then he handed you an ice pop, which you opened while muttering something about him being lucky he’s cute. He wiped a smear of melted red juice from your bottom lip with his thumb—then, yep, kissed you again.

“You’re just using dessert as an excuse,” you teased, melting more than the popsicle.

“I don’t need an excuse,” he whispered, voice low and full of that sleepy-summer love.

And then Peter yelled across the beach, “DO YOU TWO EVER STOP?” before promptly being tackled into the water by Sam and Clint mid-shriek.

You and Bucky just grinned and kept sharing the ice pop.

You were about halfway through the ice pop—cherry, sticky-sweet, cold enough to make your lips tingle—when Bucky leaned in again, eyes on your mouth like you were the most fascinating thing on the beach.

“You’re not even pretending to wait between kisses anymore,” you murmured, glancing up at him.

“Why would I?” he replied, unapologetic. “You taste like summer.”

That would’ve been swoonworthy enough, but then he kissed you with the popsicle still in your hand, one hand on your thigh, the other braced behind you on the towel, drawing you in until you could barely remember how to breathe.

You were too distracted to notice the rest of the girls watching from under Nat’s umbrella like they were at a reality show finale.

Kate raised her sunglasses, eyes wide. “That man is out here giving Nicholas Sparks with a six-pack.”

Wanda took a long sip of her juice box. “I swear, if Bucky picks her up bridal-style again I’m going to cry. I want what they have.”

Nat snorted. “No you don’t. You want to watch what they have and live vicariously while judging them silently.”

“That too,” Wanda said. “I’m multifaceted.”

Then, like he heard the commentary, Bucky glanced up over your head and gave the girls a small smirk—one of those classic Bucky looks that said I know what I’m doing and I’m going to keep doing it.

You looked back and caught them staring.

“Do you mind?” you called, laughing. “This is a private moment!”

Wanda waved you off. “If you want privacy, don’t look that in love in public!”

Kate snapped another photo. “Sorry, this is too cinematic. That lighting? The cherry popsicle kiss?? I'm tagging this beachside thirst trap, soldier edition.”

You dropped your head into Bucky’s shoulder with a groan while he just chuckled, clearly loving the attention.

—

As you tried to recover from the emotional damage of public display affection shaming, Steve strolled by again, glistening wet from the water, towel slung over his shoulder like a Greek god returning from battle.

“Ladies,” he said, nodding as he passed.

“AGAIN?” Kate screeched. “He does this on purpose.”

“He walks like Poseidon and talks like a Victorian suitor,” Wanda muttered, stunned.

Nat, totally unfazed, raised her drink. “We let him.”

Later, you were flat on your towel again, skin sun-warmed and belly full, when Bucky leaned down and kissed you—quick, barely there, except it wasn’t quick. His lips lingered, like he had more to say but didn’t need words for it.

“Mm,” you murmured, fingers brushing the side of his face. “What was that for?”

He shrugged. “You had sunscreen on your lips. Had to help.”

“You’re so full of it.”

“You love it.”

You absolutely did.

Eventually, everyone was sprawled back out on the beach, exhaustion finally taming the chaos. Music still played. Tony napped face-first in a towel. Kate was clicking away, camera in hand, sneakily capturing every goofy grin and sun-kissed candid.

You were gossiping with Nat and Wanda, reliving the game and rating everyone's beach fits (Peter’s tank top got a 4, but only because he’d had ketchup on it since arrival), when the atmosphere shifted.

"Hydration check," a deep voice said.

You turned—and there was Bucky, walking straight toward you, shirt off, water glistening on his torso, looking like a freaking Baywatch promo. You swore slow-mo kicked in. Nat actually dropped her drink. Wanda fanned herself.

“You look dehydrated,” he said, too casual. “Gotta fix that.”

“Bucky—don’t—”

You didn’t even get to finish your sentence.

He scooped you up, bridal style, and took off sprinting toward the ocean.

“BUCKY BARNES YOU PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW!” you shrieked, kicking and laughing and slapping his shoulder.

“No can do, sweetheart! You’ll thank me later!”

The water was cold. Your scream echoed. He didn’t even hesitate.

The splash could’ve been seen from space.

You emerged sputtering, makeup half gone, swimsuit slightly off-kilter, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. Bucky was grinning like the smug menace he was, brushing wet hair off your face as you glared at him, chest still heaving.

“I hate you,” you said, still smiling.

He leaned in. “No you don’t.”

“…Fine,” you huffed. “But you owe me a back massage later.”

“You got it, doll.”

—

Back at your towel, Bucky shifted to lie back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily hooked around your waist. His fingers traced small circles over the curve of your hip, casual and affectionate.

“You good, doll?” he asked, eyes squinting against the sun.

You laid your head on his chest. “Too good. It’s suspicious. Something chaotic’s about to happen.”

Right on cue—

Peter: "SAM NO—WAIT—"

Splash.

Tony (somewhere from the juice bar, sipping a mojito): “I said don’t try to piggyback the Falcon while he’s flying, Underoos! That’s physics!”

And like clockwork, Clint: “Volleyball rematch in ten! I’m not letting Cap and the archer win again with their golden boy synergy!”

Kate stood, already holding a clipboard. “Wanda and I are reffing. There will be no mercy and no backsies.”

Wanda flicked her fingers, her sunglasses glowing red. “If anyone argues a call, I will float you.”

Bucky groaned. “Great. We’re doing this again.”

You stood, brushing sand off your legs and giving him a teasing smirk. “Come on, Baywatch. Time to lose gracefully.”

He grabbed your hand and tugged you toward him for one last kiss.

“I don’t plan on losing anything,” he whispered. “Especially not you.”

You rolled your eyes, heart pounding. “Cheesy.”

“Sweet,” he corrected. “Like that kiss.”

You were so not ready for how much you loved this man.

The girls had claimed a perfect stretch of sand for sand angels, arms and legs flailing in unison, laughter ringing as they crafted perfect impressions.

The boys tried to join in, but it quickly devolved. Bucky flopped down beside you and made a half-hearted angel, sand sticking to his skin.

Then Clint, always the instigator, launched a sandball that kicked off a full sand fight.

Bucky was a sniper, sneaking up behind you and hitting you with a perfect, cool ball of sand. You shrieked and retaliated, sending a small flurry right back at him.

Nearby, Tony had set up “sand traps” with sensors, and Steve was the first victim—walking straight into one and getting showered in sand. Someone caught it on their phone, and the video quickly went viral.

Everyone was laughing, messy and sunburned, caught in perfect chaos—just like family.

—

You were asleep. Peacefully. On Bucky’s chest. His arms were wrapped around you like sea-worn stone—protective, unmoving, devoted. He’d tilted his head back on the umbrella pole, closed his eyes, and let himself drift with your breath syncing against him.

“Yo, Barnes,” Sam whispered nearby, tossing a towel. It hit Bucky’s arm. He didn’t budge.

“You gonna move?” Steve asked.

“Nope,” Bucky mumbled. “She’s sleeping.”

“She’s drooling on your chest.”

“Still cute.”

15 minutes later:

Peter, armed with a plastic bucket of ocean water, cackled across the beach like a feral gremlin. His target? Sam. His crime? Aim.

He hurled the water.

It missed Sam.

Hit. You. Dead center.

Your gasp was shriek-level loud.

