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sixeyesonathiel · 4 days ago

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bad ideas in bikini – day four.

pairing — tech bro satoru x lawyer reader

synopsis : gojo satoru was supposed to be taking a break, not obsessing over the woman across the hall who slammed her door in his face and lives in his head rent-free ever since. he's not the type to fall easy-too smart for that, date-to-marry only-but you? you show up in bikinis and arguments, and suddenly he's one bad decision away from wanting everything.

tags -> f!reader, cruise ship au, summer situationship, romantic comedy, fluff, humor, eventual smut, porn with plot, sexual tension, banter, satoru is a workaholic, bad decisions in luxury settings, more tags to be added. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS NSFW.

wc — 18.1k | prev | series masterlist | next

a/n: i know. i said 7pm est. i MEANT 7pm est. and yet this dropped at 11. because i accidentally scheduled it for 7am and only realized now, when i finally charged my phone (forced typhoon hiatus brain soup moment). it’s the time zone 😔. also, yes, you guys chose “satoru overstimulates while sobbing into a bikini” over “satoru handles it like a normal person” and i delivered. sugushoko also won. fraudguru/fraudkuna stans… i fear you (we) are seated elsewhere. anyway. 18k words. no taglist update yet bc of storm recovery. please forgive me. please enjoy. i may have yapped too much. again. 🧎‍♀️💔

satoru gojo had always believed himself to be a rational man—until he woke up at 11:47 a.m. on a luxury cruise ship with an emotional hangover and the distinct feeling that his life had been quietly hijacked by a woman who called him a tech bro and meant it as an insult.

the light filtering through his suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows was too golden, too warm, the kind of late-morning glow that made everything look like a movie scene he wasn’t prepared to star in. his hair was doing something structurally unsound against the silk pillowcase, white strands sticking up at angles that defied both gravity and dignity. his back ached in that specific way that came from sleeping in a bed too soft, too big, too expensive—the kind of ache that reminded him he was built for firm mattresses and twelve-hour coding sessions, not presidential suites and whatever this vacation was supposed to accomplish.

he rolled over, groaning into the pillow that probably cost more than his first laptop, and stared at the ceiling that stretched endlessly above him like a minimalist cathedral. the suite was silent except for the low hum of climate control and the distant sound of ocean waves that should have been soothing but instead felt like white noise mocking his inability to relax. his body was still thrumming with the aftermath of last night—your flinch, your retreat, the way you’d said “don’t” like he’d burned you just by existing in your space.

he dragged himself upright, running both hands through his disaster of hair, and caught sight of himself in the massive mirror across the room. shirtless, pale chest rising and falling with the kind of shallow breathing that came from three days of sustained emotional confusion, wearing boxer-briefs that were definitely too expensive for what they accomplished. suguru had bought them as a joke—“elevate your underwear game, toru, maybe it’ll help with your personality”—and now here he was, twenty-eight years old, sitting in a suite that could house a small family, wearing designer underwear and spiraling over a woman who’d rather eat glass than admit she might like him.

“this is pathetic,” he muttered to the empty room, his voice rough with sleep and self-loathing. “i’m having an identity crisis over someone who thinks i’m a walking linkedin profile.”

but he couldn’t stop replaying it—the way you’d leaned into him during dessert, the brief softness in your expression when you’d shared that crème brûlée, how your voice had gone quiet when you’d talked about being all-in on things. and then the flinch. the way you’d recoiled like he’d tried to hurt you instead of just brush a strand of hair from your face.

he forced himself to stand, legs unsteady beneath him, and shuffled toward the door with the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution. the luxury around him felt suffocating—marble floors cold against his bare feet, crystal fixtures catching the light in ways that hurt his eyes, space so vast and pristine it made him feel like an intruder in his own temporary home. he missed his apartment, missed his servers humming in the background, missed his dual monitors and his mechanical keyboard with the keys worn smooth from years of use. he missed having purpose, having problems he could actually solve with code and logic and enough caffeine to kill a horse.

the hallway was empty when he cracked the door open, cool air conditioning hitting his bare chest like a wake-up call. he was about to close it again when he noticed the laundry bag sitting primly beside his door—gold embroidery catching the light, fabric heavy and expensive-looking, the kind of service detail that made this cruise feel less like a vacation and more like an elaborate psychological experiment.

“right,” he mumbled, padding forward to grab it. “laundry. normal human activity. i can handle laundry.”

he dragged the bag inside, door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a trap springing closed. the bag was heavier than expected, and he set it on the pristine white marble of his dining table with more care than it probably deserved. his fingers fumbled with the drawstring—when had his hands started shaking?—and he pulled it open with the cautious optimism of someone who’d been having a very weird week and was hoping it might finally start making sense.

his breath caught.

there, nestled between his perfectly pressed button-downs and the t-shirt he’d worn to dinner last night, was a soft sage green bikini set. not black, not basic—elegant in a way that made his chest tight, fashionable in a way that suggested someone had spent real money on it, luxurious fabric that looked like it would feel like silk against skin. minimal hardware, cheeky coverage, the kind of thing that belonged in a magazine spread or on someone who knew exactly how devastating they looked in it.

satoru stared at it like it might spontaneously combust.

his brain, usually so quick to process information, to find patterns and solutions and logical explanations, went completely blank. he blinked once, twice, his mouth falling open slightly as the reality of the situation slowly penetrated the fog of his morning confusion.

he reached out with two fingers, picking up the bikini top like it might bite him, holding it at arm’s length as his eyes traced the delicate construction, the way the fabric caught the light, the tiny details that spoke of expensive taste and someone who cared about how they looked in the water.

“no,” he said aloud, his voice strangled. “no, no, no. this is not happening.”

but his hands were already moving, checking the tag with the kind of desperate hope that maybe, maybe this was some kind of cosmic mistake, some laundry mix-up that had nothing to do with the woman across the hall who’d been systematically destroying his peace of mind for three days straight.

your initials stared back at him in elegant script.

his entire body went still, every muscle locking in place like he’d been flash-frozen. the bikini dangled from his fingers, sage green and devastating and absolutely, unequivocally yours. his brain finally kicked back online, flooding him with the kind of panic usually reserved for system crashes and missed deadlines and the time he’d accidentally deleted three months of code.

“okay,” he said to the empty suite, his voice climbing an octave. “okay. this is fine. this is a normal thing that happens to normal people on normal vacations.”

he set the bikini down on the table like it was made of plutonium and began pacing, his bare feet slapping against the marble in an irregular rhythm that matched his heartbeat. the suite suddenly felt both too large and too small—too large because his thoughts were echoing off the walls, too small because he couldn’t escape the sage green fabric taunting him from the dining table.

“it’s clean,” he told himself, running both hands through his hair until it stood up in even more ridiculous angles. “it’s not like—i didn’t do anything. it’s clean. it’s fine. just return it. easy. simple. normal human interaction.”

he stopped pacing long enough to stare at the bikini again, his mind helpfully supplying images of what you might look like wearing it, how the sage green would complement your skin, how the cut would—

“stop,” he hissed, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes hard enough to see stars. “stop it. you’re not a creep. you’re not that guy. you date to marry. you have principles. you have—”

the image of you in the bikini flashed through his mind again, unbidden and unwelcome and so vivid it made his knees weak.

he grabbed the laundry bag with more force than necessary, shoving the bikini inside like it was evidence of a crime he hadn’t committed yet. the fabric disappeared into the depths of the bag, but he could still feel its presence, could still smell the faint trace of your perfume clinging to the other clothes.

“we used the laundry service the same night,” he said, his voice gaining strength as he latched onto the logical explanation. “obviously. they mixed it up. she probably got one of my t-shirts or whatever. it’s fine. completely normal. happens all the time.”

he marched toward the door with the determined stride of a man on a mission, bag clutched in his hand like a shield against his own spiraling thoughts. the hallway was still empty when he stepped out, and he crossed to your door in three quick strides, raising his hand to knock before his courage could abandon him.

his knuckles hit the wood twice, the sound echoing in the empty corridor.

nothing.

he waited ten seconds, then twenty, then a full minute, his heart hammering against his ribs as silence stretched between him and the door. no footsteps, no rustle of movement, no sharp voice telling him to go away.

“she’s probably out,” he muttered, lowering his hand. “okay. okay. do i leave it at her door? no. what if someone sees it? what if they think—what if she thinks i was going through her things? too weird. way too weird.”

he stared at your door for another few seconds, imagining you on the other side, maybe listening, maybe judging, maybe not there at all. the uncertainty made his stomach churn. he’d built his entire career on knowing, on having answers, on being able to predict outcomes based on data and logic. this—whatever this was—existed in a space beyond his comprehension, where normal rules didn’t apply and women wore sage green bikinis that somehow ended up in his laundry bag like cosmic jokes.

he turned and walked back to his suite, shutting the door behind him with enough force to rattle the expensive fixtures. the sound echoed through the space like a gunshot, final and decisive and completely at odds with how unsettled he felt.

by early afternoon, he’d managed to shower, brush his teeth, and put on a white button-down that he’d left hanging open because the thought of additional constraints felt unbearable. his hair was still damp, falling into his eyes as he sat at the desk in the suite’s main room, legs folded beneath him in a position that would have horrified his chiropractor but felt oddly comforting.

the laundry bag sat on the table behind him like a judgment, but he was pointedly ignoring it in favor of his laptop screen, which was currently displaying the most cheerful insult he’d received all week: “out of office mode activated by admin: GO TOUCH GRASS 💖 – suguru”

“i swear to god,” he muttered, pushing his reading glasses up his nose with more force than necessary, “i’m deleting him from the shared drive. i’m deleting him from the company. i’m deleting him from my life.”

but even as he said it, he was already trying to bypass suguru’s administrative lockdown, fingers flying over the keyboard in patterns so familiar they were basically muscle memory. he pulled up ancient tabs, tried to access backend logs that hadn’t been updated in months, put on his reading glasses like they would somehow make this exercise in futility more legitimate.

nothing worked. every pathway led back to suguru’s smug message and the growing realization that he was trapped on this ship with nothing to do but think about sage green bikinis and women who flinched when he tried to be gentle.

his brain, freed from the usual constraints of work and productivity, began its inevitable slide back toward you. the way you’d looked in the pool, moving through the water with precision and grace. the way you’d said “don’t” last night, sharp and defensive and hurt in a way that made his chest ache. the way your lips had almost curved into a smile over dessert, like maybe, maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you pretended to.

and now he had your bikini.

the thought sent heat rushing through him so fast it left him dizzy. he closed his laptop with a snap that echoed through the suite, pulled off his glasses, and pressed his face into his hands.

“i’m going insane,” he said to his palms. “three days. three days and i’m having a complete psychological breakdown over someone who thinks i’m a walking stereotype.”

but he couldn’t stop. couldn’t stop thinking about sage green fabric and the way you moved and the sound of your voice when you’d called him a tech bro like it was a personal failing. couldn’t stop wondering what you looked like when you weren’t performing indifference, what you sounded like when you laughed without restraint, what you’d taste like if he ever got close enough to find out.

the afternoon crawled by with agonizing slowness, the sun tracking across the sky outside his windows while he sat trapped in his own head, alternating between staring at his blank laptop screen and pointedly not looking at the laundry bag. he tried to read—gave up after realizing he’d read the same paragraph six times without absorbing a single word. he tried to do pushups—managed twelve before his concentration shattered and he found himself flat on the marble floor, staring at the ceiling and thinking about how your perfume had lingered in the hallway after you’d retreated to your room.

by the time early evening rolled around, painting the suite in shades of gold and amber, he’d reached the kind of desperation that demanded action. any action. even terrible action that would probably result in more embarrassment and psychological damage.

he hauled himself off the floor, joints protesting after hours of restless fidgeting, and surveyed his reflection in the bedroom mirror. his hair was doing something approaching normal, white strands falling across his forehead in a way that looked intentionally tousled rather than accidentally disheveled. his skin had that pale, slightly translucent quality that came from too much time indoors, but the cruise sun had started to add some color to his cheeks and nose.

he pulled on a loose beige button-up, short sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, leaving it open at the throat because anything tighter felt like a noose. light linen trousers followed, the kind of casual expensive that suguru had insisted he pack, soft tan sandals that had probably cost more than some people’s rent. his reading glasses were still perched on his nose—when had he put them back on?—but he left them there because taking them off required acknowledging that he’d been wearing them, which required acknowledging that he’d been pretending to work, which required acknowledging just how far he’d fallen.

he ran a hand through his hair, decided against any product because the casual look felt more honest, and caught his own eyes in the mirror.

“you look like someone’s casual rich dad,” he told his reflection. “this is ridiculous. you’re ridiculous. whatever.”

but he was already moving toward the door, drawn by the promise of fresh air and the faint hope that maybe, maybe being somewhere else would quiet the chaos in his head. he was going to the deck bar for the breeze, for the mocktails that wouldn’t leave him hungover and regretful, for the peace that came from watching the ocean stretch endlessly toward the horizon.

definitely not because he hoped you’d be there.

definitely not because he’d spent the entire day thinking about sage green fabric and the way you’d almost smiled at him over crème brûlée.

definitely not because some masochistic part of him wanted to see you again, wanted to test whether the electric tension between you had been real or just another product of his increasingly unreliable imagination.

he paused at the door, hand on the handle, and caught sight of the laundry bag still sitting on his dining table like a silent accusation.

“i’m not thinking about the bikini,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the empty suite. “not at all. not even a little.”

he opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and immediately thought about the bikini.

“fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, closing the door behind him with enough force to make the expensive fixtures rattle.

the elevator ride to the deck felt like an eternity, his reflection multiplied in the mirrored walls until he was surrounded by copies of his own anxiety. by the time the doors opened to reveal the outdoor bar area, bathed in the golden light of late evening, his heart was hammering against his ribs with the irregular rhythm of a man walking toward either salvation or complete disaster.

he couldn’t tell which he was hoping for.

satoru gojo is twenty-eight years old, has never been in love, and is about to make the worst decision of his life.

he stands at the threshold of the deck bar like a man facing execution, two overpriced mocktails sweating in his palms, watching you exist in a way that should be illegal in international waters. the fairy lights strung above cast everything in gold—the kind of warm, forgiving light that makes people fall in love in movies—but you don’t need the help. you’re devastating all on your own.

the logical part of his brain, the part that built servers and debugged code and dated with matrimonial intent, is screaming at him to turn around. to go back to his suite, delete your number from his emergency contacts, and pretend this whole cruise never happened. but his feet are already moving, carrying him toward you like a moth toward a flame that’s definitely going to burn him alive.

you’re perched on a high stool at the corner of the open-air bar, legs crossed with the kind of careless elegance that suggests you were born knowing how to look expensive. your hair is twisted up again—soft and loose this time, held with gold pins that catch the light every time you tilt your head. the sunset peach dress you’re wearing is mesh and bias-cut, backless with delicate beading that probably costs more than his monthly server fees. your kitten heels are espresso brown, and they make a soft clicking sound every time you shift against the stool.

you’re not trying to kill him. you’re just existing. and somehow that’s worse.

your shoulders are relaxed in that particular way that says you’ve stopped caring about appearances for the night, and you’re sipping your mimosa—third? fourth? he’s lost count—like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth. you look like trouble and sunset and a very bad idea all wrapped up in designer fabric.

she looks like a daydream and i am not mentally prepared, he thinks, frozen three feet away from you. i should leave. i should absolutely leave.

he walks over anyway.

“you’ve been drinking alone for a while,” he says, setting the mocktails down with hands that are definitely not shaking. the glasses make a soft clink against the bar surface, ice already melting in the warm night air. his voice comes out steadier than expected, considering his cardiovascular system has apparently decided to stage a full revolt. “thought you might want something that won’t kill your liver.”

you blink up at him, slow and wide-eyed and floaty. your pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed pink from alcohol and sea breeze, and when you focus on his face it’s with the intense concentration of someone trying to solve quantum physics. the expression is so earnest, so unguarded, that something in his chest cracks open like an egg.

“are you…” you pause, head tilting with feline curiosity. one of the gold pins shifts, threatening to spill more hair across your forehead. “are you taking care of me right now?”

the question hits him like a freight train because yes, he is. he wants to take care of you in ways that probably violate several maritime laws, wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and solve all your problems and maybe also kiss you until you forget your own name. but he settles for nodding, hoping his face isn’t broadcasting every inappropriate thought currently ricocheting through his skull.

“someone has to,” he says, which is apparently the wrong thing to say because you immediately poke him in the chest.

your finger finds the space between his ribs, right over his heart, and the contact sends electricity shooting up his spine. he wonders if you can feel how fast it’s beating through the thin fabric of his shirt. wonders if you know you’ve just discovered the exact center of his entire nervous system.

“rude,” you declare, but there’s no real heat in it. if anything, you’re fighting a smile, lips twitching in a way that makes his stomach do acrobatics. “i can take care of myself, thank you very much. i’m a very accomplished independent woman with a law degree and everything.”

“i know you are.” the words come out rougher than intended, scraping against his throat. he’s seen you in action over the past few days, watched you dismantle his entire worldview with surgical precision. “doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

you stare at him for a long moment, something shifting in your expression like weather patterns across a sky. then you poke him again, harder this time, and your brows furrow in a way that suggests he’s personally offended you by existing.

“your eyes are, like…” you lean forward, studying his face with the intense focus of someone examining crucial evidence. the movement brings you close enough that he can see the faint shimmer of your lip gloss, can smell the champagne on your breath mixed with something floral and expensive. “so blue. like rude levels of blue.”

his mouth goes completely dry. those aren’t just any eyes you’re talking about—they’re the pale, arctic blue that people have been commenting on his entire life, the color of winter sky and deep ocean and every poem about loneliness ever written. but the way you say it, like you’re accusing him of deliberate sabotage, makes them sound like weapons of mass destruction.

“thanks?” he tries, voice cracking slightly on the single syllable.

“no, i’m serious,” you continue, your words gaining that slightly loose quality that means the alcohol is hitting harder now. you’re studying him like he’s a particularly complex legal brief. “it’s stupid. you should wear goggles or something. this is unfair to the general population.”

before he can formulate any kind of response, you’re reaching for his face with the kind of casual presumption that suggests alcohol has completely demolished your sense of personal boundaries. your fingers brush against his temple—soft and warm and slightly unsteady—as you pluck off his reading glasses with zero ceremony.

“you wear glasses now?” there’s genuine surprise in your voice, like you’ve discovered he’s been hiding a secret identity. “i thought i hallucinated that.”

“they’re for work—”

“shut up,” you interrupt, and there’s something commanding in your tone that makes him close his mouth immediately. “don’t explain. just—oh my god.”

you actually gasp. audibly, dramatically, like you’ve just discovered a renaissance masterpiece hiding under a restaurant placemat. your eyes go wide and your lips part and satoru feels something fundamental shift in his chest, like you’ve reached in and rearranged his entire circulatory system without asking permission.

without the glasses, his eyes are even more devastating—that impossible pale blue now unfiltered and direct. his lashes are long and dark, the kind that should be illegal on someone who isn’t professionally required to be beautiful, and there’s something almost ethereal about the way the fairy lights catch in his hair, turning the white strands into spun silver.

“even worse,” you breathe, staring at him like he’s committed some kind of crime against humanity. your free hand hovers near his face, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the heat of your palm. “those lashes? that’s just—go to jail. immediately. do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, just go directly to jail.”

he stands there completely frozen, feeling exposed without his glasses. his vision is fine—he doesn’t really need them, just wears them to look more professional, more approachable, more like someone you’d trust with your tax returns. but without them he feels naked under your scrutiny, like you can see straight through to every desperate thought currently short-circuiting his brain.

this is not the sharp-tongued woman who called him a drunk businessman three days ago. this is not the ice queen who dismissed him in silk and superiority. this is someone else entirely—someone soft and unguarded and brutally honest in the way that only drunk people and children can be.

“you’re staring,” you inform him, but you don’t look away either. if anything, you lean closer, your knee brushing against his thigh where he’s standing next to your stool.

“sorry,” he manages, his voice coming out like he’s been gargling gravel. he clears his throat, tries again. “you’re just… different.”

“different how?” the question is accompanied by another head tilt, and more hair escapes its pins to frame your face in soft waves.

“softer.”

the word hangs between you like a confession, heavy with implications he absolutely did not mean to voice. you blink at him, processing, and then your expression does something complicated—pleased and annoyed and vulnerable all at once, like you can’t decide whether to thank him or slap him.

“i’m not soft,” you protest, but your voice lacks its usual knife-edge conviction. you straighten slightly on your stool, trying to summon some of your familiar armor. “i’m mean. ask anyone. i made a paralegal cry last month.”

the image of you reducing someone to tears should probably be concerning, but instead satoru finds himself fighting a smile. there’s something almost endearing about the way you cling to your reputation for ruthlessness, like it’s the only thing standing between you and complete vulnerability.

“i’m sure you did.”

“i did!” you insist, gesturing with your mimosa and nearly painting the bar with champagne and orange juice. he reaches out instinctively to steady your hand, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, and the contact sends heat racing up his arm. “he filed the motion wrong and i told him his legal brief read like it was written by a caffeinated hamster.”

despite everything—the tension, the alcohol, the way you’re currently destroying his ability to think in complete sentences—satoru laughs. actually laughs, the sound surprised and genuine and completely involuntary.

“that’s terrible,” he says, but he’s grinning now, and you can probably tell he thinks it’s actually kind of brilliant.

“it was accurate,” you defend, but you’re fighting your own smile now, lips twitching in a way that makes his chest tight with something dangerously close to affection. your wrist is warm under his palm, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. “legal precision matters.”

“is that what you do? law?”

“corporate litigation,” you say, waving your free hand dismissively. the movement makes you sway slightly on your stool, and his grip on your wrist automatically tightens to steady you. “i destroy people professionally. it’s very fulfilling.”

there’s something in your tone—bitter and sharp-edged, like broken glass wrapped in velvet—that makes him want to dig deeper. but before he can ask, you’re trying to lift your mimosa again, and he finds himself gently intercepting the movement.

“hey,” he says, his voice soft with the kind of concern he usually reserves for crashed servers and corrupted databases. his other hand comes up to cover yours on the glass, engulfing your fingers completely. “maybe slow down a little?”

you look down at his hands covering yours—large and warm and surprisingly gentle for someone who spends his days wrestling with code and hardware. then you look back up at his face, and something flickers in your expression like a match being struck in the dark.

“you really are trying to take care of me,” you say, and there’s wonder in your voice like you’ve never experienced this phenomenon before. like the concept of someone looking out for you is as foreign as quantum mechanics.

“is that okay?”

instead of answering directly, you turn your hand palm-up under his, threading your fingers together with the kind of casual intimacy that makes his heart skip several beats in rapid succession. your skin is soft and warm and slightly sticky from the condensation on your glass, and he wants to hold on forever, wants to memorize the exact pattern of your fingerprints against his.

“no one’s ever…” you start, then stop, shaking your head hard enough that several more pins lose their battle with gravity.

“no one’s ever what?”

you’re quiet for a long moment, staring down at your joined hands like they’re something miraculous and slightly terrifying. when you speak again, your voice is smaller, more vulnerable than he’s ever heard it.

“he said i was too much,” you say suddenly, and satoru doesn’t need to ask who ‘he’ is. the words tumble out in a rush, like they’ve been building pressure behind a dam. “too loud, too independent, too… intense. said he needed someone softer. someone who would let him lead.”

something hot and protective flares in satoru’s chest, burning away the last of his careful composure. the urge to find this mystery ex and introduce him to the business end of a server rack is surprisingly violent.

“he sounds like an idiot,” he says, and means it with every fiber of his being.

you laugh, but it’s not entirely happy. there’s something hollow in it, like an echo in an empty room. “maybe. or maybe he was right. maybe i am too much.” you take a shaky breath, your grip on his hand tightening until it’s almost painful. “maybe that’s why he found someone else. someone easier.”

“you’re not,” satoru says, and the certainty in his own voice surprises him. he shifts closer, his free hand coming up to rest on the bar beside you, effectively caging you in. “you’re exactly enough.”

you look up at him then, really look at him, and he feels exposed under your gaze. like you can see straight through all his careful facades to the mess of want and terror underneath.

“you don’t know me,” you whisper.

“i’d like to.”

the admission hangs between you, honest and raw and probably the stupidest thing he’s ever said. you stare at him for a long moment, your thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of his hand that make his entire nervous system light up like a christmas tree.

“he wanted someone soft,” you repeat, your voice dreamy with alcohol and something else, something that sounds dangerously close to hope. “but only soft for him. but i’m soft for no one.”

you pause, glancing up at him through your lashes in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat like a physical snag.

“well,” you amend, and your smile is small and dangerous and completely devastating. “almost no one.”

satoru chokes on air. actually chokes, his free hand flying to his chest as he coughs and tries to remember how basic respiratory functions work. you’re looking at him like you’ve just delivered a casual weather report instead of completely destroying his entire existence with seven little words.

“you can’t just say things like that,” he manages when he can speak again, voice rough and slightly strangled.

