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THUNDERBOLTS* (deleted scene)

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Welcome to the Levinson Detective Agency

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That denim shirt

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𝓣𝓲𝓵 𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓓𝓸 𝓤𝓼 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽

Tangerine (Bullet Train) x Assassin!Reader / Y/N

A short story | SMUT | Chapter 2

Alone in the guest suite, you spiral—haunted by your partner Tangerine and the tension between you. Drunk and restless, you teeter on the edge of desire and shame. When you overhear something, the moment implodes. Caught listening, you flee, humiliated. He follows—but doesn’t confront. Just confirms what you both already know: you want him. And now, you can’t hide it.

Slow-building tension culminating in explicit smut with emotional stakes

!NSFW! | Please do not engage if you're a minor

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 coming soon | Masterlist

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♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for in this chapter: emotional spiraling in luxury loungewear, alcohol as a coping mechanism (bad idea, great drama), deep sighs into expensive glass windows, exhibitionism-adjacent decisions (oops), tension so thick you could cut it with a broken minibar bottle, deeply questionable coping strategies, accidental overhearing (very on purpose)

♡ word count: 6.3k (Making you suffer through this slow burn together with me)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Sleep won’t come.

It hasn’t even bothered to try. The other side of this too-big bed yawns wide, a gaping absence you refuse to name. The cloying sweetness of the complimentary bouquet has seeped into everything—the sheets, the air, the back of your throat—like some cheap attempt to mask the emptiness.

You twist onto your side and kick hard, your leg striking nothing but cool, untouched linen. The impact is useless, hollow — like screaming into water. No matter how hard you kick, he won’t be there. The silence swallows the sound, wraps around your fury like silk around a blade. It isn’t just anger — not really. It’s grief, raw and clumsy, clawing at the walls you keep rebuilding. You tell yourself you hate him, that he doesn’t deserve the space he’s still taking up inside you. But your chest aches with something softer, something ruinous. And it’s getting harder to pretend that isn’t what’s killing you.

Fuck him.

You’re awake because of him. Because of the silence where his breathing should be. Because he didn’t stay.

You rapidly sit up, pressing your palms into your temples as if you could crush the thoughts before they take root. You shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not now. Not ever again.

You stay like that—your breath jagged, your fingers tangled in your hair. But the silence mocks you. The suite—too lavish, too immaculate—feels like a gilded cage. Outside, the frigid city pulses, a distant symphony of horns and engines, but in here, the only sound is the low hum of the climate control, set to a perfect, sterile 72 degrees.

The walls are a whisper of ivory silk, stretched taut over custom paneling—the kind of white that costs more than most people’s rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, their blackout drapes half-drawn, allowing the glow of downtown to spill across the hand-knotted rug in liquid gold. A Bösendorfer grand piano sits near the terrace, untouched. 

And the bed. God, the bed.

A sprawling masterpiece of Italian linen, half-destroyed by your restless limbs, half still pristine—as if waiting for someone who will never return. And this is just the guest room. Opulent in a way that feels almost accusatory. You can’t help but wonder what his actual bedroom is like—the one behind that sleek, concealed door at the end of the hall. You peeked earlier, just for a second. Marble floors warm to the touch, a rainfall shower the size of a studio apartment, a bed so wide it looked like it could swallow loneliness whole. If this is the afterthought, the overflow space, then what must it feel like to be wanted enough to be welcomed into the rest?

Your hands drag down your face, slow and careless, nails catching briefly on the delicate skin beneath your eyes. The robe—thick, starched hotel cotton, monogrammed in gilded thread—is cinched tight at your waist, too tight, the belt pulled in a moment of thoughtless habit. It presses the fabric flush against your chest, the heavy folds molding to your breasts, nipples stiff beneath the coarse lining, every breath a rub, a graze, a quiet agony.

Beneath it, there’s almost nothing. Just a narrow strip of fabric between your thighs, already damp, already clinging in places that ache with absence.

The pressure builds. The robe is too much—too warm, too close, too empty of him. You claw at the belt, fingers fumbling until it jerks loose, breath hitching as the knot gives way. The robe parts in a sudden, sullen shrug, the loosened lapels falling open to expose the full curve of your breasts, nipples flushed and hard, catching slightly against the rough inner seams as the fabric shifts.

You don’t shrug it off entirely. It hangs from your shoulders, heavy and indifferent, framing you but no longer hiding you. The air finds your skin—cool, impersonal—and it does nothing to soothe. You press your thighs together, chasing friction, but it’s a pale imitation. There’s no weight behind it. No hands. No mouth. Nothing but silence—and the sting of skin still desperate to be touched.

Stop.

You push yourself off the bed, bare feet sinking into the hand-knotted rug—so plush it swallows your steps whole, like the room itself is trying to hush you. The air hums with the scent of cold jasmine from the diffuser, cloying and artificial. You don’t look at the bed behind you, where the sheets still hold the shape of your body.

The city glows beyond the glass, a skyline of sharp edges and distant light. You press your palms to the window, cool against your hot skin. Your breath fogs the pane—quick, shallow—but the reflection won’t lie: lips bitten red, hair a riot against the robe’s pristine collar.

Inhale. Exhale. Each breath scrapes your throat on the way out, like your lungs are trying to spit him out too.

You peel yourself from the window, step by slow step, the cool glass reluctantly releasing your skin. The robe shifts with you, heavy where it hangs, the belt loose now, trailing against your thigh. You cross the room barefoot, each step sinking into the carpet, the city light fading behind you as you move toward the minibar tucked beneath the counter.

The minibar clicks softly when you open it, light spilling out like a hush in the dark. You crouch, reaching in for the ice bucket, fingers brushing over the cubes—slick, half-melted, trembling in their silver cradle.

You pause. Just above the ice: a bottle of whiskey, amber and expensive, the kind he used to order without looking at the price. Your hand hovers there, fingertips ghosting along the glass. You could twist the cap, feel the burn slide down your throat, let it sear the ache into something easier. For a moment, you almost do.

But no. Not like this.

You let the bottle go. The soft clink as it settles back into place feels louder than it should. You take a single cube of ice instead, pinched between two fingers, and walk slowly back toward the window. The robe slips further as you move, barely hanging on, your body half-bared in the city’s indifferent glow.

Condensation slicks your fingertips. You press the ice to your sternum, drag it down your chest. It should shock you back into yourself.

Instead, your skin pebbles, nipples aching in the cold, hungry for a touch that isn’t yours.

Pathetic.

You bite your own knuckle—hard—but the sting just tastes like salt and him. You fucking miss him.

He was already sprawled across the velvet settee like a king too lazy to wear his crown—legs open, posture dripping arrogance. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to tease—chest barely visible, skin warm where the fabric gaped. One sock was halfway off like he’d started to undress and lost interest halfway through. A half-full glass of Dom Pérignon dangled from his fingers, swirling slow circles like it had all the time in the world.

The bottle sat in an ice bucket nearby, sweating rivulets down its sides. Everything in the room was sweating. Including you.

You didn’t speak as you crossed the room. Just let the silk of your dress whisper with every step—cool against skin that still hadn’t recovered from earlier. From the way his fingers had brushed your chest without meaning to. Or pretending not to. That damn button, back in place now, sat tighter than it had before. Like your pulse had gotten caught beneath it.

You had decided to finally break the silence.

“I’m taking the master bedroom,” you said, voice cool, collected, and entirely at odds with the heat coiling low in your belly.

He didn’t look up. Just lifted his glass, took a slow, indulgent sip, his lips parting like he was savouring more than champagne. “No, you’re bloody well not.”

You turned, slowly. The silk pulled deliciously over your thighs with every movement, and you knew he felt the shift in the air, the tension snapping tight.

“Excuse me?” you asked, voice sharp. A blade slipped into a velvet glove.

He set the glass down, deliberately. “Look, love. That room’s got heated floors, blackout curtains, a tub fit for a bloody Roman orgy, and a bidet that damn near qualifies as a weapon. I’m not lettin’ you waltz in there with your spreadsheets and silk drawers and stake a bloody flag.”

You took a step closer. Then another. Until he had to tilt his chin slightly to keep your gaze.

“I already claimed it,” you said. “Didn’t realize we were negotiating.”

He leaned back, legs spreading wider—insufferably at ease. His eyes dropped, unapologetically, dragging from your collarbones to the subtle strain of fabric over your breasts, lingering just a beat too long on the way the silk hugged your waist like a second skin. When his eyes finally flicked back up to yours, they were lit with something slow and dangerous.

“Didn’t realise you were delusional,” he said, lips twitching. “Cute, though. I’ll give you that.”

“Mine,” you said, firmer this time.

He scoffed, grinning. “Nah. Not havin’ it. Guest room’s down the hall. It’s got a mirror big enough for you and your bloody ego.”

You folded your arms across your chest—and felt the way the fabric shifted. The brush of silk against bare nipples, already tight from the chill in the room and the way his voice—that voice—curled inside you like smoke.

“We flip for it,” you said.

He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, so now we’re bringin’ democracy into this? Thought you were more of a coup d'état sort.”

He reached into his charcoal pants—your eyes followed, reflex—and pulled out a pound coin like it was a trick he’d been waiting to use. Flicked it into the air with a little too much flair.

“Call it.”

You watched the coin spin, flashes of metal catching chandelier light. “Tails.”

It landed with a clean slap against the back of his hand. He peeled his fingers away slowly—milking it.

“Heads,” he said, all teeth.

“Fuck,” you muttered, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Oi,” he says, already reaching for his glass again, “don’t be a sore loser. Guest room’s down the hall—right past the panic room and the creepy sculpture that looks like it’s watchin’ you sleep.”

“You cheated.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cheating implies I needed the advantage. I just like watchin’ you lose.”

Your pulse jumped. You turned before he could see it—heels clicking as you stalked toward the room. 

“Sleep tight,” he called after you, the smirk clear in his voice. “If it gets a bit nippy in there—well, I’m told I’m rather toasty. Limited-time offer, mind you—terms and conditions may apply.”

You didn’t answer. Just slammed the door. The canvas on the wall shook in its frame like it was exhaling. Behind you, he downed the rest of his drink, poured another, and leaned back with that same bloody grin—lazy, smug, knowing.

The glass is cold against your forehead as you lean into it, the city’s skyline blurring into streaks of gold and neon through your unshed tears. Pathetic. Weak. The words ricochet in your skull, sharp as the ice still clutched in your other hand.

You should be stronger than this.

The suite mocks you with its silence—too heavy, too perfect, like it’s waiting for you to break. The onyx minibar glows from where you left it ajar, its LED lights blinking back at you like they know exactly how pathetic this is. Even the chandelier—an obscene tangle of Swarovski crystals—shivers when you breathe out, delicate and useless, like it’s afraid of your grief too.

You press harder against the window, the chill seeping into your skin. Christ, you need him here. Not just the version from before—smug, infuriating, winning—though, God, you miss that too. The way he could make a fight feel like foreplay, how his arrogance was just confidence worn sharp enough to draw blood. You miss the fucker who stole the master bedroom with a smirk and a rigged coin toss.

You miss him even though he’s just a few tentative steps away from you. But your feet don’t move.

But you also miss the other version of him. The one who would’ve known, without asking, to slide a hand between your shoulder blades right now, his palm warm and sure. The one who’d call you “love” like it wasn’t a weapon, but a fact.

You remember him in the quiet after Cairo, when your comms went dead and you’d both spent four hours crawling through the ruins, shoulder to shoulder, breathing dust and adrenaline. He hadn’t said much—just handed you his canteen, fingers brushing yours, gaze steady. You’d been shaking, but he’d simply leaned his shoulder into yours until you stopped.

Or Tangier, when the op went sideways and you took shrapnel just beneath your ribs. He hadn’t panicked. Just ripped open your vest with hands that didn’t tremble and said, “Stay with me, love,” like it was an order you’d never disobey. Like he believed you would.

That version of him wasn’t all smirks and exit lines. He was the silence between the shots, the pause before the storm, the hand that never missed when you reached back in the dark.