Bucky sat up like a SEAL on alert. You were soaked. Spluttering. Betrayed. Peter’s smile dropped.

“I’m—OH NO—” he started running.

Too late.

Bucky launched from the towel like a vengeful beach deity, grabbed Peter mid-sprint, and slung him over his shoulder like a sandbag.

“NOOO—MR. STARK!!” Peter screamed. “MR. STARK HELP ME—”

But Tony was singing ‘Telephone’ at full volume, doing dramatic Lady Gaga choreography with a juice box microphone. “Sorry I cannot hear you, I’m kinda busy!��

Bucky ran full speed to the shore.

Peter: “I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE IN THE OCEAN—”

Splash.

You were off snapping pics with Kate and Wanda when Nat wandered past Bucky, who was crouched alone in the sand.

She paused, narrowed her eyes.

There it was—your name, scratched in messy letters, right next to a crooked heart. Bucky used the edge of his dog tag to etch it in carefully, like he was carving something permanent into the world.

He wiped his hand over it the second he noticed her.

“Mmhm,” Nat said, arms crossed.

“Wasn’t me,” Bucky replied.

“Right. Just some other lovestruck ex-assassin with bad handwriting?”

He didn’t answer.

But when you returned and saw the slightly smudged heart, you smiled.

Didn’t say anything.

Just kissed his cheek.

He blushed like a sunburn.

As the day drew on, you and Bucky stole more moments: laying side by side with his hand resting on your hip, walking along the surf where he picked up a seashell and slipped it into your bag like a secret gift, slow kisses under the umbrella that made Sam dramatically retch from ten feet away.

“Y’all got three feet of PDA before I call HR!” he shouted.

Bucky pulled you closer.

“File the paperwork,” he muttered against your neck.

—

Kate and Sam had appointed themselves the unofficial lifeguards of the beach, perched high on a couple of wooden chairs with whistles around their necks and oversized sunglasses hiding their grins.

“Alright, Beach Patrol, eyes sharp,” Kate called, blowing her whistle once.

Sam smirked, scanning the water like a pro… until he caught sight of Kate tossing sand at him. The whistle was forgotten. Suddenly, they were chasing each other in a sand sprint, laughter echoing across the shore.

Meanwhile, Peter was cautiously wading near the rocks, focusing hard on his footing. Just as he shifted weight, the slick algae caught his foot and he started to fall backward.

Bucky, standing nearby with you in his arms (literally, you’d been climbing onto his back earlier), immediately stepped forward and caught Peter’s arm before he toppled.

“Whoa there, kid,” Bucky said, steadying him.

Peter blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “Thanks, Bucky!”

Bucky struck a mock-heroic pose—one foot propped on a rock, chest puffed, looking like he was ready for a movie poster.

Tony, lounging nearby with a drink, raised an eyebrow and called out, “Save the day and work the runway, huh?”

Clint burst out laughing, and even Peter joined in, teasing, “Look at you, Mr. Hero Pose!”

Bucky just rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips as you leaned into him, whispering, “You’re my hero.”

—

The tide pools were a treasure trove of color and life, shimmering beneath the soft light. You and Bucky wandered among the rocks, carefully stepping to avoid slippery seaweed.

You crouched down, holding out a tiny iridescent shell, “Look at this one.”

Bucky smiled softly, pulling a small shell from a crevice and handing it to you. “Here. For you.”

You tucked it behind your ear, giggling.

He watched you with a shy smile that crept up slowly. Every time you found a “perfect” shell, he seemed to glow a little brighter, like he was proud to be your partner in this simple, beautiful moment.

At one point, you turned around, and Bucky was tracing circles in the sand with his finger, writing your initials surrounded by shells.

You caught his eye, heart fluttering, and whispered, “You’re full of surprises.”

He just shrugged, cheeks pink. “Only for you."

—

By sundown, the team was gathered around a beach bonfire, roasting marshmallows and reminiscing about past missions and today's “survival stories.” Peter tried to make a S’mores tower that collapsed instantly. Tony declared he was building an Iron-Man-themed snack bar for next year. Steve offered to grill next time if someone (Sam) stopped bringing vegan sausages.

As the stars blinked to life overhead, you leaned into Bucky’s side, head on his shoulder.

“I think today might’ve been perfect,” you said quietly.

Bucky looked down at you, expression soft. “You make it perfect.”

And later that night, your phone buzzed:

📸 Kate Bishop Subject: “You’re the Main Character 😌” 67 new photos

There were candids of you laughing, Bucky stealing a kiss on your cheek, you mid-scream as he carried you to the water, a selfie of you both sun-drenched and smile-worn.

And one last photo—just you, standing in the sunset, wind in your hair, golden hour catching your smile like magic.

—You laughing with the girls —Bucky kissing the top of your head —Your intertwined hands silhouetted against the sunset —A perfectly framed snap of you mid-laugh, wind in your hair, eyes sparkling —You and Bucky mid-kiss with a melting popsicle between you —Bucky looking at you like he hung the sun himself —You, wet hair, sunglasses on, absolutely glowing —The moment Steve said “ladies” and every girl blushed in unison —A group shot of everyone mid-volleyball chaos, sand flying, Peter in the air somehow, Sam yelling

—And a single candid of Bucky wiping cherry juice from your lips with his thumb —That moment he fed you the perfect s’more —You and Bucky sharing a hoodie by the bonfire, his arms wrapped around you, your head tucked under his chin. The fire glow behind you looks straight out of a Nicholas Sparks adaptation. —That moment he fed you the perfect s’more

— you mid-laugh, chocolate on your lip, and Bucky smirking as he wiped it with his thumb. Too much. Too soft—You two dancing under the stars, your back against his chest, his cheek resting on your head. Kate labeled it “soft-core emotional damage” in her album. —Bucky looking at you like you're the only person alive during lunch. You didn’t even know he looked at you like that.

At the bottom, a message: “You two are disgustingly cute. Can’t wait for the wedding. 💍❤️”

You stared at the photos, heart full, face warm, and whispered to yourself with a smile—

“Yeah. Definitely perfect.”

—

The sun had tucked itself below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of lavender and peach, and now the only glow came from the crackling bonfire and a string of fairy lights Tony had aggressively zip-tied to some driftwood “for ambience.”

People were sprawled in loose circles around the flames, wrapped in towels, hoodies, or each other. You were tucked between Bucky's legs, your back resting against his chest, his arms loose around your waist. It was warm, but his presence made everything feel warmer.

"Alright, who's got the marshmallows—?" Clint called, already holding one dangerously close to the flames.

"You haven't even put it on the stick, man," Sam deadpanned.

You reached for a stick and started roasting your own, methodically spinning it for that golden crust.

Peter sat way too close to the chocolate stash, stacking two bars and an entire marshmallow mountain between his graham crackers. "This is gonna be a masterpiece."

"That's a war crime," Kate muttered, watching as half the chocolate slid out and melted on his lap.

Tony whipped out a crème brûlée torch like he was unveiling the sword of Excalibur. “Gourmet time, people.”

Sam stared. “You’re not on Top Chef, bro.”

Meanwhile, Clint was already holding up a charred marshmallow that looked like it had survived a house fire. "Perfect."

"You're banned from fire," Nat said, snatching the stick from him and handing it to Wanda.

You, focused and patient, pulled your marshmallow out of the flame—perfectly golden, gooey inside. You turned, triumphant, and Bucky was already holding up a graham cracker in one hand, chocolate waiting.