“why not?” you ask, tilting your head with genuine curiosity. one of your remaining gold pins finally gives up the ghost, sending a strand of hair tumbling across your forehead. “it’s true.”

and there’s something in the way you say it—matter-of-fact and slightly wondering, like you’re surprised by your own honesty—that makes him believe you completely and utterly.

before he can formulate any kind of coherent response, you’re reaching up with your free hand to poke his cheek, your touch gentle and exploratory. your finger traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, and he has to physically fight not to lean into the contact like some kind of touch-starved house cat.

“you’re actually cute,” you announce, like this is a personal failing on his part. your finger moves to the corner of his mouth, barely grazing his skin but setting every nerve ending on fire. “i hate that. i want to bite you a little.”

his brain shorts out completely. every synapse fires at once and then goes dark, leaving him staring at you with the vacant expression of someone who’s just been hit by lightning.

“you want to what?”

“bite you,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like this is a perfectly normal thing to want. you demonstrate by making a small chomping motion with your teeth that should be ridiculous but instead makes his knees go weak. “just a little. nothing weird.”

“that’s…” he starts, then realizes he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence. his vocabulary has apparently been reduced to single syllables and strangled breathing. “that’s definitely something.”

you laugh, bright and uninhibited, and the sound goes straight to his chest like a physical impact. “you’re funny when you’re flustered.”

“i’m not flustered,” he lies, even as his face burns hot enough to power a small spacecraft.

“you’re very flustered,” you correct, using your joined hands to pull him closer. he stumbles slightly, catching himself with one hand on the back of your stool. now he’s practically caging you in, one arm braced beside you, and the position makes his head spin with dangerous possibilities. “your face is all red and you keep doing this thing with your eyebrows.”

“what thing?”

instead of explaining, you mimic his expression—furrowing your brows in exaggerated scholarly concern—and he realizes he probably does look ridiculous. like someone trying to solve calculus while being slowly murdered by sexual tension.

“i don’t do that,” he protests weakly.

“you absolutely do that,” you insist, giggling now in a way that makes his stomach flutter with something that might be butterflies or might be an impending cardiac event. “it’s very serious and scholarly. very ‘i build servers and date with intention.’”

the accuracy of your impression is both impressive and terrifying. he wonders what else you’ve noticed about him, what other tells he’s been unconsciously broadcasting over the past few days.

“how do you—”

“observation,” you admit, swirling your mimosa with your free hand in a way that makes the ice clink against the glass. “i watch people. it’s what i do. occupational hazard.” you pause, meeting his eyes with sudden intensity. “and you, satoru gojo, are very watchable.”

heat floods his face at the admission, spreading down his neck and across his chest like spilled wine. “that sounds vaguely stalkerish.”

“says the man who’s memorized my schedule well enough to find me here,” you counter, and he doesn’t have a good response for that because you’re absolutely, devastatingly right.

“touché.”

you beam at him like he’s just passed some kind of test, and the approval makes something warm and dangerous unfurl in his chest like smoke from a match.

“can i tell you something?” you ask, leaning closer until your breath is warm against his ear. your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, like you’re sharing state secrets.

“okay,” he manages, though his voice comes out rougher than intended.

“i wasn’t supposed to marry him anyway,” you say, words slightly slurred but intense. there’s something fierce in your expression now, like you’re admitting to a crime you’re proud of. “it was all arranged. family business merger disguised as romance. very civilized, very practical.”

satoru feels something cold settle in his stomach like a stone dropped in deep water. “but you were hurt when he called it off.”

“not hurt,” you correct, and there’s steel in your voice now, sharp and unyielding. “humiliated. there’s a difference.”

he thinks about this distinction—heartbreak versus wounded pride, love versus ego—and realizes it makes perfect, terrible sense. you weren’t mourning lost love; you were mourning lost dignity.

“he made me feel small,” you continue, your grip on his hand tightening until it’s almost painful. your eyes are bright with unshed tears and alcohol and something that might be rage. “like i was this overwhelming force that needed to be contained. managed. like loving me would be work.”

“it wouldn’t be,” satoru says without thinking, and then immediately wishes he could take it back because that’s too much, too honest, too revealing of the way his chest aches every time you look at him like that.

“wouldn’t it?” you ask, tilting your head with genuine curiosity. your eyes search his face like you’re looking for proof of deception. “i’m a lot of work, satoru. i’m demanding and stubborn and i have opinions about everything. i argue with judges for fun. i once made opposing counsel cry during cross-examination.”

“that sounds terrifying,” he says honestly, because it does. the image of you in full courtroom predator mode is both intimidating and inappropriately attractive. “and also kind of impressive.”

you beam at him like he’s just handed you the moon and several smaller celestial bodies as a bonus. “most people find it intimidating.”

“most people are idiots.”

“you think so?”

“i know so,” he says, and means it with every fiber of his being. the conviction in his own voice surprises him. “anyone who can’t handle you at your most intense doesn’t deserve you at your softest.”

you go very still, staring at him with an expression he can’t read. for a moment he thinks he’s said something wrong, crossed some invisible line, but then you’re smiling—really smiling, not the sharp-edged thing from before but something genuine and warm and absolutely devastating.

“you’re dangerous,” you tell him, voice soft with wonder. “you say things like that and make me want to believe them.”

“you should believe them.”

“should i?” you lean closer, and now you’re definitely in his personal space, your knee brushing against his thigh through the thin fabric of his linen pants. “what else should i believe, satoru?”

his name on your lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once. he’s acutely aware of everything—the way your dress shifts when you breathe, the gold pins still clinging valiantly to your hair, the fact that you’re still holding his hand like it’s anchoring you to something real and solid.

“you should believe,” he says carefully, his voice barely above a whisper, “that you’re worth more than someone who makes you feel like you need to be smaller. that your intensity isn’t something to apologize for. that the right person wouldn’t want to dim your light—they’d want to bask in it.”

your breath catches, a soft sound that makes his chest tight with something he doesn’t want to name. for a moment you just stare at him, and then you laugh—sudden and delighted and completely unguarded, throwing your head back in a way that makes the remaining gold pins finally surrender to gravity.

“god,” you say, grinning at him with something that looks dangerously close to affection. “you really are trouble, aren’t you?”

“me?” he protests, though he’s fighting his own smile now. “you’re the one who wanted to bite me.”

“still do,” you inform him cheerfully, and his heart stops completely. “you have very biteable cheekbones.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“it absolutely is a thing,” you insist, reaching up to trace the sharp line of his cheek with one finger. your touch is feather-light but it might as well be fire for how it affects him. “very defined. very geometric. i could probably cut myself on these.”

your touch is reverent, almost worshipful, and satoru thinks he might actually combust from the simple contact. he’s never been touched like this—like he’s something precious and dangerous all at once.

“you’re drunk,” he says weakly, because someone needs to be the voice of reason here and it’s clearly not going to be you.

“very drunk,” you agree happily, but your touch doesn’t waver. “but not wrong. you’re beautiful, satoru. stupidly beautiful. it’s actually offensive.”

“offensive?”

“mhmm.” you’re still tracing patterns on his cheek—geometric shapes that match the angles of his face, like you’re trying to memorize him through touch. “no one should be allowed to look like you and also be nice. it’s false advertising.”

“what am i falsely advertising?”

“that you’re safe,” you say, and there’s something sharp in your smile now, something that makes his pulse skip. “but you’re not, are you? you’re the dangerous kind of good guy. the kind that makes girls like me do stupid things.”

“what kind of stupid things?” he asks, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

your smile widens, all teeth and mischief and promises he’s definitely not ready for. “wouldn’t you like to know.”

satoru thinks he might actually die. right here, at this bar, surrounded by fairy lights and the sound of waves against the ship’s hull. death by flirtation. they’ll put it on his tombstone: here lies satoru gojo, killed by a drunk lawyer with biteable cheekbones and no sense of self-preservation.

“you’re going to be the death of me,” he tells you, and you laugh like that’s the best compliment you’ve ever received.

“good,” you say, leaning even closer until your breath is warm against his ear and he can smell your perfume mixed with champagne and salt air. “i like the idea of ruining you a little.”

the words send heat shooting straight down his spine, and he has to grip the edge of your stool to keep himself upright. somewhere in the distance, he can hear the rational part of his brain screaming warnings about drunk women and bad decisions and the importance of maintaining professional boundaries, but it’s drowned out by the sound of his own heartbeat and the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you want to devour.

he’s in so much trouble.

you’re still laughing when you slide off the stool, but your legs are unsteady and you immediately grab onto his arm for balance.

“whoa,” you breathe, blinking up at him. “everything’s a little spinny.”

“come on,” he says, slipping an arm around your waist. his palm settles against the curve of your hip like it belongs there, and the realization makes his throat go tight. “let’s get you some air.”

you don’t protest when he guides you away from the bar, your hand wrapped around his bicep like a lifeline. you keep looking up at him as you walk, like you’re trying to memorize his face, and satoru feels like he’s walking through quicksand—every step more dangerous than the last.

“where are we going?” you ask, your voice soft and trusting in a way that makes his chest ache.

“just over here,” he says, leading you to the railing where the ocean stretches endless and dark. the fairy lights catch in his hair, turning the pale strands silver-white against the night. “thought you might want to look at the water for a minute.”

you lean against the railing, and he hovers beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets because he doesn’t trust them anywhere else. not when you’re swaying slightly, not when the ocean breeze keeps lifting your hair toward him like an invitation.

“it’s so big,” you observe, gesturing at the ocean with loose, graceful movements. “makes you feel small, right?”

he looks at you instead of the water—at the way the moonlight catches on your bare shoulders, at the soft confusion in your expression. his chest feels too tight, like someone’s wrapped steel wire around his ribs.

“yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher than intended. “small.”

you turn to face him then, swaying slightly, and he instinctively moves closer in case you fall. which is a mistake, because now you’re close enough that he can smell your perfume mixed with the salt air, can see the way your lips part slightly when you look up at him. the space between you feels electric, charged with something that makes the air shimmer.

“you’re really tall,” you observe, like this is breaking news. your head tilts back to meet his eyes, exposing the elegant line of your throat.

“thanks for the update.” he adjusts his glasses nervously, a habit he hasn’t indulged since college.

“no, like—” you poke his chest with one finger, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. the contact burns through the thin fabric of his shirt. “ridiculously tall. it’s annoying. i have to crane my neck to glare at you properly.”

“sorry?” the word comes out strangled. you’re still touching him, finger pressed against his sternum like you’re testing his heartbeat.

“don’t apologize. just—bend down.”

“what?”

“bend down. i want to see if your eyes are actually that blue or if it’s just the lighting.” you say it like it’s the most reasonable request in the world, swaying closer until he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

this is a terrible idea. he knows it’s a terrible idea. but you’re looking at him with those wide, curious eyes—pupils slightly dilated from the alcohol, lashes casting delicate shadows on your cheekbones—and he’s apparently developed the backbone of overcooked pasta when it comes to you.

he bends down slightly, and you lean in, studying his face with the intense focus of someone examining a particularly interesting specimen. your breath is warm against his cheek, sweet with champagne and something else—something that tastes like trouble and feels like falling.

the space between you shrinks to nothing. he can count the gold flecks in your irises, can see the faint flush spreading across your cheekbones. his hair falls forward, pale strands brushing against your forehead, and you don’t pull away.

“yep,” you say after a moment that stretches like honey. your voice has gone soft, wondering. “definitely illegal. you should come with a warning label.”

“a warning label?” his own voice sounds foreign to him, rough and low.

“‘caution: may cause temporary blindness in unsuspecting women.’” you’re close enough that he can feel your words against his skin. “it’s a public safety hazard. those eyes—” you reach up, fingertips ghosting just beside his temple, “—and this stupid perfect hair. it’s not fair.”

he’s pretty sure he stops breathing for a full ten seconds. maybe twenty. time feels suspended, caught in the space between your fingers and his skin.

then you sway again, just slightly, but enough that he catches you automatically, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. the fabric of your dress is thin, silk-soft under his palms, and he can feel the warmth of your skin underneath, the gentle curve of your hip. his thumbs brush against your ribs and you shiver.

your breath hitches, just barely, and you look up at him with something that might be surprise—like you’ve just realized something important.

“you smell good,” you murmur, your voice gone soft and wondering. your hands come up to rest against his chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of his shirt like you’re trying to map him. “you always smell good. like... like clean laundry and something else. something warm.”

he can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, wonders if you can feel it too through his shirt. probably. your palms are pressed right over it, burning through cotton like brands.

the ocean wind picks up, lifting your hair across your face, and without thinking he reaches up to brush it away. his knuckles graze your cheek and you lean into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

“stay?” you ask suddenly, the word barely a whisper. your eyes are wide, vulnerable, and for once completely unguarded.

the question hits him like a physical blow. stay. like he’s someone worth keeping around. like he’s someone you might actually want. not just tolerate or find moderately amusing, but want. the word echoes in his chest, sets up residence somewhere between his lungs and makes breathing an active effort.

he should leave. should step back, put distance between you, remind himself that you’re drunk and vulnerable and he’s supposed to be better than this. supposed to be the kind of man who doesn’t take advantage of soft moments and champagne confessions.

but you’re looking at him like he hung the moon and personally arranged the stars, like he’s something precious instead of just another tech bro in expensive casual wear. your hands are still pressed against his chest, fingers curled slightly in his shirt fabric.

“i can’t,” he manages, his voice rougher than he intended. the words taste like sawdust. “but i’ll walk you back.”

disappointment flickers across your face so quickly he almost misses it—a brief tightening around your eyes, the smallest downturn of your mouth. but then you nod, straightening slightly, and the mask slides back into place.

“okay,” you say, and your voice is steadier now, more controlled. “yeah. good call.”

but when you start walking, you immediately latch onto his arm, fingers curling around his bicep for balance. he tries not to notice how perfectly your hand fits there, tries not to think about how right it feels to have you leaning into him, trusting him to keep you upright.

the walk to your suite feels both endless and far too short. you keep looking up at him as you walk, head tilted to catch his profile in the hallway lighting, like you’re trying to figure out a puzzle that keeps shifting just out of reach.

“you’re a good guy,” you say suddenly, the words slightly slurred but painfully earnest. there’s something almost accusatory in your tone, like his goodness is a personal affront.

“i try to be.” he adjusts his stride so you don’t have to work so hard to keep up, one hand hovering near your elbow.

“i don’t trust good guys.” you stumble slightly over nothing, and his grip on you tightens instinctively. “they always want something. always have an agenda.”

“i know.” and he does. he’s seen your walls, the way you deflect genuine care with sharp words and sharper looks.

“but you...” you trail off, frowning like you’re trying to organize thoughts that keep slipping away from you. “you brought me mocktails. you could have just let me drink myself stupid.”

“i don’t want you to hurt yourself.” the admission comes out more honest than he intended.

you stop walking entirely, turning to stare at him with wide eyes that seem to see straight through him. “why?”

the question catches him completely off guard. because you matter, he thinks. because the idea of you in pain makes something twist painfully in his chest. because in three days you’ve managed to turn his entire world sideways and he’s not sure how to right it again. because when you laugh—really laugh, not the sharp defensive thing you do in public—it sounds like music he wants to learn by heart.

“because,” he says instead, helplessly inadequate.

you study his face for a long moment, searching for something he’s not sure he knows how to give you. then you nod like this makes perfect sense, like his non-answer contains multitudes.

“you’re weird, satoru gojo.” but there’s warmth in it now, something almost fond.

“thanks. really boosting my confidence here.” he pushes his glasses up his nose, a nervous habit that makes him feel seventeen again.

“no, i mean—” you gesture vaguely with your free hand, nearly losing your balance in the process. “good weird. like... safe weird.”

safe. the word does something dangerous to his chest, makes him want to prove that he could be safe for you, that he could be someone you trust with your sharp edges and hidden softnesses. someone worth keeping.

when you reach your door, you fumble with your keycard, fingers clumsy with alcohol and something that might be nerves. the plastic slips from your grasp twice before he gently takes it from you.

“here,” he murmurs, sliding it through the reader. the lock clicks open and you beam at him like he’s just performed actual magic.

“my hero,” you say, and there’s just enough sarcasm in it to keep his heart from completely exploding. just enough sincerity underneath to make his breath catch anyway.

you step inside, then turn back to him, one hand braced against the doorframe. the hallway light catches in your hair, turns your skin golden, and for a moment you just look at him with something unreadable flickering across your features.

“i’m gonna regret this conversation tomorrow, aren’t i?” you ask, and there’s a vulnerability in the question that makes his chest ache.

probably, he thinks. but god, he hopes not. hopes you remember the way you called him safe, the way you asked him to stay. hopes this isn’t just champagne talking.

“get some sleep,” he says instead, gentle. “drink water.”

“yes, dr. gojo.” you give him a mock salute that’s so cute it physically hurts, makes him want to gather you up and keep you somewhere safe from the world. “thank you for... you know. not being awful.”

“the bar is really that low?” he asks, trying for lightness even though the admission makes him want to find every man who’s ever made you feel like basic decency is a gift.

“you’d be surprised.” there’s old hurt in your voice, carefully controlled but still sharp enough to cut.

you start to turn away, then stumble slightly, catching yourself against the doorframe. he moves forward instinctively, one hand coming up to steady you, and suddenly you’re right there—close enough that he can see the slight smudge of your lipstick, the way your pupils are still dilated from the alcohol.

you look up at him, eyes wide and slightly unfocused, and for a moment he thinks you might kiss him properly this time. the air between you feels charged, electric with possibility.

then you sway again, more dramatically this time, and he catches you properly, both hands on your waist. your palms find his chest for balance and you laugh softly, the sound going straight to his head faster than any alcohol ever could.

“whoa, okay,” he says softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “come on.”

you don’t protest when he guides you inside, one hand on the small of your back. his palm burns through the silk of your dress, hyperaware of every breath you take. your suite is the mirror image of his—pristine, expensive, untouched except for the dress you discarded on the chair and the heels kicked carelessly by the door.

evidence of your life, small and intimate and devastating in its normalcy.

you make it exactly three steps before stumbling again, and this time you grab onto his shirt to steady yourself, your fingers twisted in the fabric right over his chest. the contact sends electricity shooting straight down his spine.

“sorry,” you mumble, but you don’t let go. don’t seem to want to. “my legs are being stupid.”

“it’s okay.” his voice comes out rougher than intended, rougher than appropriate for someone who’s supposed to be helping you safely to bed. “let’s get you to bed.”

the words hang in the air between you, loaded with implications he definitely didn’t mean but can’t take back. you look up at him, something unreadable flickering across your face—surprise, maybe, or recognition of the double meaning.

“just to sleep,” he adds quickly, heat flooding his cheeks like he’s nineteen instead of twenty-eight. “i mean—”

“i know what you meant.” there’s amusement in your voice, soft and warm and utterly devastating. “you’re very proper, aren’t you?”

proper. right. if only you knew what he was thinking right now, with your hands fisted in his shirt and your body pressed against his, all soft curves and warm skin and champagne-sweet breath. if you knew how badly he wants to map every inch of you with his mouth, how hard he’s fighting not to back you against the nearest wall and kiss you until you forget your own name.

he helps you to the bed, trying not to notice the way your dress rides up slightly when you sit on the edge. trying not to notice how the silk clings to your thighs, how your hair falls over one shoulder like liquid gold.

you immediately flop backward dramatically, arms spread wide, and the movement makes your dress shift in ways that test every ounce of his self-control.

“this bed is so big,” you announce to the ceiling, your voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. “like, stupidly big. who needs a bed this big?”

“rich people, apparently.” he stays carefully at the foot of the bed, hands shoved deep in his pockets where they can’t get him in trouble.

“mm.” you turn your head to look at him, hair spilling across the white pillows, and something in your expression makes his breath catch. your eyes are soft, slightly unfocused, but there’s an invitation there that makes his mouth go dry. “you could fit in here easy.”

the statement hits him like a physical blow. innocent, probably. drunk rambling. but the way you’re looking at him—all soft and warm and inviting, lips slightly parted, dress riding up just enough to reveal another inch of thigh—

he clears his throat roughly. “you should get some sleep.”

“probably.” but you make no move to get under the covers. instead, you struggle to sit up, movements loose and uncoordinated, reaching behind you with clumsy fingers. “will you... can you help me with my dress? the zipper’s being mean.”

every rational thought in his head immediately short-circuits.

the request is innocent enough. practical, even. but it crosses about seventeen different lines he’s drawn for himself, blurs the boundary between helpful and something else entirely. something that involves his hands on your skin, the whisper of silk sliding away from curves he’s been trying not to think about for three straight days.

“i—” he starts, then stops. because helping you undress feels like crossing into territory he has no business entering, but leaving you struggling with a zipper feels wrong too. feels like failing some test of basic human decency.

you’ve already turned around, pulling your hair to one side to expose the back of your dress. the movement is graceful despite the alcohol, practiced, and it gives him a perfect view of your shoulders, the elegant line of your spine. the zipper runs from your neck to just above your lower back, and his hands actually shake slightly as he reaches for it.

“just to the middle,” you say softly, and your voice has gone quiet, almost breathless. “i can get the rest.”

he finds the zipper pull with unsteady fingers, hyperaware of every breath you take, every subtle shift of your body. the metal is warm from your skin, and when he starts to pull it down, the sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet room.

the zipper slides down smoothly, revealing a strip of smooth skin and the edge of what looks like black lace. delicate, expensive, devastating. he stops exactly where you asked, even though every instinct is screaming at him to keep going, to map the entire length of your spine with his fingers.

his knuckles brush against your skin as he steps back, and you shiver.

“there,” he manages, his voice barely above a whisper.

you turn back around slowly, holding the front of your dress to your chest with one hand. the fabric gapes slightly, revealing the edge of that black lace, the soft curve of your collarbone. the soft smile you give him nearly kills him—warm and grateful and completely devastating.

“thank you.” your voice has gone soft, intimate in a way that makes his pulse skip. “you’re really sweet, you know that?”

he can’t speak. can barely breathe. you’re looking at him like he’s done something remarkable instead of just helping with a zipper, like simple kindness is some rare and precious gift.

then you reach up suddenly, fingers ghosting along his jawline, and he freezes completely. your touch is feather-light but it might as well be fire for how it affects him. every nerve ending comes alive under your fingertips.

“really sweet,” you repeat, softer now, almost wondering.

your hand curves against his cheek, thumb brushing across his cheekbone, and he leans into the touch before he can stop himself. his eyes flutter closed for just a moment, overwhelmed by the simple intimacy of it.

when he opens them again, you’re closer than before. close enough that he can see the slight smudge of your mascara, the way your lips are slightly parted. close enough that if he leaned down just a fraction, he could—

then you lean forward, and for one heart-stopping moment he thinks you’re going to kiss him properly. instead, your lips brush against his neck, just below his jaw, soft and warm and absolutely devastating.

it’s brief. innocent, probably. probably meant to be his cheek but your aim is off from the alcohol. but the soft press of your mouth against his skin sends electricity shooting straight down his spine, makes him bite back a groan that would give away exactly how not-innocent his thoughts have become.

the kiss lingers for just a moment too long, your breath warm against his pulse point, and he has to clench his fists to keep from threading his fingers through your hair and holding you there.

you pull back slowly, blinking like you’re not entirely sure what just happened. there’s confusion in your eyes, something that might be embarrassment starting to creep in.

“sorry,” you mumble, hand fluttering near your throat. “i meant to—your cheek was—”

“it’s fine,” he says quickly, even though fine is the last thing he is. his skin burns where your lips touched, the sensation branded into his memory like a tattoo. “it’s fine.”

you nod, then flop back against the pillows with less grace than before, still holding your dress in place. the movement makes your hair spill across the white pillows like liquid gold, and he has to look away before he does something stupid.

“you should go,” you say, but there’s no real conviction in it. your voice is soft, almost pleading. “before i do something stupid.”

he should. he absolutely should. but something in your voice—soft and vulnerable and almost desperate—keeps him frozen in place. keeps him rooted to this spot beside your bed like an idiot.

“like what?” he asks, even though he probably doesn’t want to know the answer. even though the question opens doors better left closed.

you look at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across your features. vulnerability, maybe. want. fear. all of it tangled together in a way that makes his chest ache.

“like ask you to stay,” you whisper.

the words hit him like a punch to the gut, steal the air from his lungs and leave him gasping. because he wants to stay. wants it so badly it physically hurts, makes his bones ache with longing. wants to crawl into that stupidly big bed and hold you until you fall asleep, wants to be there when you wake up, wants to be the person you reach for in the dark.

but you’re drunk, and vulnerable, and he’s supposed to be better than this. supposed to be the kind of man who doesn’t take advantage of champagne confessions and soft moments.

“you need sleep,” he says instead, reaching for the covers. his voice sounds strange to his own ears, rough and careful. “and water. there’s bottles in the mini fridge.”

he pulls the blanket up over you, his knuckles brushing against your arm as he tucks the fabric around your shoulders. the brief contact makes his skin burn, makes him want to linger, to trace patterns on your skin until you fall asleep under his touch.

you let him tuck the blanket around you, your eyes already starting to flutter closed. the alcohol is finally winning, pulling you toward sleep despite the electric tension crackling between you.