You sag against the glass, your breath fogging the pane in uneven bursts. You should hate him. You do hate him. But your body hasn’t gotten the memo—your skin still prickles at the memory of his touch.

The robe slips further, the silk whispering down your arm. You don’t stop it.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that if he walked in right now, if he offered that limited-time offer with that infuriating grin, you’re not sure you’d say no.

You bite your lip until you taste copper.

You’re so fucked.

The dining room looked like something out of a Bond villain's fever dream—dark walnut panels gleaming under candlelight, heavy drapes drawn back to reveal Vienna’s skyline, and a chandelier overhead so ornate it could’ve doubled as a threat. The table was already set when you arrived—ordered entirely at his discretion, naturally. Every gleaming silver utensil, every course, every flickering candle—his choices. You hadn’t been asked. Just summoned.

You’d spent the last two hours stewing in the guest room, licking your wounds after losing that bloody coin toss—heads or tails, master or guest. And when he finally called for dinner, you emerged without a word, the air between you thick as caramel.

You didn’t speak as you crossed the room. Earlier, behind your door, you’d unfastened a few of the satin-covered buttons. Just enough to shift the neckline lower, the fabric tighter. A petty attempt at control. At making him react.

But it had backfired.

Because the moment you caught the flick of his eyes—his jaw tightening, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth—you knew: he liked it. Worse, he expected it.

You had pulled out your chair in silence, settled across from him with perfect posture and a folded napkin, trying to pretend the air wasn’t molten between you. Trying not to notice the jacket he’d discarded, the sleeves rolled up just so, revealing a hint of ink and enough forearm to make your thoughts indecent.

The dinner had been flawless, of course. Rich. Elegant. A duck dish you couldn’t pronounce paired with something red and ruinous in a crystal glass. You barely touched it.

He had lounged back in his seat like a king—no, worse. Like a man who knew exactly what you’d look like on your knees. One arm draped over the chair, fingers trailing the rim of his wine glass like it was your lip. The chain of his pocket watch glinted between the buttons of his waistcoat. No tie. First two buttons undone from before. The hollow of his throat shamelessly on display.

You shouldn’t have looked.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said finally, voice smooth as the whisky he hadn’t offered you. “Too quiet. That dress botherin’ you, or is it the company?”

Your eyes snapped up, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I’m eating.”

“Mm.” He tilted his glass, letting the wine catch the light. “Is the poor duck giving you attitude again, or are you just trying to make me beg for a reaction?”

You stabbed your fork into the duck with too much force. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you, lazily, like a cat toying with something already half-dead.

“That little stunt with the buttons,” he said, tone almost conversational, “—you think I didn’t notice?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your pulse was thudding at the base of your throat like a trapped moth.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate. “Thought you were punishin’ me, did you? Sittin’ pretty across the suite all evening, sulkin’ in your little robe, hopin’ I’d come knockin’?”

You gripped your fork tighter. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, I know. You were busy bein’ mysterious. Doin’ your best impression of restraint.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, candlelight catching the edge of his grin. “But here you are. Lookin’ like a fuckin’ temptation in that dress. And you’re still not eatin’.”

You glared at him, throat dry. “Why are you trying to provoke me?”

He cocked his head. “Who says I’m tryin’? Maybe I just want some bloody conversation. You’ve been givin’ me the eyes since I unbuttoned that top button, sweetheart. Not my fault you can’t handle dinner without wonderin’ what else comes undone.”

Your jaw had tensed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He’d flashed a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it. That’d be your job.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

You shove off the window so hard your shoulder protests. The ice cube splinters in your grip, scattering across the marble like shrapnel. Good. Let it scar the floor. Let housekeeping puzzle over the damage and pretend it wasn’t a cry for help.

The minibar stares back at you—smug, silent, full of tiny, glinting bottles that promise to take the edge off. You don’t hesitate this time. You reach for the same whiskey from before—some overpriced single malt with a pedigree as useless as your self-control—and crack it open with your teeth like you’re trying to bite the night apart.

The first swallow hits hard. You want it to hurt. You want it to burn all the way down and cauterize whatever nerve keeps bringing him back into your thoughts.

So you drink more.

Greedy now, like it’s oxygen. Each mouthful sharper than the last, until you’re gasping between gulps, eyes prickling, chest heaving. A hiccup breaks free—a sound too close to a sob, chased by a bitter laugh.

The robe slips further as you stumble back from the minibar, silk parting over your ribs, your hips, your thighs. Only your underwear keeps you from being fully exposed now, but the robe clings in places—damp where your skin is overheated, loose where your body’s started to shake.

You reach for the nearest fragile thing: a porcelain vase on the console, all painted lilies and aristocratic curves. Probably worth more than your dignity at this point. You curl your fingers around it, knuckles white, just to feel something solid.

For one violent heartbeat, you want to smash it. Just to prove you can still make something explode when everything inside you is too scared to shatter.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not him. You don’t get to leave scars on things and walk away like they don’t matter.

So you set it down.

Then you crawl into the bed, not gracefully—angrily. The covers are cool against your skin, sheets whispering secrets in a language you don’t want to understand. You lie there for a moment, blinking up at the coffered ceiling, the whisky bottle clutched loosely in your fingers.

And god—your body hurts.

Not from the mission. Not from the bed. From wanting. From the pressure that’s been building all night, ever since you caught him watching you. Ever since you ignored him, on purpose, and he let you. His silence only made it worse—richer, darker. You wanted him to break. He didn’t. And now you’re the one unraveling.

You shift under the covers. Just a little. Just enough.

Your hand brushes your thigh. Then between them, over the underwear. Barely a touch. Just… testing.

You bite your lip.

You think of his hands. His mouth. The way his voice dropped an octave when he told you to “sleep tight” like it was a threat and a promise. That kiss in the elevator. The way he didn’t kiss you again after. The fact that he hasn't even tried.

Your fingers drift lower. Heat flares in your stomach. The ache is real now. Low. Heavy.

But the moment you slide your hand under the waistband of your underwear, something twists. Your stomach flips. Not desire—shame. Guilt. Humiliation.

You pull your hand back like it burned you.

You can’t.

Not like this.

Not with him in the next room.

Not when you're this close to cracking and he hasn’t even touched you. Like he meant it.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow, swallowing a sob before it can make a sound.

You’re not going to do this. You’re not going to fall apart first. You refuse.

But your thighs still press tight together.

The whisky tastes like ash now—like the last drag of a cigarette after a fight, like wanting something you can’t name. The bottle’s nearly dry, just a few shallow swallows left, rattling at the bottom like regret, like the hollow click of an empty chamber.

You sit up with slow, careful movements, the kind that come not from grace but from the warm, unsteady fog of drink. No sudden noises. The silence feels sacred, fragile—the hush before a sacrament, or a sin.

And then the robe slips.

Not just open at the hem this time—but down your shoulders, down your arms, pooling at your feet like a surrender you didn’t mean to give. The cool air hits your bare skin in places it hasn’t all night, and you do nothing to stop it. You’re left in just your underwear—bare legs, bare chest, flushed and flushed again, though whether it’s from shame or liquid courage, you can’t say.

You sway slightly as you stand, bottle still in hand. The whiskey sloshes near the bottom, golden and low, like regret in a glass. You bring it to your lips one last time—not because you need it, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. The burn barely registers now, dulled by the wine and the very same whiskey from earlier, the heat in your cheeks, the ache between your legs.

You don’t finish it.

Just a mouthful, then you lower the bottle and stare at it like it might give you answers. It doesn’t.

Your fingers loosen. The glass thuds softly against the nightstand—more a clumsy offering than a decision. You think you placed it upright. You hope so.

But the moment your hand leaves it, the world tilts sideways.

The room spins slowly, like a carousel seen through water. The alcohol has already found your blood—fast, greedy. Your skin prickles with the chill, bare and open to the world, every breath a brushstroke across your nerves. You left the silk behind somewhere, like a ghost you stepped out of.

You pad toward the door. Barefoot. Stealthy. Your fingertips feel numb. Your toes, too.

The marble underfoot seems colder than before—or maybe your body’s just stopped registering the difference. There’s a delay to everything now. A second of stillness before your breath catches, your balance shifts, your thoughts arrive.

Not falling-over drunk. Not quite. But unsteady. Clouded. Soft around the edges in a way that makes you feel less sharp, less dangerous. Slower. Which should terrify you. Instead, it feels like a relief. Like being released from something you didn’t realize was clenched.

The handle clicks under your grip—soft, cautious. You pull it open an inch at a time, cringing at the slight creak of the hinge, like the suite itself is gasping at your audacity. Then you slip out into the main suite like a ghost. The floor is cold against your skin, but your blood is hot, molten, a live wire sparking under your ribs. Your body feels traitorous, wired with something electric and unspent, a bullet lodged in the chamber.

You already know: his bedroom door is cracked open.

It always is. He sleeps light. Trained. Alert. Trained to, long before you. Every breath shallow, every muscle still humming beneath the surface. He doesn’t rest—he waits. Even in sleep, he’s listening. Like a man who’s made peace with killing, but not with trust. Not with you.

So you step quietly. Careful not to breathe too loud. Careful not to let your footfalls slap too sharply against the marble. But your balance betrays you now and then—just a sway, just a stutter—and you have to steady yourself on the wall like the room’s begun to breathe. The whole suite smells of dying candle wax and aged wood, with a whisper of his cologne still clinging to the velvet cushions—bergamot and gunmetal and something unforgivably warm. The scent curls around you, heady and sharp, and you’re not sure if it’s the whiskey or memory making you dizzy.

You move through it like it’s a cathedral.

And you? You’re the desecration.

You settle into the armchair directly across from his door—the master bedroom’s door. Slowly. Deliberately. You fumble to pull the robe tighter, skin prickling from the chill—only to grasp at nothing. It’s gone. 

 When did you take it off? You’d known you were in nothing but your underwear when you left your room—of course you had—but the booze had made it feel… distant. Abstract. Like it wasn’t really you walking barefoot across cold marble, hips swaying, nearly bare. 

But now, as you sink into the velvet and the silence folds in around you, it hits you all at once. The air kisses your skin, too cool, too intimate. Your arms prickle with goosebumps, and suddenly you’re very aware of how much of you is on display. How much he could see—if he’s looking.

Jesus.

What the fuck are you doing?

Really, what the fuck are you doing?

You blink hard, trying to clear the fog behind your eyes. It doesn’t work. The room doesn’t tilt, exactly—but it hums. Like it’s too full of sound and silence at once. Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your ears.

And still—you sit. Still you watch that cracked door like it might breathe.

You tilt your face toward the candle glow, letting the light gild your cheekbones like some martyred saint in a Renaissance painting—all false piety and secret hunger. The warmth licks at your skin, a poor imitation of the heat you're really craving, but you let it lie. Let it pretend.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A performance. Some drunk, half-naked little play for an audience that may or may not be watching. You’re not even sure anymore if you want to be caught—or if you just want to feel wanted.

You shift in the chair, thighs grazing velvet.

Your hand drifts.

Again.

Your fingers skim over your knee, then higher. You shift in the chair, opening your legs a little—just a little, just enough to feel the night air whisper between them. Two fingers slide over the silk of your underwear, not pressing down, just… testing. Taunting. A promise you’re not sure you’ll keep.

But the moment is all wrong. Too much air. Too much guilt. Too close to him. You feel ridiculous—perched here like some penthouse phantom, half-naked, aching, touching yourself while he sleeps behind a cracked door like the goddamn finish line of your humiliation.

Your hand falls away.

You squeeze your thighs shut. Shame slinks through your chest like smoke, thick and suffocating.

You close your eyes. Try to breathe. Try to will the need out of your body, to smother it like a candle between your fingertips. You force yourself to sit perfectly still, hands in your lap, chin tilted high like none of this matters. Like you didn’t almost do it again.

And then—

A sound.

From his room.

Soft. Barely there. The whisper of a bedsheet shifting, or a breath too sharp to be sleep. Your eyes fly open.