“C’mon,” he murmured, blue eyes catching the firelight, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. “Let me help.”

You sandwiched the marshmallow carefully, fingers brushing, and just as you were about to bite, Bucky tilted the s’more up and fed it to you himself, slow, deliberate. Chocolate smeared slightly at the corner of your mouth.

Before you could even reach for a napkin, he leaned in and licked it clean—quick and smug, soft and smugger.

The world blurred around you—Kate shrieking about her sandal getting caught in the log pile, Peter yelling “FIRE SAFETY” at Tony, Sam swearing Clint set his towel on fire—and still, it was just you and Bucky, wrapped in this flickering, perfect moment.

—

Wanda clapped her hands once. “Alright. Confessions circle. You know the rules. Be messy or be boring.”

Peter immediately launched into the story about webbing himself to a lamppost during patrol and getting stuck there for two hours until MJ found him with a churro and pity.

Everyone howled.

Clint’s involved a failed disguise involving a raccoon and a trench coat, which somehow ended with him being tackled by mall security. "The raccoon was wearing sunglasses," he defended. “I committed.”

Then, it was Bucky’s turn.

He looked into the fire for a second, then, quietly: “Used to sneak out of barracks during training. Brooklyn summer nights. I’d take my girl—whoever I was with at the time—down to the docks and teach her how to dance. Didn’t always have music. Just… steps and stars.”

You didn’t say a word. You were too busy falling in love with him again, with every syllable, every ghost of a memory. He glanced at you halfway through, and even though he was speaking to everyone, the rest of the story felt like it was for you.

Then it was your turn.

You shifted, suddenly bashful. “Okay—so… this was before Bucky and I were together. I was on this mission, right? Supposed to intercept a target in this corporate tower. But while I was waiting, one of the employees stumbled on me. Poor guy was terrified, but I didn’t want to kill him—he wasn’t the target.”

Everyone leaned in.

“So I tied him up—nicely, okay?—and just kinda… started ranting about Bucky. Like full-on ‘what if I ruin the friendship’ and ‘what if he doesn’t mean it when he brushes my hand and then holds it for too long?’ levels of meltdown. I asked the poor guy for advice. While tied up.”

There was dead silence.

You added, sheepish: “We talked for like an hour. Turns out he hated his boss, who was the target, so I let him go. We’re still mutuals on Letterboxd.”

Peter nearly choked on a marshmallow. “GIRL WHAT—”

Kate and Wanda howled.

Nat leaned forward, cackling. “Wait. That’s real?”

Bucky was quiet for a beat, then laughed—low and soft and a little smug. “Should’ve known you were already obsessed.”

You elbowed him, but leaned into him seconds later, and he wrapped his arms tighter around you like you were made of something precious. Sacred.

The night deepened, wind picking up off the waves. You shivered once, and before the second could hit, Bucky was already peeling off his hoodie.

“Here,” he murmured, slipping it over your shoulders. “Can’t have you freezing.”

You smiled as you tucked yourself into the hoodie—it smelled like him, and the sleeves nearly swallowed your hands.

Then, without hesitation, he wrapped himself around you again from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Just in case the hoodie’s not enough.”

You finished your wild story, face flushed, eyes wide as the group stared at you like you had just announced you were actually a raccoon in disguise. A very emotional raccoon.

There was a solid five seconds of stunned silence, broken only by the sound of Wanda sucking in a breath through her teeth and whispering, “Oh that’s insane.”

“I—okay. I was vulnerable!” you protested. “And he gave good advice! He said I should be brave!”

Bucky was silently shaking with laughter behind you, chin resting on your shoulder. “So while on a classified mission, you trauma-dumped on a civilian you restrained about me?”

“I tied him up nicely!”

“Oh, well that makes it better,” Sam deadpanned.

Kate leaned forward, clutching her drink. “Wait, what did he say exactly?”

“Yeah,” Tony chimed in, smirking with the gleam of a man who would make this his personality for the rest of the week. “Let’s get a quote or two from your accidental therapist hostage. For posterity.”

You groaned. “He said… I was obviously in love and trying to act chill. He said I was projecting anxiety as aggression, and I told him to shut up but, like, politely.”

“I’M GONNA CRY,” Peter wheezed, nearly choking on his soda.

Nat pointed at you, tears in her eyes from laughing. “You threatened a man and then emotionally collapsed about your crush.”

“He said Bucky probably knew, and I said no he didn’t, and then I spiraled about the way Bucky always opened doors for me and kept touching the small of my back, and—”

“Wait wait wait,” Tony cut in, holding up a hand like he was moderating a courtroom. “THE SMALL OF THE BACK?! How dare you gloss over that detail! That’s prime romance real estate!”

“I was GOING THROUGH IT, OKAY?!”

Bucky, calm and smug and cozy around you, was grinning now. He kissed your temple lightly. “Wish I knew about this sooner. Would’ve made a move that day.”

You turned and stared at him. “WHAT?”

He shrugged, totally unbothered. “Told Steve about my crush on you a week before that mission. Said I was gonna wait till after to tell you, since you were stressed.”

“YOU WHAT.”

Steve raised his hands. “In my defense, I did say he should just tell you.”

Wanda flopped sideways into Kate, kicking her feet. “Oh my god this is better than any romcom. Someone write this down.”

“You let me sob over you to a tied-up man when you were already in love with me?!”

Tony’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. You’re both emotionally unhinged. I love it. I’m giving a toast.”

He raised his drink. “To our very own tragic espionage romance and the hostage who became a couples therapist.”

Peter raised his can. “To Jared from HR or whoever that guy was.”

“His name was Lucas! And he did not ask for this!”

“I want him at your wedding,” Nat said, utterly serious.

Bucky was laughing into your shoulder now, holding you tighter. “Please tell me you still have his number.”

You nodded, face in your hands.

Tony immediately pulled out his phone. “We’re tracking him down. I want the full transcripts.”

It’s late into the bonfire now. You’re still wrapped in Bucky’s hoodie, half in his lap, surrounded by friends who are NOT letting your story go. The marshmallows have stopped burning. Peter is on his fourth s’more. Everyone is in that late-night just unhinged enough to do something dumb mood.

And then Tony, still holding a drink and scrolling through your phone, finds it.

Tony: “Yo. [Name]. Is this the guy? Lucas: Hotdog Stand Guy from Mission??” You blink. “Wait you actually still had him saved?”

You (defensive): “I mean… he was cool!”

Kate: “You’re telling me you saved the number of your emotional hostage pen pal and just—never told us?”

Peter: “Please call him. Please. I need this.”

You hesitate. The group is chanting now. Bucky's arm is snug around your waist, his mouth at your ear.

Bucky (low, teasing): “C’mon, doll. Let’s meet your relationship coach.”

You sigh. Grab the phone. Put it on speaker.

It rings once. Twice. Then—

Lucas (answering, immediately): “Please tell me you didnt butt dial me while youre making out”

You let out a gasp yelling saying it was once, your face flustered bucky let out a low chuckle.

Lucas (with a tone of sass):

"Girl no. Twice."

Lucas (unbothered): “ANYWAYS I BEEN SAYING—Y’ALL HAD CHEMISTRY! WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?! Not me. I KNEW IT.”

You (mortified): “Hi Lucas.”

Lucas: “Ayo is he there? Is Winter Soldier there? Put him on. I GOT WORDS.”