“you’re warm, satoru,” you murmur, so soft he almost misses it.

the words slam into him with unexpected force. warm. like something you want to curl up against. like someone worth keeping close, worth trusting with soft confessions and unguarded moments.

he stands there for a moment longer than necessary, watching you settle into sleep, memorizing the soft curve of your mouth, the way your hair spills across the pillow like spun gold. memorizing this moment before reality crashes back in, before you wake up tomorrow and remember that he’s just another tech bro you barely tolerate.

“goodnight,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely sound.

he forces himself to step back, to turn away from the picture you make in that enormous bed. forces himself to walk to the door on unsteady legs, every step feeling like swimming upstream.

just before he closes it behind him, he hears you mumble something that sounds like “stay safe,” but he’s not sure if you’re talking to him or just sleep-talking. not sure if it matters.

the door clicks shut, leaving him standing in the hallway like an idiot, one hand pressed to the spot where your lips touched his skin. the hallway is too bright, too cold after the intimate warmth of your room.

he can still feel it. the soft press of your mouth, the warmth of your breath against his pulse. it was nothing—a drunken mistake, probably meant to be friendly—but his body doesn’t seem to care about logic or appropriateness or any of the rational thoughts that usually keep him grounded.

heat is already pooling low in his stomach, his pulse hammering against his throat where you kissed him. his skin feels too tight, hypersensitive, like every nerve ending has been lit up and left burning.

“fuck,” he whispers to the empty hallway, running both hands through his hair until it’s completely disheveled.

he stands there for another moment, staring at your door, listening for any sound from inside. but there’s nothing—just the quiet hum of the ship’s systems and his own ragged breathing.

his own suite is directly across the hall, which suddenly feels like both a blessing and a curse. close enough to hear if you need anything. close enough to drive himself insane thinking about what’s happening on the other side of that door.

close enough to imagine what would have happened if he’d said yes. if he’d crawled into that stupidly big bed and let you curl up against him, let himself be the warm thing you reach for in the dark.

he presses the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to think through the alcohol-sweet haze of want that’s settled over his brain like fog. trying to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

you kissed his neck. accidentally, probably, but still. your lips on his skin, soft and warm and perfect. you called him safe, called him sweet. you said he smelled good, asked him to stay. you let him steady you, trusted him to walk you home, looked at him like he was something worth looking at instead of just tolerating.

and he’s hard. painfully, obviously hard, straining against his trousers like a teenager who’s never been touched by a girl before.

this is not how he planned to spend his vacation. this is not the kind of man he thought he was—the kind who gets derailed by pretty girls in silk dresses, who stands in hotel hallways fighting the urge to go back and finish what alcohol started.

but you’re not just any pretty girl. you’re sharp and challenging and utterly devastating, and you make him want things he’s never let himself want before. make him want to be reckless, impulsive, the kind of man who takes what he wants instead of carefully considering every angle first.

he’s so fucked. literally. metaphorically. in every possible way.

because you’re drunk, and vulnerable, and probably won’t remember half of this tomorrow. and he’s supposed to be better than this—supposed to be the kind of man who doesn’t take advantage, who respects boundaries, who dates with intention instead of getting derailed by champagne confessions and accidental kisses.

but god, the way you looked at him. like he was something precious instead of just convenient. like his presence mattered, like his touch was something you wanted instead of just tolerated.

stay, you said. like he was someone worth keeping.

satoru stumbles into his suite like the hallway spat him out, spine tight, throat raw. the door clicks behind him with too much finality—a sound that echoes in the marble cavern of his presidential prison. he doesn’t turn on the lights. he can’t. the dark is easier. less incriminating. more merciful. the last time he let light in, he got a glimpse of something he’s not sure he’s allowed to want.

his fingers find the wall switch but don’t press. they hover, trembling slightly, before falling to his side. coward, he thinks. but not about the lights.

the room stretches before him, cold and massive and accusingly empty. moonlight spills through the sheer curtains, casting everything in silver—the king-sized bed with its ridiculous thread count, the complimentary champagne still chilling in its bucket like a bad joke, the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the endless black sea. it should feel decadent. instead, it feels like a mausoleum. a beautiful, expensive tomb for whatever’s left of his self-control.

he runs both hands through his hair, fingers catching on the damp strands at his nape. it’s still slightly wet from the heat outside, from standing too close to you under those string lights, from the way his body betrayed him with sweat when you called him warm. the motion sends droplets sliding down his temples, and he lets them fall. everything feels too hot, too tight, too much.

then he sees it.

the laundry bag. exactly where he left it on the corner table, zipped shut with the kind of care that suggests guilt. neatly folded. respectfully handled. but through the gap at the top—just visible enough to torment him—soft sage green fabric peeks out like a secret.

that bikini.

his chest constricts. every muscle in his body goes taut, pulled like piano wire. his hands curl into fists at his sides.

the same bikini that had clung to you at the pool. the one that rode low on your hips and tied behind your neck with those impossibly delicate strings. the one that made him forget how to swim in a straight line, made him crash into the pool wall like some horny teenager who’d never seen a woman before. the one that haunted every quiet moment since, painted behind his eyelids in high definition.

and now it’s here. in his room. mocking him.

you’d asked him to stay tonight. stumbled into him like gravity had picked favorites. your breath had ghosted over his collarbone when you swayed, and for one impossible second, he’d thought—

but then you’d kissed his neck. accident or not, it had landed like a brand. like a claim. like the kind of touch that rewrites a man’s entire nervous system.

“you’re warm, satoru.”

the memory hits him like a physical blow. his name in your mouth, slurred and honey-sweet and devastating. the way you’d looked at him—not through him, not past him, but at him. like he was worth seeing.

he turns away from the bag, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. his reflection catches in the dark window—hair a mess of silver and shadow, eyes too bright, shoulders rigid with the kind of tension that comes from wanting something you can’t have. he looks wrecked. feels worse.

“okay,” he says aloud, voice hoarse and echoing in the marble space. “shower. reset. pretend you’re not losing your fucking mind over a woman who called you a tech bro.”

the bathroom is all black marble and gold fixtures, absurdly luxurious and utterly impersonal. he strips off his clothes with jerky, impatient movements—the beige button-up hitting the floor in a wrinkled heap, the linen trousers following. his hands shake slightly as he reaches for the shower handle. pathetic. he’s pathetic.

the water hits like punishment, scalding then ice-cold when he cranks the temperature down. he lets it sluice over his chest, his shoulders, down the lines of his back. closes his eyes and tries to drown the memory of your perfume, the curve of your waist when he’d steadied you, the way your fingers had traced over his shirt like you were reading braille.

it doesn’t work.

nothing works.

he emerges ten minutes later, towel slung low around his hips, water still beading on his chest. his hair drips steadily, sending trails down his spine that make him shiver. or maybe that’s just the anticipation, the dread, the want that’s eating him alive from the inside out.

his phone buzzes on the nightstand. a text from shoko: how’s paradise, loverboy? getting lei’d yet? 🌺

he stares at it for a full thirty seconds, thumb hovering over the keyboard. starts typing three different responses, deletes them all. what would he even say? that he’s spiraling over a woman who barely tolerates him? that now he’s holding her bikini like some kind of relic?

shoko and suguru have been together for two months now, and every conversation is a masterclass in oversharing. detailed reports of their bedroom adventures, casual mentions of morning sex, inside jokes about positions he pretends not to understand. they’ve always been like this—even before they got together, they treated their various hookups and relationships like public entertainment.

and satoru? satoru has never had anything to contribute. never had a story worth telling. never even had a crush that wasn’t his custom-built pc with dual monitors and the kind of mechanical keyboard that costs more than most people’s rent.

he’s twenty-eight years old and he’s never been overwhelmed by another person. never lost sleep over someone’s laugh or the way they said his name. never felt his chest cave in just from wanting to touch someone’s hand.

this is uncharted territory. virgin emotional ground. and the worst part is, he can’t even share it. can’t text his best friends and ask for advice because how do you explain that you’ve never felt anything like this? that every nerve ending in your body has been rewired by a woman who thinks you’re just another tech bro with more money than sense?

he deletes shoko’s message without responding. some things are too big, too raw, too embarrassing to put into words.

he tries scrolling through apps instead. news, emails, anything to distract himself. but his eyes won’t focus. the words blur together, meaningless. his thumb moves without purpose, opening and closing tabs like muscle memory. like a man drowning in shallow water.

eventually, he gives up. tosses the phone aside and sits on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his knees, head hanging. the marble floor is cold under his bare feet. the silence presses in from all sides.

“i wasn’t gonna do anything,” he mutters to the empty room, voice cracking slightly. like confession might save him now. like admitting his intentions makes them pure.

his fingers dig into his thighs, hard enough to leave marks.

“i wasn’t gonna be that guy.”

but even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. has been a lie since the moment you’d pressed against him at the bar, all warm skin and whispered honesty. since you’d looked at him like he was more than just another pretty face with a trust fund and a tech company.

“but she poked me,” he continues, voice getting rougher, more desperate. “and giggled. called my eyes illegal. said i smelled good. said she wanted to bite me.”

the words hang in the air like an accusation. like evidence of a crime he hasn’t committed yet but wants to. desperately.

his gaze drifts back to the laundry bag.

his pulse kicks up, rabbit-fast and guilty. heat pools low in his stomach, spreads outward like spilled wine. his hands are moving before his brain can catch up, reaching for the zipper with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.

the metal teeth part slowly. deliberately. the sound is too loud in the quiet room.

he reaches inside and pulls out the bikini top first. holds it up in the moonlight like he’s studying it. learning it. the straps are delicate, barely there. the cups are soft triangle shapes that would fit in his palms. would have fit against you perfectly, he remembers. had cupped you like they were made for the job.

he sets it aside, breath coming faster now.

then the bottoms. sage green and impossibly small and tied with strings that had rested against your hipbones. his hands shake as he holds them, thumbs tracing over the fabric that had touched your skin. had been against you. intimate in a way that makes his chest tight with want and guilt in equal measure.

they smell like hotel detergent now. nothing more. clinical and clean and utterly innocent.

but his memory fills in the gaps. your laugh when you’d caught him staring. the way you’d moved in the water, all grace and precision and unconscious sensuality. the slight tan lines he’d glimpsed when your top had shifted, just for a second, just enough to make him forget how to breathe.

“fuck,” he whispers, and it sounds like prayer. like surrender.

the fabric is soft between his fingers. softer than he’d imagined during all those late-night moments when his mind wandered. when he’d wondered what it would feel like to untie those strings himself, to peel away the barriers between your skin and his hands.

his body responds without permission. heat spreading, pulse jumping, everything tightening with want. he’s hard already, has been since the moment you’d swayed against him at the bar. since you’d called him warm and looked at him like he was worth staying for.

he brings the bikini closer. just to look, he tells himself. just to understand what about this particular piece of fabric had driven him so completely insane.

but then he’s breathing it in, deep and desperate, searching for any trace of you that the laundry service might have missed. any ghost of your perfume, your skin, your presence that might still linger.

and for one impossible second—one second—it’s like you’re there. pressed against him again, warm and real and wanting him back.

desperation doesn’t slink in quietly. it crashes, raw and relentless, a tidal wave of want and shame dressed in silk and your fading laugh. it’s not subtle. it’s not controlled. it claws at satoru’s chest, rips through his carefully built walls, and leaves him gasping, clutching a piece of you he has no right to hold.

his control snaps clean in half.

his cock is hard, flushed and heavy against his stomach, twitching like it’s pissed he’s hesitating. satoru doesn’t want this. swears he’s better than this. but his body’s moving like it’s possessed, haunted by you—your peach dress glowing under fairy lights, your finger jabbing his chest, your giggle when you said you wanted to ‘bite’ him. with a pull, the towel around his waist hits the marble with a soft, wet slap, and he’s naked, skin prickling in the cool air, every nerve raw and screaming for you.

he wraps the bikini bottoms around his cock, the crotch panel silky and cool against his burning skin. the bikini top he brings to his mouth, pressing the soft cups to his lips, imagining your breast beneath, warm and alive. he licks the fabric, hesitant, tongue grazing the edge, tasting clean cotton but picturing you—your skin, your warmth, your pulse. his breath catches, a low, shaky hitch that echoes in the quiet.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, barely his own. he’s not some slick player—he’s a romantic who’s never been this lost, never wanted anyone this bad. he’s the guy who fixes servers, cracks dumb jokes, dreams of a ring and a future, not this—jerking off in the dark to your bikini, heart pounding like he’s breaking every rule he’s got.

he pauses, fingers trembling, the bikini top soft against his lips. he shouldn’t. he won’t. but he breathes against it, the fabric dampening with his exhales, and he sees you at the pool, bikini hugging your hips, water dripping like it was jealous.

his chest stutters, breath shallow, the air too thick, heavy with the hum of the air conditioner and the distant churn of the ocean. he spits into his palm, the sound wet and sharp, and strokes slow, dragging it out, the crotch panel of the bikini bottoms catching on his sensitive head. his thighs tense, muscles flexing under pale skin, fine white hair catching moonlight. his glasses slip, one lens fogging, cheeks flushed a deep, guilty red creeping to his ears.

satoru tries to stop. really tries. his hand stills, the bikini bottoms warm now from his skin, and he squeezes his eyes shut, glasses digging into his cheek. he’s not this guy—some pathetic wreck mouthing your bikini in the dark, imagining your breast under his lips.

he sucks the fabric gently, a small, desperate pull, picturing your warmth, your heartbeat, and his breath hitches, a soft whimper escaping. the shame burns, a sick twist in his gut, but your laugh—bright, cruel, calling his eyes a public menace—hits him again, and his hand moves, slow at first, like he’s fighting it. the bikini bottoms slide slick against his cock, and his hips jerk, a small, desperate twitch that makes the headboard tap the wall.

“i’m not—fuck,” he gasps, voice cracking, thick with shame. he’s trembling, sweat beading on his forehead, dripping down his temple to pool in the hollow of his collarbone.

the room’s too quiet, the silence accusing, broken only by the creak of the mattress and his ragged breaths. you’re across the hall, maybe awake, maybe hearing him fall apart, moaning your name like it’s a confession he can’t take back.

the thought makes his cock throb, makes his hand stutter, too overwhelmed to stay steady. he’s a mess—sweat-soaked, flushed from chest to ears, hair a wild tangle of damp white curls.

it’s you. always you. at the pool, water clinging to your skin. at the bar, leaning into him, peach dress glowing. in your suite, murmuring his name like it was something to keep. his strokes get faster, sloppier, the bikini bottoms slick with spit and pre-cum, the crotch panel catching every ridge

. he presses the bikini top harder to his mouth, sucking the fabric, imagining your breast, your skin, the soft weight of you against his lips. his thighs shake, muscles clenching, and a small, desperate whimper slips out, muffled against the bikini top as he bites the edge, teeth grazing cotton.

he stops again, hand shaking, the bikini bottoms drenched and clinging. he leans forward, elbows on his knees, the bikini top still pressed to his lips, damp now from his mouth. he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—his desk, his busted chair, the life he’s supposed to want.

but your giggle cuts through, saying you wanted to ‘bite’ him, and his cock twitches, leaking more pre-cum that soaks the fabric. he groans, low and wrecked, head falling back, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. his glasses are crooked, one arm digging into his cheek, but he doesn’t fix them, just grips the sheets, knuckles white, like they’ll save him.

he starts again, slower, each stroke a deliberate torture. the bikini bottoms are warm, slick, catching on his sensitive head. he sucks the bikini top harder, tongue pressing against the fabric, imagining your breast, your warmth, your breath hitching under his mouth. the sensation is electric, wrong, perfect, and he whimpers, a high, broken sound he can’t hold back.

the shame is a living thing, curling around his ribs, whispering he’s ruining something sacred—your bikini, your trust, you. but the want is louder, hungrier, drowning it out. he’s not supposed to be this guy, turning a piece of you into something filthy, but he can’t stop, not when it’s you, not when it’s this.

“please,” he whispers against the bikini top, to himself, to you, to nobody. his hips lift, chasing friction, the mattress creaking louder, headboard banging like it’s ratting him out. the air’s heavy, thick with salt from the open balcony door, the ocean’s churn a distant hum that doesn’t reach him.

he’s trembling, every muscle taut, sweat dripping down his spine, pooling at the small of his back. his chest aches, guilt and want bleeding together, making his throat tight, his eyes burn behind fogged glasses.

the overstimulation builds, brutal, like his nerves are fraying at the edges. he slows again, trying to pull back, but his hand won’t listen, stroking harder, the bikini bottoms sliding slick over his cock.

he presses the bikini top to his mouth, sucking harder, imagining your breast, your skin, the soft moan you might make. his spine bows, a raw moan tearing out, muffled against the fabric, caught between sob and surrender. he’s too far gone, every touch too much, like his body’s screaming for release and punishment at the same time.

the first orgasm hits like a punch, his body seizing, a strangled groan ripping from his throat against the bikini top. cum spills hot and thick across his stomach, soaking the bikini bottoms, dripping onto his fist, staining the bikini top’s cups in messy streaks. his chest heaves, each breath a ragged gasp that doesn’t fill his lungs.

his hair sticks to flushed cheeks, curling wild, and he shoves it back with a trembling hand, glasses slipping, one lens popped out. the shame floods in, heavy, suffocating, but his cock’s still hard, pulsing with a need that won’t quit, like it’s mocking him.

“no—fuck, not again,” he mutters, voice shattered, lips brushing the damp bikini top. he tries to stop, hand stilling, the drenched bikini bottoms heavy in his palm. he leans back, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes, the room spinning in the dim silver light.

but your laugh—bright, teasing, saying his eyes are illegal—hits him again, and his hand moves, pressing the soaked crotch panel against his oversensitive cock. he brings the bikini top back to his mouth, licking the fabric, imagining your breast, your warmth, your pulse under his tongue.

his hips buck, erratic, chasing something he hates himself for wanting. his free hand claws at the sheets, tearing them loose, and a whimper escapes, high and broken, muffled against the bikini top as the overstimulation burns through him.

he forces himself to go slow, deliberate, dragging out the pain and want. each stroke makes his stomach twist, the drenched bikini bottoms clinging to him, catching on every sensitive ridge. he sucks the bikini top harder, tongue pressing into the fabric, imagining your breast, your skin, the soft weight of you.

his spine bows, a sound caught between sob and moan tearing from his throat. he thinks of you at the bar, jabbing his chest, giggling about his eyes. feels your lips on his neck, accidental but burning. his strokes get rougher, more desperate, the overstimulation building like a storm in his chest.

his vision blurs, white at the edges, glasses useless, fogged and crooked. his free hand grips his own throat, not choking but grounding, feeling his pulse rabbit-fast under his palm. the bikini bottoms are ruined, completely soaked, sliding slick over his cock as he works himself harder. he’s close again, too close, the pressure unbearable. his hips stutter, rhythm breaking apart as he chases something that’s going to break him.

the second orgasm is worse, tearing through him like a storm, his body spasming, thighs shaking so hard the bed creaks. cum spills again, hot and messy, drenching the bikini bottoms, soaking the bikini top’s cups, pooling on his stomach until it drips down his sides. he makes a sound—half-sob, half-moan, raw and broken—muffled against the bikini top, his lips still pressed to the fabric, tasting his own shame.

he collapses, boneless, chest heaving, each breath a struggle. his fingers still clutch the bikini, both pieces soaked, stained, ruined. his cock twitches weakly before it softens, leaving him hollow.

“i’m not this guy,” he whispers, voice cracked, barely audible over the ocean’s distant hum. his reflection in the window stares back—hair a wild halo, cheeks flushed, looking like he just lost a fight with himself. “she called me ‘warm’, and i—fuck, i ruined her bikini. twice.”

his cock is now soft but his shame is rock hard, throbbing behind his ribs like a second heartbeat. the suite feels enormous around him—all that space, all that luxury, and he's reduced to this: a twenty-eight-year-old man who just came twice on a woman's swimwear like some kind of deranged teenager.

the ceiling stares back at him, offering no absolution. the yacht rocks gently beneath him, a mockery of serenity when his entire world has tilted off its axis.

“i’m going to hell,” he whispers to the darkness. his voice cracks on the last word.

the bikini bottoms are damp in his palm. evidence. proof of his complete moral collapse. he holds them up to the moonlight streaming through the porthole, and the fabric catches the silver glow like silk, delicate and expensive and completely, utterly ruined by his lack of self-control.

“i have to return this.” the words taste like ash. “i cannot return this.”

because what kind of man returns a woman’s underwear after—after that? what kind of man even does that in the first place? he’s supposed to be better than this. he dates with intention. except he’s never actually dated anyone. his longest relationship was with his custom-built desktop setup, which he upgraded religiously and spoke to with more affection than most people showed their partners. he reads relationship advice books and believes in communication and emotional intelligence and all the things that make him a good partner, a safe choice, the kind of man women bring home to their parents.

and yet here he is, sticky with shame and arousal, holding your bikini like it’s both a love letter and a death threat.

“i have to destroy the evidence.”

but even as he thinks it, his fingers won’t let go. won’t release the soft green fabric that smells faintly of laundry detergent and something else—something that might be you, or might just be his imagination running wild. his thumb traces the seam, and his cock gives a traitorous twitch.

“no,” he hisses at himself. “absolutely not. once was—twice was already too much.”

he forces himself to sit up, every muscle protesting. his stomach is still sticky, his chest flushed pink, and when he catches sight of himself in the mirror across the room, he looks like exactly what he is: a man who just had the most intense orgasm of his life while thinking about a woman who barely tolerates his existence.

the bathroom feels like a confessional as he stumbles inside, flicking on the harsh overhead light. it strips away any romance, any softness, leaving him squinting and raw under the fluorescent glare. he looks terrible—hair sticking up in twelve directions, lips bitten red, eyes wide and guilty behind his crooked glasses.

he runs the water in the sink, testing the temperature with shaking fingers. cold. it needs to be cold. he holds the bikini bottoms under the stream and watches the water run clear, then cloudy, then clear again. his face burns as he scrubs gently at the fabric, trying to erase what he’s done without damaging the delicate material.

“like a disgraced medieval knight,” he mutters, and the absurdity of it almost makes him laugh. almost. if he wasn’t having a complete breakdown, it might actually be funny.

he double-rinses. triple-rinses. checks the crotch area with the dedication of a forensic investigator, because what if there’s still—what if she notices—what if she knows exactly what he did?

the fabric is clean. mostly. probably. but it’s still ruined in all the ways that matter, tainted by his complete lack of boundaries and self-respect. he wrings it out carefully, remembering how it looked when he first found it—folded neat and innocent, like something from a magazine spread.

now it’s his. not because he has any right to it, but because he’s marked it with his desperation in ways that soap and water can’t wash away.

he throws on the first t-shirt he finds, pulls on the same linen trousers from earlier, and realizes with mounting horror that he’s not wearing underwear. that he threw his boxers in the laundry bag with his other clothes and now he’s going commando like some kind of frat boy, like someone who makes impulsive decisions and doesn’t think about consequences.

which, apparently, he is now.

the bikini goes into a fresh laundry bag—hotel-branded, gold embroidery mocking him with its elegance. he holds it like it contains nuclear material, which it might as well. one wrong move and his entire reputation, his carefully constructed image of himself as a decent human being, goes up in flames.

his hair is a disaster. he tries to finger-comb it into something resembling order, but it’s hopeless. he looks like he just rolled out of bed after doing exactly what he just did. his glasses sit crooked on his nose, and when he tries to adjust them, he realizes his hands are still shaking.

2:39 a.m. the hallway is empty, thank god, because he can’t imagine explaining this to anyone. the laundry room is on deck three, and he takes the elevator like a man walking to his execution, clutching the bag to his chest and praying to whatever deity might still claim him after tonight.

“no one will be there,” he whispers to himself as the elevator descends. “it’s a luxury cruise. everyone’s asleep. i’ll be in and out.”

the universe, as always, has other plans.

there’s staff in the laundry room—a woman in her fifties folding towels with the kind of mechanical precision that comes from years of service industry work. she glances up when he walks in, and her eyes immediately zero in on the very specific laundry bag he’s carrying like a guilty conscience.