Stillness.

And then—

Another sound.

Low. Choked. Almost like—

Oh god.

You’re not the only one awake.

Another sound.

Wet. Faint. Rhythmic.

Your skin goes hot.

You blink, spine stiffening, straining to hear it again. It doesn’t come loud. Doesn’t need to. You know exactly what that is.

He’s touching himself.

Your eyes stay trained on that sliver of open door. 

The sound comes again—slippery, rhythmic, unmistakable. There’s no mistaking it now.

He’s fucking his fist.

And he’s not being quiet anymore.

Inside that bedroom, just across from where you sit flushed and frozen in your open robe, he’s sprawled out like sin made flesh—shirt open, pants shoved down his thighs, cock glistening in his hand. He’s working himself in long, greedy strokes, fingers tight, pace filthy. Not smooth. Not slow. This isn’t about teasing himself—it’s about using himself.

About pretending his hand is your cunt.

You hear the slick drag of his palm. The faint slap of skin meeting skin as his hips begin to move, lifting off the bed just slightly. He’s not even trying to keep still anymore. He’s fucking into it—hard, fast, messy. Like he’s thought about this all night. Like it’s your fault. Like he’s punishing himself for not bending you over the dinner table and wrecking you the second the door shut.

A groan slips out—muffled, guttural.

Then another.

God, you want to see it. You want to see how he handles himself. How hard he gets. How rough. Whether he’s got his head tipped back or if he watches himself the whole time, jaw tight and eyes glazed.

Another groan slips out—low and guttural, like it’s being punched out of him.

You don’t dare move. Don’t breathe. Your thighs are trembling now, bare and parted, flushed with heat and something darker. The cool air wraps around your body like a lover you didn’t choose—chilling the sheen of sweat along your back, your breasts, the soft insides of your knees. Every inch of you feels exposed, pulsing. The armchair’s velvet presses into your skin, unforgiving. You can feel your heartbeat between your legs, frantic and humiliating. And still, you sit—naked, burning, and utterly still.

He’s panting now, ragged and obscene, every exhale a broken vow. You don’t need to see him to know what he looks like—eyes dark, jaw clenched, sweat slicking the base of his throat. 

And the noises—

You shouldn’t be here. You should get up. Leave. Crawl back into bed and pretend this never happened. You bite down on your knuckle, hard—

Christ, the noises.

The wet glide of his palm. The harsh breaths, the choked mutters under his breath. You think you hear your name. Or maybe it’s just the filth you hope he’s whispering—what he’d do if you walked in there and dropped to your knees. What he wants you to beg for. How deep he’d fuck you if you’d just stop pretending you hate him.

He shifts again. The bed creaks. There’s a soft slap as his hand speeds up—louder now, sharper. He’s losing control.

Yet the rhythm suddenly changes again—slower, firmer now. You’re frozen, breath shallow, limbs slack with drink. Your head swims, the room spinning just slightly, but your focus is razor-sharp—locked on that door, on the filthy, deliberate sounds slipping through it. Your body sinking deeper into the chair like gravity’s turned cruel. You should look away. You can’t. The alcohol dulls everything but this.

Then—

A murmur. Almost lazy. Not loud, but clear enough to carry through the cracked door.

“…would’ve ruined her…”

You freeze.

Not a breath. Not a blink. A prey animal caught mid-step, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs—too late, too loud, a warning you didn’t heed.

Then—the gasp.

It claws its way out of you, sharp and unbidden, a sound torn from somewhere deep and secret. Your hands fly up as if to catch it, to shove it back down your throat where it belongs. But it’s too late. The air hums with it, a snapped wire singing with shame.

Inside the bedroom, the world stops.

Not quiets. Not pauses.

Stops.

The slick, rhythmic sounds cut off mid-stroke. A creak of the mattress—weight shifting. The muffled clink of the nightstand. Then silence. Not even his breath.

Only yours—ragged, uneven, obscene in the quiet. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, too fast, too hot, drowning out everything but the truth:

You’ve been caught.

Your body jerks, nearly toppling. Panic flares, bright and stupid. Your fingers scrabble against the velvet chair, thighs slipping on sweat-slicked upholstery. The fabric clings like a second skin, every movement a struggle, every shift a humiliation.

And then—

Panic floods your veins like ice and fire, seizing your lungs, your throat, your bones—until there’s nothing left but the animal urge to run. Your fucking tits are out, and the room tilts—no, you’re tilting, swaying with the nauseous lurch of whiskey and shame. Your arms flail, too slow, too clumsy, as the ceiling carves a slow, sick circle above you.

Cold air rushes over your flushed skin, tracing every peak and dip—your nipples tight and aching, the sweat gleaming between your thighs, the pulse hammering where you shouldn’t be thinking about it. Your stomach lurches. You surge to your feet, too fast—vision still tilting, the room still swaying like a drunkard. Your hand slams the table; the candle jerks, wax spilling in fat, golden tears.

Your body is a betrayal. Too loud. Too much. Then—

Sound.

A rustle of sheets. Deliberate.

The heavy thud of feet hitting the floor.

A click.

Light floods the hallway.

You whirl, breath trapped in your chest like a blade. One arm flies up to cover yourself, the other slaps the wall for balance. Your bare heel slips on marble—slick with sweat and your own unsteadiness. You stagger, catch yourself on the archway, and run.

Light spills behind you, slow and deliberate, as if announcing him. You turn—too quickly—and the room tilts. Just enough to glimpse him. To read his face. To see if it’s fury tightening his jaw… or that insufferable, knowing smirk he wears when he’s enjoying this. Enjoying you like a game he never really stops playing.

The bedroom door swings open—not hesitant, not slow. Definitive.

And there he is. He stands there, flushed—but not with guilt. No, it’s something slower, darker. The heat pools beneath his skin, high on his cheekbones, just brushing the edge of that neatly trimmed moustache. 

He stands in the doorway, backlit by gold, shirt slipping from one shoulder, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone and just enough of his chest to make your mouth go dry. His tailored pants are fastened—barely—the outline of him obscenely clear against the fabric, thick and hard and unapologetic. But it’s his eyes that stop you—dark, sharp, knowing.

Not just desire.

Recognition.

He knows.

Knows you listened. Knows how long you sat there, trembling and slick with want. Knows what finally broke you.

And worst of all—he isn’t surprised.

He looks like a man who’d been waiting.

Like this was the plan all along.

Your throat closes around something too thick to swallow.

So you run.

No thought. No grace. Just panic and heat—and the way his eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the parts you’re failing to hide. Your arm fumbles across your chest, but your fingers are too slow, too drunk. Flesh spills between them anyway, flushed and trembling, on full display. He doesn’t move. Just stands there, gaze heavy, mouth parted slightly—like he’s torn between reaching for you and letting you run.

You turn, stumbling forward down the hallway, arms still clutched to your chest, as if you could outrun the heat of his eyes or erase the image he’s already taken with him.

“Fuck—wait—” His voice chases you, rough, breathless, too close.

But you don’t.

He’s already seen your body—every curve, every helpless attempt to cover what was never really hidden. But that’s not what terrifies you. What terrifies you is that he’ll look a second longer and see the rest. The heat on your face isn’t just shame—it’s hunger. The stickiness between your thighs isn’t just sweat—it’s him, still echoing in you. You run because if he looks any closer, he’ll know. And you can’t bear to be that bare.

The hall tilts as you stumble forward, knees weak, vision stung with gold. The slap of your soles on the marble ricochets off the walls, loud and frantic. You don't dare look back. You can feel him gaining—longer strides, heavier footfalls—and you know if you see his face again, you’ll shatter.

Your hip clips the corner of the console table. You don’t stop. The pain bites, sharp and blooming, but it’s not worse than the heat between your legs or the panic choking your breath.

The guest room door looms like salvation.

Your hand slips once—twice—before the knob catches. You shove it open, nearly fall in with the force, and spin to slam it behind you. The latch clicks. You lock it.

A second later—

Thud.

His palm hits the other side, not a punch—just firm. Measured. Deliberate.

You stagger back, heartbeat in your throat, skin aflame. One hand still over your chest, the other gripping the edge of the dresser like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor. You can hear him breathing—slow, rough, right there. Close enough to taste the whiskey on your tongue.

A beat of silence stretches between you.

Then his voice—low, controlled. Dangerous.

“Locked, hm?” A soft laugh. “You didn’t look like you wanted space.”

It guts you.

You gasp, sharp and helpless, your knees buckling until you’re crouched beside the bed, naked and burning, cheek pressed to the cool duvet. You bite your fist to silence the sob—of shame, of need. The floor beneath you is polished and indifferent. You feel sick. You feel slick. You feel watched, even now.

Because he knows.

Knows what your thighs look like flushed and parted. Knows you’ve imagined his mouth on your skin. Knows you listened to him fall apart and let the ache settle deep—unspent, unanswered.

And now he’s just on the other side of the door. Bare chest still heaving. Belt still unbuckled. Cock hard beneath tailored wool.

You don’t know what he’ll do.

But you know what he saw.

And you’ll never outrun it now. 

You crouch lower, curling in on yourself, cheek still pressed to the duvet, the fabric damp beneath your skin. Everything spins—not violently, just enough to make the floor feel unsteady, your body unfamiliar. You’re too drunk to breathe right, too bare to feel anything but raw. Your pulse thrums in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Your fingers claw at the bedding like it might steady you, but the room keeps tilting. You don’t know if you’re trying to hold yourself together or tear something open.

A silence stretches.

Then—

His voice, soft. Muffled, but not enough.

“You didn’t have to run, y’know.”

Your chest jerks like you’ve been touched. You close your eyes, tighter than before. It’s worse, somehow, than shouting. Worse than fury.

Because it’s true.

Because you wanted him to follow.

Because you still do.

You grip the bed harder, breath catching. Your thighs press together in a useless attempt to manage the ache. But you’re slick, and he knows it. You’re shaking, and he knows it. You’re hiding, and he’s still not fooled.

A pause.

Then—lower.

“Fuckin’ mess you are,” he murmurs. “Could’ve just told me.”

You flinch like the words were a hand in your hair.

Tears sting your lashes, half from humiliation, half from how wet you still are. How dizzy. You can taste candle wax and whiskey at the back of your throat, sweet and sour and useless. Shame floods your limbs like wine left too long in the blood. You're raw.

Another breath.

You think he’s gone. You almost want him to be. Then—

“…Funny thing, guilt don’t stop a girl from listenin’.”

He doesn't wait for a response. The sound of retreat is faint, his steps measured, unhurried—yet your lips are parted, not sure whether you’re more wrecked by the sound of his voice… or by how much you want it back.

The shame hits harder than if he had. You peel yourself off the floor, knees trembling, hand slipping from the sheets as you stagger upright. The room tilts—too much wine, too much whiskey, too much him.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror above the dresser.

Hair wild. Eyes wide. Skin flushed and damp. Naked.

You look like someone who wanted it.

You whirl away, fury blooming hot in your chest—at him, at yourself, at the fucked-up ache between your thighs. You cross to the sink, hands shaking as you twist the tap. Cold water floods your palms, then your face. It stings. It clears nothing.

You stay like that for a while—bent over porcelain, dripping, burning from the inside out.

Eventually, you shuffle to the bed. You don’t dress. You don’t pull the covers up, either. You lie there bare, curled on your side like something wounded, like something small.

And you do not sleep. The sleep still doesn’t come.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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[qvicksilversass]

Pietro Maximoff x mutant!fem!reader

Summary: A little misunderstanding almost drives away the one person you feel the safest with.

Genre: hurt and comfort

Warnings: misunderstanding trope, reader is traumatized, reader doesn't have control of her powers, illusions to Hydra's torture, friends to lovers, platonic Bucky Barnes x reader, Pietro is lovesick <3

~ @thewinterv this was based on your Pietro ask from a while back! I really hope you like this 🫶 ! ~

PIETRO MAXIMOFF MASTERLIST

The very first time Pietro saw you, you looked like a fallen angel. 