You hold the phone up toward Bucky, who takes it with a bemused expression.

Bucky: “Hey.”

Lucas (serious now): “I’m proud of you, my man. You were giving soft, confused golden retriever energy and you turned that into commitment. Respect.”

Bucky (grinning): “I—thank you?”

Lucas: “You feeding her s’mores? You braiding her hair like she used to dream about in front of me while I was zip-tied?”

Bucky: “…yes?”

Lucas (clapping): “YES SIRRR. That’s growth. That’s romance. I better be best man.”

Tony (yelling): “Lucas, you’re invited to the compound anytime.”

Lucas: “Bet. I’m free Tuesday.”

Wanda: “Lucas. What was it like listening to [Name] spiral?”

Lucas: “Spiritual. I felt like I was watching a Netflix docuseries in real time. She made ME believe in love again.”

You are screaming into your hands now as everyone laughs around you, tears in their eyes.

Lucas (softly now): “I’m proud of you, [Name]. Look at you. Got the super-soldier, got the hoodie, got a whole group of chaotic-ass friends. Dream life.”

You (giggling): “Thanks, Lucas.”

Lucas (loud again): “ALRIGHT Y’ALL. I’M OUT. BE SAFE. WRAP IT BEFORE YOU ZAP IT.”

Call ends.

Dead silence.

Then:

Tony: “I’m putting that man on payroll.”

—

The party seemed to only be getting started, from endless karaoke and dance battles everyone was having the time of their lives. The music shifts to Cool for the Summer — that catchy, electric beat filling the space. Everyone’s hyped up after the dance battles, and suddenly, Peter pipes up, “Hey, you two gotta do it. The iconic Fresh scene. You know, the one with Steve and Noa?”

You and Bucky exchange a quick glance and a grin — that’s your secret move, a little throwback to a dance only the two of you know inside and out.

Bucky smirks, “Guess it’s showtime.”

Peter’s watching from the side, totally shocked. “Wait — you guys watched Fresh? Like, seriously?”

You grin and nod as the first smooth step hits.

Bucky, in full Steve mode, says softly, “Let’s dance.”

You reply, matching the exact tone, “Let’s dance.”

Peter almost falls over laughing but claps loudly, totally impressed.

The two of you spin, sliding into the classic step-touch with finger snaps — every move crisp and synced like a perfect mirror.

At the part where Noa shimmies and does that hip roll, you toss your hair and Bucky follows suit with his own smooth roll, both of you cracking into laughter but not breaking the rhythm.

Peter’s eyes widen, “Okay, I’m officially obsessed. You two have practice for this?”

You shake your head with a laugh, “Nah, just a little binge one night. We’ve been saving it.”

Tony shouts, “Now THAT’S how you do it! Kate, come on, we gotta step it up!”

Kate screams, “Bring it, Barnes!” as she drags Tony into the next round, both of them laughing and trying to keep up.

Peter’s grinning ear to ear, “You guys just turned the whole beach into a dance floor — I’m never gonna top that.”

You lean into Bucky, heart racing from the adrenaline and the way everyone’s loving your secret little moment.

Bucky smiles low, whispering, “Told you — some things never go out of style.”

Peter’s clapping, “Yo, this is the best beach party ever!”

You lean into Bucky, feeling that electric buzz of the crowd, the warmth of his hand steady on your waist, the music pulsing like a heartbeat.

And just like that, the whole beach is a dance floor, alive with laughter, music, and the kind of moments that turn into memories.

Tony puffs out his chest, hands on hips, glancing at Kate with mock confidence. “Alright, kiddo, time to school these two on some real moves.”

Kate smirks, bouncing on her heels. “Oh yeah? You sure you’re ready for this? Last time you danced, you pulled a muscle… or was that your dignity?”

Tony waves her off dramatically. “Please. I’ve been rehearsing in front of the mirror. I’ve got moves so smooth, they make silk jealous.”

They start their attempt — Tony tries the slick sideways slide but immediately trips over his own feet, sprawling onto the sand.

Kate bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach. “Smooth like silk? More like a silk sheet caught in a windstorm!”

Tony grins from the ground, not missing a beat. “Hey, it’s a modern interpretation. Very avant-garde.”

Kate shakes her head, trying not to laugh as she attempts the finger snap but accidentally flicks sand into Tony’s face.

Tony sputters, wiping his eyes. “Okay, okay — you try, Miss Perfect.”

Kate hits the beat, snapping and sliding, but halfway through her hip roll she stumbles and ends up nearly face-planting.

Tony chuckles, offering her a hand. “Told you — we’re not quite Steve and Noa, but hey, at least we’re having fun, right?”

Kate takes his hand, laughing. “Yeah, fun with a side of embarrassment. Maybe we should just stick to cheering from the sidelines.”

Tony winks. “Speak for yourself — next karaoke round, I’m claiming the mic!”

Kate groans, “Oh no… please, no.”

suddenly the whole group is hyped, eager to recreate the iconic dance you and Bucky just performed flawlessly.

Tony cracks his knuckles, ready to lead the charge. “Alright team, time to show off those moves!”

Peter grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Bet none of you can match what [Name] and Bucky just pulled.”

Sam and Clint exchange glances, smirking as they step forward, trying the finger snaps and hip rolls but ending up laughing as their moves turn into an awkward shuffle.

Kate twirls, nearly losing her balance but catching herself with a dramatic flourish. “Okay, okay, who taught you two that smooth stuff?”

Everyone turns to you and Bucky — who’ve retreated from the center, just swaying quietly together. His back presses gently against yours, his head resting softly atop yours, arms wrapped loosely but protectively around your waist.

Peter nudges Tony, whispering, “Man, they don’t even need to dance, just look at them.”

Tony watches you both, a slow smile spreading on his face. “Yeah, that’s the real show right there.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Silent power move.”

You lean into Bucky, feeling the steady beat of his heartbeat matching the music. No flashy steps, no wild moves — just the warmth of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And somehow, that’s the most magnetic dance of all.

As the beat of Cool for the Summer fades into an equally hyper energetic song —something along the lines of Cake By The Ocean if someone got cheeky with the playlist — the party shifts into that perfect golden-hour haze, even though the fire's still crackling and the stars are high overhead.

Sam is dramatically dancing with a stick like it’s his true soulmate, muttering, “She never talks back. Perfect woman.”

Tony’s in the middle of teaching Clint and Wanda some kind of absurd made-up waltz-slash-robot hybrid, and they’re all laughing so hard they nearly fall over. “Tell me this isn’t art!” Tony declares, twirling Kate once and accidentally tripping over a log.

“Peter,” Kate slurs playfully shes drunk off the caprisuns, pointing a chip at him, “you gotta admit we nailed that duet. Like, Grammy-winning, no—EGOT-worthy.” Peter, who’s only tipsy on adrenaline and soda, holds up an empty marshmallow stick like a mic. “I’d like to thank the Academy… and Katy Perry… and my vocal cords.”

Meanwhile, you and Bucky have drifted just a little farther from the circle, swaying softly under the blanket of stars. You're tipsy — that light, bubbly kind that makes everything feel warmer, softer, floatier. His arms wrap around you, steady and grounding. Your head rests back against his chest as his chin hooks gently over your shoulder, breathing calm and quiet against your temple.