“just tossing a couple things in,” he mumbles, the words sticking in his throat like peanut butter. he sounds like a criminal. he probably is a criminal, in some moral sense.

she nods politely and goes back to her towels, but he can feel her watching him as he loads the machine himself, because there’s no way in hell he’s going to hand over that bag and make someone else complicit in his shame. his hands shake as he measures out the detergent, as he selects the delicate cycle, as he starts the machine that will hopefully wash away his sins along with any remaining evidence.

the machine hums to life, and he slumps onto the nearby bench like a man who’s just run a marathon. elbows on knees, hands buried in his hair, he tries to make sense of what he’s become.

three days ago, he was satoru gojo, tech genius, workaholic, the kind of man who sends birthday cards to his employees’ children and has never even been on a real date because his computer setup was more reliable than human connection. his idea of intimacy was upgrading his graphics card and talking to his servers like they were pets.

now he’s satoru gojo, bikini thief, serial masturbator, the kind of man who comes twice on a stranger’s underwear and then has a panic attack about it in a cruise ship laundry room at three in the morning.

the worst part is that he can’t even regret it properly. because underneath all the shame and horror and self-loathing, there’s a part of him that’s still thinking about you. about the way you poked his chest and called his eyes stupid blue. about the way you took off his glasses and gasped like you’d discovered something beautiful. about the way you said “stay” in that soft, slurred voice that cut through all his defenses like a blade.

he needs to call someone. needs to confess, or get advice, or just hear another human voice tell him he’s not completely insane.

suguru. he should call suguru.

except suguru will laugh at him, and right now satoru doesn’t think he can handle being laughed at. he needs someone who will be gentle, who will help him figure out how to fix this without making it worse.

shoko. he should call shoko.

except shoko is a girl, and there’s something deeply mortifying about confessing to a woman that he just jerked off to another woman’s underwear. even if shoko has heard worse. even if she’s probably done worse. there are some boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed, some conversations that should stay between men, and this is definitely one of them.

suguru it is.

he pulls out his phone with hands that won’t quite steady, scrolls to suguru’s contact, and hits call before he can lose his nerve. it rings once, twice, and then—

“yo. i’m mid-fuck. this better be funny.”

suguru’s voice is breathless, distracted, and satoru can hear movement in the background, the unmistakable sound of skin against skin and muffled moaning that makes his face burn even hotter.

“oh god,” satoru whispers. “oh god, i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

“toru?” suguru’s voice sharpens. “what’s wrong? you sound like you’re dying.”

“i—hypothetically—” satoru’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat, tries again. “hypothetically, if someone jerked off to something they weren’t supposed to, what would you say?”

there’s a pause. a long pause. then suguru’s laugh, rich and delighted and absolutely not what satoru needs right now.

“i’d say: did it fit?”

“suguru.”

“okay, okay.” the laughter fades, replaced by something more serious. “what did you do? and how bad is it?”

satoru opens his mouth to lie, to minimize, to make it sound less pathetic than it actually is. but the words that come out are:

“i came on her bikini. twice.”

dead silence on the other end of the line. then, in the background, a woman’s voice—shoko’s voice—saying, “wait, did virgin satoru just say he came on someone’s bikini?”

“shoko,” suguru hisses, but it’s too late.

“twice?” shoko’s voice is closer now, and there’s genuine shock in it. “our satoru? computer-boyfriend satoru? the man who’s never even held hands with someone?”

“oh my god,” satoru moans, burying his face in his free hand. “she heard me. shoko heard me. i can never show my face in public again.”

“toru,” suguru says, and his voice is gentle now, the way it gets when satoru is having a real crisis. “take a breath. tell me what happened.”

so satoru tells him. about the laundry mix-up, about finding your bikini folded neatly between his shirts like some kind of cosmic joke. about trying to return it and failing, about spiraling all day, about seeing you drunk and beautiful and soft in a way that made his chest ache. about taking care of you, about the way you touched his face and called him warm, about how he tried to be good, tried to be decent, and failed spectacularly.

“it was just once,” he lies, then immediately backtracks. “okay, it was twice. but the second time wasn’t planned! it just—happened again. and it’s clean now, i cleaned it, but i can’t—how do i return it? how do i look at her tomorrow knowing what i did?”

he’s pacing now, wearing a groove in the laundry room floor while the staff member pretends not to listen to his increasingly frantic confession. the washing machine churns steadily in the background, cleaning his sins and his secrets with equal efficiency.

“you didn’t sniff it, did you?” shoko’s voice comes through the speaker, clinical and amused.

“i—” satoru stops pacing. “maybe? once? briefly?”

suguru’s laugh is loud enough to wake the dead. “oh my god, toru. you’re so fucked.”

“this is your fault!” satoru hisses into the phone. “yours and shoko’s! you two corrupted me with your—your details and your stories about cruise ship romance. i was a good man before this trip. a nice boy. my computer was my girlfriend and i was happy! i had a five-year plan and a retirement fund and i’ve never even kissed anyone!”

“and now you’re jerking off to stolen underwear like you’ve discovered fire,” shoko observes, and there’s awe in her voice. “holy shit, suguru, he’s actually experiencing attraction for the first time.”

“i can hear the quotation marks around ‘experiencing attraction,’” satoru whimpers.

“i didn’t steal it! it was a laundry mix-up!”

“that you didn’t immediately correct,” suguru points out.

“i tried to correct it! she wasn’t in her room!”

“so you decided to masturbate instead?”

“it wasn’t a decision! it was a—a moment of weakness. multiple moments. sequential moments.”

the washing machine dings, and satoru jumps like he’s been shot. his heart hammers against his ribs as he approaches the machine like it might explode, lifting the lid with the reverence of someone handling a holy relic.

the bikini bottoms are there, clean and innocent and warm from the wash cycle. he lifts them out carefully, and they’re soft in his hands, softer than they have any right to be. the sage green fabric catches the fluorescent light, and for a moment he just stares at them, remembering the weight of them around his cock, the way they felt pressed against his face.

“toru?” suguru’s voice is distant through the phone. “you still there?”

“the dryer just finished,” satoru says numbly. he places the bikini in a fresh laundry bag, folding it the way he remembers it being folded when he first found it. neat and precise and heartbreakingly innocent.

“okay, listen,” suguru says, and his voice has gone serious in that way that means he’s about to dispense actual advice. “you need to calm down. and you need to flirt with her tomorrow.”

“i can’t flirt with her!” satoru’s voice cracks on the last word. “she called me a tech bro! she thinks i’m some kind of silicon valley stereotype!”

“because you are one,” shoko chimes in, and her voice is gentle now, like she’s talking to a spooked animal. “but toru, honey, you’ve never even flirted with anyone before. you’re going from zero to bikini theft in four days. that’s… impressive, actually.”

“i don’t know how to flirt!” satoru’s voice breaks completely. “i don’t know how to do any of this! the only pickup line i know is asking someone about their operating system!”

“yeah, don’t lead with that,” suguru agrees. “but toru, seriously—she was flirting with you tonight. drunk flirting, which is the most honest kind. she likes you.”

“she was drunk,” satoru protests. “drunk people say things they don’t mean.”

“drunk people say things they’re afraid to say sober,” shoko corrects. “trust me, i’m a doctor. and a drunk person. she likes you.”

satoru clutches the laundry bag to his chest like armor, like a shield against the possibility of hope. because hope is dangerous. hope makes him do stupid things like steal bikinis and jerk off in presidential suites and fall in love with women who are too good for him in every possible way.

“what if she remembers? what if she knows?”

“she won’t know,” suguru says firmly. “unless you tell her. which you won’t. because you’re going to put on your big boy pants and actually talk to her like a normal human being instead of a horny teenager.”

“i’m not wearing pants,” satoru says miserably. “i mean, i am, but no underwear. because my underwear is in the wash with my other clothes and i panicked and now i’m going commando like some kind of—”

“toru.” shoko’s voice cuts through his spiral like a knife. “breathe. you’re spiraling.”

he breathes. in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way his therapist taught him back when he thought his biggest problem was work-life balance and impostor syndrome. before he knew what it felt like to want someone so badly it made him do unforgivable things.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he whispers into the phone. “i don’t know how to want someone this much. it’s terrifying.”

“that’s because you’ve never wanted anyone, period,” suguru says gently, and there’s something like pride in his voice. “toru, you’ve spent twenty-eight years treating human connection like a virus that might crash your system. this is huge.”

“this is humiliating.”

“it’s both,” shoko adds. “we’re genuinely impressed you managed to masturbate thinking about a real person instead of hardware specs.”

“this is insane.”

“same thing, sometimes.”

the laundry room feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in around him. he needs to get out, needs air, needs space to think about what he’s going to do tomorrow when he has to face you knowing what he’s done.

“i have to go,” he says. “i have to—return this. somehow.”

“don’t overthink it,” shoko advises, and her voice is softer now, almost maternal. “just be yourself. your non-perverted, computer-obsessed, emotionally constipated self. she already likes that version.”

“i don’t remember who that is anymore.”

“he’s the guy who offered her mocktails instead of letting her drink herself sick,” suguru says. “he’s the guy who walked her to her door and didn’t try anything. he’s still in there, just buried under a lot of sexual awakening and panic.”

the line goes dead, leaving satoru alone in the fluorescent-lit laundry room with his shame and his secrets and a laundry bag full of evidence. he thanks the staff member with a mumbled apology and heads for the elevator, clutching the bag like it contains his entire future.

which, in a way, it does.

the elevator ride back to his floor feels endless. he stares at his reflection in the polished metal doors and sees a stranger—hair wild, glasses crooked, eyes wide with something that might be panic or might be anticipation. he looks like a man on the edge of something, balanced between disaster and possibility.

the hallway is empty when he steps out, dark except for the soft glow of the emergency lighting. your door is closed, no light seeping underneath, and he stands in front of it for three full seconds, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat and wondering what you’re dreaming about.

if you’re dreaming about him.

if you remember calling him warm.

if you remember the way you touched his face like he was something precious.

he doesn’t knock. he can’t. not with what he’s carrying, not with what he’s done. instead, he walks to his own door, slides the keycard with hands that barely work, and steps into his suite like he’s entering a tomb.

the presidential suite feels enormous around him, all that space and luxury mocking his complete emotional collapse. he sets the laundry bag on the desk with the reverence of someone placing flowers on a grave, then collapses onto the bed without bothering to undress.

tomorrow he has to face you. tomorrow he has to pretend he’s still the same man who awkwardly offered you mocktails and walked you to your door like a gentleman. tomorrow he has to look you in the eyes and not think about the way your bikini felt wrapped around his cock, the way you tasted in his imagination, the way you said his name like it meant something.

“i’m gonna die tomorrow,” he whispers to the ceiling, and the yacht rocks gently beneath him like the world’s most expensive coffin.

somewhere across the hall, you’re sleeping, probably dreaming of anything but him. and here he is, wide awake and ruined, clutching the memory of your touch like a lifeline and knowing that tomorrow everything changes.

one way or another, tomorrow everything changes.

passenger list : @miffyliebe @heh123321 @jijijihanji @chuiisi @etsuniiru @hails-trom @ravenbc @yukiyaaaa @juststrawbs @strawberrychita @endedlove @arabellasolstice @starlight5cat @fisusaurus @ayumilk @sofi4dsam @vynn30 @kkataleena @anthastudios @satorusprites @camy-yh @woosaniesworld @raendarkfaerie @onixsky @k0z3me @pomegranatepip @satotorulove @ffaeriee @ieathairs @jihyosdrider @satoruxsc @j311yb34nz @candyluvsboba @ethereal-moonlit @1r2u3b4y5 @surgikull @tofumiao @deffenferofjustice @thenonweeknd @fluerful @kamuihz

if interested, please drop a comment to the itinerary aka the series masterlist to get on the passenger list.

#౨ৎ — love letters #gojo satoru #gojo smut #gojo fluff #gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk fluff #jjk x reader smut #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x female reader #gojo series #jjk series

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queencaptainbarnes · 1 month ago

Text

To Lose Both

Summary: Bucky & Steve never could find out what happened to you in the future, but when a mission causes them to go to the past, they see you again from afar.

Steve and Bucky were strapping on their gear, getting ready to leave. The mission was definitely out of the ordinary, but everyone else was already off on their own assignments, and Fury made it clear this one had to stay under the radar.

Neither man knew exactly how to feel about the plan. Tony swore it was foolproof — easy, as long as they didn’t get caught.

Right. Easy.

“You ready?” Steve asked, glancing up from where he was tightening his boots.

Bucky adjusted a strap across his shoulder, then held out a hand to help him up. Steve took it, standing beside him.

“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted. “This plan seems like it could go sideways. Especially since it’s us going back.”

“We can pull it off. It’s gonna be weird, though…” Steve’s voice was steady, but even he wasn’t fully sold on the idea. Still, they didn’t have many options.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Bucky grumbled, and the two of them made their way into Banner and Stark’s lab.

“If it isn’t the stars of the show,” Tony called out as they entered. “You boys ready?”

His enthusiasm didn’t do much to ease their nerves. In fact, it made Bucky visibly more annoyed.

“I guess,” Steve muttered, eyeing the machine they were about to use. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“Nope,” Tony replied without missing a beat. “But since when have we ever had a solid plan that was also a good idea?”

Steve shot him a look — unimpressed.

“You’ll be fine, Cap,” Tony said with a shrug. “Not like you’re going somewhere you’ve never been.”

“This isn’t the same, Tony,” Steve replied.

Tony sighed. “Look. Fury thinks the blueprints you’re stealing are being used for some kind of future weapon — one they’re testing on undercover agents. Torture-level stuff.” He tapped rapidly on his iPad. “If you two aren’t up for the job—”

“We didn’t say that,” Bucky cut in.

Tony raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. “Okaaay. Step up on the platform.”

Steve climbed on first, Bucky right behind. They watched Tony retreat behind the control panel.

“This better not backfire, Stark,” Bucky muttered.

Tony rolled his eyes, glancing up. “Feel free to leave him on the side of the road with a sign that says ‘Free to a Good Home,’” he said, smirking.

“Tony,” Steve warned.

“Relax. Just kidding.”

A moment later, both men felt it — a strange tingling, like tiny electric currents crawling over their skin. Steve shivered and stepped a little closer to Bucky.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Tingly. Like… light electrocution.” Bucky cleared his throat, trying to shake off the dull headache forming behind his eyes.

Suddenly, the lab disappeared.

They were standing in what looked like a storage closet. Dusty. Dim. Musty.

“Smells old in here,” Bucky muttered.

Steve cracked open the door, peeking out into a hallway buzzing with people walking by.

“Hopefully Tony put us in the right place,” he whispered.

“This was a stupid plan. Why did we agree to this?”

Steve smirked faintly, glancing over his shoulder. “We’ve gotten away with worse.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You Avengers really push your luck.”

“I think now’s a good opening.” Steve slipped out into the hallway, Bucky right behind him.

“The tracker Tony gave us is working — I’ve got a signal.”

They moved down the hall, heads low, blending in. No one gave them a second glance.

“Here,” Steve whispered, stopping in front of a door labeled Tech Labs. He pushed it open slowly. The room was empty.

“Wow. Not even one guy,” Bucky said.

Steve checked the wall clock. “It’s noon. Probably out to lunch.”

“That’s terrible security.”

“It’s the past, Buck. They weren’t too concerned about it back then.”

“Little do they know half their staff are Hydra.”

Steve sighed. The knowledge still stung. The very organization Peggy helped build had been rotten on the inside all along. He’d tried to move on — rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D. gave him hope — but some wounds still ached.

The lab was filled with tables cluttered with vials, blueprints, and notes Steve didn’t begin to understand. Tony’s tracker led them to a locked filing cabinet in the far corner. The signal beeped rapidly.

“Find it?” Bucky asked.

“I think so. Keep watch, will ya?” Steve pulled out a lock-pick kit and knelt in front of the cabinet.

“Why don’t you just break it open?” Bucky asked, keeping his eyes on the hallway.

“That wouldn’t be very subtle, would it?”

“It’d be faster.”

“We’re supposed to be quick and quiet, Buck,” Steve muttered, focused on the lock.

“Whatever. They could’ve asked Natasha and Clint to do this.”

“They’re on a mission in Peru. Why are you so against this, anyway?”

“I just wanna get out of here before someone we know shows up.”

“Like who?” Steve asked, pausing. “We don’t know anyone here. It’s simple. In and out.”

A click — the lock opened. Steve grinned as he stood, pulling out a file labeled in red sharpie.

“Told you. In and out.”

Bucky turned to him but froze, eyes widening. Then his expression shifted — something between shock and sadness.

“No way…” he whispered.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, but before he could get an answer, Bucky grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him down behind one of the lab desks.

“Hide. Now.”

Steve was about to question it, but then he heard the door burst open — slamming against the wall.

“You’re being absolutely unreasonable!” a woman shouted.

Steve went still. That voice — he knew that voice.

Peggy.

Her heels clicked against the lab floor as she paced. Another pair of shoes followed closely behind.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” Peggy said. “You’re throwing your life away—”

“My life? My life ended the day my brother died!” the second voice snapped.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

Y/n.

His sister. Her voice — filled with pain, defiance, life. He hadn’t heard it in decades.

He glanced at Bucky. His friend was frozen, expression unreadable, eyes wide.

“Y/n,” Peggy started, but she was cut off.

“He’s dead!” Y/n’s voice cracked, like it physically hurt her to say it. “And I was so happy when he didn’t get enlisted the first time.”

Steve furrowed his brow, leaning in slightly.

“The second time…” she continued, her voice softer. “I never told Steve, but the day before I went to the recruiter’s office, I begged the guy not to let him enlist. Told him he wasn’t what they were looking for. I practically begged him.”

Steve inhaled sharply, barely a sound — but Bucky heard it.

Peggy was quiet for a moment. “Y/n… your brother was a hero. Captain America meant so much to so many people—”

“I don’t care!” Y/n yelled, slamming her hand on the table. “He was my brother first. He didn’t need to be Captain America to be brave. Or kind. Or funny. He already was… and now he’s gone.”

Steve felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.

“Y/n,” Peggy said gently. “What you’re trying to do — it’s dangerous. You could die trying to find—”

“I have no one left, Peggy,” Y/n said quietly. “Part of me died the day Steve told me Bucky was gone. And the rest of me died when Steve didn’t come home.”

There was a pause, and then her voice steadied — cold, determined.

“If Howard is going to find my brother, then I’m going to find the man I love. I’m bringing them home. Both of them.”

Steve looked over at Bucky again.

His friend’s breath had stilled. His eyes were glassy.

“You won’t find Sergeant Barnes’ body, Y/n,” Peggy said carefully.

“I’ll find something,” Y/n muttered. “I have better luck than Stark. Maybe even better instincts.”

“If Steve knew…”

“He’d hate me,” Y/n said. “For being bitter. For trying to keep him from enlisting. For not being the supportive little sister he thought I was. But you know what? I’d rather him be alive and hate me… than die thinking I never cared. That I was just pretending to believe in him.”

Peggy stood there…silent. The weight of Y/n’s confession filled the room like fog — thick, heavy, and hard to breathe through. Steve sat still, back against the cold steel leg of the table, fists clenched. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think straight. Every word she said echoed through his chest like a thunderclap.

He’d never heard that side of her pain.

He had always assumed she was proud. Supportive. Heartbroken, yes, but never this. Never so filled with regret. And the truth hurt — because she wasn’t wrong.

Beside him, Bucky was equally shaken. She was here. Alive. Breathing. Close enough to touch.

But unreachable.

Peggy finally broke the silence. “You’re not alone. Not really.”

Y/n let out a hollow laugh. “It feels that way.”

“I know it does,” Peggy said gently, “but I’ve read Howard’s reports. Even if we find something, there’s no guarantee it’s them. If you go digging into this, you could be putting yourself in danger — and for what, Y/n?”

Y/n’s voice dropped, quiet now, but more powerful than ever. “For closure. For hope. For a chance that maybe they’re not really gone.”

Steve swallowed hard, heart hammering in his chest. You’re not wrong. You were never wrong, he thought. She was right to be scared. Right to want to protect him. And God, how he wished he could’ve told her he understood now.

Y/n exhaled deeply. “I’m doing this with or without your help, Peggy.”

A pause.

Then Peggy sighed in reluctant defeat. “Then I’m coming with you.”

The sound of movement above them made both men freeze again. Heels on the floor, rustling papers, the squeak of a chair pushed back. Then footsteps — two pairs — walking away.

Steve didn’t move until the door clicked shut.

Even then, he stayed frozen, trying to process what he’d just heard. He slowly turned toward Bucky, whose face was unreadable. But his eyes were shining with something between heartbreak and longing.

“She was talking about you,” Steve whispered.

“I know,” Bucky replied, voice low and distant. “She… loved me. I never knew how much until now.”

“I didn’t know how much she hated me being Captain America,” Steve added, his tone filled with pain, but not anger. More like sorrow.

Bucky finally moved, rising to his feet and offering a hand down again. “She didn’t hate you. She loved you too much.”

Steve took the hand and stood. “We need to finish the mission. Then…” He glanced toward the door. “Then maybe we figure out a way to come back.”

“You mean to tell her?”

Steve nodded. “She deserves to know. Everything.”

Bucky looked toward the door for a moment longer, as if he could still see her standing there. Then he looked back to Steve.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

And with that, they slipped out of the lab, the stolen blueprints tucked under Steve’s arm, the weight of the past heavier than anything they’d expected to carry.

But maybe now… they had something else to fight for. Something more personal. Something worth rewriting the rules for.

#steve rogers fanfiction #marvel #marvel studios #steven grant rogers #captain america #captain america mcu #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #Bucky x reader #marvel mcu #mcu fandom #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #steve rogers x sister reader #my writing #short marvel story #marvel one shot

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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 29 days ago

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I've Got You

Peter Steele x Y/N - drabble - 1.4K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: TW attempted SA on reader (not by Peter), protective Peter, hurt/comfort, sweet Peter, cuddling, coworkers to lovers kinda?

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You maneuvered around the boys as they got done with the show. Taking Peter and Kenny’s guitars and passing them off to the techs so they could clean them and re-string the broken cord on Kenny’s guitar. You handed the guys some waters before making your way back to the dressing room with them. They changed their clothes all while lighting cigarettes and popping open beers. You were around them so much as an assistant that you didn’t really notice anything abnormal. Peter however retreated into his solo dressing room, the show seeming to have taken a bit of an emotional toll. You always tried to avoid Peter, he always looked so serious and angry. And while the boys had their moments, they didn’t stew in melancholy quite like Peter did. You figured it was best to just stay out of his way. After a few hours had passed the venue had emptied out, you stayed behind to clean up the dressing rooms. You hadn’t seen Peter leave but you assumed he left with the other boys a while ago.

Right when you were about to gather your things and head out you heard the main door slam. You backed up to see who it was, a man you didn’t recognize who looked kinda out of it. That was until his eyes zeroed in on you. His gaze turned predatory as he trudged towards you.

“Come here,” he said as you backed away, “Just wanna make you feel good….” he slurred.

The backs of your legs hit the couch, causing you to tumble back. You tried to scramble up from laying on the cushions but the man draped himself right on top of you. His hands pinned yours as you tried to slap him. His hips slotted between your thighs, you felt him shift your hands so he could hold them in one of his. His newly free hand ripping your shirt to expose your chest.

You were beyond panicked, trying to think while every part of you wanted to be a million miles away from him. Tears blurred your vision as you started to yell. A harsh slap landed on your cheek, making you dizzy. You knew this next scream would probably be your final before another blow from this man left you knocked so out of it you couldn’t waste it.

You don’t know why but you screamed at the top of your lungs, “PETER!”

As expected that same harsh slap landed on your cheek, you knew that would bruise this time around. Yet in your confused state you realized the man wasn’t on you anymore. You looked over to see Peter raining punches down onto the unconscious man. Peter stopped when he saw you looking at him. You sat there just staring at each other for a minute, neither moving nor speaking. You moved to stand, just wanting to get out of there, yet fell forward. Your vision was blurry and spinning from being smacked so hard. You could feel Peter catch you before you passed out.

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You woke up with a headache. You expected harsh lights to greet you as you cracked open your eyes but were met with the soft glow of many candles. The blankets around you felt soft and cool like silk. You went to rub your hands over your face to gather yourself but flinched hard as you felt your swollen cheek.

“Fuck…” you mumbled at the sting. You finally sat up, looking around to see where you were. “Jesus Christ!” you gasped when you saw Peter sitting in the corner, his pale eyes peering through his dark hair.

“Peter, actually. Sorry to disappoint.” he said, still looking at you.

You glared at his answer before remembering everything that had happened. It all hit you like a bus. “You saved me?” you asked him despite knowing the answer.

Peter shrugged, standing to sit on the edge of the bed. He kept his distance but wanted to be completely visible to you. Once again you found yourself staring at each other. “The paramedics checked you out. Other than that cheek and some shaken nerves they said you’ll be alright.”

“So he didn’t…” you muttered, asking the awful question.

Peter shook his head ‘no’.

Hot, angry tears fell over your face. “I wish I would have killed him.” you said completely seriously and full of rage.

“He’s not dead but he is in the hospital,” Peter said. When your eyes met his filled with confusion he explained, “Broken ribs, fractured skull, broken orbital socket, broken nose, broken jaw. Don’t worry, he has charges commin and the boys were all witnesses so.” he shrugged.