The day you had arrived, you'd been as quiet as a mouse. You didn't speak to anyone—Pietro wasn't even sure you spoke english. All you did the first week was keep your head down, your gaze away, and your mouth shut.

The large metal cuffs caged around your dainty wrists looked heavy. When Pietro asked Clint why you wore them and he learned it was to dampen a power you couldn't control, a power you hadn't asked for, his heart ached for you. 

In the beginning, you stayed in a room alone and away from everyone. You looked so gloomy, but even behind those saddened eyes, Pietro thought you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. 

Pietro couldn't stay away. It was simply impossible. Afterall, he was never good at minding his own business—ask his sister. 

"Nechte ji na pokoji (Leave her alone)," Wanda kept warning her brother when she would see how he looked at you, but Pietro never listened. 

It started slowly, with little visits to your room. You'd hide, simply staring at him like he would hurt you. It took him a while, many bars of chocolate, and a little show of his own powers, but finally, you opened up to him.

You seemed to like how he could make himself vibrate or how fast he was and Pietro remembers how warm your hand had been when you touched him after he'd vibrated his hand. You sat criss-crossed in front of him, a concentrated and curious look on your face as you watched him. Up close he could see the scars on your skin. His stomach twisted. It reminded him so much of his younger self. Of those years of torture.   

He could only imagine what you'd gone through.

As weeks turned into months, you opened up some more.  

One night, Pietro heard screaming from your room. The entire team had woken up, but Pietro was faster. He sped in, locked the door behind him, and stood in the room as he watched you crawl on the floor, hands cut from your glass of water that had fallen from your bedside table. You were looking for something as you wailed, hands shaking. Pietro knelt beside you, grabbing your wrist, but he recoiled as a jolt of warmth shocked him and caused his arm to throb in pain.

You had burned him. 

You gasped, eyes teary, and he finally understood that we were looking for the metal cuffs. He'd convinced you a week ago that you could control your powers now, that he would help you, but whatever made you scream had sent your powers into a frenzy. It was only a matter of time until you burnt something—most likely yourself.   

Pietro quickly sped to the closet where you keep your cuffs. Gently, he helped them onto your wrists and held your hands as they stopped shaking. The intense warmth vanished. 

"Shh, malá myš (little mouse), you're safe." 

That night, you'd let him hold you for the first time and you hadn't let go since. 

Pietro was worried he might have gone too far. That you're too attached. And yet, imagining himself pulling away hurts more than he'd like to admit. 

You have started to feel more comfortable around the team, which Pietro usually likes, except when it's to see you sitting on the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of hot cocoa, as you chat happily with Bucky. 

Pietro's jaw tightens and he halts near the door, hiding from view. He doesn't know why he hides instead of just joining in on the conversation, but for some reason the sight of you and Bucky standing so close makes him feel sick and he doesn't dare come in. 

"I heard you're close with Pietro, kid," Bucky's voice is light, the smirk obvious in his tone. Your legs dangle from the counter, absentmindedly kicking forwards. Pietro presses his head against the wall. He can't see your expression but he thinks he hears the hint of a smile when you answer. 

"Yeah. We are," you say, sipping your drink. 

"Hm, do you like him?" Bucky asks and Pietro's heart skips. He should walk away. It isn't right to eavesdrop. Wanda would remind him of that if she was here. Still, he doesn't move. 

"Mhmh, he's nice. He's always around me though," you add, a different tone in your voice and insecurities bubble in Pietro's stomach. He knew he was taking things too far. His hands clench. Why hadn't you said anything? Hurt blossoms in his chest and he speeds off, not listening to you finish your answer—

"It's different."

"Different how?" Bucky insists, much too invested. He knows how Pietro feels, everyone does, but you're much harder to understand. The entire team has been dying to know and it was Bucky's turn to ask. After all, you trusted him the most after Pietro. Your circumstances were quite similar. 

You tilt your head, thinking for a moment, and then you beam. "He's different. He makes me feel safe, like I want to be around him all the time."

Bucky chuckles and crosses his arms. "Sounds like you like him," he teases lightly. 

You sip on your drink, considering it. 

"Sounds like you may even love him," he continues, gouging your expression. 

You don't react like Bucky thought you would. You don't deny or ignore your feelings, instead you keep considering his words and when your eyes lock with his, your smile has grown even wider. 

You nod, innocent and cheerful. "Yeah. I think I do."

* * * 

You haven't seen Pietro in three days. He's never in his room when you knock and he's never around the common areas either. Wanda doesn't know anything, or she doesn't want to tell you, and neither does the rest of the team. Your mood has become gloomy. You miss him. 

It's midnight and you're tossing and turning in your bed, unable to cool your body. A horrible side-effect from your powers. Sometimes your body feels like it's on fire. You whimper, sweat beading at your hairline. Pietro's name falls from your lips, desperate. 

Shakily, you stand up. Your vision is blurred, the heat from your palms is intense, and you don't dare touch anything as you stumble down the hall. Your mind is too hazy to think clearly, to find your cuffs and take a cool shower like Pietro always advises. Instead, the only thing on your mind is him. 

You reach his door and call his name. Your throat feels dry and you fall to your knees. You're breathing heavily, your skin burning up.

You're barely aware of someone scooping you in his arms until the icy water from Pietro's personal shower falls down on your skin, soaking your pajamas and causing steam to lift from your skin. Hands cup your cheeks and icy blue eyes fall into your line of vision. 

"What were you thinking?" Pietro's voice is strained. "What have I told you?" 

You blink, taking in his appearance. He's shirtless, goosebumps across his skin as the cold water falls on both of you. He's holding you so close, silver hair sticking to his forehead as his chest rises and falls rapidly. His thumb rubs the skin on your cheekbone. "You have a shower in your bathroom. When this happens, I told you you need to cool yourself down," Pietro's hands fall to your wrists and he frowns. "Where are your cuffs? Y/n, you can't keep misplacing them—"

Your fingers curl around Pietro's wrists instead, the water still falling over you and taming the heat inside you. You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you cling to him. "Where have you been?" you whimper into his neck, your breathing slowly returning to normal. 

Pietro tenses. "What?"

"I missed you," you admit. Your body temperature is finally lowering. 

Pietro's heart flutters and he reaches for the shower knob, turning off the water. You're both still kneeling on the cool tiles and Pietro pulls you in closer to his chest, his hand resting on the back of your head as he caresses your hair. He feels guilty. He had been ignoring you. 

"I didn't want to overwhelm you," he whispers, still stroking your hair. He helps you up, grabbing towels and wrapping you up. In a blur, he's sat you down on his bed, went to your room, and found your cuffs. Gently, he wraps them around your wrists and smiles up at you. "There will come a time you won't need these, but for now, it's okay that you do. They don't make you weak, okay?"

You nod, looking up at him with wide eyes. You're still stuck on his previous words. "Why would you overwhelm me?"

Pietro joins you on the bed, sitting criss-crossed in front of you. He rubs his neck awkwardly. "I don't wanna be clingy—"

"Why not? I like it," you say quickly.

"Well because I don't want to—wait what?"

You smile softly, fumbling nervously with the cuffs. "I like it. When you're clingy. I like being around you."

Pietro's cheeks turn pink. "You do?"

You nod, reaching for his hands now. "I think I may love you," you admit.

Pietro almost chokes and his face is now crimson. He doesn't even know what to say. He feels like he's in a dream. "You do?" 

You nod and play with his fingers. You're beaming. "Yeah. You're my best friend and more. I love you." You lean in, close to his lips. You're looking at him with such adoration he doesn't know what to think. 

"I love you as well," he whispers and cups your cheek, your wet hair dropping water onto his hand. He smiles. "Can I show you how much?"

Your eyebrows furrow a moment but then you recall some conversation you'd had with Nat and Wanda, about men and love. You'd spent almost your entire life captured by Hydra so this was all so unknown to you, but something feels right. You think back to their conversation and nod, allowing your eyes to flutter shut so that Pietro can kiss you.

It's soft and sweet and when he pulls away, there is so much love behind his eyes. "You're an angel," he mutters and kisses your forehead. "I won't leave your side again. I promise. You're stuck with me, Princezna (Princess)."

Your lips feel funny from the kiss but you can't help but grin at his words. Hesitantly, you lean and kiss him again, your hands cupping his cheek now, and Pietro kisses you back, pulling you into his lap, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your hips. 

Despite the cuffs, your body temperature seems to spike again—but this time not for the same reasons. Your hands feel cooler than they've ever felt, but that heat in your gut spreads across your body with every kiss Pietro bestows upon your skin. 

For once, you don't want the heat to disappear.  

[qvicksilversass]

“You’re a bad liar.”

Wyatt Russell as True Brandywine in Broke (2025)

[qvicksilversass]

You Can Be So Cruel - Part 11 (Final)

(Pietro Maximoff x Plussize!Reader)

You used to think no one could hate you as much as you hated yourself, until you meet the speedster with a seeming desire to break you. ▪words: 2500 warnings: anxiety, body issues, language, steve rogers an: Last chapter :) x ▪ Catch up here.

The first week was the hardest, you practically lived in your apartment. Cooking, drawing, training, doing whatever you could to stop thinking about Pietro. Keep your mind busy. Not able to stop the tears at night, lying alone in bed, those silent hours your brain won't quiet. Wishing things were different.

Wanda would tell you how depressed Pietro was, how sorry. You still saw him everywhere and he'd give you longing looks that broke your heart. You had to fight against yourself not to return them. Your attraction to him not fading, but you made yourself a promise.

Weeks turn to months and being away from him, without the heartache, all the drama and tension, you start to rack up mission hours. At first you take anything to be away from Pietro. To clear your head. But you surprised yourself, had fun with Steve and the others. They listened to you out in the field. Your decisions helping, making a difference. You came to realise the way you looked didn't matter to those you saved.

You still hated what you saw, but it wasn’t everything. You could push it down, even if it was only for a little while. 

You walk with Steve through the tower corridors, back from your latest mission. You made a great team out in the field. You could rely on him and it lit something inside you, that he could rely on you too, almost as an equal. Something you'd never thought you'd say.

"Did you see that guy's face?”

"I know right? He really thought we'd let him go."

“Hey, we make a good team.”

“We do.” You grin back at him, following behind him into the common room. Only then do you notice you're not alone. Pietro and Sarah sit cuddling on the sofa watching some film on the large screen.

You shrink back before they can see you, "See you later?"

Steve frowns, though he doesn't question you. You head back to your apartment to shower, you can't face the awkwardness.

This wasn't the first time. You'd noticed weeks ago. How he flirted with the new nurse, Sarah while you're both getting patched up. The first mission with him since that night and there’s such a strange civility between you. You never understood how people could be close then be like strangers. That's what it felt like, both of you on eggshells around each other.

At first he's always looking to you, testing if you're jealous, if you care. The more time he spent with her, that faded away. He seemed happy again and it hurt at first, how kind he was with her. That you had to be the one to make him see the way he was acting was wrong. That he couldn’t be like this with you back then. But you couldn’t go back, and you realised you didn’t want to. 

Before you know it, it's back around to Starks annual party. You'd been dreading it all week. You'd done your best to prove yourself, but you were still the new Avenger. You still have that lingering sadness, that self-consciousness all the time. Pietro had started seeing Sarah officially and was bringing her tonight. You planned on staying out of their way.

“I wish you'd open your eyes,” Wanda quirks an eyebrow at you while applying your lipstick. You'd asked her to work her magic again this year. She looks stunning as usual in a burgundy dress to match with Vision's suit.

Not this again. 

“I wasn’t lying last year y/n…” She clicks the lipstick and steps back to check you over.

“I still don't believe that Wanda….." you protest, not admitting why you'd chosen that same shade of red. 

“Why do you have this crazy idea you're not good enough for him?” she asks, absentmindedly putting her earrings on. 

You want to answer, that you're not sure you’ll ever be good enough for Steve, instead you just shrug, “I don’t want him to think I’m running from Pietro straight to him.” 