The music is barely there now. Just ambient hums, flickering flame, distant laughter. Your fingers curl lazily into his. “Did you ever dance like this in the streets of Brooklyn?” you ask, voice soft and dreamy, like you’re afraid the question might float away with the smoke.

You feel the subtle rumble of his laugh against your back. “I did,” he says, after a beat. “Plenty of times.”

You glance up toward him. “Was it like this?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then leans closer, pressing his cheek against yours. “No,” he murmurs. “This… is so much better.”

You smile, heart fluttering, grounding yourself against the quiet rhythm of him. He brushes a kiss against your temple. “Brooklyn didn’t have you.”

And maybe no one hears it but you — and maybe that makes it all the more perfect.

Behind you, Sam’s yelling, “Ayo! Someone stop Steve from trying to two-step with the cooler!” Peter’s giving Tony a piggyback ride in a full karaoke encore. Kate is holding Wanda’s face and dramatically declaring her love for fries.

And you? You’re still dancing. Still swaying with Bucky, just you and him and the stars.Beach Day: 10/10. Would absolutely be chaos again.

(You've got mail!) THIS was so insanely stupid but it seemed like the perfect kind of beach day/episode..i had a feeling they would not be normal because what is normal anyways! BUT YESS summa is here and its fast approaching! better see all yall out having fun at pools beaches lakesides ETC ETC. HOT GIRL SUMMA WHERE WE LISTEN TO 2016 MUSIC WATCH MCU AND WE OUTSIDEEE!!!

Tag List @bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes

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starrayblogs · 11 months ago

Note

Scenario or Headcanons of Tmnt (bayverse) x reader who is very friendly and affectionate (maybe crush or beginning of the relationship) but when she gets affection (the boys are e one starting it) she malfunctions? I’m talking getting clumsy, flustered, blushing, stuttering automatically, kinda comical tbh lol

Thank you and hope you have a good day!

ahh, thank you so much for the ask! :3 i hope i don't disappoint, so here goes nothing!! also, likes and reblogs are appreciated as usual ✩

pairings: (bayverse) leonardo x reader, raphael x reader, donatello x reader, and michelangelo x reader (gender neutral)

will include: fluff

while you're usually the more outgoing one in terms of affection, it's not an excuse for your favorite turtle to be reserved with his. in fact, he has his shining moments!

Leonardo

i personally see leo's favorite form of affection is through a kiss

you frequently give him kisses when you see each other and when you're about to part ways after spending time with each other

leo's favorite place to be kissed is on his cheek. he thinks it's sweet and endearing!

he still remembers the first time you did it to him

"See you tomorrow." Leo bows his head down shortly, before he meets your eye again. He turns his back around to make his jump down the fire exit to your apartment, but he feels you tap on his shell.

When he turns around, he's surprised at how swift you are to plant a kiss on his cheek. It was soft, and he wished it lasted longer.

"Goodnight, Leo." you grin, holding your chin up on your palm as you wave the turtle goodbye.

you know he enjoys the gesture, and you enjoy doing it too him as well. so, it's a win-win situation

until, one night, leo decided to turn the tables around you

You just finished brewing two cups of tea for you and Leo. You held the mugs and carefully made your way back to the dojo, where Leo was sitting and having trouble meditating. You offered to make him a cup of tea, and decided to make yourself one too.

"Here," you offer him his mug, "is your tea. I made sure to brew your favorite pack." You smile at him as he takes his cup from you.

"Thank you." He returns the smile. You hum, taking a seat next to him and blowing the steam away from your tea.

You didn't notice that Leo hadn't stopped looking at you.

You were so focused on drinking your tea, you didn't register that Leo had gently pulled your head towards him.

Then, you felt him kiss the top of your head.

Out of surprise, you spit your tea back in the cup abruptly. This backfires on you, because the hot liquid splashes you in the face and you shriek.

"Oh my mutagen, are you okay!?"

you were flustered that night. when leo usually gives you affection, it's in return of what you gave him

however, that day, he did it without you initiating it first- which is what caught you off guard

leo jokes and laughs about that night as much as he can, making your cheeks red from embarrassment

there is one more thing, however

"I still can't believe you actually spat back the tea over that." Leo finishes his sentence after a while of laughing, while you were busy covering your face and groaning into your hands.

"Leo, pleaaaaase. I beg you to forget about it." You whine, albeit muffled.

And since you were covering your face, you had fallen for the tricks of the mighty leader. Which is using this moment to press a kiss on your head again while pulling you close to him.

"Oh my gosh– Leo!" You uncover your red face to look up at him. He just smiles back before kissing you on the lips this time.

Raphael

i like to think that raphael loves callsigns. however, there are different types to these nicknames

there's obviously the nicknames he uses on the bad guys to demean them

then there's the nicknames he uses on his brothers to annoy them

then there's the nicknames he uses with you (yet)

you see, when you first met, you were already calling raph different things

"Hey, hotshot, could you grab me a slice?" You ask Raph from the couch, turning yourself around to give him a pretty smile.

or...

"Raphie, have you seen my history notebook?" You come up to his room where he was doing reps. He nearly dropped the weights on his feet, had you not exclaimed in time for him to jump away.

it came natural to you to call him special nicknames

and it made raph soft. it made him feel special, because you never called his brothers the things you called him: hotshot, big guy, raphie, and, his favorite, handsome

but raph never showed how soft it made him, of course, it would ruin his tough guy reputation!

he thinks about the names you call him at the end of the day when he's laying in his bed

and, one day, he wakes up with the same confidence as you

You were pissed from school today. Your partner for the project the teacher gave for the period wasn't helping you at all and, somehow, they got all the credit.

You were heading down the ladder to the lair and when you turn your head around, you see Raph lounging by the table and watching the tv from afar.

You hurriedly get down the ladder and start stomping your way to the turtle, ranting about your day. You were standing next to him and obviously fuming, until...

"Slow down, gorgeous/handsome. Grab a slice, won't ya?" He smirks, throwing one hand behind the seat.

Your rant comes to a stammer as you feel your cheeks heat up. You slowly turn your head to the turtle, pointing a finger at him.

"E-Excuse me?" You stutter.

"I said... Relax and grab a slice, sweetheart." Raph chuckles, standing up from his seat and helping you into tour own.

He even had to help you eat, because somehow you were messing up eating a pizza from how flustered you were. He also waited until you could properly function again.

Only to call you with another nickname.

Donatello

personally, i don't see donnie as verbally or physically affectionate as his brothers

however, he is a sucker for acts of services

and it just so happens that you enjoy doing stuff for donnie. handing him beakers, writing down notes when his hands are too occupied, and bringing over food and telling him to take a break

"Hey, the guys ordered pizza." You step back in his makeshift lab with a plate full of pizza for you two to share.

You take your seat next to Donnie, who was soldering wires together for a new machine he was making. You hum, tapping on the table gently to break him from his focus.

You learned to not tap on his shell from the last time. You nearly got spilled with deadly chemicals...

Eventually, he pushes up his goggles and meets your eyes. His face softens into a smile and you could feel your heart swell with joy.

"Time to take a break, Donnie." You tell him, watching him set aside his project before you place down the plate of food to share.