You nodded, “Good… thank you. And thank the boys for lying.” you said, trying to wipe your tears away. These weren’t tears of anger anymore. These were tears of knowing. Knowing that if Peter hadn’t shown up that man would have done something awful to your helpless body. You wiped harder and harder before letting your tears consume you. Your sobs were quiet as all the pain you felt mentally and physically swallowed you whole. You felt the bed dip right next to you. Looking through your watery lashes you saw Peter. His eyes remained on yours, not knowing what you needed but ready to give it to you whatever it was. You didn’t hesitate, you hugged him and buried your head in his chest. He responded immediately, holding you against him and enveloping you completely in his arms. He didn’t know what to say so he just held you.

Once your sobs subsided into sniffles you stayed against him, playing with a strand of his hair. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he had held a woman this long. Life had become all sex, drugs, and rock and roll. It was a nice life full of cash and a worshipful fan base. But god it was lonely. Every woman he bedded wanted something; money, drugs, fame, or just to use him sexually then leave. And all that was fun for a while, but he felt a piece of himself die every time he did it. This embrace felt different - human. No words needed, nobody trying to impress or be sexy. This was just connection.

“I should go.” you muttered.

“It’s almost 4 AM.” Peter said. Wherever you wanted to go he would take you but if he was being honest, he didn't want to move from this position.

“You need to rest,” you said, easing off his chest. “We have a flight to catch in a few hours. Europe waits for you.” You swung your legs over the side of his bed to stand, seeing his shirt fall down to just past your knees like a dress. “Ya know that was my favorite shirt that bastard ripped.”

“That’s my favorite shirt,” Peter said, pointing to the “Polizei” shirt covering you. “Now it’s yours.”

You looked him over as he peered down at you, “How was I ever afraid of you?” You whispered, looking up at him. One of your hands went to cradle his cheek, he leaned into it, kissing your palm over and over. Your eyes softened, he looked so… sad. You had always seen him around the guys and girls and drugs and he looked happy enough. Maybe, just maybe, that was all a front. He moved to hold your palm against his cheek, his massive hand covering yours.

His other hand moved to your waist, gently tugging you into him. He wanted you close as he looked into your eyes and took in your delicate features.

Nothing about this moment felt sexual. Two people - sad, lonely, and afraid whether they admitted it or not. “Don’t leave… please.” Peter said, his deep whisper sounding desperate.

You nodded, slipping your arms around his waist to hold him tight. You felt his muscles loosen and he released a sigh you didn’t realize he was holding in. His arms held you in the most comforting hug. You both started to sway not wanting to let each other go.

“We should sleep.” he mumbled before kissing the top of your head. He felt you nod against his chest. He led you to the bed, making sure you were comfortable before he went to his side. He climbed on top of the comforter, not underneath it with you. You pulled his large arm into your chest to hold him while you slept. Peter wrapped himself around you so you could still hold his arm. He was so warm and all encompassing, it took you no time at all to drift off in his grasp.

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Naboo's Note:

Hello everyone :) feeling somewhat better ish since the attempt. It's a very weird feeling. But the motivation to write is coming back so that's something I guess. I'll try to keep writing, its a good distraction. I have to move this weekend so might be slow but I am on it I promise :) XOXOXOXOXO

#writing #fanfiction #peter steele x y/n #peter steele x reader #peter steele #type o negative x reader #type o negative #type o negative band #peter ratajczyk

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broklib · 25 days ago

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I sighed deeply as I stared up at my ceiling dreading the next week. Normally one would look forward to having an entire week off for spring break, but I unfortunately was not one of them. Most graduate students like myself would probably be doing their best to enjoy whatever brief reprieve their budget would allow during this time. I, however, had to say goodbye to my vacation plans the moment the ‘check engine’ light in my car clicked on.

And if that weren’t enough to sour my mood then the problem named ‘Cole’ would. My roommate and I had butted heads from the moment we’d been matched by the apartment complex for this year’s lease. I have to imagine they ignored every option I’d selected on their ‘roommate matching’ form I’d filled out before move-in day. It was the only way to explain why they’d roomed me with Cole.

Things had started out rough on move-in day where he wore a ‘Make America Great Again’ cap. He’d scoffed at my own pride shirt and muttered about having to live with a queer. I immediately called the front office and tried to have an immediate roommate switch. ‘I’m not going to suffer his bigotry all year.’ I’d told them, but they said they wouldn’t be taking any roommate requests at that time so I endured it for a while.

But living with him had only gotten worse. I learned that he was also a grad student, although he was in some computer science field as opposed to my gender studies coursework. He was a stereotypical gamer/tech bro type. He always talked down to me about everything as if he thought I was too stupid to understand anything. Whenever I’d object to his belittling tone he’d switch it up and talk about topics beyond my understanding until I meekly had to admit I was out of my depth. At which point he would simply smirk and laugh about knowing that he knew my libtard brain was too stupid to comprehend.

He also had a habit of taking over what was supposed to be our common room for his gaming sessions. Whenever he had free time I’d find him on the couch playing whatever it was that was popular at the moment. It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t get so into it. He yelled over his mic at his teammates and opponents all the time, so in order to get away from the constant shouts of ‘faggot’, ‘cocksucker’ and a menagerie of other language I was forced to retreat to my room.

The strange thing is that whenever I went to my room after enduring his hateful speech. The first thing I always felt like doing was masturbating. It wasn’t like me to get so worked up so often but ever since I’d moved here I’d found myself constantly busting a nut while the muffled sounds of Cole’s homophobic insults came through the walls. It was an odd habit, but I’d chalked it up to the fact that my coursework had kept me too busy to find someone to help satisfy my needs. Not that I would even be able to bring them back to my place since I wouldn’t want to subject them to Cole’s presence.

Now I had the next week off and Cole had also decided to stay home for the week as well. Why go on vacation when your entire social life is online I guess. That meant I would be holed up here with him practically uninterrupted for an entire week.

Kill me now.

I groaned and got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. I was almost through making myself breakfast when I heard Cole walk in.

“Morning Homoe.” He called, chuckling slightly to himself. He’d started calling me that after I’d introduced myself using my nickname, Moe. He’d asked if it was short for Homo. When I told him it was short for Moses he’d laughed and said he preferred his version instead. Ever since that was all he’d called me.

“Hello Cole.” I sighed. I’d long since given up on fighting him on it.

“Smells good. Looks like they’re teaching you all you need to know in those women’s studies classes you’re taking.” He laughed before reaching over and grabbing the plate I’d prepared for myself.

“Hey, not again! Cole you know I made that for me!” I said as I turned around to face him,”If you want breakfast go make your ow-”

My words stopped in my mouth as I took in the sight before me. Cole was dressed in just his underwear. I’d seen his admittedly well sculpted chest before on occasion, but he was usually wearing shorts or pajama pants. They must’ve been loose fitting too because there was no way I could’ve missed a bulge that big ordinarily. I could see the curve of his cockhead and his two massive pendulous balls. Even through the fabric they seemed to dangle invitingly as if the space between them was meant just for me for someone to place there face between them.

“Cole! What the fuck! Put some pants on!” I shouted.

“Well there's a first. A fag asking a man to put clothes on.” He scoffed, “And no, I’m not putting clothes on in my own damn apartment. I pay my rent and I’ll spend my vacation here how I fucking want. In fact if I want to spend my whole spring break in just my underwear I can.”

“No, you can’t! I pay rent too and I have a say in what goes on in this apartment. I say you will put on pants when you’re out in the common areas. That's a house rule now.”

“You know what, I was planning on getting my shorts on, but I’ve had a change of plans. I’ve just decided I’ll be spending all spring break in just this underwear. If that pisses you off then too bad, bitch. There's nothing you can do about it.”

He walked off with my food and plopped down on the couch to turn on his console. Somehow sitting down seemed to make his bulge stick out even more. The seams around his crotch seemed to be visibly straining even from where I stood. Not that I tried to stare too hard, but it was just easy to see, you know?

Once it became clear that this situation wasn’t going to resolve how I wanted I left in a huff to spend the day at the library doing some work on my research project. I must’ve been more upset than I thought because it took a long while to get the image of Cole’s balls bouncing around out of my head. Every time I’d remember it my cheeks would heat up. In anger of course. But eventually I was able to get in a groove and focus and by that evening I barely remembered the whole affair. Until I walked back into my apartment to see Cole half-nude and bouncing up and down in his seat as he frustratedly yelled at a couple of ‘pussies’ on his team. Every time he bounced his bulge jiggled and shook enticingly.

I went to my room without confronting him. As I pulled off my pants and opened up pornhub I told myself that at least tomorrow would be a new day. Cole would forget about this stupid situation once his sweat soaked into his underwear and he began to stink up the place. Even he wouldn’t be so pigheaded as to spite his own nose to prove a point.

–

Four days later and I’d been proven thoroughly wrong. Cole had not only been wearing the same pair of underwear all week, but the threads which had barely been holding back his manhood earlier were starting to give way. Even now the edges of his shaft and the sides of his balls were peeking out through the fabric and every time he moved I hoped feared that that would be it and the whole thing would slip out. But it didn’t. Every time he scratched himself the holes would get bigger, but still the garment remained intact.

For my part I’d been spending more time in the common room than I had thought I would. I told myself that forcing my presence on him would make him feel a bit of shame or embarrassment for the state of his dress, but it seemed to have no effect at all. Instead I found myself getting distracted from my work as every movement brought my eyes back to Cole.

It wasn’t just the sight either. The scent in the room was getting a bit musky as well. I hoped that the couch I’d bought would be able to be cleaned of the smell once this week was over. Although, and I was ashamed to admit this, I didn’t mind the smell as much as I thought I should. Cole had a pungent and powerful smell, but it wasn’t repellent. No wonder he didn’t mind sitting in the same underwear for the past four days.

Still, by noon of that day I’d decided to try again to convince Cole to be decent. He might be pigheaded but I could be just as stubborn if I needed to.

I walked up in front of him and put my hands on my hips.

“Cole, it’s time for you to stop.” “Move out of the way faggot! You’re in the way of the screen!”

“I’ll move once you go and change into some fucking pants!”

“God damnit, you made me lose!”

“Good, now you can go make yourself decent before you start another round. And put on some new underwear while you’re at it. It reeks in here.”

“Oh you think it ‘reeks’ now?” He said as he stood to his feet, “How about I really show you something.”

Cole reached down into his threadbare underwear and groped himself roughly for a few seconds before he pulled his hands out. Before I knew what was happening he had me in a headlock and his hand was rubbing his crotch sweat all over my face.

If I’d thought the miasma of scent in our common room was something this was leagues more powerful. I choked on the thickness of his musky scent as I felt the slick sweat rubbed into my skin. I loved it hated it. It was intoxicating disgusting.

Cole laughed as he continued to rub his stink all over me for a while until he was done and roughly shoved me to the ground.

“Don’t get in the way of my game again, bitch, or I’ll make you really regret it.”

I couldn’t even get out a snarky reply as I heard the sound of a new round starting. I merely whimpered as I scampered out the door and to my car. I drove on autopilot until I realized I was in the mostly deserted parking garage near the campus library.

In my parked car I tried to process what had just happened. That was sexual assault. I could sue him for what he did. The images played out in my head and the scent of him still permeated my skin and seemed to permeate my mind. Before I could even think of a reason not to I had pulled my dick out of my pants and begun jerking off.

Cole had just overpowered me so easily.

It was so hot.

He just humiliated me.

I want him to do it again.

He rubbed his ball sweat all over me.

I want to taste it!

I licked my upper lip to taste some remnant of him off my face. Whether real or imagined I tasted his masculine musk on my lips and I immediately came all over myself.

When my heartbeat had calmed down and the post-nut clarity began to kick in I was filled with shame. What was wrong with me? I was better than this. I was better than Cole at least.

I changed into a gym shirt I kept in my car before going into the library to wash my face off. Once I was free from Cole’s scent I began to think clearer.

It was clear to me that this was just some kink I hadn’t been aware of. I had gotten some wires crossed, but there was no way I would ever actually want Cole. He was repulsive in nearly every way.

I gave myself a pep talk in the mirror for a while before deciding to spend a few hours at the library before returning home to confront Cole.

When I returned home to find Cole still on the couch, however, my resolve faded and I meekly went to my room without making eye contact.

Maybe next time.

–

I spent time the next couple of days avoiding Cole and planning out exactly what I would say and how I would do things. If I had a plan things would be in my control, I told myself, and that was what I needed.

After careful rehearsal I took a deep breath and exited my room. I found Cole where he had been all week. Sitting on the couch playing online games with his friends. I tried not to take in the fact that his underwear looked like it was hanging on by a thread. I tried not to think about the way his musk had only gotten more potent in the past few days. I had to focus on my point.

“Cole, I need to talk to you.” I said evenly as I made sure to stand out of the way of his screen.

Cole ignored me for a minute until his match ended and he finally acknowledged me.

“What do you want, Homoe? Make it quick.”

“I wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier this week. What you did was reprehensible and…”

I watched as Cole rolled his eyes as I started speaking but I barreled on even as he absentmindedly began scratching his crotch. As I continued on I felt my confidence building in me as I went over my talking points.

“Furthermore, unless you shape up I will be reporting you not only to the apartment owner but also to the po-”

RRRRIIIIIPPPPP

THUMP

My speech was interrupted by the sound of fabric tearing followed by a heavy meaty thumping sound. I didn’t have to look far to find the source of it. Cole’s scratching had finally pushed his drawers over the edge and shredded them for good. And there, between his legs, there was no longer any fabric separating Cole’s manhood from the world. As I beheld his massive cock my mouth dropped open and all my prepared lines faded from my mind. The only thing I could comprehend was Cole’s package and how much I wanted to bury myself in it.

“Ah shit, I guess that’s what I get for buying cheap underwear in bulk.” He said frustratedly.

He stood up and tossed away the tattered shreds of his boxer briefs before turning back to me as if nothing had just happened.

“Anyway, I don’t know what point you were making, but I’m sure it was stupid as hell. So unless you’ve got something else to say you can just-” Cole looked at my face and for a moment he looked confused before a smirk slowly filled his face.

“What’s with the drool sliding down your chin, fag boy? You never seen a real man’s meat before?” He chuckled as he shifted his hips from side to side causing his dick to flop around. The meaty thwack it made as it slapped his thighs made my hole twitch.

“Hah, I guess the real reason you were upset about my undies is because you wanted to see what was underneath! Well you should’ve just said so instead of bitching at me all week. Go ahead and take a look. Get real close and personal, faggot.” Cole stood one foot up on the couch and gestured at his crotch.

“I- uh. I think I sh-”

“That’s you fags problem. You think too much. You wanna sniff my balls, go ahead. What’s stopping you, your pride? Let me tell you, homo, if you think you’ll be the first libtard to realize that you queers value cock over your supposed pride then I’ve got a bridge to sell you. That’s what separates us real men from fags like you. You’d never catch me simping for a taste of somebody’s crotch sweat, but here you are.”

“I’m not! I don’t…” I denied his words, but I could feel myself chubbing up.

“Okay, suit yourself then. I’ll just go back to gaming and you can get out of my way.” Cole began to step off the couch.

“No wait!” I shouted in spite of myself. “I mean…uh…”

“Listen, dipshit, you’ve been testing my patience all week. I’m giving you two choices. Either turn around and don’t bother me ever again or get your clothes off and get ready to be my ball-cleaning bitch boy for the rest of this lease. Make your decision. NOW!”

At the force of Cole’s words I felt myself obeying him without thinking. My clothes were off before I knew it and I was on my knees looking up at him. At this angle he seemed even more massive as his cock dangled over my face and his balls tempted me with a sheen of musky sweat.

I lifted my head up to have a lick but found my head pushed away by Cole’s hand.

“Uh uh uh. First, we need to have a talk. I’ve been thinking about apartment rules after our discussion earlier this week. I think you’re right that we need some rules around here so before you get what you want, you need to agree to my new apartment rules.”

I whined as I felt myself inches away from the objects of my desire. This close I could literally feel the heat of his scent as it wafted over me. I needed a taste.

“Rule 1: Faggots respect men in this apartment. No interrupting me with your inane chatter. No bitching about what I do or don’t clean.

Rule 2: Faggots serve men in this apartment. You cook, you clean, you suck my cock when I want it. No questions asked.

Rule 3: Faggots don’t get privacy in this apartment. You keep your door open at all times so I have access to your holes whenever I want. That should also stop you from gooning over me all the time. Yeah, don’t think I can’t hear you, idiot. These walls are thin.

Rule 4: Faggot opinions do not matter in this apartment. You’re going to get rid of all your stupid libtard propaganda books and posters. I’m sick of knowing that degeneracy is in my apartment.

You think you can agree to that, faggot?”

I hesitated as I heard the rules. They were so demeaning and dehumanizing. I couldn’t agree to them, could I? I had to have some self-respect.

Before I could deny the agreement Cole spoke up.

“Keep in mind, boy, that if you say no to my rules you also say no to more of this.”

And with that he bent down and t-bagged me and as I felt his sack slide from my forehead down to my lips I shuddered in more pleasure than I’d ever known. I felt beyond pleasure. I felt like the warm heat of lust permeating every crevice of my brain as his scent traveled from his heavy balls on my face, through my lungs, and into my blood.

I felt like I was in my place.

A moan let loose from my soul and I shivered beneath Cole’s magnificent sack.

“Yes, sir. This faggot agrees to everything you say.”

#str8 alpha #str8 worship #str8 superiority #gay vs str8 #faggot humiliation #worship your bully #faggot slave

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letters-unsending · 2 months ago

Text

In which Hero keeps in fixing Villain’s stuff.

////

“Should be harder to break now.” Hero muttered, pushing Villain’s mask into his chest as he walked past.

Without regarding Villain further, he plunked down into his desk chair and began typing. Multiple windows flickered into place on his screen: live security footage, shipping documents, a grainy documentary in a foreign language. Too many numbers and notes for Villain to even begin to decipher.

“You called me here…just to return this?” Villain asked, rubbing his thumb over the mask’s surface.

The metal had been welded together seamlessly, sanded and buffed to a mirror-fine finish. As he flipped the mask over, he found the inside to be equally smooth, though a number of thin bands now crisscrossed the inner mesh.

“Yes. Your mask breaks too often. Your identity could be compromised.”

“I wear a cover underneath.” Villain groused.

“I’m aware.” Hero nodded, his face lit green by the flashing numbers on his screen. He tapped the keyboard and a dozen more windows popped into view.

////

“Stay still.”

Villain steadied himself against the wall as Hero pried open the seal on the back of his suit.

“Easy man, I paid good money for this.”

As Villain spoke, his ribs pushed into the broken suit panel. The metal was curled inward; the barbed edges slid over his bruised skin.

Metal squealed as Hero bent the adjacent plates. Once the plates were lifted, Hero jammed his hand between Villain’s side and the jagged metal, alleviating the pressure at his side. Free to breathe fully, Villain gasped. His ribs pushed into the cradle of Hero’s cold palm.

Bare handed. Villain thought, dazed as Hero used his free hand to break off the joints fixing the panel in place.

Villain sagged, his knees loose. Once Villain’s side was protected, Hero made quick work of the rest of the chest panels, wrenching, plying and snapping the metal, the ease of which reminded Villain of the crumpling of an aluminum can.

Villain groaned. He must have been scammed and given a shitty suit. That, or Hero was just able to bend mid-grade tech like that.

Neither option reassured him.

He nearly yelped when Hero drew away his hand away, exposing his skin to the night chill. The panels popped off Villain’s chest and back, and landed in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Before Villain could even stand straight, Hero leaned down, collected the scraps, and tossed the metal husk over his shoulder.

“I’ll take care of this.” He proclaimed.

“Hey, I just got that. You don’t need to throw it out.” Villain wheezed, rubbing his side.

“I’m not disposing of it.”

“Well, what the hell are you going to do with it? Turn it into some kind of wall decor?”

“Meet me at my base next week.” He hiked the metal further of his shoulder, and began to turn. “I should have it done by then.”

Villain gaped as he walked away, feeling like a skinned animal, watching a hunter stalk off with its spoils. Too tired to yell at Hero’s retreating back, he stared at the wall and muttered.

“What the hell does done mean?”

////

“Twist it to the right. Not the left.”

“Your right or my right?” Villain lifted the ring in the air, assessing the small grooves and buttons. The ring’s tools were worked seamlessly into the ring’s design, lined and obscured by intricate silver detailing.

“Your right.” Hero informed him from across the desk. “Twist the midsection and it should reveal four lights. Those are your cardinal directions.”

Villain twisted the band’s inner ring, a stripe of cobalt nestled in a dark outer band. Four lights blinked into existence. The northernmost point shone the brightest.

Hero opened one of the desk’s drawers and scooped something out. He set the object upon the desk with a light thump.

An identical ring.

“Your ring will lead to you to this matched one. This ring can locate yours as well, but only if you have the lights activated on your end.”

Villain slowly lowered his ring, a commendable display of control.

“This is a fail safe, of course. I don’t intend to be separated from you during this mission, but I thought it would be helpful to have a secondary method of locating each other if we are without our communicators.”

Hero’s face remained solemn. Behind the gleam of his glasses, his eyes flicked between the two rings and Villain without any meaningful pause.

“Your buddies aren’t going to say anything about these? You know, me knowing where y’all are?” Villain asked, twisting the inner ring back to its standard position.

“They’re aware.”

“They know? And you’re sure they didn’t point anything else out to you?”

////

“It’s not even eight.” Villain groaned into the couch pillow.

“You’re in my lab.”

Hero pulled Villain’s blanket off and had it folded and set on the coffee table by the time Villain sat up and opened his bleary eyes. He squinted at the blanket, unsure of its origin.

That definitely wasn’t the grease-stained rag Hero sometimes set over his knees while he read on the couch.

A blur of white blocked his view of the blanket and he numbly accepted the object as it was pushed into his hand. A mug. Coffee. His palms luxuriated in the porcelain’s warmth.

It took a few sips before he registered the familiar texture beneath his fingers. He twisted the mug’s face into the morning light.

“You fixed this?”

“Wasn’t hard.” Hero shrugged as he splayed some diagrams over his work desk.

“You don’t even drink coffee.” Villain sipped again, this time feeling out the slight patches in the mug’s sides.

Hero turned toward Villain.

“You do.”

////

Hero tugged Villain down into a crouch and felt around his back, testing the refined metal. The blow had caused a small dent, but the shape was otherwise intact, and more importantly, not jabbing into Villain’s side.

“Much better,” he noted.

“Great, I’m glad the armor’s okay. I feel fine, by the way.” Villain announced. “Thanks for asking.”

Hero’s hand dragged up Villain’s shoulders and to the side of his face. He tested the edge of his mask, then sighed as he spotted a crack. He swept over the spot with his thumb.

“I’ll do better with your mask, next time.”

The severity of Hero’s gaze stilled Villain, so he remained hunkered down, balancing himself with one hand on the ground.

///

#writeblr #writing prompt #villain #hero #prompt #villain prompt #writing #hero prompt #hero x villain #drabble #I can fix that #idk #I didn’t know where to go

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infiniteeight8 · 1 month ago

Note

Enemies to lovers next part? Thank you so much, you are great!

This is the last part of the plot of this mini-series, but if there’s something specific folks want to see, you are welcome to send prompts (once they re-open) for those moments. 😀 Please do specify which, though—after this part, if you sent “next part” prompts, I’ll turn them down.

I’ve gone with a classic Avengers lineup for this AU: Captain America, Thor, Hulk, Black Widow, and Hawkeye. I’ve thrown Wonder Man in because part two of the mini-series specified a new heavy hitter, but he’s really just a placeholder. Sorry to any fans of his. 😂

Behind the cut because this is long.

Edit: Forgot to link the rest of the series! -- Most of it is here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/4654810 -- The part before this one is here: https://www.tumblr.com/infiniteeight8/785844557598408704/hi-i-like-to-request-another-part-of-the?source=share

Discovery became inevitable after Tony gave Stephen the suit.

He’d known that was the case when he made it, of course, though he hadn’t been sure where he’d be when it happened. Stephen has been wearing the suit beneath his robes, which has put off the moment a few more months, but there was always going to be a fight where it was exposed.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier when the moment comes.

It takes less than a minute for the news to slap a DOCTOR STRANGE USING IRON MAN TECH? banner on the battle. For once, Tony wishes his work was less identifiable. It takes the Avengers longer to notice than the news, caught up in the fight as they are. When they do realize, their moment of shock actually turns the tide for Stephen and his sorcerers. The Avengers retreat, and the feed switches to the talking heads. Tony turns it off and flops onto his back on their bed, groaning.

Stephen finds him a moment later, his robes still smouldering. “I take it the suit didn’t go unnoticed,” he says, sighing as he sits on the edge of the bed next to Tony.

“Nope,” Tony says. “They’re going to think you’ve corrupted me somehow.”

“Mostly likely,” Stephen admits. “Provided you don’t leave the Sanctum of your own accord, I promise there’s nothing they can do to remove you by force. If they attempted it, the Sanctum would translocate you before they reached the front doors.”

That relieves one worry, at least. “Thanks.” Tony sits up. “I better head downstairs. I doubt it’ll take them long to decide to come charging to the ‘rescue.’”

“Do you want me with you?”