Wanda groans, "it's been months! So, if he asked, you would say no?” 

“No, but...”

“You do care for him then? I knew it!” She looks way too pleased at that, passing you your shoes.

"You seem better." She sits next to you, taking hold of your hand, entwining your fingers in that comforting way.

"Without all the drama.”

“Without my brother," She states and you give her a sad smile, "I think this, you both being apart is good, for you both.”

“Amen to that.”  Steve watches you both from the doorway and Wanda gets up to leave, a hand on his shoulder while she turns back to you and you glare at her.

"Hey, you look gorgeous." You can't help but blush, he takes your breath away. His amethyst shirt is a little too fitted, the outline of his chest, an extra button open so you can see his collar bone...you have to remind yourself to stop staring, swallow it down.

“No I don't. Maybe we could watch a movie instead?” You plead and he just laughed, pushing you out the door.

“Nope if I have to suffer you do too”. He holds his arm out and you link his arm, falling into stride beside him. Still struggling to keep up, especially in heels.

The pounding music and chatter hit your ears first, and you struggle not to pull Steve back, tell him you're suddenly sick. So much had changed but so much was still the same. Same packed room, same people. You get drinks and head over to Wanda and Vision. It's not long till Steve's pulled off to mingle, for his obligatory speeches, leaving you third wheel to Wanda and Vision.

That's when you see them, god, they both look amazing. Her in a figure hugging dress and Pietro in a tight shirt and blue waistcoat. She was so beautiful, such a nice person. One that always smiled, always cared for others. You couldn’t bring yourself to hate her.

Pietro notices you watching them, his eyes lighting up then darkening when he spots you, looking you over. You grip your drink tighter, nervous as they walk over to you. Wanda tries to take your hand but you shoot her an I'm fine smile. Her shooting you a 'Liar' right back as Pietro hugs her. 

“Beautiful dress, y/n.” Sarah compliments you, breaking the silence and she’s surprisingly without any hint of malice, though you notice her hand tightens around Pietro’s.

“Thanks, you both look great.” You smile, that wasn't a lie.  

“You too domni- I mean, y/n.”  Pietro stutters, conscious of the way Sarah glares at him and you sense the awkward tension between them. That was new. 

“I'll go get us a drink.” She smiles sweetly at Pietro, only he's only looking at you. 

“Even more beautiful than last year…" 

“She’s lovely.” You grit out. Pietro searches your eyes, for forgiveness, jealousy, you couldn’t quite place it.

“Don’t hurt her, okay? Not like me.”  

“There’s no one like you domnita,” Pietro admits sadly, placing a resigned kiss to your forehead, “you were meant for someone better than me.” 

You huff and roll your eyes at him, your gaze drifting to Steve laughing with Tony.

Pietro squeezes your hand, “You should tell him. He won’t hurt you, he’s not a fucking idiot.” 

“That’s true.”  

“If you ever change your mind…” he grins mischievously and for a heartbeat you wished you would, “I've missed you.”

“I missed you too, this you I mean.” You admit sadly.

“Maybe we can start again?” he gives you that grin you fell in love with all those months ago and you find yourself smiling back, letting him hug you.

He lets you go when he spots Sarah attempting to walk through the dancing crowd carrying three drinks. Her face fixed in concentration and you see the way he's watching her, like she's the cutest thing he's ever seen. You walk over, helping her with the drinks and she looks at you strangely.

“He told me what he did to you, what you meant to him.”  You nearly spit out your drink as she says it.

“You did?” You looked shocked at Pietro and he's all sheepish, running his hands through his hair.

“I told him if tries that with me I’ll kick him in the nuts!”

You definitely spit your drink out at that, smirking, “I'd love to see that.“ 

You and Sarah share a laugh, leaving Pietro rolling his eyes at you both.

You watch tearing up as he leads her over to a table, hand in hers, smiling down at her love in both their eyes. What you'd have given all those months ago for that to be you. Now? You find yourself hoping he was happy, that he'd make Sarah happy. 

You take out the drawing, a little rough now from all the missions you'd taken it on. Smiling down at it, you think of him, the one that thought you were worth something all along. From that first smile you should have seen it, and it wasn't Pietro. 

Steve walks over to you with a big grin like he's been looking for you, like he only sees you. He always lit up the room for you, showed you you could be something on your own. You'd always love him for it.

“You wanna dance?” Steve hugs you to him and you wipe your eyes, giving him a broad smile. 

“I'd love to.”

Maybe tonight, you’d finally tell him.

Steve leads you onto the dancefloor, holding you close,  'so old fashioned' you'd teased him when you'd asked him to teach you how to dance. Secretly loving the closeness of it. His hand at the small of your back, holding your wrist to his chest. You lose yourself in his warmth, swaying slowly not hearing the music.

“He’s watching you,” you know he means Pietro from his irritated tone. You don't turn around, you close your eyes, “can't blame him.”

You chuckle and nudge him, resting your head on his shoulder, “I told him not to hurt her.” 

“Hmm, might need to tell him again.” 

“Oh, no. For god's sake, Pietro.”  

You can't hear what she's saying, but you see how hurt and angry she is. You knew that feeling all too well. You watch her shrug him off, weaving through the crowd to the restroom.

Steve knows what you're thinking before you even let him go, "Y/n, you don't have to, he's not your problem anymore…”

You know Steve's right, but you didn't want to leave Sarah so upset, didn't want someone feeling the way you did.

“Just give me a minute.”

“You wish that was you don't you?” 

Sarah watches Pietro, though he can't take his eyes off you and Steve dancing. He's thinking back to that first time he saw you. Peeking up at them with those shy eyes and that innocent smile. From that moment, something was different about you. He didn't know where the snigger came from, it just slipped out. Like a nervous tick, but he never got nervous.

This party last year, he'd wanted to tell you, you were perfect. He wanted to make you moan, give you pleasure and he was going to say it, admit how he felt. All night he'd wanted to, to take back every hurtful word. Just admit how much he loved you...but he was a fucking coward.

He couldn't understand at first why everything came out sarcastic or hateful. Why he couldn't stop thinking about you, why was it easier for you to hate him? He saw you getting closer to Steve and it ate away at him. He wanted that, you, but he pushed you away. 

Until that night. He's never seen you so angry, so devastated. He knew, finally realising how much he was hurting you and he couldn't anymore, not after the way you practically begged him. He did the only thing he could do and it was the hardest thing he's ever done.

Now he'd lost you. Now you were happy without him. Content with your life and yourself. How he wished he'd been the one to help you get there, but he let his fear get the better of him, let it destroy any chance he had of happiness with you. What you saw wasn't really him, he wanted to hold you, tell you how beautiful you were, how he would die for you. 

If he could just go back…he'd hold you and never let you go. 

But he's too late. He watches you dance with Steve, holding you close and he thinks of Sarah. She's so much like you, the light in his dark. For months it tore him up inside, what he did to you. He missed you, still does. 

Over time the hurt would lessen, but he would never find anyone like you, someone that made him feel like you did. Sarah was as close as it came and he promised himself he would never make that mistake again. 

“She's moved on, maybe you should too.”

“Hmm?” Pietro ignores her still watching you, not realising how angry she is.

“Your plan failed, Pietro. I'm leaving.” He finally hears the hurt in her voice and he stares at her, confused.

“What plan?”  

“To make her jealous? Make her want you again? She's happier without you, why can't you see that?”

“No, you've got it wrong, Sarah.” He reaches out to her, she's too angry to hear him.

“I won't be second best Pietro.” 

You follow Sarah to the restroom, hearing her big ugly sobs behind the door. You walk inside approaching her slowly.

“Hey, are you okay? What did he-”

Sarah takes one look at you and scowls, “He's obviously still in love with you,” she spits, “I'm sick of trying to live up to you.” 

Live up to you? She had nothing to live up to, not anymore, if there ever was. 

“I thought you were happy?” you ask and she rolls her eyes, wiping tears and makeup from under her eyes. Okay, here goes.

“Sarah, l see the way he is with you. I craved that for so long, but it's so natural with you. I'm sure he loves you, even if he's a dick sometimes.” 

She closes her eyes, silent a moment. Softer when she opens them again, turning and leaning back against the sink to face you. You smile and reach over to wipe stray mascara from her cheek.

“You really have moved on huh? Anything to do with Captain America out there? He's not taken his eyes off you.”  

The thought of Steve watching gives you butterflies, you put your hand over hers, “Don't ever compare yourself to anyone. You're gorgeous Sarah, you have nothing to live up to. If he hurts you, come tell me and I'll portal him to space or something.”

She laughs  at that, “Thank you.”  

“Wanna go talk to him? Thump him maybe?” 

You hold the door open for her and she leaves you to run to Pietro, thumping him before he hugs her. Pietro mouths 'thank you' over her shoulder and you share a sad smile. You head back over to Steve, he's waiting in a booth, with a drink for you.

“That's more than he deserves.”  Steve grumbles, glaring over at Pietro. You didn't have it in you anymore to hate him, you'd got yourself to a place where you’re mostly okay. Despite everything.

“I guess I did it for both of us…”  You play with the fabric on your dress, suddenly nervous, “Steve, I need to tell you something…”

“What is it?” He watches you, his eyes sparkling with amusement like he knows what you're going to say, like he's been waiting. 

God, you still can't say it. 

“Never mind, you wanna get out of here?” You change the subject again and he takes your hand, leading you through the crowd. 

“Let's go darlin’.”

I made a whole thing about her ending up with/choosing Steve and Pietro trying to get her back, but I think it’s best left kinda open, when she’s healing, not relying on Steve and that it’s a natural thing. I think they were always meant to be together. Pietro was the passion, but Steve was always the heart. Corny I know but hey x

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BUCKY BARNES BEING A DORKY SNACK™ + SOFT™ THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER (2021)

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A Million Little Pieces

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The Falcon and The Winter Soldier

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𝐖𝐘𝐀𝐓𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋 as 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 / 𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓

The Falcon And The Winter Soldier: Episode 6.

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𝗦𝗘𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡 as 𝗡𝗜𝗖𝗞 𝗙𝗢𝗪𝗟𝗘𝗥.

THE 355. (2022)

[qvicksilversass]

bucky barnes x reader summary: you come home and bucky is gone, again... word count: 1.3k notes: heads up, there is some cursing and references to mental health. this is straight up angst. I've been thinking quite a bit about how hard it would actually be to date bucky, considering everything he's been through and all that trauma. and this is what happened. let me know what you think, please.

Your chest aches, and your hands are shaking. They won't stop, no matter how tightly you clench them together between your knees. Vision shifting in and out of focus, you stare at your hands and try to will them to still.

If you allow your gaze to wander beyond your own white knuckles, you will just be reminded of what’s missing — his jacket which was haphazardly tossed across the back of the sofa this morning, the book he had been reading the last couple of mornings when he woke before you, the shoes he always kicked off right inside the foyer.

And your hands won't fucking stop shaking. A tremulous sigh escapes your lips, and you swipe your hands across your face, old mascara flaking onto your fingers.

You are not sure how long you sit like that, trying not to shatter under the lone light of the tableside lamp, but you have sat there long enough to stay frozen even as you hear the door click open and shut behind you.

Something thuds to the floor, and a long, tense silence follows.

"I thought you left."

Your voice is barely louder than a whisper when you speak, but Bucky flinches like you just slapped him across the cheek. Words bubble in his throat, choking him, and his eyes dart over the scene before him.

Your keys are left forgotten on the floor in the kitchen, your purse tipped over on the counter, and you lean forward on the couch, elbows on your knees, fingers twisted together in front of you.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

An ugly scoff escapes your lips, and you glance at him sideways over your shoulder — quickly, before the creases of his hurt expression can soften you.

"You're sorry," you say, frustration lacing your voice as you wipe at a stray tear with your sleeve.

“Sweetheart…” Bucky’s voice is brittle. He kicks at the crumpled backpack resting at his feet, but he can’t bring himself to move further, to move closer to you.