"Thanks," he says, "I really would miss more meals if you weren't around." He adds, grabbing a slice. You click your tongue while shaking your head.

and once you're out of the lair, the rest of his brothers (without missing) collectively turn their heads to the lab to hear the squeal that echoes through the entire sewer

he goes to bed at night thinking of all the things you did for him that day

sometimes, he wishes he had the confidence you had to treat you just as fair

however, it's as natural to him as it is to you

You squirm uncomfortably on your chair because it was wobbling. That's unusual, considering Donnie does his best to make his workspace as comfy as can be to enhance his focus.

Donnie seemed to notice how uncomfortable you were and paused on his work. "Here," he stands up from his seat and guides you onto it. "Sit on my chair for now." He smiles at you before facing his work again. "I have a big suspicion that Mikey broke my chair bouncing on it earlier." He clicks his tongue as he rolls his eyes.

"Uh-Uh huh..." You reply softly, cheeks turning red and body turning stiff. You were so in your head, screaming about what just happened, you didn't notice Donnie glancing at you when he asked you to reach for his solder.

He chuckles and taps on the table space in front of you to break you out of your daze. You do, but there is still blush on your cheeks. "Did I do something wrong?" He asks softly and you quickly shake your head.

Michelangelo

this one is a bit difficult to write, considering mikey is the most affectionate of his brothers- but i realized something

other than april, vern, and casey, you're the only other human he's ever interacted with! what makes you different is that, you're more affectionate compared to the other three

he's not used to it! you're so sweet that he ends up freezing on the spot whenever you run up and give him a hug, which he returns ofcourse! after some stammering...

"Oh, hey Mikey!!!" You spot him at the bottom of the ladder as you make your way down and call for his attention. He looks up and grins, waving at you.

"What's up, my favorite human!?" He greets you back with just as much enthusiasm.

"Come on, catch me!" You yell and jump off from the ladder with the widest smile.

Mikey panics and quickly stretches out his arms to catch you. When you land in his arms with no effort, aside from a small 'umph!' from you once you landed, you're giggling and wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Nice catch!" You tell him, giving him a pat on his shell before asking him to put you down. You walked away to greet the other turtles, leaving the orange masked turtle in shock.

because you're the first human to ever be affectionate to him, he isn't as confident as he thought he would be when it came to this type of situation!

he likes you, definitely. so when his brothers find out, they all just laugh it up by saying its just his nerves.

mikey 'psh's them and says he doesn't get nervous around you

but sometimes he gets caught in the moment

You recently bought a new game and wanted to play it with the turtles! You got down to the lair and immediately invited the first turtle you saw, which so happens to be your favorite turtle.

"Mikey-angelo, my guy!" You grin and jump your way over to the couch, where he was. He greets you with the same enthusiasm and you two share a high five.

You mention the game and the two of you don't waste a second in getting it set up and handing each other the controllers. It was a multiplayer game and you two had to work with each other to reach the set goals.

You two played for a while and after an hour or two, you finally defeated a boss for the mission. You cheer from your spot on the couch and turn to high five the turtle, but...

He cheers louder and gets up from his seat, grabs you by the sides, and lifts you up. He spins you around in joy, and you would join him in cheering, but there was one problem.

You're so surprised by this that your face turns red as you admire the turtle's face. He had the widest smile, and you can tell how relieved he is to have defeated that boss. He looked so happy.

When he opens his eyes, he stops spinning you when he realizes what he's done. He begins to stutter as he awkwardly sets you down, and you turn your head in hopes to calm your blush by not looking at him.

Then he brings back your attention by asking, "let's order pizza?" You quickly turn your head back and nod frantically. You go for your pocket to pull out your phone, but it slips from your hand.

Mikey watches as you comically keep trying to catch your phone, but it keeps slipping until it falls on the floor.

You two stare at each other for a while, but it ends with the two of you eventually laughing.

"Who knew you to be the touchy turtle, Mikey." You comment between chuckles.

"I am! I am the touchy one! I just get nervous!"

#✩ starraywrites #tmnt #tmnt story #tmnt x reader #teenage mutant ninja turtles #teenage mutant ninja turtles x reader #tmnt bayverse x reader #bayverse leo x reader #bayverse raph x reader #bayverse donnie x reader #bayverse mikey x reader #x reader

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missqhughes · 10 months ago

Text

CAN HE GET YOU LIKE THIS? | Q. HUGHES43

-> quinn hughes x jacksgf!reader

-> contains: cheating, smut with plot , SLIGHT angst, and other sexual themes, oc’s created for tha plot, intended lowercase, use of y/n

-> IN WHICH: jack almost cant seem to control himself around another woman at the lake house; and to make it worse, in front of his girlfriend. when she cries her frustrations to her boyfriends older brother, he seems to have the perfect solution to her problems.

-> my first hockey fic! i spent so much time on it, and i’m pretty proud tbh. also, i’m so excited to post on this page, and as i always say on my other blog, hope you love it as much as i do!

*fic is not proofread

18+ CONTENT BELOW THE CUT

y/n was never the jealous type.

she never needed anyone’s approval.

but god, what jack was doing was pissing her off.

for the first time, luke had brought his girlfriend april, to the lake house for the summer, and this week, y/n had the unpleasant company of aprils friend stampeding around the house for the week.

about 100% of the time, she could handle girls throwing themselves at jack at this point. she was used to it; jack was always a good boyfriend to her, and could always control himself with his endless female attention.

until today.

the july sun delivered a scorching heat down on the group as they conversed somewhere on the middle of the lake in the hughes family boat.

the typical casual conversation that y/n, jack, and his brothers had on their boat days were greatly interrupted by the ear piercing voices of april’s friends.

“jack, wanna let me drive the boat?”

“jack, the sun is too bright! can i please wear your hat?”

jack let out low chuckles at the flattery delivered to him, and y/n was doing her usual job at ignoring them.

with her dark tinted sunglasses on and her head resting on the back seat of the boat, she saw her boyfriend place his white baseball cap on one of april’s god forsaken friend.

her eyebrows furrowed; jack never fed into anything like this. the pang of anxiety lowly rested in the pit of her stomach, but she chose to ignore it.

he knew better.

“jacky, how does it look on me?”

through her dark lenses, she witnessed the ratty girl in front of her spin in front of jack, pulling the sides of her bikini up while doing so.

he made no attempt to hide his gaze on the girl in front of him, or the comment that slipped from his lips afterwards;

“looks good,” he said lowly, probably thinking that his girlfriend mere feet away from him was fast asleep from the summer heat, unaware to his tease.

the anxiety in y/n’s stomach began to surface more, a jealousy and anger she hadn’t felt in a situation like this before arising. she thought whatever of it, that she was being crazy, that she could shove this feeling down.

y/n kept her gaze straight forward, blocking out any of the chatter coming from anyone in her vicinity; her eyes locked on luke’s slow speed on the boat, conversing casually with april, unaware of the drama brewing behind them.

god, can he not drive any faster? she thought to herself, the annoyance within growing deeper and deeper.

the boat rocked along with the motion of the water beneath it, but y/n did her best to sit completely still, feeling that if she moved, the her negative emotions would swirl harder.

after a grueling 4 minute ride back to the dock, luke had secured the boat,

“everyone’s good to get off now,” he told the group, grabbing april’s hand and towel, assisting her onto the dock.

the short haired girl, the one throwing herself all over jack, the one who’s name y/n didn’t even bother to remember in their introductions, was just about to take it too far.

she stood up first, jack and y/n following behind her.

the ratty girl “dropped” her towel, allowing the perfect opportunity to bend down in front of jack,

“woops! my bad,” her voice made an embarrassing attempt to be seductive to jack, turning her head to eye him up and down.

jack let out a deep inhale, just enough to set y/n off further on her silent rage.