Tony shoots Stephen a wry look. “That won’t help convince them I’m here of my own free will.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Stephen says. “I care about what you want.”

Tony smiles and leans over to give Stephen a kiss. “It’s fine. I’ll handle this.”

It takes a little longer than Tony expects, actually. He’s sitting on the bottom steps of the main staircase, waiting, when the Sanctum lets him know that he has visitors on the step. The temptation to have it open the doors before they can knock is huge, but Tony waits instead. Will Captain America knock, or will the Hulk attempt to knock the doors down? Attempt being the key word; there’s a reason the Avengers have never moved in force against the Sanctum, despite knowing its location.

The knock wins, though it’s really more of a hammering. “Let them in,” Tony says. The Sanctum hesitates a moment, but it does swing its doors open.

The team charges in, fully decked out in their battle gear. They even brought the new guy with them, Tony notes. He’s dressed in a black bodysuit decorated with a red W. Or maybe it’s an M? Honestly, it looks mostly like a jagged design. Maybe it’s a W and an M?

When they realize he’s sitting calmly, waiting for them, they come to a confused, uneven halt. “Tony,” Steve says, and then stops, visibly at a loss.

“Captain Rogers,” Tony acknowledges. Then he waits. Normally, he prefers to control the conversation, but this time he doesn’t really care where the conversation ends up, only about what they have to say. Besides, finding him calmly waiting for them has them off balance, and this gives them less time to think. And less ammunition.

After a moment, Steve lowers his shield and pulls down his cowl. “We were worried about you.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “You’re about—” he ostentatiously checks his watch “—ten months late for that. But better late than never, right?”

The Hulk grunts, drawing all eyes, and then rapidly shrinks down into Bruce again. “We thought you were dead,” Bruce says the moment he’s verbal again.

“There was a body,” Clint adds.

“Really?” Tony asks. “The press didn’t report one. Maybe… there was something suspicious about that body?” Tony asks. “Something that made you decide you shouldn’t make it public knowledge? Something might have made you think twice about what happened?” Steve is stoic, but Bruce looks uncomfortable and Natasha and Clint exchange a glance. “Funny, isn’t it, how Stephen noticed something was wrong when none of you did.”

“Stephen?” the new guy asks, frowning.

Steve waves the team to silence. “Clearly, we need to talk,” he says to Tony. “Can we have this conversation somewhere else?”

“Sure.” Tony stands. “The Sanctum has a really nice sitting room we can use.”

“Outside the Sanctum,” Steve says.

Tony’s response is flat. “No.”

“If you’re not allowed to leave—”

“I’m allowed to go wherever I please,” Tony interrupts. “I’m not confident that if I leave the Sanctum with you, I won’t end up locked up in the Avengers Compound for ‘my own good.’”

“You must realize how this looks,” Natasha says, stepping forward. “Doctor Strange kidnaps you—”

“Stephen didn’t kidnap me,” Tony interrupts again. “Mordo kidnapped me. I spent six weeks in his dungeons before Stephen rescued me.”

Clint gives Tony a hard look. “Since when are you on a first name basis with Doctor Strange?”

“Since I’ve spent the last eight and a half months living with him,” Tony says dryly.

“If Doctor Strange rescued you,” Steve says, “and you’ve been free to go where you please for the last eight months, why didn’t you come home?”

“Home?” Tony laughs sharply. “Home? You mean back to the team that never came looking for me? The team that replaced me after six weeks? The girlfriend that was already in another relationship? Is that the life you wanted me to come home to?”

Steve grimaces. “We thought you’d want… life… to go on.”

“Sure,” Tony says. “I would. After you were done grieving. But no one really grieved at all, did they? I’m not angry that people moved on, Steve. I was hurt that it was so easy. That I was so replaceable. That told me a lot about how people really felt about me.”

“And it’s better here?” Natasha asks skeptically.

“Yeah, it is.” Tony takes a long look at them and snorts. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? You didn’t come to get me because you were worried about me. You came because you were worried about my work, and how it’s helping Stephen instead of you.”

“The Sorcerers are bad guys, Tony,” Steve says earnestly, which only confirms Tony’s words.

“No, they aren’t,” Tony replies, even though he knows it’s not going to do him any favors. “They’re working just as hard to protect people as the Avengers ever did. Harder, actually. But they’re working off of priorities and information that the Avengers don’t understand and don’t have.”

Natasha gives him a long look and shakes her head. “And you think they’re right.”

“I know they are.”

Bruce sighs. “Tony. You know I respect your mind. But you’re not always right. This is a mistake.”

“You haven’t burned any bridges,” Steve insists. “You can come with us now. No one will hold this against you, after what you’ve been through.”

Tony has to laugh. ‘After what you’ve been through,’ they say, as if they know, when they haven’t even asked. For the first time in his life, every month has been better than the last for months on end. “Go home, Steve,” he says. “Forget about me. It shouldn’t be hard.”

The Sanctum translocates them outside before they can respond. It knows Tony isn’t interested in what they have to say. Tony pats a bannister in thanks and turns to head back up the stairs.

Stephen is waiting.

#IronStrange #ficlet

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justinspoliticalcorner · 7 months ago

Text

Nick Visser at HuffPost:

President Joe Biden used his farewell address to warn Americans about a scourge of misinformation and social media giants’ failure to stop it, unleashing a blistering criticism as tech companies such as Facebook and X embrace the incoming Trump administration. “Americans are being buried under an avalanche of misinformation and disinformation enabling an abuse of power,” Biden said Wednesday from the Oval Office. “The free press is crumbling. Editors are disappearing. Social media has given up on fact-checking.” “The truth is smothered by lies told for power and for profit.” His remarks come amid a shocking retreat from fact-checking on major social media platforms. CEO Mark Zuckerberg said earlier this month that Meta, the parent company of Facebook and Instagram, would end its fact-checking program and replace it with a “community notes” model similar to that used by Elon Musk’s X (formerly Twitter). In his announcement, Zuckerberg claimed Meta’s fact-checking teams had become “too politically biased.”

[...] “We must hold the social platforms accountable, to protect our children, our families and our very democracies from the abuse of power,” he said.

President Biden at last night’s farewell address: “The free press is crumbling. Editors are disappearing. Social media has given up on fact-checking.” Well said.

#Joe Biden #Social Media #Disinformation #Big Tech #Biden Administration #Fact Checking #War On The Press #Freedom Of The Press

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lmsintmedia · 5 months ago

Text

The Science of Rewiring Your Brain Through a Digital Detox

In today’s hyperconnected world, our brains are constantly bombarded with notifications, endless scrolling, and digital distractions. But what if stepping away from screens could actually rewire your brain for the better? Science suggests that tech-free retreats can significantly reshape cognitive functions, enhance mindfulness, and even boost overall mental well-being. Let’s break it down. How…

#brain rewiring #cognitive function #digital detox #dopamine detox #Lmsint medai 2025 #mental clarity #Mindfulness #mindfulness retreat #neuroplasticity #screen addiction #tech-free retreat

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unplugwell · 1 month ago

Text

In today's fast-paced world, where the glow of a screen is the first thing we see in the morning and the last thing we see at night, the idea of truly disconnecting can feel both radical and essential.

The constant barrage of notifications, emails, and social media updates creates a form of mental clutter that a standard vacation often fails to clear.

The solution? A dedicated escape designed to help you unplug, unwind, and reconnect with life beyond the screen. Welcome to the world of digital detox retreats.

#digital detox retreats #tech-free vacations #unplugged travel experiences #unplugging tips #digital detox destinations

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arctrooper69 · 1 year ago

Text

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Beta-read by @dragonrider9905

Chapter 10:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Miscommunication, angst.

A/N: Sorry this one is so short! I promise the action and excitement will be back next chapter! 😁

--------------------------------------------------

“Wait!” Hunter called out, standing up to follow you down the ramp, “I can explain!”

He rushed to the door, determined to follow you down the ramp, but he paused, feeling Echo’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’d give her a bit,” he advised. Hunter sighed and sat back down.

“Well that went well.” Tech clapped a hand to Hunter’s shoulder, then pushed his goggles further up on his face as he turned back to the cockpit to finish up the project he’d been working on.

“Wait, I’m confused,” Wrecker got off his bunk, “Hunter and Tara?”

Hunter sighed. “No! It’s not like that! I mean…”

Echo put his hand on Omega’s shoulder, attempting to direct her back to her room.

“Then what is it like, Hunter?” Omega asked, pushing Echo’s hand from her.

Hunter felt his chest tighten as he saw the hurt on her face. “It’s nothing, Omega. Go to your room.”

Omega crossed her arms, making no move to obey the command. “No! It’s not nothing! She obviously likes you and…” she paused to take a breath, looking down, “...and I thought you liked her too!”

“I do like her Omega… it’s just complicated. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Omega frowned at him. “I’m old enough.” she said defiantly. “You taught me that communication with your squad is important.”

Hunter didn’t respond, he knew she was right.

Omega sighed in frustration. “This is why we talk to each other, Hunter! You should’ve told her!”

“I know, Omega. I messed up. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not all your fault, you know.” she said softer, putting a hand on his knee.

“She’s right,” Echo chimed in, “We all need to do better at communicating with each other.”

“Yeah…” agreed Wrecker, and turned back to Hunter.

“Really? Tara? Huh… gotta say I didn't expect that.”

Hunter glared. “I told you it wasn't like that. I was putting away some supplies and she came onto me, okay? She had a few too many drinks after the mission on Dantooine. She came onto me, started feeling me up and kissing me. Caught me by surprise and I pushed her away, told her I wasn't interested.”

Wrecker whistled “Damn, you're a popular man these days.” He chuckled, “I totally woulda let Tara kiss me.”

Echo elbowed him, “Not helping, Wrecker…”

“Oh. Sorry, Hunter.”

“It’s fine, Wreck.”

Echo gave Hunter a sympathetic look before retreating to the cockpit as well to help with repairs. The last mission had been hard on the Marauder as well as the mood of the team.

--------------------------------------------------

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If you want to be on my taglist, feel free to send me a message! Also, asks are open! Reblogging is very much encouraged and it makes me do a happy dance every time any of my writing gets reblogged 😂❤️

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witchygagirlwrites · 7 months ago

Note

These are giving "So Mouse.." cheeky teasing best friend Jay and "I don't kiss and tell.." mouse

Soooooo... if you could.. 👀👀👀

Ok, so maybe it was a bad idea trying to keep a relationship secret when both your best friend and Mouse's best friend worked in intelligence with the two of you. It wasn't that either of you were ashamed of each other, it was mainly the part that you knew if Voight found out that meant HR paperwork and every time you took more than a few minutes in the tech room that someone would be teasing.

"Dammit Greg" you cursed looking in the mirror then back at your boyfriend who was getting dressed behind you. He gave you one of those smiles that made you forget why you were mad at him to begin with. "What baby?"

You turned around and motioned to the hickies that lined your collarbone, a few of them high enough that if you weren't careful Kim may very well spot one before the day was out. "I swear you're a damn vampire" he covered the space between you in a few steps before slipping his arms around your waist "I didn't hear any complaints when I was putting them there"

You tried and failed to glare at him "It's not funny!" he placed a gentle kiss on your lips before offering "You're free to mark me all you want. I'm not in the field and I can always retreat downstairs" you thought about it for a second then pushed his collar down and marked him right below his pulse point where it wasn't visible unless someone was extremely close to him. His grip on your waist tightened as your teeth and tongue worked at his neck "Baby, baby you keep doing that and we'll be late"

You pulled back and admired your handy work. "That's good. Let's go"

Jay had Mouse running an address, so he was leaning over his shoulder watching his computer as he worked. Mouse turned his neck to look at the second screen and something caught Jay's eye "Is that a hickie?"

A light blush graced his friend's cheeks "Don't know what you're talking about man" Jay slapped his shoulder "Yeah..sure...who is she?" Mouse shook his head, grateful that the address pinged about that time.

Everyone was tired after the bust and getting ready to leave for the day. Jay was sitting at his desk finishing up and Mouse was on his phone, profusely apologizing to you over text because Kim had indeed seen the hickies and hadn't let up on asking who had left them.

He heard the two of you coming up the back stairs and hoped she'd let it go but he knew Jay caught the tail end as the two of you walked through to the breakroom because his desk was further away and he heard "Who gave you the hickies? Just tell me?"

Jay's head whipped around towards him so fast he was worried for a second he may have given himself whiplash "Greg Gerwitz, you dog" Mouse picked up the file on his desk and held it in front of his face so Jay couldn't see the grin because that would give him away.

Maybe it was time to come clean because hearing the names Kim was throwing out was making him jealous and want to have a little talk with each and every guy she was asking about. He could still hear Jay's laughter when you came out of the breakroom with Kim hot on your heels and announced, "I'm going home!" and headed for the back exit.

#greg mouse gerwitz x reader #greg gerwitz x reader #mouse gerwitz x reader #greggerwitz x reader #chicago pd fic #chicago pd fanfiction #chicago pd fanfic

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gingiesworld · 2 years ago

Text

Fatal Attraction

Chapter One

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x GN! Reader/ Wanda Maximoff x Jarvis Stark

Warnings : Fluff. Angst.

Taglist : @natashamaximoff-69 @canvascoloredin @wizardofstories @louxbloom @wandanats-goodgirl @the-ox-fan20 @ladyqueenxoxo @aemilia19 @wandaromamoff69 @mfd-101 @dorabledewdroop

18+ MINORS DNI

Wanda Maximoff, was known as Jarvis Stark's new wife, and NYU graduate, that was all. Once Jarvis had gotten a job at his father's company, Wanda had quickly adjusted to the stay at home housewife. Even after she had done her morning chores and meal preps, she wasted a majority of the day either sitting on the sofa watching TV or just staring out of the window at the bustling city below. Even her latest conversations with Jarvis made her want to retreat from him.

"I think we should try for a baby." He told her as her eyes widened.

"What?" She almost yelled across the table from him.

"We're married now." He stated.

"Barely." She told him as he shrugged.

"I have a steady job and income, we can provide for a baby Wanda." He smiled at her as she shook her head no.

"I don't want a baby Vis." She told him firmly. "I am not ready for that sort of commitment."

"We're already married, Wanda." He told her sternly as Wanda started to clear the table. "I think not being ready for commitment has already passed."

"No." She told him as she squeezed her eyes closed. "Being married is different to starting a family. We are both 22 for crying out loud."

"All the more reason to do it." He told her. "By the time they will be off to college we will just be pushing passed 40, an age to start living our lives again."

"I said no Jarvis." She snarled as he just sighed.

"Just think about it." He requested before he retreated to their shared room. Wanda knew exactly how she felt about the whole children's situation.

Did she see herself as a mother at some point? Yes, just not right now. Not when she has a lot of living to do.

So she made it her mission to reject every advance Jarvis had made. Denying his every need to have intimacy with her. She couldn't really sneakily go on birth control as they now had shared health insurance.

So she had done the next best thing, she had made several resumes and sent them out to multiple organisations, hoping that she may just get herself a job and a way to earn her own money and not have to rely on Jarvis's family fund.

Every day she checked the mail, hoping that she may get an acceptance letter, only receiving polite rejection letters.

"I bet you're going to tell me what the others have said huh?" She questioned as she sat with the envelope in her hand. Taking a deep breath before opening the letter and reading the black ink.

Dear Ms Maximoff

Thank you for your resume, and I am afraid that all departments have been filled. Although, I do have an assistant about to go on maternity leave. It is only a temporary position. If you may be interested, please contact me as soon as possible.

Many regards

Y/N Y/L/N

CEO

Wanda was fast to dial up the number provided, although she had waited for half an hour until she was put through to Y/N.

"Y/N Y/L/N, how may I help you?" They answered.

"Hi, Mx Y/L/N, it's Wanda Maximoff." She rambled nervously. "I was just calling up about the temp position you have available?"

"Hi, Ms Maximoff." They spoke cheerfully. "I do have a full week this week but maybe if you can stop by the office at noon? I have 30 minutes spare for lunch if you're free to do your interview then."

"Yes." Wanda answered excitedly. "Of course."

"Perfect." They answered her. "I shall see you at noon. Don't be late." With that they hung up, just before Wanda squealed. She was excited to have a job prospect so soon, but her excitement didn't last too long when Jarvis came inside with one of her resumes in his hand.

"You know, we have been looking to fill some spots in our tech department and when I noticed this on my desk of potential candidates, I thought that couldn't be my Wanda Maximoff but there is only one Wanda Maximoff in New York." He slammed the paper on the table before him. "What are you even doing Wanda?"

"I am looking for a job." She told him.

"You don't need a job." He told her.

"No, but I want a job." She told him. "I am sick and tired of living the same routine every day. It gets extremely lonely."

"Maybe if we try." He started as Wanda interrupted him.

"I already told you no Jarvis!" She yelled. "I am not ready to be a mother!"

"No one is truly ready to be a parent dear." He tried to approach her when she stepped back.

"No." She told him firmly. "I don't want a baby. Not now."

"Wanda! This is something that is expected when we marry." He told her as she laughed.

"We are not living in the 50s!" She told him. "It is my body and I do not want a child."

"It has to be done Wanda." He told her.

"No it doesn't!" She shouted, starting to get angry with every second he wasn't listening to her. "I am 22, freshly out of college, I should be out partying with friends, working a job I hate to try and make ends meet."

"But you don't have to do any of that." He told her.

"Because we have your father's money?" She spoke with a raised brow. "I want to be able to earn my own way Vis, so please just let me." He just nodded as he walked away, leaving Wanda to clean up the dinner that neither had the appetite to eat.

The next day, Wanda was getting ready for her interview with Y/N. She was extremely nervous as she hasn't had a job since she worked part time in high school at the local cafè. So she made sure she was at the building earlier, sipping on a coffee as she waited for Y/N, already being informed that they were in a meeting.

She soon perked up when a door opened and a large group of people left the room. Waiting to see what Y/N looks like.

"Ms Maximoff." They spoke up as they spotted Wanda. "Follow me." She was fast to follow them into their office. Admiring the view from behind them as they sat at their desk. "So, your resume was quite."

"I know, I haven't really had a job since high school." She told them. "But I graduated at the top of my class in college."

"And you are married." They pointed out as they noticed the gold band on her finger. "And you're 22."

"My husband and I have been together since high school." She told them as they smiled softly.

"Well, he is a very lucky guy." They told her before looking at her seriously. "So, why do you want this job?" They asked her.

"Well, I want to be able to make something of myself, earn my own way." She told them. "It's just that Jarvis expects me to stay at home and birth his children but I don't want that."

"You want to be independent." They pointed out as she nodded. "So why did you marry him?"

"I love him." She answered easily, although at that moment, the words felt like a foreign language on her tongue.

"As easy as that." They pried before realising Wanda's unsure gaze. "Forgive me, that was out of line."

"No." She waved them off before looking up again.

"Well, I guess I can have you start on Monday, Jean will show you the ropes before she leaves on Friday." They told her with a smile.

"I got the job?" She asked them, with shock and confusion in her eyes.

"You got the job." They smiled as she squealed. "Just leave your details, social security number and bank account details with Jean."

"Thank you so much Y/N." She stood up as Y/N walked around the desk.

"Be here Monday, 8am." They smiled at her before opening the door for her, the two approaching Jean. "Do you have the files for my next meeting?" She handed them an A4 manilla file. "Also, can you sort out Ms Maximoff's details for your temporary replacement. She will be shadowing you next week before you leave us to have this little guy." Jean nodded with a smile before Y/N had disappeared down the hall and into the elevator.

"They aren't the easiest to work for." Jean told her. "They are perfectionists."

"I can see that." Wanda smiled as she handed over the appropriate papers.

"But they are loyal to their employees." Jean told her. "That is one thing I can say about them." Wanda was fascinated by them, only meeting them briefly but seeing how smart and sophisticated they seemed. It only drew her in, needing to know more. She found herself thinking about them, even when she was laying in bed at night beside her husband. Her thoughts were innocent but she still felt guilty.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #marvel #elizabeth olsen #wanda x you #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda x reader #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x you

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misssparklingpaws · 1 month ago

Text

BETWEEN TECH AND TENSION - PART 1

"Set in the Under the Radar universe, this is a two-chapter fic about Aria and Bucky meeting and the beginning of their relationship."

Wakanda 2016

The air in Wakanda was warmer than Aria expected.

Not in temperature, though the sun was high and bright but in texture. Every breath carried the scent of dry trees and blooming energy, of something ancient and something just beginning.

She stepped off the royal aircraft in tailored slacks, a crisp white shirt half-untucked, laptop case strapped across her shoulder, and sunglasses hiding the exhaustion from three straight days of flights, tech handoffs, and government delays.

At twenty-four, Aria Stark had already co-written three artificial intelligence protocols, assisted in trauma-focused biomechanical design, and given a talk at the UN. But this?

This was her first field placement.

Shuri greeted her with a grin and an arm pull into a hug. “Finally. You are very late.”

“I had to re-clear customs because someone flagged me as a security risk for traveling with sixteen microprocessors in my carry-on,” Aria muttered, pulling off her glasses.

“Well,” Shuri said, looping an arm through hers, “that sounds like a you problem.”

They walked through the shimmering halls of the capital's tech wing, cool, coppery walls laced with glowing veins of Vibranium. Aria’s sharp gaze scanned everything.

“I’ve got you starting on the neuro-adaptive interface project,” Shuri said. “Mostly theory and diagnostics. You’ll assist with post-traumatic reconditioning tech too.”

Aria nodded, already calculating her schedule. “What’s your primary subject?”

Shuri smirked. “Not what. Who.”

Aria stopped walking.

Because standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed, expression unreadable, was Bucky Barnes.

He looked nothing like the blurry photos from the news. He looked... human. Hair tied back. A plain black shirt. Quiet. Pale and strong and tense.

Their eyes met.

Aria didn’t blink.

Bucky’s jaw tensed.

Shuri looked between them, then leaned into Aria’s ear. “Just don’t poke the bear.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Aria murmured.

Bucky gave a curt nod. “I didn’t know you were bringing her.”

Shuri raised an eyebrow. “She’s not luggage, Barnes.”

Aria stepped forward, extending her hand. “Hi. Aria Stark.”

Bucky hesitated, then took her hand briefly. “I know who you are.”

“And I know who you are,” she said softly.

His eyes flinched.

She didn’t say it cruelly. Not like a threat. But like a fact.

Like history sitting in the room between them.

Aria took a breath, adjusted her bag. “I don’t bite. Unless I’m running diagnostics.”

He didn’t laugh. Just stepped back.

Shuri cleared her throat. “Barnes, you’re free to leave. Go brood or whatever. We’re running her orientation now.”

“I’ll keep to myself,” Bucky muttered.

“You always do,” Shuri called after him.

He walked away, not looking back.

Aria watched his retreating figure, then turned to Shuri. “Does he always run off like that?”

“Only when he’s overwhelmed, annoyed, or afraid someone’s going to make him talk about his feelings.”

“Sounds emotionally healthy.”

Shuri grinned. “Welcome to Wakanda.”

The gardens behind the Wakandan Tech Wing were quiet in the late afternoon, all glowing flora and cool stone pathways that shimmered faintly with stored solar energy. Aria had taken her tablet out to read data logs, feet propped up on the edge of a vibranium planter, sunglasses slipping to the bridge of her nose.

She didn’t look up when she said, casually, “You know, you’re really bad at pretending you’re not staring.”

A beat of silence.

Then, from behind the carved screen just twenty feet away, Bucky Barnes stepped into view.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even look guilty.

Just stood there, arms crossed, dark shirt pulled tight across his chest, looking like a ghost that forgot how to disappear.

Aria smirked. “Are you planning to keep lurking behind trees like Bigfoot, or are you going to say hi?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t lurking.”

“You were,” she said, grinning wider. “But it’s okay. I get it. I’m captivating, mixed race, very exotic.”

His lips twitched like he might smile, but the moment passed too fast.

Aria tilted her head. “You know, for a guy who once tried to kill my dad, you’re not nearly as scary as you think.”

Bucky flinched.

She sighed. “That was a joke, Barnes. A good one, even.”

He shifted, unsure. “You really don’t... hate me?”

She blinked at that.

And then smiled, slower this time. “I don’t know you. Should I?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

“Okay then,” she said, clicking her tablet off and standing. “So maybe let’s try not being weird about it.”

He looked at her like she’d just spoken a foreign language.

Aria shrugged. “I don’t bite.”

His eyes flicked to her.

“I’m just here to work. And learn. And not deal with your weird lurking energy.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he took one step back, then another.

“Okay,” she said with a crooked grin, “you’re running away again.”

“I’m not”

“You are,” she called after him as he turned and walked quickly toward the hallway. “Classic Barnes exit.”

She heard him mutter something under his breath.

Aria watched him go, then smirked and sat back down. “He’ll come around,” she told the tablet, flipping it back on. “Eventually.”

---

The next few days were more of the same: Aria working nonstop under Shuri’s meticulous gaze, and Bucky avoiding her like she carried the plague.

She tried not to be too flattered that the infamous Winter Soldier couldn’t look her in the eye for more than three seconds at a time.