You snap, “I know, okay?” Your words are clipped, harsher than you would like, and you still can’t bring your gaze to meet his. Eyes still locked on your own fidgeting fingers, and damn it, you’re still shaking. You take a deep breath and continue, in what you hope is a softer tone, “I know you’re sorry, James.”

You stand suddenly turning to face him, and Bucky tenses at the quick motion clocking the false mask of calm you’ve donned and then the shimmer in your eyes that reveals everything beneath.

“You’re always sorry,” you say, and the despair in your voice tears at Bucky’s heart, “so when is it going to stop?”

His eyes widen a fraction, confusion tugging at his brows, and his hands clench and relax at his sides. And it makes you angry — the way he stands there, silent and fumbling hopelessly for anything to say because what can he say?

This isn’t the first time he’s tried leaving without a word, and with his history, it probably wouldn’t be the last. So, what can he say to fix it? What words can wipe that look off of your face and make everything okay again?

You shake your head, “I came home excited to tell you about this cat my boss is trying to find a home for… she’s got long white fur and these gorgeous blue eyes. I just knew you were going to love her,” you mutter.

Your hands continue to shake at your sides, and Bucky’s eyes flick between the movement and then the tear that slides down your cheek. He twitches, flesh hand reaching for you out of instinct before he buries the clenched fist in his pocket.

And you wish he would have done it. You wish he would have reached for you and gently stroked his fingers over your face. Another part of you is glad that he didn’t — you would’ve broke in his arms, like every other time, but you need to say it this time.

“You weren’t here,” you continue, “and neither was that fucking go-bag.” You gesture angrily at the backpack by his feet. “I didn’t know if… if something had happened or - or if you had just decided to leave me again.”

Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut, and metal creaks from the tension in his arm, and he has to say something. “I didn’t -,” but you don’t let him finish.

“Let me say it,” you breathe, “please…”

When his eyes flicker open again, his vision is blurry and he can’t blink — blinking would be surrendering under the weight of the dam about to break. Jaw tight, he nods once letting you go on.

“I’ve told you this, but I’ll say it again until you finally hear me,” you’re pleading with him now. “It’s not your decision to make.” And you’re glad for the couch between you now because you want to push him and slap at his chest until he understands, but that wouldn’t do either of you any good. “You want to leave me because you want to leave? Fine, James, but you - you don’t get to leave me because you think you get to decide what’s best for me.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks, and Bucky wants to tear it all down. He wants to start over, and he would tear down the fucking moon to do it for you. But he can’t, so he stands there and he listens to what you say no matter how it rips him apart.

“You don’t deserve this,” he whispers as his eyes desperately search yours for any hint that he can fix this.

“That,” you snap, “That’s what I mean! You don’t get to decide that and use it to come and go from my life as you please!”

He flinches at the hitch in volume, and you regret it immediately. You scrub your hands over your face and drop your body back to the couch leaving your forehead supported by the heels of your palms.

Bucky watches silently, and fuck, he wants to turn around again and just go because he is doing this to you. And you half expect him to leave again too, so when the couch cushion beside you dips under his weight, you’re both a bit shocked.

He still doesn’t know how to fix it, any of it, but he knows he has to try so he allows his hand to finally reach for you. Even though his fingers only brush your knee, he needs you to know that he’s here now.

And the tears hit harder at his touch. You choke on a sob, back shaking with the weight of it. Bucky finally lets himself cry too, silently but unhidden.

Painful moments pass in silence before you speak again. “You have to talk to someone eventually,” you mumble, and you hate that it sounds like you’re begging. “It doesn’t have to be me… you can reach out to Sam. Hell, we can find you a doctor, but… you have to deal with this…”

Your hands drop, and Bucky’s heart fucking shatters all over again when your bloodshot eyes meet his. He can’t stop himself now, and he’s scrambling for your hand, squeezing tighter than he probably should.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you tell him, “shutting down and shutting everyone out.”

He’s nodding, and he’s not letting you go — can’t now that he’s got you. His metal hand reaches out, finally, to graze over your damp cheek and then he’s cupping your neck and pulling gently until your foreheads touch.

“Okay,” he utters.

He says the simple word like a promise, and you allow yourself to collapse against his chest.

And he still thinks that maybe you do deserve more than the broken man he is, but maybe he actually deserves something nice too.

So he holds you for minutes, hours, until his arm starts to tingle and, voice still hoarse, he asks, “A cat, huh?”

[qvicksilversass]

AARON TAYLOR-JOHNSON as DAVE LIZEWSKI KICK-ASS 2 (2013)

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Ready | Jamie x Reader | 28 Years Later | E | 6.8k

28 Years Later | 6.8k | Jamie x Reader | Explicit 🔥

28 Years masterlist | Aaron Taylor Johnson character masterlist | AO3: Otaku_girl

Summary: When you hear that Jamie intends to take one of your best students, Spike, to the mainland, you can’t help but try and intervene. Upon their return, you have an unexpected run-in with Jamie.

Warnings: Potential spoilers for parts of 28 Years later.

A/N: Smut at last 🔥

Links: Ready by Otaku_girl on AO3

Ready

“What’s he in trouble for?”

You look over your shoulder, back towards the door, hand hovering. You are still in the midst of tidying despite the late hour; cleaning off the blackboard, wiping away layers of dusty chalk from the day. Your classroom has long since emptied out, the last of the children safely home with their parents. You like to linger, for a time at least. To give working parents a chance to drop in and ask any questions — and to give parents you have requested to talk to the chance to gather their courage.

He’s standing in the doorway, hovering just past the threshold as though he is afraid to step foot into your classroom. You recognise him — it’s impossible not to know everyone, with how close knit the community is — though you haven’t had cause to speak with him often. Isla was always the one to bring Spike to school when he was young enough to still need an escort, but as her trips outside of their house had grown less frequent and Spike had become more confident in bringing himself to school, there had been no real reason for you and Jamie to cross paths. 

“Trouble? Oh, no, no! No one is in trouble,” you say, wiping off your hands on your skirt. You send him a reassuring smile; it does little to put him at ease. If anything, it looks as if he is considering bolting. “Spike is such a delight. Polite, sweet, and helpful, too. Always offering to help with the little ones. I just wanted to have a quick word with you. Before…”

“Before?” Jamie prompts as you trail off, the silence between you growing heavy and uncomfortable. 

Some of the tension seeps from his shoulders; it’s as if seeing your nerves is helping put him on more even ground. He smiles at you, warm and inviting this time - not a hint of nerves, in a way that makes your stomach flip and your cheeks warm. There aren’t many young men in your community; they are all too old or too young. There are virtually none in the right age range that aren’t already taken. Your mind flashes guilty back to Isla and the warmth fades. Sick isn’t gone. Jamie isn’t free to do as he pleases, and neither are you, if you wish to remain respectable. Who would want to entrust their children to a teacher who makes mooneyes at their husband? 

He is just being friendly and nothing more, you silently admonish yourself, trying to focus on the task at hand. You asked him here for a reason, and that certainly wasn’t to bat your eyelashes at him.

“Before…” You trail off, eyes lingering on him, trailing up from his worn boots and weathered jeans to his faded jacket. Up, and up, and up, to the quirked half-smile on his lips as he watches you in return, clearly amused. Broad hands push deep into his pockets as he leans against the doorframe. His gaze remains respectfully focused on your face. 

Everyone likes Jamie. What isn’t to like? He’s always got a smile on his face and is ready to lend a helping hand, even with so much already on his own plate. Just last spring, he was one of the first to volunteer to come and help patch up the school hall before the damage to the roof could get bad enough to become a real problem. Unfortunately for you, that only serves to make this conversation that much more awkward. You would never act on your little crush, but that doesn’t serve to make it any less embarrassing. It’s almost as if he can sense it. Are you really that obvious? Or is he just cocky?

You take a steadying breath. “Friday. Before Friday.”

“Ah.” His relaxed posture melts away. Jamie straightens, shoulders back, head held high. It’s like seeing an entirely different man. Gone is the kind yet jovial man,  the one who can go from quietly fading into the background to being the heart and soul of the party. There’s no trace of the more softly spoken man who crept up to your door like a puppy waiting to be scolded. Is this what he is like out there, on the mainland? Is it this confidence that sees him going and coming, again and again and again, without more than the occasional bruise to show for his efforts? “That’s what this is about. If you’ll excuse me.”

He turns to leave and you find yourself halfway across the classroom, hand outstretched, words ringing throughout your empty classroom. You have to say something; no one else will. Someone needs to stand up for the boy, now that Isla can’t, or won’t. And if that means setting yourself up as the bad guy? You’re willing to do whatever it takes to protect one of your kids. 

“Jamie, wait! Please,” He turns back towards you and your footsteps come to a halt. This is a good sign. You take a shaky breath, forcing a wobbly smile onto your lips. “Spike is a great kid. But that’s the thing; he is still a kid. He’s only twelve. Fifteen is more traditional. Fourteen if you really think he’s ready. Don’t you think—”

“You don’t have any kids of your own yet, do you?” His words are cutting in a way that is completely unexpected. Your eyes widen, words momentarily failing you. This isn’t anything like the Jamie you have seen from a distance before. Softly spoken, his words sound sure and almost condescending, as though you are talking about something far beyond your own understanding. 

“Excuse me?” 

His beard twitches as his smile grows. He hooks one hand inside of his pocket, the other going up to brush back wild, loose curls. “You don’t. I can tell. I’m sure you mean well, Ms—”

And doesn’t that sting? An island of less than two hundred, and he can’t even remember your name.

 “—but, respectfully: mind your own fuckin’ business. Have you been back to the mainland? Even once, since the outbreak?” Jamie watches you with unblinking eyes and you feel yourself flush. 

Heat creeps up the back of your neck and you can’t quite meet his eyes. Sweaty palms rub against your skirt, your skin prickling at the mere thought. “I don’t see how that’s got anything to do with—”

“Aye, that about tracks. You aren’t even old enough to remember before, are you? Born here. Born, and raised, and with a bit of luck, one day, you’ll die here having never set foot on the mainland if you can help it.” Jamie shakes his head, sharp blue eyes trailing across you now, taking in every detail and finding you wanting. “You don’t see, because you haven’t seen them. All you’ve got are stories to work from. Stories, and the sound of sirens when one of them big fuckers makes a dash for the gates.” 

It’s not a common occurrence, but it has been known to happen. More than once. The sound of those sirens going off haunts your dreams, jolting you awake in a cold sweat more nights than not. You can’t imagine how badly you would sleep, if you had ever seen one of the infected up close and personal. In all honesty? You don’t know how he does it.

Knuckles rap on one of the wooden desks, the sound echoing throughout your classroom. You meet Jamie’s gaze. It feels like you are the one who has been called in for a talking to, not the other way around. “You think coddling him will fix anythin’? It won’t. The more he kills, the easier it will get. I’m giving him the best chance of survival that I can.”

“By taking him out there? By putting him in the line of danger and, what? Hoping that a twelve year old has stronger nerves than a man twice his age?” You have all heard the whispered stories of hunters who froze on their first hunt, and of hunters who lost their nerve after nearly three decades of trips back and forth to the mainland. What hope could a sweet young boy like Spike possibly have out there? 

“By doing whatever it takes.” Jamie’s words ring out throughout the room, loud and harsh and final. You flinch, taking a step back. “And I don’t need you or anyone else to like it. I just need that boy safe.”

He turns to leave and you reach for him without thinking, hand encircling his arm. Before you realise what is happening Jamie swings around towards you, his opposite hand raised high. Eyes slamming shut you flinch back, anticipating a hit that never lands. Harsh breathing fills the air. Your eyes creep open. Jamie looms above you, hand still raised. He’s looking at it as if he doesn’t know how it got there in the first place. As if he can’t believe what he was about to do.

“The more you kill, the easier it gets,” you murmur, throwing his words back at him. 