“all good, let me help you out.”

the girl giggled as she took jacks hand, letting it linger on his skin longer than necessary.

he paid no mind to his girlfriend behind him.

the insatiable urge to strangle the two idiots in front of y/n was barely present on her face, as she decided to take back control of the situation, and remind both of them who his significant other was.

“babe, i’m tired, do you want to come up and take a nap?”

his conversation with the short haired girl was cut with y/n’s words, he looked back at the two, contemplation in his mind, before smiling at y/n.

see? nothing to worry about-

“i uh, i think i’m gonna stay down here for a bit, don’t want to go inside yet, it’s just a really nice day y’know?”

her ears began to ring with his words, cheeks growing red as she looked over at luke and april, who shifted uncomfortably, now aware of the drama upon the dock.

“uh, yeah… yeah that’s fine.”

“i’ll be up soon, promise,” jack said as he sat down with april, luke, and her stupid friend.

y/n ignored his words, turning on her heel to walk up to the house, pace growing as soon as she was out of sight from the dock.

now that she was alone, all the feelings the thought she was suppressing were now at the forefront of her body and mind. she ran her hands through her hair, almost ready to rip it out from frustration.

y/n stormed through the house, and as she passed the living room, she was met with quinn; who was quietly reading a book with his feet kicked up on the ottoman.

before he lifted his head, his eyes went up first, gaze met with y/n’s indignant expression,

“woah, you okay, something happen on the one boat day i miss?” he said light heartedly,

“quinn, not now,”

y/n snapped at him, before slamming her bedroom door, the action echoing through the otherwise quiet house.

——————————————————————————

dinner wasn’t any better.

y/n didn’t realize how much time had gone by as she was staring at the ceiling, recounting the events of the day. jack did not keep his promise about “coming up soon” which wasn’t to the shock of y/n, considering his behavior today. he did stop in her designated room, to give her a kiss on the forehead, and to tell that dinner was ready.

and that was it.

now, she was sitting next to jack at the table, his happy chatter with his brothers, april, and company sounding like mumbles in her ears. she felt a gaze on her, hoping it was jack, but when y/n turned her head softly to confirm, he was still smiling at his continued conversation.

like nothing was wrong.

there was only one other person who wasn’t talking, and her eyesight landed right on his.

quinn.

she shifted in her seat, quickly averting their eye contact, and picked at her quarter eaten meal with her fork.

“excuse me everyone, i’m gonna go lay down,”

jack looked at y/n, giving her a half smile and no thought to her abrupt departure, before returning to his seemingly endless conversation.

y/n began to pick her plate up to take it to the sink, when quinn’s voice spoke up,

“i’ll take care of it,” the tips of his fingers pushed down lightly on the edge of her plate.

“you sure? it’s fine i don’t-”

“just go lay down.”

y/n blinked at him a few times before nodding her head, setting her plate down and shuffling to her room.

she closed the door softly this time, letting out a shaky breath as she sat on the edge of the plush bed. her head was beginning to throb, not sure if it was from lack of food or just from the complete and total anxiety jack was giving her.

——————————————————————————

y/n scrolled mindlessly on her phone, again losing the track of time with the state she was in.

1:19am.

the dryness in her throat was becoming more present as she came down from her brain fog, deciding to clear herself with a glass of water.

y/n slipped into the kitchen, only the warm dim glow from the microwave light allowing her to see. the glass cups lightly clinked together as she pulled one out, then setting it down to fill up.

the refrigerator hummed softly, barely breaking the silence through the house. then, a raspy voice spoke behind her,

“what’re you doing up?”

y/n whipped her head around, almost dropping and shattering the glass of water in her hand,

“jesus christ quinn, you scared the shit out of me!”

she set down the glass to put a hand to her chest, an attempt to slow down the spike in her heart rate.

quinn let out a small, quiet laugh, “sorry, i thought you heard me.”

“no,” she let out a huff, “i didn’t,” y/n smiled back at him gently as the beating in her chest settled.

“so, what’s wrong?”

quinn was quick to change the conversation to put her on the spot, y/n’s lips parting as she thought of her next words.

“nothing, i don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“yes you do.”

y/n scoffed, “you really have a habit of interrupting me don’t you?”

“stop avoiding the question. what’s wrong? talk to me, y/n.”

the two stared at one another, having an unspoken battle with each other,

y/n broke first.

she swallowed, knowing the words about to spill out of her mouth were going to come shaky and scattered; she didn’t want quinn, or anyone for that matter, to know the state her mind was at. y/n hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter, retelling the day to quinn.

“it was… it was jack. today. he was just letting april’s stupid fucking friend flirt with him! and-”

“alana?”

she shot him a deep scowl, “don’t interrupt me to tell me what her stupid name is!”

quinn raised his hands in defeat, “sorry, sorry, keep going,”

“he let her wear his hat, she bent over in front of him and he said nothing, and as you could tell from earlier today, he didn’t even come up to the house with me when i asked…”

her words trailed off shakily, y/n felt hot, wet tears flow down her cheeks, slightly blurring her vision, she looked down, unable to meet quinn’s gaze she felt burning into her face.

“y/n… i’m sorry. he’s a shithead for that,”

he stepped closer to her, lessening the distance between them,

“y/n.”

she hummed in response, sniffles coming from her, still refusing to look up at him,

“y/n look at me.”

y/n knew how persistent quinn was, and he definitely was not going to let her get away with not looking at him. though it felt like lifting a ton of bricks, her glossy eyes looked up to meet his.

quinn’s eyes flickered all over her face, reading her sorrow expression. he brought his hand up to meet her face, gently using his thumb to brush away any fallen tears on her tinted cheeks.

“you know, i really hate it when you cry,” he cooed softly, still wiping away the spilling tears, paying more attention to her in these mere minutes than jack had been all day.

“i’m so mad at myself, i should’ve said something, i let it all happen in front of me,” y/n said, her quiet frustrations let out only for quinn’s ears to hear.

“hey, hey, no. you shouldn’t have even been put in that position, don’t blame yourself, okay?” he placed his hands on either sides of the counter, locking her in. his voice being stern but still soft, a tough love kind of talk.

y/n’s heart beated faster as she became hyper aware of how close their bodies were, feeling the warmth radiating off of him.

she wanted to knock herself in the head for feeling this way, but her heightened distaste for jack in the moment, quinn’s messy hair combined with his beard and tired eyes made him so sinfully appealing.

“you’re right, i shouldn’t have,”

y/n felt almost awkward in this moment, especially it being her boyfriends older brother. there was no way for her to move without being even closer to him.

“god, y/n… cant believe that… if i had you… i’d never let that happen,”

quinn’s tired eyes turned lustful by the second, going up and down y/n’s body before flickering between her own eyes and lips.

“quinn,” she let out with a breath, “you cant say things like that, you know you can’t,”

y/n couldn’t help herself from matching quinn’s motion, unable to tear away from looking at his full lips.

“after the shit he pulled today, i think i’m safe to do whatever the hell i want,”

the gentle demeanor in his voice was replaced with seduction, bringing his face closer to hers, close enough for their breaths to mingle.