The lab was quiet when Aria walked in, tablet clutched to her chest, hair still damp from her shower. She’d barely finished her coffee. Hadn’t even synced the morning’s logs yet.

And there he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing near one of the holographic projection tables, frowning at a diagnostic Shuri had left running overnight. Same black T-shirt, stretched tight over washboard abs (God bless the super soldier serum). Same messy hair. Same brooding, vaguely annoyed energy.

Still grumpy. Still stupidly hot.

Aria, for reasons she didn’t have time to unpack, brightened immediately.

“Hi!” she said a little too loud, her voice practically bouncing off the vibranium walls.

“You’re early,” he said simply.

“You’re lurking,” she replied, biting back a smirk.

His lips pressed into a tight line. “I was just leaving.”

“Shocking,” Aria muttered.

He was already walking past her toward the exit, boots soft on the polished floor. She pivoted to follow with her eyes. “You really don’t do small talk, huh?”

He paused, just for a breath, then kept walking.

Gone. Again.

Like a puff of broody smoke.

“Classic,” she muttered under her breath.

From behind one of the glass panels, Shuri appeared, holding a protein bar in her teeth and wearing an expression far too smug for that hour of the morning.

“Well, that wasn’t obvious at all,” Shuri said around the wrapper.

Aria nearly jumped. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough,” she said, taking a bite. “You lit up like Wakandan fireworks the second you saw him.”

“I did not.”

“You said ‘hi’ like he cured cancer.”

“I said it normally.”

“You beamed. I’ve seen holograms with less radiance.”

Aria tried not to flush. “It’s not like that. Even if I did think he’s... weirdly attractive or whatever—which I don’t—my dad would literally burn down this entire country if he found out.”

Shuri raised an eyebrow, still chewing. “Tony Stark? Burn a whole nation? Please. He’d build a targeted weather machine to rain acid just on Barnes.”

“Exactly,” Aria said, waving a hand. “He hates him. He won’t even say his name in front of me.”

“He still blames him for the car crash?” Shuri asked, suddenly more serious.

Aria nodded. “Yeah. Even though he knows it wasn’t him. Even though he knows it was Hydra. Still... it’s personal.”

“And what about you?” Shuri asked.

Aria hesitated, glancing down at her screen. “I’ve read the files. I know what happened. But I’ve also watched the footage of my dad almost killing him. So... yeah. I think it’s complicated.”

“I know,” Aria said, pressing her lips together. “I know. But... it’s complicated. Even thinking about him like that feels.”

“Dangerous?”

“Weird.”

Shuri grinned. “You have a type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Mm. Brooding. Soft-spoken. Morally gray. Tragic eyes. Strong arms. Protective streak the size of the Vibranium mine.”

Aria made a sound like she was dying and dragged her hands down her face.

Shuri leaned her chin on her hand. “If it helps, he watches you too.”

Aria stilled. “He does?”

“All the time. Barnes. Big, brooding, metal-armed problem. Watches you like he’s not sure if he should apologize or disappear into the forest.”

Aria blinked, then shook her head furiously. “No. No. I’m not doing this. I’m here to work. Work, Shuri.”

Shuri just hummed. “Sure. But if you fall in love with him and name a baby after me, I get to call dibs on godmother.”

Aria muttered, “I don’t have a crush.”

“Right,” Shuri said, already walking away. “And I’m not a genius.”

Aria threw a microchip at her.

---

Wakanda’s sky shimmered in violet and indigo, a dome of stars stretched over the quiet capital like a hush no city on Earth could replicate. The sound of the breeze rustling through the bioluminescent trees below was soft and low, almost like breathing.

Aria leaned against the smooth vibranium railing of the terrace, her laptop closed beside her, a glass of ginger-infused water in her hand. She was barefoot, hair loose for once, wrapped in an oversized Wakandan tech hoodie that probably belonged to Shuri.

The footsteps behind her were soft.

She didn’t turn.

“I thought you’d run away again,” she said lightly.

“No one else is up here,” Bucky answered. His voice was low, but calmer than usual. “Didn’t think I’d need an escape route.”

Aria smiled faintly, eyes still on the skyline. “You didn’t. You’re safe.”

He came up beside her slowly. Not close, but close enough that she felt the weight of his presence in the space between them. The silence stretched. But this time, it wasn’t awkward. It was… tentative.

Curious.

“You always up this late?” he asked finally.

She glanced at him. “Sleep’s overrated when your brain won’t shut up.”

He nodded once, understanding all too well.

She took a sip of her drink. “You’re different up here.”

“How?”

“Less Winter Soldier, more... socially anxious forest man.”

His lip quirked. “Accurate.”

Aria grinned, a little surprised. “Was that a smile?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

They fell quiet again, but the silence had softened.

She studied his profile, he looked younger in the dark. Less carved by war. And for the first time, Bucky didn’t look like he wanted to disappear under her gaze.

“You don’t have to be weird around me, you know,” she said gently. “I’m not gonna bite. Or hate you. Or tell my dad.”

At that, he glanced sideways at her. “Tony doesn’t know I’m here, does he?”

Aria gave him a look. “My father gets a nosebleed when someone brings up the words ‘Hydra’ and ‘Barnes’ in the same sentence. If he knew I was working within a hundred-foot radius of you, he’d build a satellite to vaporize you and call it parenting.”

Bucky looked away, his jaw tightening.

She leaned in, elbow on the railing. “You didn’t choose what happened. I’ve read the records. I’ve read everything. My dad’s trauma is valid, but that doesn’t mean yours isn’t.”

He didn’t speak.

Aria added, softer, “I don’t see you as the man who killed my grandparents. I see a man who’s still trying to forgive himself.”

Bucky blinked. He opened his mouth, like he might actually say something real.

Bzzzzzz.

Her phone buzzed on the railing.

“Of course,” she muttered. She checked the screen. Her expression shifted immediately.

Bucky caught it. “Who is it?”

She sighed. “Speak of the devil. My dad.”

He stepped back instinctively. “Don’t answer if”

She was already picking up. “Hey, Dad.”

His voice came through loud enough for Bucky to catch a few sharp, over-caffeinated syllables.

“Are you in the lab? I saw the system ping go dark, are you using a personal network again? You know what Ross said about encryption, Aria"

“Relax, I’m just on the terrace,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “And no, I’m not working. I’m taking a break.”

“Alone?”

Aria’s gaze flicked to Bucky, who had already backed up a few feet like he was trying to dematerialize.

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Okay. Just be safe, alright? And don’t go poking around Barnes’ diagnostics. I don’t trust the guy as far as I can throw a mountain. Which I could, if I had the tech for it.”

Aria rolled her eyes. “Duly noted. Goodnight. Love you dad”

“Love you, kid. Call Pepper tomorrow.”

“Will do.”

She hung up and sighed, looking at Bucky. “You can breathe. I didn’t rat you out.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re a good liar.”

“Terrible, actually,” she said, grabbing her drink again. “But you bring out the best in me.”

That made him pause. Really pause.

Then, quietly: “Why aren’t you scared of me?”

Aria’s answer came without hesitation. “Because you don’t scare me.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded once. Like maybe, for the first time, he believed her.

She set her glass down and turned to face him fully, leaning her hip against the railing.

“You’ve spent so long carrying this version of yourself that the world painted for you,” she said, voice calm but clear. “The assassin. The ghost. The weapon. People look at you and only see what you’ve done. What they think you are.”

She paused, letting the quiet wrap around her words.

“But I see a man who clawed his way back from hell and still showed up. I see someone who could’ve disappeared into the shadows and never looked back but didn’t. You stayed. You’re trying. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Bucky swallowed. His hands flexed slightly at his sides.

“And yeah,” she added, with a crooked smile, “you scowl like a wounded wolf and act like emotions are a federal crime, but that doesn’t scare me. That just tells me you’re still learning how to be human again. And I get that. More than you think.”

Her voice softened, almost a whisper now. “You’re not your sins, Barnes. You’re the choices you make now. And tonight, you chose to stand here. With me. That matters.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, like he was fighting to hold something back. Maybe shame. Maybe tears. Maybe just the instinct to run.

He didn’t run.

Instead, he said, rough and quiet, “You talk like someone who’s forgiven me.”

Aria shrugged, a gentle tilt of her head. “Maybe because I have.”

Silence fell again. But it wasn’t heavy this time.

It was healing.

He looked at her, not just looked, but saw her and for the first time, there was no wall behind his eyes. No soldier. No shadow.

Just Bucky.

And Aria, barefoot and unafraid, offering something no one ever had before:

Peace.

She smiled. “Now, are you gonna keep brooding out here all night, or do you wanna sit and listen to Shuri’s awful jazz playlist with me?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “God. That thing’s torture.”

“Exactly. Shared suffering. Builds trust.”

And when she reached out, not to take his hand but just to gently touch his arm—his metal arm, he didn’t flinch.

He let her.

The night kept unfolding, slow and unhurried, like Wakanda itself was holding its breath to give them this space.

They’d moved to the low terrace couch, the faint hum of the city below just a whisper beneath the trees. Aria sat cross-legged, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her drink forgotten on the table. Bucky leaned back, one arm slung over the backrest, unusually relaxed. Or maybe just tired of pretending not to be.

Aria was mid-story, hands moving as she talked. “So there I am, two weeks into my thesis, buried in quantum signature data, and this little menace just appears in my lab window. Hanging upside down.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Spider-Man?”

“Yes. Peter. Fifteen-year-old Peter. In a homemade suit. Rambling about a ‘totally catastrophic miscalculation in gravity manipulation’ and, get this, eating a sandwich. In my clean lab.”

He chuckled, low and surprised. “Sounds like a punk.”

“Oh, he is,” she said fondly. “Brilliant, too. But at the time, I nearly threw a spectrometer at him. Which, by the way, he caught. Mid-air. One-handed.”

“Show off.”

“Right?” Aria grinned. “And he wouldn’t stop calling me ‘Miss Stark’ no matter how many times I corrected him. I told him, ‘Peter, I’m not my dad. I swear, if you call me Miss Stark one more time, I will hack your web-shooters to only dispense glitter.’”

Bucky laughed, actually laughed, head tilting slightly back. “Please tell me you did.”

“Oh, I did. Took him a week to clean the glitter out of his suit.”

He looked at her then really looked at her.

Not as Tony Stark’s daughter. Not as a heir or a file or a complication.

Just her.

Aria.

A woman who could rebuild an arc reactor in her sleep and still find the time to smile. Sharp-tongued, sharp-minded, and, God help him, beautiful. The kind of beautiful that didn’t ask for attention, it just existed, like gravity.

She noticed the change in his gaze, but didn’t shy from it. If anything, she softened, tilting her head slightly, her expression curious and open.

“You’re staring,” she said, gently amused.

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted, no shame in it now. “I guess I am.”

A quiet beat passed between them. The kind of quiet that meant something.

And then, voice low, he added, “You’re... nothing like I expected.”

Aria arched a brow. “Let me guess. You thought I’d be a Stark clone. Little suit, big ego.”

“Something like that.”

“And what am I now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her, slower this time. Thoughtful.

“You’re... your own. Smart. Dangerous, probably. And kind.” His voice dropped. “Too kind to someone like me.”

Aria smiled faintly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I’m just smart enough to know you need kindness more than punishment.”

That hit something deep in him. Deeper than he was ready for.

But he didn’t run.

Instead, he asked, quietly, “Why are you really here tonight, Aria?”

She looked at him, eyes steady. “Maybe because you stopped running long enough for me to find you.”

And then, barely a whisper: “Or maybe because I needed someone who sees me, too.”

They didn’t say anything after that.

They didn’t have to.

---

The next morning, Wakanda was bathed in golden haze, the kind that made the city shimmer like a dream still half-remembered.

Aria took her time getting ready, braiding her hair with precise fingers, slipping into clean clothes that still smelled faintly of lab disinfectant and lavender soap. She even wore her boots, though she had no meetings scheduled.

She carried two mugs of coffee, one plain, one strong and overly dark, just the way he liked it and padded toward the private dining terrace near the training wing. It was early. The air was still cool, birds weaving calls through the canopy.

She stepped into the space quietly, balancing the mugs in her hands.

It was empty.

The chair he usually sat in, half-slouched, leg always bouncing, was pushed neatly under the table. No crumbs. No jacket slung over the back. No metal hand reaching for the pot before anyone else could. Nothing.

Just silence.

Again.

Aria stood there, both mugs warming her hands, trying not to feel the sting creeping into her chest.

She sat down anyway.

Set the second mug in front of the empty chair.

And for a few minutes, she drank her coffee in silence. Let it burn her tongue a little. Let it remind her she was still here. Still solid. Still not disappearing.

Shuri eventually wandered in, hair tied up in a messy knot, tablet tucked under her arm. She paused at the sight of Aria sitting alone, and her sharp gaze flicked to the untouched mug across the table.

“He left this morning,” she said, voice wry. “He was called, duty matters.”

Aria didn’t look up. “Before sunrise. No message. No briefing.”

Shuri sat slowly, tapping her tablet awake. “He’s an idiot.”

Aria gave a faint, crooked smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “No argument here.”

Shuri raised an eyebrow. Aria exhaled.

“He’s a complicated idiot,” she added. “The kind that touches your hand like he’s memorizing it, then disappears like none of it meant anything.”

“You want me to track him?”

Aria blinked. “You can?”

“I’m Wakandan royalty,” Shuri said. “I can track anything, even emotionally constipated war relics.”

A breath of dry laughter escaped Aria, tired, small, but real. “No. If he wants to be found, he’ll make it happen.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, almost too softly to be heard, she added, “I just… wish I was worth saying goodbye to.”

Shuri looked at her for a long moment, her tablet forgotten. “You were,” she said, voice steady. “He just doesn’t know how to say it yet.”

Aria didn’t reply. She stared down at the other mug, untouched, cooling by the second.

He liked it strong. Almost bitter. No sugar.

She reached for it anyway, brought it to her lips, and took a sip.

Cold. Harsh. Exactly how he’d have left it.

Her voice was quiet, almost to herself. “Of course he wouldn’t sweeten it.”

Shuri didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

And Aria, for a few more moments, sat with the silence—and the mug that still smelled like him.

---

Wakanda 2023

The woman in the mirror wasn’t the same one who’d come to Wakanda seven years ago.

Aria Lucía Stark’s hair was cropped short now, the once-dark waves reduced to a low-maintenance long bob she didn’t have to think about. She no longer wore bright colors or red lipstick or anything that glittered. Just soft, breathable fabrics in charcoal, olive, navy. Clothes that didn’t demand attention. Clothes that didn’t belong to the girl who used to light up a lab and throw sarcastic barbs at haunted super-soldiers.

She hadn’t lit up anything in a long time.

Shuri had welcomed her without asking questions. No speeches, no fanfare, just a hug, a guest suite, and a quiet place to breathe. That was all Aria had asked for.

She walked through the south gardens now, tablet forgotten in her satchel, sunglasses hiding the circles under her eyes. Her feet carried her without direction. This city had once felt electric. Now it felt like the only place left that didn’t expect her to be something she no longer was.

That’s when she saw him.

James Barnes.

Hair shorter than she remembered. Not clean-shaven, but groomed. Relaxed. Light jacket, gloves off, like he didn’t need to hide anymore. He was talking with Shuri, gesturing toward the shield generator with one hand, explaining a pressure flow correction like a man who’d finally made peace with being part of something again.

And then his eyes met hers.

He faltered mid-sentence.

Shuri, to her credit, didn’t push. She just nodded and left them, throwing a subtle glance at Aria like don't bite him.

Aria didn’t move.

Bucky walked toward her slowly, cautiously, like she might vanish if he came too fast.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She gave a shallow nod. “Didn’t know you were here.”

“Just for the barrier work. I’ve been helping Shuri calibrate the new pulse syncs.”

“Right,” she murmured. “Of course.”

He studied her. “You cut your hair.”

She didn’t look at him. “That tends to happen when everything falls apart.”

There was a beat. Not awkward, just heavy.

Then he said, gently, “It suits you.”

That caught her off guard. She turned slightly, brows raised in faint suspicion. “Really.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and shrugged. “Though... the long hair was more your thing.”

Aria arched a brow. “You remembering my hair preferences now?”

He gave her a faint, crooked smile. “Just saying. You looked different. Not worse.”

Aria stared at him, a thousand replies sitting behind her teeth, sarcasm, bitterness, grief. She could spit a dozen cutting words. She could walk away.

But instead, she just said, low and even:

“I’m not that girl anymore, Barnes.”

“I know,” he said.

But he didn’t flinch this time.

Didn’t run.

Later that night, Bucky found Aria on the terrace. The air was cool, the stars veiled behind thin clouds. She stood with her arms folded, staring out at the dark horizon, her face unreadable in the soft light.

The scene struck him like a memory.

“I’m kinda feeling déjà vu right now,” Bucky said, voice light, trying.

Aria didn’t turn. “The night before you left.”

His smile faltered. “Ouch.”

They stood in silence for a long stretch, not the kind born of peace. The kind that crackled with everything unsaid.

Bucky glanced at her, studying the woman who used to speak with fire and wear red lipstick like armor. Her hair was shorter now. Her frame looked smaller or maybe just heavier with grief. Like her body had forgotten what it meant to rest, to breathe deeply, to laugh without restraint.

Finally, he spoke.

“I know I can’t understand exactly what you felt,” he said quietly. “Losing your dad. The world he built. Your place in it.”

She didn’t answer. Her jaw tensed, the muscles in her throat tightening.

“But,” he went on, “I know what it feels like to come back to a world that didn’t wait. That changed without you. That doesn’t know what to do with you anymore.”

Her shoulders twitched, barely.

“To feel like time moved on and you didn’t. Or like you did... but into someone you don’t even recognize.”

Her eyes welled up, but she didn’t blink.

Bucky looked down, searching for the right words. “People kept telling me I was lucky to come back. That I should be grateful. But every room I walked into felt like I’d missed the instructions on how to exist in it.”

Aria’s breath hitched.

“I didn’t know what to say. Or who I was supposed to be. Just that everything I knew was gone, and I didn’t want to ask for help because... who would even understand?”

She turned her face away, jaw trembling.

“I’m not your dad,” Bucky said, voice soft. “But I did know him. And I know he loved you more than he ever figured out how to say.”

That cracked something.

Aria’s breath collapsed in a choke, the first sob tearing out of her chest before she could stop it.

Bucky froze, just for a second, then stepped forward and gathered her in, one arm around her shoulders, the other curling around her back. No hesitation this time. No awkwardness.

Just care.

She crumpled into him, hands fisting in his shirt, crying like it hurt. Like she’d held it all in too long. Months of grief, of being strong for everyone else, poured out in silence and shudders. She didn’t care that it was him. Didn’t care that he’d once been the enemy. Or that she had every reason to still be angry.

She just cried.

And Bucky held her.

Not like a soldier. Not like a ghost of the past.

Like someone who knew what it meant to be broken and still breathing.

He pressed his chin gently to the top of her head, letting her grief soak through his shirt.

“You don’t have to hold it in anymore,” he whispered.

She didn’t.

Not tonight.

After a long while, when her cries dulled to trembling exhales, he spoke again, quieter than before.

“I’m sorry I left,” he said.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.

“I shouldn’t have gone without saying anything. That morning. I thought I was protecting something by disappearing. That I’d just... handle it and come back. But I didn’t think what it would do to you. And I’m sorry.”

Aria didn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “I waited with two cups of coffee.”

Bucky closed his eyes. That hurt more than anything she could’ve yelled at him.

“I know,” he said hoarsely. “I know. I should’ve been there.”

“You’re here now,” she said, her voice raw. “That’s the only reason I’m still standing.”

And she leaned into him again, quieter, but no less fierce. Letting him hold her together for a little while longer.

And this time, Bucky didn’t let go.

---

The days passed differently after the terrace.

No big gestures. No dramatic changes.

Just… smaller shifts.

Aria showed up to the labs a few minutes earlier. She didn’t flinch when Bucky entered the room. She even handed him tools mid-project without hesitation. She still didn’t laugh much, but she wasn’t silent anymore either.

She let him exist near her.

That was something.

And Bucky? Bucky never pushed. He didn’t ask about the crying. He didn’t mention the night she fell apart in his arms like something collapsing from the inside out. He just stayed consistent, showed up.

He worked beside her in the calibration room, sleeves rolled up, grease on his knuckles, listening when she muttered theories under her breath and occasionally offering surprisingly intelligent observations.

“Wait,” Aria said one afternoon, pausing at the stabilizer display, “did you just reverse-map the feedback cycle from the generator without a schematic?”

Bucky glanced up from the open panel. “I’m a thousand years old. I’ve picked up a few things.”

“Fine. Color me impressed.”

She wasn’t looking at him when she said it, but he smiled anyway.

In the corner of the lab, Shuri watched with a half-hidden smirk, leaning casually against the wall with her arms folded.

“You’re insufferable,” she said quietly to herself, watching Aria brush hair out of her face while Bucky handed her a fiber wrench like they’d been doing this for years.

“Who is?” asked Okoye, entering beside her.

Shuri tilted her head toward the lab. “Our favorite emotionally-repressed pseudo-couple.”

Okoye followed her gaze. “Ah.”

“They’re syncing up,” Shuri muttered. “Just give it time.”

Later that day, in the energy core chamber, Aria passed Bucky a data slate.

He accepted it and glanced sideways. “You sleep last night?”

“A little,” she said, eyes still on the console.

“Eat?”

“Sort of.”

“‘Sort of’ is not a meal.”

“I had tea.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow.

“And a piece of toast,” she added.

“Progress,” he said, dry. “At this rate, you’ll be back on solid food by summer.”

She gave him a sidelong glare, but there was the ghost of a smirk forming. Just for a second.

“You always like this?” she asked. “With people?”

He paused, then shook his head. “No.”

She hummed softly. “So I’m special?”

He turned back to the wires he was threading. “You always were.”

Aria didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Because she didn’t walk away this time.

And when the power flicked on and the generator pulsed to life, she glanced at him like she wanted to say something.

But instead, she just said, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Not running this time.”

And he gave her that same quiet, haunted smile.

“I told you,” he said. “I’m done running.”

---

The sun was beginning to dip low behind the tree line, casting long golden shadows over the terrace tables. A soft breeze lifted the sheer curtains framing the open-air dining space, where a few engineers, technicians, and warriors gathered after a long day.

At one of the side tables, Aria sat with a tray of food, poking through a bowl of okra stew with rice. Across from her, Bucky was mid-story, low voice, half-laughing as he described how a malfunctioning ventilation system in one of the generator bays had sprayed coolant in his face mid-diagnostics.

“…so naturally, I panic, think I’m being gassed, and rip the entire control panel out with the arm,” he was saying, shaking his head. “Shuri’s still mad about it.”

Aria snorted. “You thought it was a threat? I saw it happen from across the lab. You screamed like a kettle.”

“I did not scream.”

“Oh no, it was absolutely a scream. A dignified one, but still.”

He laughed. Aria chuckled and the sound came out unguarded, real.

She caught herself too late, her hand instinctively brushing over her mouth like she could shove the moment back down.

But the damage was done.

Across the courtyard, Shuri, who had been sipping juice and minding her business (or pretending to), slowly swiveled in her seat with a grin that could slice steel.

She heard it.

Aria glanced over and immediately knew. “Don’t.”

Shuri stood, meandered over casually. Her eyes flicked between Aria’s flushed face and the spot where Bucky had just excused himself to the bathroom.

Then she leaned down and whispered, “So. When’s the wedding?”

Aria choked on her rice.

“Shuri”

“You’re laughing, Aria,” Shuri said, positively smug. “That man has been here for weeks. And until now, I haven’t seen so much as a half-smile from you.”

Aria groaned and put her face in her hands.

“There is no wedding,” she muttered through her fingers.

“Not yet,” Shuri said, eyes glittering. “But you two have already mastered domestic bickering. And teamwork. And shared trauma. It's textbook intimacy.”

“We’re coworkers,” Aria said weakly.

“Sure,” Shuri replied. “And you just laugh like that with all your coworkers?”

“I hate you,” Aria whispered.

“No, you love me. Now sit up straight. He’s coming back.”

Sure enough, Bucky reappeared from the corridor, drying his hands on a napkin, completely unaware of the interrogative firestorm he’d just missed.

“You two good?” he asked, raising a brow.

Aria glared at Shuri, who gave her a wink and wandered off like nothing happened.

“Fine,” Aria said, trying to compose herself. “Everything’s fine.”

Bucky sat down again, side-eyeing her suspiciously. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worse,” Aria muttered. “Shuri.”

---

The skies over the Golden City were clear, the clouds pulled thin and high like brushstrokes against the pale blue. The royal transport platform buzzed quietly, a sleek aircraft already humming with power, ramp extended and waiting.

Aria stood just outside the ship’s shadow, arms folded, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She wasn’t hiding the sadness, not really. Just containing it. She was getting good at that.