“I didn’t. I would never…” He drops your arm as if burnt, taking several stumbling steps back. His fist hits the nearest desk, making the wood shudder and creak. You watch, unmoving, unwilling to risk bringing his attention back towards you as he hits it again, and again, and again. Knuckles begin to split by the time you next speak, voice pitched low and insistent.

“What does Isla have to say about this, Jamie? About you taking her baby out there?”

“Don’t.” Jamie doesn’t look at you as he speaks, his voice cracking, hair falling around his face, obscuring him from your view. By the time that he stands he has control over himself again. That mask of politeness is firmly back in place; if you hadn’t seen it for yourself, you would think this is what he really is like. That he is no more than friendly smiles and a neighbourly helping hand. You wonder what else you — what everyone — might have missed. 

He always seems so strong. Is… is he really alright?

“Spike will be back in class on Monday. I expect we’ll see you at the celebrations tomorrow night. Though, there’s no need to push if you aren’t feeling up to it. Nobody would want to see you upset with stories about the mainland,” Jamie says, flashing you a sharp smile. “I reckon it might be too much for you. There’s no shame in knowing your own limitations.” 

The way that he says it makes you want to slap him. Anger and shame swirl together in your chest as you watch him leave. That man is going to get his son killed, and there is nothing you can do about it. Nothing anyone can do about it, as long as Spike is the one to choose to set foot outside of those gates. And a sweet boy like Spike? You can’t imagine him doing anything that might displease his father. 

All that I can do is wait. 

“So there were eight of them, right? Eight! And what does mister big balls over here start doin’? He starts fuckin’ shooting at ‘em! One, then another, then another.” 

A roar goes up around the room as Jamie’s story grows louder and more outlandish the deeper into his cups that he gets. Spike is sitting in front of him, clearly nervous and uncomfortable, yet he doesn’t say a word to contradict his dad.

He really is a good lad. Your heart twinges as you watch him being swept up into the crowd, dozens upon dozens of voices raised in good cheer as what feels like half the island celebrates the newest addition to the ranks of the hunters. 

Despite the raucous party surrounding you, the past forty-eight hours have been amongst the more unpleasant in recent months. Your own fear had tainted your night on the Thursday, bleeding into the school day and seeing throughout your lessons on Friday as everyone waited for word of their return. Jubilation had turned sour that first night, when high tide came in and not a single sighting had been had of father and son. Nobody had wanted to take the banners down; it had seemed too much like a bad omen to remove them so soon. 

You press your hands against your thighs, wiping away the faint sheen of sweat gathered there. You had awoken to sirens. Of course you had, everyone had; the gate had been under attack. Curtains twitched and faces twisted with terror and weary resignation peered outside, weapons in hand and a shared question in your minds: Would today be the day that the world as you knew it changed again?

Having your little row cottage so close to the gates had never felt more like a blessing and a curse. Were the gate ever to fall, you would be amongst the first hit. Yet in the early hours of the morning, it had felt like a blessing, as you had been amongst the first to see their safe turn. 

Sleep had been impossible, even long after the all clear was given. Just what had they seen? How bad had it been, for them to risk bringing one back in their wake?

A cheer goes up and you see hands clapping on Spike’s back, Jamie raising a drink in his honour. A glass is pushed into his hand and he drinks. The way that his face twists in displeasure at the taste brings a delighted laugh from you and others around you. For all that everyone seems happy to let his boy play at being a man, there are still some things he is too young to understand. 

Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to your own drink. You wonder how much of Jamie’s stories are true; you suppose you will never know. You aren’t about to ask Spike about it come Monday, and if you can avoid speaking to that father of his again, well. After your last conversation? It seems like it might be for the best. 

As Spike’s chair is lifted and carried around the room in a raucous victory parade, you take it as a sign that it is time for you to leave. Jamie was right about one thing; You shouldn’t have come. Yet… you couldn’t bear the thought of not being here; of not seeing for yourself that one of your charges had returned home safely. 

You let the door fall shut behind you as you go out into the cool night air. Pulling your cardigan more tightly around you to fend off the bitter chill, you turn down cobblestone streets, your own tiny row house not that far of a walk away. The sounds of the party floats out, dispelling any calm that the night would usually bring. Behind you the door bangs again, the roar of a hundred voices swelling and ebbing as it opens and shuts. 

Picking up your pace, you hear footsteps hurrying behind you. The last thing that you want is to stay behind and talk about any of your students' progress with their rosy-cheeked and loose-lipped parents. If they want an update, they can come and visit you during more reasonable hours.

“Fuckin’ hell, you walk quickly. Wait!” a familiar voice calls and you stumble, feet going out from beneath you. It's surprise more than anything that sends you tumbling. You brace, ready to hit the cold cobblestone floor, when a broad hand takes hold of your arm, hauling you up, keeping you steady on your feet. Your momentum slams you into his warm chest, cheek pressing against worn fabric as your saviour does his best to help you stay standing. 

“Thank…” Your words die in your throat as you catch sight of Jamie. “... you.” 

Jamie smiles down at you, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. His eyes look softer than you remember; you wonder if it’s the relief of having returned home safely, of having been right about Spike being ready. Or maybe it’s just from indulging in one too many drinks. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here. Not after all of that conscientious objecting you were doing,” he says, hand lingering on your arm. You try to pull it back, ignoring the heat spreading across your cheeks. “I was right. He was ready.”

“He was lucky,” you say sharply, meeting Jamie’s gaze. The jovial smile falls — not completely, but enough to see the harder edge lurking beneath. “Tell me, how many of those little stories of yours were real?”

“There’s always a grain of truth in the best stories.”

“Is there anything more than a grain?”

He laughs and you take a startled step back, not expecting the loud, bright sound. He shakes his head, his grip on your arm loosening then falling. You will have bruises there come morning. 

“He made his first kill and he held his own. Stood his ground there better than men I’ve been out with twice his age. He deserves a night to feel good. Boost his confidence, like,” Jamie says steadily, not a hint of shame about him.

You arch an eyebrow, lips pressed into an unimpressed little line. “You know what they say; overconfidence will get you killed.” 

“Aye, and don’t they also say believe in yourself and you’re halfway there. Bit of confidence would do him the world of good,” Jamie says. “Doesn’t do anyone any good for him to be scared of his own shadow, least of all him.”

“He isn’t,” you say, shaking your head. Spike may not be the most confident of your students, but he’s far from the most timid, either. “He’s stronger than you might think. Being sweet and kind doesn’t somehow make him weak. He doesn’t need bravado to survive.”

“Doesn’t he? You think any of us felt confident the first time we went back over the causeway, knowing what’s waiting for us over there? Knowing we have people here relying on us to come back?” You take an unsteady step back, then another, and another. Jamie matches you step for step. Your back hits the wall and you tilt your head back, doing your best to keep holding his gaze despite the overwhelming urge to look down. It would be a concession too far. “I never said he was weak. Don’t you go putting words in my mouth now.” 

His eyes dip to your lips and time stands still. You shouldn’t do it. You shouldn’t give this infuriating man another moment of your time. Any bad blood between you will fade when given enough time and space; it isn’t as if anyone has the luxury of holding a grudge anymore. And now that Spike has gone on his first hunt? Nobody will bat an eye if — when, you can’t help but think, — just like his father, he chooses to go to the mainland again. 

“I just want him to be safe,” you confess, voice barely more than a murmur. You are tired of losing former students, still too young, too over confident, not ready, no matter how much you try to help them prepare. 

“That’s one thing we can agree on.” Jamie’s hand drops from your arm to glance across your waist, fingertips brushing against the delicate curve with a featherlight touch. He looks at you with a softness in his gaze that isn’t expected. 

It’s enough to break the last of your resolve. 

Hands clutch at his jacket, pulling him down and towards you. Jamie’s eyes widen as you press your mouth to his. His lips are warm and plush. A little noise of surprise leaves his lips as they part, allowing your tongue to slip inside. The tickle of his beard against your bare skin is almost enough for you to pull back, dark hair brushing against sensitive cheeks. He tastes of homebrewed beer: sour, vinegary notes clinging to the edges of his mouth. You pull back, greedily sucking in a little breath before his lips are on yours again, broad palms falling to cup your cheek and hip, the line of his body pressing against yours from chest to thigh.

Warmth blossoms in your chest, sparks igniting at each fresh point of contact. The scent of salt and sweat clings to his skin. Jamie’s lips brush against yours, tentative at first, growing in confidence as the first breathy whimper falls from your lips. 

You can’t feel the chill in the air anymore, your senses alight with Jamie’s overwhelming presence. The heat of his skin, the gentle pull of his lips, the firm reassurance of his hands chasing away all thoughts of the outside world. You could happily lose yourself beneath his lips and teeth and tongue.

The sound of laughter and joyous shouts swells again, the bright, warm glow lighting up the pathway as another couple spills out onto the street. It is only through sheer luck that they stumble right instead of left, making their way towards the beach instead of coming across the two of you. 

Hands press against Jamie’s chest, forcing him back as he leans in to try and kiss you again. You turn your head as he persists, lips trailing from your jaw, nipping at the delicate column. “Stop. Jamie, stop. We can’t do this. Somebody might see.”

“Anybody leaving that party has better things to do than sneak around looking for us.” He cups your hips between his hands, one wandering behind you to caress the swell of your behind. Shuddering beneath his touch, you try to remain focused. “So uptight. I’ve got just the thing to help…”

His words don’t fully register; one moment you feel his heat against you, the next, you blink down at him as he sinks to his knees, making himself comfortable between your legs. Broad shoulders urge you to part your thighs, thick fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt. Your head falls back against the wall with a thump. You try to catch your breath, to remind yourself of why this is such a bad idea. Calloused fingertips brush against your thighs, inching up, and up, and up. It feels so different from your own touch you can think of nothing else. He flips the edge of your skirt, hiking it up to your waist, and he groans. 

Jamie cups you through your underwear, the heat of his hand radiating out across your rapidly dampening skin. The fabric is starting to turn translucent as your need grows, the hot puff of his breath through the thin layer is enough to make you sigh. He laughs, pressing a kiss to your thigh in a move more tender than you would have thought possible. You stare down at him with wide eyes as he guides your hand into his hair, curling your fingers in the dark waves as he hooks a thumb over the waistband of your underwear and holds it in place.

Hot lips press against the wet fabric, kissing your mound through the thin barrier. Jamie inhales, letting out a pleased hum as the natural earthy yet sweet scent of you washes over him. Fingers tighten in his hair reflexivity as he teases you, peppering soft, open-mouthed kisses across the fabric.

“Jamie, please,” you gasp, tugging on his hair, trying to guide him where you need to feel him the most. Wide, mischievous blue eyes stare up at you from between your thighs; he looks almost boyish like this, the weariness that clings to all of you falling away from his face as he lets himself enjoy this moment. “Don’t tease.”

“Yes, Ms. Are you always this bossy? Or am I just special?” he asks, lips twisting into a wide grin as your gaze turns incredulous. ”I reckon it’s a teacher—“

Tugging on the back of his hair firmly his eyes widen as you force his head back; it’s no more than an inch, two at the most, but you see him swallow hard, the exposed line of his throat quivering as his adams apple bobbs, gaze locked firmly with yours. 

“If you even think about mentioning my students right now we are going to have a problem, Jamie,” you warn him, fingers tightening. You both know that he could overpower you easily; other than the mandatory drills, you aren’t the sort to work out like hunters like Jamie need to in order to keep themselves strong and safe. It wouldn’t surprise you if he could lift you with little effort. Yet he remains happily on his knees, letting you guide him, that same playful, teasing little smile slipping into a smirk at the edges of his lips. “I mean it.”

“You really think that’s what I want to talk about right now?” Jamie asks, eyebrows raised, voice low and husky and filled with incredulity. A breathy laugh escapes from you and you shake your head, the tightness in your chest giving way to anticipation.

Thumbs hook over the waistband of your panties, blue eyes holding your gaze; he slips them down without looking away. You hardly dare to breathe as the cold night air meets your heated flesh, sending a wave of goosebumps skittering across your skin. Now that you are exposed fully, you realise how wet you are. Jamie eases the sodden fabric down as far as your knees before he focuses his attention higher, rough hands gently pressing your thighs apart.