“say the words y/n, i wont do anything you don’t want me to do. say the words and i’ll stop.”

she was between a rock and a hard place. it’s not like jack had outright cheated in front of her, and she would feel horrible doing something like that to him. however, his actions were inexcusable, and he saw not an inch of an issue with what he was doing. and at the exact same time, quinn was ready to be all over her. hell, he’s practically admitting to wanting his little brother’s girlfriend. in this moment, he could give her anything.

fuck it.

this is what he gets, she thought to herself. it’s not like he would find out anyway. no one would.

“i want you quinn.”

the words rolled off her tongue faster than her mind let her think about the consequences, and in no time, quinn captured y/n’s lips in his, securing his hands on to her waist.

the two kissed sloppily in the kitchen, out in the open, with too much opportunity to get caught. neither of them cared.

y/n’s hands found a home in his hair, quinn emitting a low groan as she gently tugged at his waves.

she felt a heat growing between her legs, and an attempt to close them for relief was blocked by quinn pushing them back open with his hips.

y/n gasped, allowing quinn’s tongue entry, and as he explored her mouth with his, she felt him growing harder against her core, making the wetness in her shorts more difficult to ignore.

quinn panted heavily as he pulled away, still gripping at her waist, fingers hugging the bottom hem of her shirt,

“can i take this off?”

she buzzed at his words, nodding vigorously. with her consent, he raised the shirt above her body, y/n lifting her arms in assistance.

quinn wasted no time to kiss down her neck to her now exposed upper chest, sitting perfectly pretty in her bra. he sucked and nipped at the bare skin, earning quiet moans from her soft lips.

“mm—fuck quinn,” y/n threw her head back in pleasure, giving more room for quinn to litter her chest with marks. she didn’t even care if they were going to bruise tomorrow or who was going to saw. everyone else was on the back burner of her mind.

her praise only made him rougher, sucking harder into her skin, feeling himself getting more and more rowdy by the second.

his lips went up to claim hers again, tapping her thigh as a signal to wrap her legs around his waist. she listened, hooking herself around him. quinn lifted her up effortlessly, their kiss not being broken as he peeked his eyes open in a tenth of a second to see their way to his room.

with one hand tucked under y/n’s ass, he turned the knob to his bedroom door, stepping into the room before closing the door behind him with a light kick.

quinn’s legs met the edge of the bed, and he threw her down before making himself pry his lips from her’s, plump and slick from his.

“you’re still okay with his?” he asked, his thumb drawing circles on her hips.

“more than okay, please quinn. i need more.”

he nodded, taking a step back to take all of her in with his eyes.

she looked at him confused for a moment, before he talked,

“strip.”

she swallowed heavily, ready to obey his words. y/n wiggled out of her shorts, leaving her skin only covered by a black bra and panties.

“i said strip. all the way.”

her heart was about to come out of her chest, all of it was beginning to feel real, and that she was about to be naked and on display for jack’s brother.

only hearing the beating in her chest, quinn watched as y/n unhooked her bra first, tits bouncing with the action, and he thought he could cum in his pants right then and there.

y/n sat down on the bed, staring deeply into quinn’s eyes, slipping her black panties down her half parted legs, pussy wet and glistening from the moonlight shining through the window.

“fuck,” he whispered, unable to control his hand from falling to his crotch, beginning to palm himself through his shorts.

with a single hand, quinn took his shirt off, dipping his head down to kiss her naked thighs. y/n shuddered at his action, his kisses being everywhere except where she desperately needed them to be.

he hovered just above her core, “can i?”

“quinn please stop fucking asking and just do it,” y/n begged, squirming under him, desperate for his touch.

he licked a long stripe down her wet folds, y/n unable to control the guttural moan that escaped from her lips. her back arched in pleasure at the feeling of quinn’s lips sucking on her puffy clit, aching for attention.

he couldn’t stop; he was devouring her like it was his death row and she was his last meal, already addicted to the taste of her pussy on his tongue.

quinn pushed her hips down, sticking his tongue in her and his nose bumping against her clit with each motion. y/n felt knots twisting and forming in her stomach, a strong release forming, one that jack had never even came close to making her feel.

“mmph, shit quinn— gonna fucking cum, oh— my fuck,”

profanities spilled out of y/n’s mouth, but her pleasure was cut short as his dripping lips pulled away from her aching core, craving his touch.

she whined at the loss of contact, only to be met with quinn peeling off his shorts and underwear, his throbbing dick aching with desire from his tip.

“when i make you cum, i want it to be on my dick, pretty girl.”

y/n felt like she could’ve exploded right then and there, but she bit her lip, moving closer to the edge of the bed, giving quinn better access to line up with her.

he ran his dick between her wet folds a few times before inserting himself in her, the two let out gracious moans at the mutual pleasure.

quinn started slow, hips rolling back and forth, before quickening his pace to a pornographic speed.

his lips hooked onto y/n’s once again, sloppy and wet, both groaning into each others mouths with delight. in the kiss he captured both her wrists, pinning them above her head.

quinn broke the kiss to look at her with his brows furrowed, concentrated on fucking y/n senseless. her bottom lip was between her teeth, tits bouncing with the speed of his thrusts.

“fuck y/n, you feel so good on my dick, can he ever get you like this? a moaning fucked out mess? hm?”

his words barely registered in her ears, body buzzing as his dick continued to destroy her pussy.

“no, no, mm— you fuck me so much better quinn,” y/n did her best not to scream it, still aware that the other people in the house had the potential to hear them.

“gonna— cum— y/n— shit,” quinn huffed out between thrusts. she also felt the now familiar knots forming in her stomach, her release about to come.

his movements became sloppy as his release coated her walls, and at the same time, she painted his dick with her own.

they felt euphoric, quinn pulled out of her slowly, groaning as his dick came out of her.

y/n laid out on the bed panting with closed eyes, hearing the light flicker on from quinn’s connected bathroom.

she felt a wet towel meet her sensitive core, hissing at the feeling.

“sorry, just wanna clean you up first,”

y/n looked at quinn while he cleaned her with concentration, his body glistening with sweat and his messy hair slightly sticking to his forehead.

“thank you, quinn,”

y/n was breathless watching quinn go back into the bathroom, her chest still rapidly rising and falling. she felt herself grow more tired with each passing minute.

quinn came back from the bathroom with a different pair of underwear on, holding out a pair of his boxers to put on. y/n gladly accepted, slipping them up her body. she grabbed her bra from the floor, hooking it back on.

after she was partly dressed, he delivered her a sweet, soft kiss to her lips. different than any kind of kiss they had so far, this one was deep and loving; his hands gently cupping her face.

“stay with me,”

quinn’s proposition took her by surprise, thinking he was going to send her back to her room after all this, but no.

“quinn, i really shouldn’t, it’s not a good ide-”

“you and jack can figure your shit out later. as of right now, you’re mine.”

he was right and she knew it. he claimed her, and there was definitely going to be some kind of consequence for this. either way y/n and jack were going to have to figure their shit out, but to her, that was an issue for the morning.

“okay, i’ll stay.”

quinn smiled at her, planting a kiss on her forehead. he peeled away at his thick blue comforter, leaving space for the both of them to crawl inside. y/n felt herself more comfortable falling asleep with quinn than she did with jack, whatever that meant. but she didn’t care. his body was tangled with hers, falling asleep to the soft beat of his heart.

pt. 2

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xoxo, kaia

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