Bucky stood a few feet away, duffle over his shoulder, his hair ruffling in the breeze. His jacket was unzipped, vibranium arm glinting under the sunlight, and his jaw tight with something that wasn’t nerves, just weight.

“Sam needs me back,” he said gently, as if she didn’t already know. “Some situation in D.C. That new task force they’re wrangling.”

Aria gave a single nod, chin dipping. “You’re important.”

“So are you.”

Her eyes flicked to him.

Bucky took a step closer. “I told Shuri I’d be back when I can. She said she might update the city’s defenses without me out of spite.”

That pulled the barest curve at Aria’s mouth.

“But I meant what I said before,” he added, quieter now. “I don’t want to disappear again.”

She held his gaze.

“No running,” she said softly, repeating his promise.

“No running,” he echoed.

There was a beat of silence, the kind full of something unsaid. Not romantic. Not loud. Just real.

Then Bucky asked, hesitating, “Can I…?”

She nodded before he even finished.

He stepped forward and hugged her, arms wrapping around her shoulders as hers came up slowly, warily and then fully. It wasn’t stiff or formal. It was familiar. Human. His chin rested lightly on her temple. Her breath hitched against his collarbone.

“I’ll write,” he said quietly. “Or call. Whatever you need.”

“You’re not that great at texting,” she mumbled into his jacket.

“I’m improving.”

Aria gave a quiet snort, and it made him smile against her hair.

Then she pulled back slightly but didn’t step away.

Her hands lingered on his chest, his still on her waist. Their faces inches apart now, the air between them charged in that quiet, fragile way that comes only after truth has been spoken and walls lowered.

Bucky’s eyes searched hers, like he was looking for permission. Aria’s breath caught—barely—but she didn’t move. Her mouth parted just slightly, as if a word or something else had nearly formed.

His hand lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Slow. Careful.

He leaned in.

Just barely.

The kind of lean that wasn't assumption, it was a question.

Her fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

And then.

“Barnes!”

The voice echoed across the platform, sharp and unbothered.

Shuri.

Neither of them moved at first, like maybe if they froze she’d go away.

But then the footsteps approached and Aria stepped back with a sharp exhale, wiping at her cheek like it might hide something.

Bucky turned as Shuri appeared, tablet in hand, eyebrows raised.

“Your transport’s burning fuel and I’m not rewriting docking code because you got sentimental,” she called, casually typing something as she reached them.

Bucky didn’t look at Aria, not right away. He nodded once at Shuri. “Yeah. I’m going.”

Shuri glanced between them, catching the something in the air but not quite connecting the dots. “Try not to get arrested in America,” she said over her shoulder.

“No promises,” Bucky muttered.

He turned back to Aria. His eyes said what words didn’t have time for.

She didn’t smile. But her expression softened, a little sad, a little fond.

“Just… tell me next time,” she said, low.

“What?”

“When you leave,” she murmured. “Don’t disappear. Just say goodbye.”

His face sobered. “You have my word.”

She gave a small nod, and this time, no hug, no kiss, no more lingering. Just understanding.

He stepped back, then up the ramp.

Aria watched him go. Watched him disappear into the ship.

The engines roared to life, lifting the craft high above the city until it vanished into the sky.

She stood alone on the platform, wind tugging at the hem of her sleeves.

But this time?

She wasn’t left wondering.

He told her.

And that changed everything.

#thunderbolts #marvel #thunderbolts imagine #avengers imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #james barnes x reader #james barnes imagine

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yatzstar · 8 months ago

Text

Waking and Sleeping

Another entry for @star-farer’s wonderful ik’aad AU featuring baby (then older) Omega and the Batch, this one about sleep! It got longer than I thought ngl, but there was so much potential lol. Taking a bit of liberty here in saying that Omega, like most people, doesn’t remember much about her younger years.

Also I promise I haven’t forgotten about my Ozymandias Tech Lives fic; all the hurricane mess knocked me off my writing rhythm but I’m working on it still.

Enjoy!

Omega never slept unbothered in Nala Se’s laboratory. There was nothing wrong her little alcove, she supposed; it was quiet and dark, and her cot was better than the flooring, but there was something missing that she could not place. An absence lingered in every part of her sleep routine, beginning from the moment she started getting ready for bed.

She always began by shuffling into the small refresher, pulling the ornament from her hair and cleaning herself before changing into her sleep clothes, which were nearly identical to her day wear. Nala Se had stopped sending droids to help her once she had grown old enough to take care of herself, so it was a lonely routine, and that was what troubled her. As she dragged her fingers through her hair to free any snarls, she always felt like it wasn’t quite right, like there was someone missing. It was not Nala Se, she was sure of that, but then who was it?

“Omega, it’s time to get ready for bed.”

Omega frowned up at Hunter through the slats in the sideways crate that was her “fort”. “Don’t wanna go t’bed!”

Hunter sighed. ��You have to, kid.”

“‘M busy!”

Hunter cracked a smile. “Busy, huh?”

Somewhere out of sight, Wrecker laughed. “I wonder which one of us she picked that up from…”

“I claim no responsibility,” Tech’s voice snipped.

Hunter leaned down closer to Omega’s fort. “If you don’t go to bed now, you’ll be too tired to go out with Wrecker tomorrow.”

Omega let out a horrified gasp, wiggling her way out of her fort and springing to her feet. “I’ll go, I’ll go! Comb my ‘air!”

Hunter could not help but laugh at her sudden enthusiasm. “Alright.”

“‘Urry up!” Omega shouted, grabbing Hunter’s hand and yanking him toward the refresher. As Hunter let himself be pulled away, he gave his brothers a triumphant look.

“Why can’t it be this easy every night?” Crosshair muttered.

When Omega finished getting ready, she retreated to the small side room where she slept, and her discontent persisted. All she had was the cot with a blanket and pillow, a light, and a small chest to keep her few spare clothes in. Everything was as white and sterile as the rest of Kamino, and she could consider none of it hers, not really.

When she slid underneath the blanket, she cradled the pillow close to her, almost hugging it. Something about it made her feel safe, but she did not know why.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Lula!” Omega dug through her bedding frantically, searching for the precious toy. “Can’t find her!”

Hunter lifted her blanket, looking for the toy as well. “Did you take her somewhere?”

“Nuh-uh!” Omega nearly tripped over the spare shirt that had become her sleepwear as she scooted out of bed, peering underneath.

“Well, she must be around here.” Hunter glanced around, looking for the nearest brother, which was Crosshair. “Have you seen Lula, Cross?”

“No,” Crosshair drawled. He did not move from where he lay on his bunk, but his eyes flickered around, watching for the toy.

“Get up and help us, at least.”

Crosshair grumbled but pushed himself to his feet anyway. However, after several minutes of searching and yanking Tech out of his work, Lula had not reappeared. Omega was growing increasingly distressed, and there would be no rest until the toy was found.

“She’s gone!” Omega cried, her face beginning to crumple with tears of panic.

“Wrecker!” Hunter yelled over his shoulder as the other two tried to console her. “Do you know where Lula is?”

Wrecker’s head popped out of the refresher. “I washed ‘er earlier, but she’s taking longer to dry than I thought.”

“We need her.”

Wrecker looked apologetic as he spotted Omega’s tearful countenance. “Don’t worry, kid.”

Omega flew out of Tech’s arms as Wrecker retrieved Lula from a spot on one of the air vents near his bunk, and she cleared the distance between them with surprising speed for her tiny legs. She grabbed Lula when he offered the toy, her tears subsiding as she buried her face between the plush ears.

“Sorry about that, ‘Mega.” Wrecker lifted her easily into his arms. “I didn’t mean to upset you, just thought Lula could use a bath.”

“S’okay,” Omega said, her voice muffled through Lula’s head, leaning against him.

“New rule,” Hunter decided. “Lula has to be cleaned before bedtime.”

Omega tried not to let the darkness scare her. As she stared into the black, waiting for sleep to come, she liked to imagine that there was someone watching over her, whose gaze could pierce any shadow. The imagined watcher could see plainly that there was nothing to be afraid of, and she clung to that image as wrapped herself tightly in her blanket. She did not know where such a fantasy had come from, but she let it comfort her until she slipped into sleep.

A small hand fell on the slender fingers resting near the edge of the bunk, tugging insistently. “C’oss?”

Fabric shifted, followed by a drowsy groan. “…What?”

“Firsty!” Omega proclaimed in a loud whisper.

Crosshair let out a deep sigh. “Can’t it be somebody else this time?”

“But it’s dark!” Omega regarded the shadows around her with concern. “An’ you can see!”

Crosshair turned his head, his eyes reflecting the faint light from Gonky’s power supply. “I can see you’re a little womp rat.”

“‘M notta womp rat—” Omega’s indignant reply was cut off by fingers gently pressing against her mouth.

“Shh. Don’t wake up the others. You know Hunter gets grumpy.” Omega smothered a giggle as Crosshair sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk. “Alright, we’ll get you a drink, but you go straight back to bed after that, understand?”

Omega’s hand found his as she let him guide her through the dark. “Un’erstand!”

Omega’s sleep cycle ended when AZI inevitably prodded her into wakefulness. She hated rising from the calmness of sleep and having to leave her warm cocoon. The lab was always cold, the floor frigid beneath her bare feet when she finally exited her warm haven. She was sure that it hadn’t always been that way, but she never had time to consider why as she hurried to warm herself and prepare for another day of tests and monotony.

Omega sat on the vent, enjoying the warm air escaping from it while she played quietly with Lula. It was peaceful save for the snoring, but she did not mind. She was awake now, and she could amuse herself as she waited for someone else to wake up, any noise she might have made easily drowned out.

She did not have to wait long, like at the end of every sleep cycle. Footsteps thudded against the floor, and she perked up as a familiar face appeared in the half-light of early morning.

“Hello, my dear,” Tech said. “Cold again?”

“Yeah.” Omega nodded, curling her toes against the warm metal that chased away the chill. It was nice, but now she had something better, and she raised her arms in a demand. “Warm, Tick!”

“And how do you ask nicely?”

“P’ease!”

Tech chuckled, responding immediately. He lifted her to sit in the crook of one arm, his free hand wrapping around each hand and foot to warm them. “You would remain far warmer if you stayed in bed.”

Omega considered it, her face scrunching with thought before deciding. “But tha’s boring.”

“You make a good point,” Tech said with a huff of amusement.

Omega pressed herself into his warmth. “An’ I wouldn’t be wif you.”

“Now that is something I cannot argue with.” Tech smiled at her, and as they passed by the three sleeping brothers, he brought his head close to hers in a conspiratorial manner. “I’ll give them about half an hour, and if they aren’t awake by then, would you like to get them up?”

Omega grinned, her eyes alight with mischievous glee. “Yes!”

Every night and every morning, Omega felt the absence, the lack of something more. Tiny fragments followed her, so vague that she never knew if they were real or imagined. Fingers threading through her hair, a plush toy whose existence was a comfort, eyes that could see everything the darkness hid, warm touches that swept away the chill after sleep.

Only on her first night with the Batch again after a harrowing escape from Kamino did she begin to realize that those small remembrances were not imagined. They were real, and she understood how terribly bereft she had been in the years she had spent separated from her family.

“Hey.”

Omega blinked, coming out of the doze that had begun to take her in a quiet corner of the ship. She craned her neck, finding Hunter standing next to her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said automatically, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s alright,” Hunter assured her gently. “You look like you could use some rest, but you should probably fix your hair before you sleep on it.”

Omega drew a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on the tangles, and she flushed. The past rotation had been so chaotic that she had not paid attention to her appearance at all. “I don’t have anything to fix it with…”

“I do. Hold on a minute.” Hunter left, and reappeared shortly, holding a small comb. It was carved from some sort of wood, and Omega found it somewhat familiar, but instead of giving it to her, Hunter merely asked, “May I?”

“You…you’re going to comb my hair?” Omega replied, startled.

Hunter shrugged awkwardly. “Only if you want me to.”

Still processing that he had even asked to do such a thing, Omega nodded hesitantly, and the smile Hunter gave her seemed almost relieved. She shifted herself so he had better access to her hair, and he began, using his fingers to gently pull the short strands before taking the comb to them. He was remarkably careful, never pulling too hard or scraping her head.

The sensation was foreign to Omega, but also not, and as Hunter worked some small pieces of memory suddenly became a bit more solid. “Hunter,” she murmured, “have you done this for me before?”

Hunter’s ministrations faltered, but only momentarily. “Yeah. You remember?”

Omega squinted. She knew it had happened, but all she could grasp were bedtime protests and the comb running through her hair. “Not much.”

“I’d do this every night, and if it wasn’t me, it was one of the others.”

The loneliness that haunted Omega’s sleep cycles began to make sense. “I…I think I missed this.”

“I did too.” Hunter’s reply was softer, dulled with sadness, and Omega’s throat tightened as it became clearer just how lonely she had been, missing a family she could barely remember. However, the sadness faded quickly as the rhythmic, soothing motion of the brush drew her back toward sleep.

“Seems like that hasn’t changed.”

Omega jerked her head up and away from its trajectory toward her chest, half-awakened by someone’s—Crosshair’s?—quiet observation. “I’m awake!”

“And that hasn’t, either.” Crosshair’s smirking face flashed in Omega’s periphery.

“Alright, that’s enough for tonight.” Hunter set aside the comb, his amusement audible. “Let's get you to a bunk.”

That first night aboard the Marauder, Omega slept better than she had in years.

Omega gaped openly at the gunner’s mount-turned-bedroom. It was everything the Kaminoan laboratories weren’t, filled with soft materials for comfort and illuminated by a string of warm lights. Most shocking of all, it was for her. She barely had something to call personal space on Kamino, and she was certain by what little she could remember that she had no room of her own when she had been with the Batch before.

“I got something else for ya.”

Omega turned to Wrecker, trying to think of something, anything to say, but he continued before she could.

“I dunno if you remember this, but I thought you might like to have ‘er back.” Wrecker held out a plush toy, and a gasp flew from Omega’s mouth as recognition struck her. She reached out, taking the doll, the slightly coarse fabric beneath her fingers just as familiar as the appearance.

“Lula?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Wrecker answered softly, “same as she used to be.”

Seized by an impulse, Omega hugged Lula to her, burying her face between the soft ears as more hazy memories solidified. She had done the very same thing countless times before, finding comfort in Lula, making those years spent in the labs all the more lonely.

“I think she remembers,” Hunter murmured somewhere behind her.

Breathing in the scent of fabric with a metallic undertone, Omega lifted her head, a stinging pressure lingering behind her eyes. “But she’s yours. I can’t take her…”

“Nah, kid.” Wrecker’s huge arms wrapped around her in a tight, warm embrace. “She’s been yours for a long time. I was just keeping her safe.”

Omega slid from her room, maneuvering her way to the floor as quietly as possible. The cabin of the Marauder loomed before her as a dark void, barely pierced by the few lights on the communications console. In the direction of the bunks, she could hear the chorus of slow breathing, any snoring apparently in a lull.

She didn’t know exactly what she was doing. It hadn’t been that bad of a dream as far as her dreams went, but it was the first one since she had escaped Kamino. Once, she might have gladly crawled into an occupied bunk to spend the rest of the night, but things were not the same as they had been. She was older, and she didn’t know what was expected of her anymore, no longer subject to the strict rules imposed by Nala Se. If nothing else, she wanted to find the datapad she had been reading earlier to distract herself until she fell asleep again.

She crept in between the bunks, each step slow and deliberate as she headed for the cockpit. The datapad was on one of the chairs, but actually finding it in the dark and doing so quietly would be a challenge.

When she entered the cockpit, something shifted, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as a pair of eyes glinted briefly in the dark.

“It’s just me.”

“Oh.” Omega relaxed as Crosshair spoke from the shadows. His voice, no matter how sharp and hissing it sounded, was no less comforting than that of his brothers’. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake. It’s my turn to keep watch,” Crosshair said. “What are you doing up?”

That was less comforting. Omega stared at the faint outline of his eyes; they were fascinating to her, and she had no doubt her younger self had thought the same, but she was certain she had already given herself away. “Looking for the datapad I was reading earlier…”

The raised eyebrow was almost audible. “In the middle of the night?”

Omega tried to appear assured. “Yes.”

“You’re still a bad liar.”

“I haven’ t lied to you before,” Omega said indignantly.

Crosshair snorted. “Yes you have. What about ‘yes, I did eat five bites of that vegetable I think looks disgusting’ or ‘no, I didn’t get into the armor paint and spread it everywhere’. Those sound familiar?”

Omega’s face flushed, and the darkness wouldn’t hide it, not from him. “No.”

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You were too young.” There was a smirk in Crosshair’s voice, but he became gentler when he asked, “What are you really doing?”

Omega breathed a short sigh, avoiding his gaze though she could barely make him out. “I had a dream.”

“A bad one, I’m guessing.”

Omega shrugged self-consciously. “Kinda. It was about the ocean, being trapped underneath it, but I’ve had it before. I didn’t mean to bother anybody with it…”

“You’re not bothering anybody,” Crosshair growled. “Maybe the longneck told you that, but you shouldn’t believe it anymore, not with us.”

Startled by his forcefulness, Omega nodded. “O-okay.”

Crosshair exhaled, pausing briefly before speaking again. “There was a time when I was the one you came to at night, and it didn’t matter if it made sense. You thought I had all the answers because I could see in the dark.”

Omega squinted as faint recollections stirred in her mind. “I think I remember.”

“The datapad is on the chair to your left.” Crosshair shifted, his eyes gleaming. “Or you can stay.”

Omega’s lips crept upward. “Really?”

“If you insist.”

Omega moved toward him and tripped, flailing for balance before hands appeared to steady her, guiding her into a chair she could not see.

“Helpless,” Crosshair grumbled.

Omega giggled. “I guess that’s why I came to you.”

Omega woke up with a cold face, daylight just beginning to appear through the turret’s viewport. The ship was quiet, and she could stand to sleep a little longer, warm and comfortable beneath her blanket. However, her mouth was dry, and she would need to get something to drink before going back to sleep.

Sticking an arm outside of her blanket’s confines confirmed it was just as cold as her face felt, and she quickly drew it back into the warmth. Cocooning herself in the blanket, she scooted her way out of bed, descending the steps awkwardly as she fought to avoid making noise that would disturb the men sleeping on the bunks a few feet away.

All drowsiness left her as her feet touched the floor. It was like standing on ice, the durasteel reflecting the air temperature to an extreme degree, and she performed a small, hopping dance to try and keep her feet off the floor. She had thought nothing could rival the cold of Nala Se’s lab, but this was just as bad if not worse.

Once the initial shock wore off, she hurried to get her drink, trying not to spill any water as the shivers began. She fled down the aisle with her cup, the slumbering men oblivious to her haste as she made for the cockpit, where she could find safety in a chair. Tech was already up when she flew in, but she barely noticed, taking the nearest chair and finally drawing her feet up into her blanket.

“Hello, Omega,” Tech greeted softly, a fond smile playing at his lips. “Cold, I assume?”

“Y-yeah.” Omega replied through chattering teeth, sipping carefully at her water.

Tech sat back from the pile of circuitry that was his latest project. “I should have anticipated this. My apologies.”

Omega scrunched her nose as she tried to tuck her feet under herself. “What do you mean?”

“You were always cold after getting out of bed in your younger years. I failed to consider that might still be the case.” Tech stood. “One moment.”

Omega huddled deeper into her cocoon as Tech left the cockpit. He returned shortly, carrying another blanket and what appeared to be a pair of thick socks, not at all Kamino standard-issue.

“Whose are those?” she asked, indicating the socks as he handed her both items.

“Technically, they are Crosshair’s. They were a gift from Wrecker, specifically so that Crosshair would stop putting his ice-cold feet on him.” Tech sank into his chair again, rolling his eyes at some memory. “Though he kept doing it anyway.”

Omega ran her fingers over the soft fabric, shifting to put the socks on even as she asked, “Will Crosshair mind?”

“If he does, which I highly doubt, he can complain to me. He certainly wasn’t using them.”

“Does the ship have to be this cold?”

“Running the engines to keep it warm would use fuel we cannot afford to expend.” Tech gave her an apologetic look. “If we had the resources, I would make it warmer. I am sorry, my dear.”

“It’s okay.” Omega enjoyed the soft material of the socks immensely, tucking her feet beneath the blanket again.

“Though you may not recall, cold mornings were common when you were younger. You adapted then, and I have confidence that you will adapt again.”

Omega frowned thoughtfully as feeling began to return to her feet, her memory offering little support for Tech’s words. “How did I adapt?”

Tech shrugged. “You simply made use of the resources at hand.”

“What resources?”

Tech’s mouth curved upward slightly. “Our apparent inability to deny the demands of a cold little girl.”

A wave of heat dispelled the chill on Omega’s face. “I don’t really remember that.”

“I recall well enough for the both of us.”

Omega’s body continued to warm, and she did not want to jeopardize her comfortable position. “So…if I asked you to bring me a ration bar, would you do it?”

Tech smiled crookedly, his gaze fond. “I suppose it depends on how you ask.”

Omega thought hard about it for a moment. “Uh, please?”

Tech stood, ruffling her hair as he went past. “You’re learning already.”

“Can’t sleep?”

Omega opened her eyes, aiming a surprised look at Echo. “How’d you know?”

Echo smiled wryly, the light of the thermal lantern that illuminated their campsite contouring his face with deep shadows. “I may not have known you as long as the others, but I can tell when someone can’t get to sleep. You’ve changed positions ten times in as many minutes.”

Omega sat up with a sigh. It was a pleasant night for the planet they had stopped on, the air dry and cool in the sizable forest surrounding them, but sleep evaded her. “I guess I’m not used to sleeping outside.”

“You don’t have to. Ship’s right there,” Echo said, indicating the Marauder with a tilt of his head.

Omega ran a hand over the surface of the spongy moss she rested on. “I know, but I’ve never slept outside before, at least not that I remember. I wanna do it at least once.”

Echo regarded her with an expression she had seen a lot on the others since reuniting with them, a look that seemed deeply sad. However, it was gone like a flickering shadow when he spoke next. “I have something that might help. I’ll be right back.”

Omega regarded him curiously as he got up, returning to the Marauder. The night was quiet, largely owed to Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair running reconnaissance for the next job. She was glad of it, since convincing Tech and Echo to let her sleep outside was much easier than all five of them together. Hunter had combed her hair before they left, she had Lula, the camp was illuminated, and Tech would undoubtedly be up in the morning. Everything was as it should be, save for the restlessness she couldn’t shake.

Echo came back a couple of minutes later, managing to hold two cups in one hand. When he offered one to Omega, she asked, “What is it?”

“Gatalentan tea that we picked up from some market.” Echo sat down again with his own cup. “Apparently, the planet is known for its tranquility, and that extends to the tea. I drink it when I can’t sleep.”

Omega curled her hands around the warm cup, studying the milky liquid within before finally deciding to take a sip. She was pleasantly surprised by the taste, sweet with a faint herbal undertone. “This is good!”

“Wasn’t sure if you’d like it plain, so I sweetened it a little bit,” Echo admitted, aiming a furtive glance toward the Marauder. “Not that you need to tell Tech that.”

“I won’t,” Omega promised with a grin. The tea warmed her, and true to Echo’s claim, she began to feel more relaxed as she drank. “I wish I had known about this sooner.”

“I’m probably the only one who hasn’t forgotten about it,” Echo said. “The other four drink enough caf for the entire clone army.”

Omega giggled. “Well, I like the tea. Caf is gross.”

Echo smiled, drinking what remained of his tea. “A girl after my own heart. I’m glad to have someone to share it with.”

Omega smiled back. Though she had not known him when she was small, it felt like he had been around since the beginning. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing, kid. Now try to sleep, so I won’t get into trouble for keeping you up.”

Omega settled into her makeshift bed again, drawing her blanket over herself and holding Lula close, the restlessness gone despite her unfamiliar surroundings. The sky full of countless stars loomed above her through the foliage, far more vast and unknowable than Kamino’s oceans could ever be, but she no longer felt lonely as she waited for sleep to take her. She envisioned patterns in the stars until her eyelids grew heavy, the nighttime ambience diminished by the reassuring sounds of Echo moving nearby…

“What’s she doing out here?”

“Quiet! She wanted to sleep out here, and Tech cleared it.”

“Tech? He couldn’t say no to her if he tried.”

“Speak for yourself—”

“Shh! Why’d she want to sleep outside?”

“She said she’d never done it before.”

A pause.

“I guess we’re sleeping outside tonight.”

Omega came half awake at the whispered exchange, and she rolled over toward the sounds of voices and footsteps. “Wha…?”

“It’s just us, Omega.” Hunter’s voice touched her ears, low and soothing. “Go back to sleep.”

Someone adjusted Omega’s blanket. She let herself be lulled back toward slumber by the presence of her family, just as she had years ago when loneliness was unknown to her. She had what she had been missing, and she never slept better.

#sw #the bad batch #tcw #crosshair #omega #wrecker #hunter #tech #echo #tbb #star wars #baby omega #young omega #ik’aad #au #my fic #fanfiction

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