He slowly moves his head down, ignoring the way that your fingers still tangle painfully in his hair. Jamie hums, pleased, as he takes you in for the first time, a single, thick finger brushing over thatch of hair covering you. Cheeks heat, lips part, an excuse ready on the tip of your tongue when Jamie presses forward and your world narrows to nothing but him. 

Broad hands hold your thighs apart as his nose presses against your folds, trailing down from the soft, downy hair to the slick lips hidden below. Jamie’s tongue moves leisurely as he licks a stripe across you, teasing across your entrance before moving up, and up, and up. His nose bumps the eager nub of your clit, his tongue soon following. Your head thumps back against the wall, the momentary jolt of pain not enough to register as he hums again, pleased with what he finds. 

You can’t remember when you last did something like this. No, that isn’t true — you know you have never done something quite like this. You have been in Jamie’s position before, eyes wide and ready to please, eager for some scrap of attention thrown your way. For such a tight-knit community, it can be lonely, being one of the only ones without a partner at your age. It’s like being on the outside always looking in. When you were younger, when you still thought there was a chance of finding someone just for you, you had done it more often. But it has been years since you last even thought of lowering yourself to your knees for anyone. And nobody has ever offered to return the favour, much less dropped to their knees first. It’s as if Jamie is determined to prove you wrong about him at every turn. He really is one of a kind. 

Lips wrap around your clit and your hands tighten in his hair, forcing him closer, heedless of his comfort, or if he can still breathe. A high pitched keen echoes around you, too loud for comfort. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, instead tilting your head back and staring up at the star-smattered sky. 

Tightness coils low in your belly, tension drawing tighter, and tighter, and tighter, as he teases your sensitive bud. A single thick finger traces the length of your slit as Jamie coats it in the proof of your excitement. A calloused fingertip probes at your entrance, circling, holding back as if waiting for permission. 

You’re close. You can feel yourself dangling on the precipice, the tension almost too much to bear. His tongue swipes across you in a broad stroke as he pulls back, blowing lightly against your quivering flesh. You swallow back a sob.

“Fuck. Jamie, please?”

“I knew there were good manners in there somewhere,” he says, the pointed tip of his tongue flicking over your pulsing bud before two fingers press inside of you without warning. Thick and tough and perfect, you can feel the strength behind his touch, every hard earned callous from years of handling a bow rubbing against your sensitive walls. You clench around him instinctively as he moves his hand, fingers curling, pressing, searching for that one spot guaranteed to make you see stars. 

You tip over the edge embarrassingly quickly, clinging to his curls as calloused fingertips rub across your g spot insistently, drawing out every once of pleasure you have left to give. Your chest heaves as you take great, panting breaths. 

Eyes creeping open, you peer down at him, already anticipating how this will go; now you have had yours, it’s his turn to have you. Maybe on your knees or bent over for him. At least he had the decency to make you come first. You lower your wrist from your mouth — when had you raised it? Neat teeth marks give away the way that you did your best to stifle your cries as Jamie sent you tumbling over the edge. 

Aftershocks of pleasure shoot through you, leaving you feeling weak at the knees. You glance down towards him at last, expecting to see his cock already out and impatience on his face. He has his fingers in his mouth; eyes wide, his gaze piercing you as a wet, pink tongue darts out, chasing every last drop of you from his skin. 

“That’s one. Let’s see if you’re ready to give me another.” 

You hear him speaking, but his words don’t register. Your hands hang limply by your sides; the wall holds up the entirety of your weight. Thumbs hook over your outer lips and he presses back between your thighs, honing in on his prize. 

Flingers slide back in to the hilt, this time pumping steadily. Plush lips kiss a wet trail across your thighs, leaving open-mouthed kisses and nipping little bites in his wake. He pauses at the junction where your thigh and hip meet, determined to leave behind a mark that you will feel for days. 

By the time the warm puff of his breath brushes against your clit again you are already dripping around his fingers, clenching in time with his thrusts. You want to beg for more, you want to feel what it would be like to have him inside of you properly. To feel like you belong to him. You press your hands tightly against your mouth, twisting to bite down on your wrist more harshly in an attempt to stifle the desperate, growing noises pouring from your lips.

The pointed tip of his tongue drags a leisurely circle around, and around, and around where you want to feel it the most. Hips stutter, giving an aborted little thrust as you try to guide him to where you need to feel him the most. Need rising, you try again, back arching, hips pressing forward. Amused blue eyes flick up towards you. He holds your gaze, unblinking, as lips wrap around your clit and he hums.

Mouth falling open in a wordless cry, you topple into the abyss. You hadn’t realised how close you were. Jamie’s fingers keep thrusting, his tongue still working your sensitive bud as your peak stretches out, waves of pleasure crashing over you and receding. Each time you think it is almost over, that surely you have finished, he twists his fingers just so, rough pads dragging across your sensitive inner walls, or his tongue darts out to tease at the trembling bud nestled between your legs. 

“Jamie,” you manage to gasp. It’s half plea, half whine; it’s all you can manage to get out. It only serves to make his grin widen. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

He presses the flat of his palm against your mound, warmth seeping into you. A third finger probes at your entrance, stretching you, filling you completely. You reach for him weakly, to pull him close or push him away you, aren’t sure anymore. Your other hand moves to cover your mouth; you’re already being too loud, too needy, too easy to overhear.

This time you watch him, determined not to miss a second as he plays your body with a level of expertise you have never felt before. Pebbled nipples rub against the fabric of your blouse, the sensation momentarily distracting you. You can see movement in the distance, around the village hall. Maybe it’s just shadows or a trick of the light but it’s enough to make you shift in place, the rounded tip of your scuffed mary janes pressing between his spread thighs, glancing across the unmistakable line tending his jeans. 

It’s Jamie’s turn to let out a shuddering breath; you press more firmly, watching his face closely. Eyelashes flutter, lips parting. He grinds down against your shoe — it’s no longer than a moment, but it’s still enough. Feeling how much he wants this, how much he wants you, is enough to make you see stars. The edges of your vision go white as you give in to the sensations washing through you, release rolling through you in unending waves. 

Beneath you Jamie gasps; muscles tighten around him, forcing his fingers to lock in place. You press your foot up, holding steady as you give him the space to rock against you, his movements sharp, filled with determination and need. 

He presses his forehead against your stomach, cheek resting against your thigh as he finds his release. You run your fingers through his hair, gently untangling sweat soaked locks as he tries to catch his breath. You find yourself staring at the top of his head, wondering what it would feel like to have more of him inside of you; how big is he? How thick? A man with Jamie’s confidence, a casual thing he wears about him like a secondskin? You have no doubt that same confidence would translate to the bedroom. If his performance so far is anything to go by, it would be quite the memorable experience.

“Maybe next time, we’ll have to take this somewhere with a bed,” you say softly, breaking the silence. Your back feels raw, your blouse and cardigan nowhere near enough to protect you from the rough brickwork behind you. Jamie lets out a low hum as he carefully tugs your underwear back up into please. He presses a kiss to the sodden fabric, lips lingering. 

Jamie pulls back, fluidly moving from his knees to standing. He reaches up to swipe at his beard with the sleeve of his jacket, chasing the lingering proof of your coupling from his lips. Tilting your head back, you take a step forward, rising onto tiptoes to press your lips to his. A broad palm presses lightly against your chest, holding you back. 

Your eyes widen, understanding setting in. Oh. So that’s what this is.

You take a stumbling step back, then another, and another. This time, Jamie doesn’t follow. 

“Wait—”

You shake your head, forcing a smile on your lips. “I’m glad we could move past our little disagreement. Tell Spike I still expect him on time on Monday, even if he is on his way to becoming a real hunter now.” 

“You know I can’t— you knew what this was, didn’t you?” he says, voice strained, lips turned downward. He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, pushing back stray locks from his face. Guilt creeps into the edges of his eyes as he takes your silence in lieu of an answer. “Fuckin’ hell, you didn’t.”

Your stomach twists. Embarrassment crawls up through your chest, tendrils creeping out and across every inch of you. For all that Isla is safely tucked away in their house, she is still there, in their house. Jamie is still hers. 

“That’s on me, not you,” you say firmly. He stills. Eyes search your face, looking for some hint of deception. His shoulders relax, tension easing out of him. 

You brush down your skirt, making sure everything is in place, before turning to leave. There’s nothing more than needs to be said. 

You are halfway down the street before you hear the sound of boots on cobblestones as he hurries to catch up. “Wait! Let me walk you home.”

“Really, it isn’t necessary. I know the way,” you say dryly. 

He laughs, a breathy little sound as he joins you, walking by your side. “Let me anyway?”

The silence is more amicable than awkward, much to your surprise. It isn’t far to walk, but it is slow going with nothing more than the stars to light your way. 

“It won’t change anything,” you say softly. You can feel his eyes on you. “So there’s no need to worry about that. I won’t say a word to anyone.”

“Thank you,” Jamie says gratefully. He lets out a long, low sigh. “You must think—”

You shake your head, not letting him get any further. “It’s none of my business. Everyone knows…”

“Everyone knows what?” His words are sharp, defensive. You find yourself shying away from him instinctively. The moment he realises his expression falls, shame replacing stubborn pride. Softly, so softly you almost can’t hear him above the low murmur of the wind. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

You don’t think he would. Not on purpose. But you can’t say for sure. Your footsteps begin to slow. It takes him a handful of steps to notice. You come to a stop outside of your gate and he sends you a sheepish little smile. “This is me. I told you it wasn’t far.”

“Aye, you did.” He looks at your front door longingly, as if he hopes you will invite him inside. You wonder how many hours you could have together, just the two of you. Half the island was at the party by the time you left; it wouldn’t surprise you if the other half has joined them by now. How long can he be away from Isla before she notices? Would she even notice? “I could—”

Before he can finish speaking you slip through the gate, closing it firmly behind you. Lips twist down, eyes lowering as he takes in the barrier between you. “You’re a good man, Jamie. This isn’t what you want. Not really.”

“You barely know me.”

“I might not know you well, but I know of you. A fine, upstanding member of this community, even if you can be a little bit stubborn sometimes. You’re a good neighbour to have. An excellent hunter, by all accounts. And…” You look away, unable to hold his gaze. “A loving family man. Go home, Jamie. Your family is waiting for you.”

You’re at your door when you hear him coming up behind you. You daren’t turn.

“No, they aren’t. Spike’s out. He’s practically grown now, and Isla… .” Warm arms hover just out of reach, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder from behind. “Isla hasn’t been waiting for me for a long time.”

You’ve heard the gossip. It’s hard to avoid in a community this size. The cries of pain. The shouting. Things smashing. If it weren’t for those things happening around the clock, no matter whether Jamie is on or off the island, well… at least nobody can deny that there is something terribly wrong with Isla. The community has known that she is sick for some time; you just aren’t sure if anyone has ever heard Jamie acknowledge it out loud. 

“I’m not ready to go.” 

He sounds so small. Broken, almost. He doesn’t have any family other than Isla and Spike. Does he have anyone that he can talk to? Anyone that he can lean on? You turn back towards him, you back pressing against your front door. His head is lowered, his arms hovering, uncertain of his welcome.

Jamie’s shoulders sag as you click your door open and take a step forward. Slipping your cardigan off, you hang it by the front door. Tonight has been nothing like you expected. Everything since your meeting with Jamie on Thursday has felt like one thing after another. And yet…

You turn back to the door, catching sight of Jamie as he begins his slow retreat; reluctant to leave, yet certain that he has outstayed his welcome. Leaning against the doorway you clear your throat. He turns, hope creeping in to the edges of his eyes.

“Are you coming in or what?”

…Jamie isn’t the only one not ready to let go.

[qvicksilversass]

Pietro 

[qvicksilversass]

SEBASTIAN STAN SHARPER World Premiere February 7th, 2023