#* You take the man out of the city not the city out the man for real!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norristrii · 2 days ago

Text

IN EVERY LANGUAGE, IN ANY PLACE.

You met him by accident in Monaco—bad parking, shared laughter, and a night where he taught you French. You never expected to see him again. But in Italy, there he was, this time, speaking Italian. And suddenly, it all made sense. It was him.

pairing. Charles Leclerc x fem! reader.

warnings. age gap (22/27), 8,1k words, google translated french & italian, teasing, suggestive (make out), sexual tension, one-night stand, soulmates kinda, reader wears dress, pet names.

music. Mystery Of Love & Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens.

MONACO FELT LIKE THE PERFECT PLACE to fix your struggle with French. After years of studying, somehow, the language still slipped away from you when you needed it most. It frustrated you, how much effort you had put into learning it, only to still feel lost in conversations. You told yourself that spending a week in Monaco would be the answer—that being surrounded by the language, hearing it every day, would finally make everything click.

That was what you told yourself, at least.

In reality, you had mostly come for the experience. Monaco was beautiful, exciting, full of life. The clear blue water, the elegant streets, the sound of laughter mixed with the hum of expensive cars—it was the kind of place people dreamed about visiting. And if improving your French was the official reason for your trip, it was just a bonus.

Still, despite your best efforts, English had taken over almost every interaction. Ordering coffee? English. Asking for directions? English. The one time you had really tried to hold a conversation in French, the waiter had simply nodded politely and responded in perfect English, like he knew there was no point in struggling through your accent.

It had been embarrassing—but also a relief.

You wanted to get better, you really did. But between the beauty of the city and the ease of slipping back into English, you weren’t sure if you were actually learning anything or just enjoying a break from reality.

Not that it really mattered.

If nothing else, it was a good excuse to be here.

Parking in Monaco was proving to be more of a challenge than you had anticipated. You had expected tight spaces, expected expensive cars lining the streets, expected to feel slightly overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of it all—but actually squeezing your not-so-small sports car into a ridiculously tight spot without scratching paintwork worth more than your entire life savings? That was a different kind of pressure. Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as you focused, adjusting the angle, inching forward with painstaking caution, all while trying not to imagine the disaster that could happen if you miscalculated by even a fraction.

And then, just to make things worse, someone was watching.

A man stepped out of the sleek black Ferrari parked beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his posture entirely too relaxed for someone whose car was in immediate danger. He leaned back slightly, the sunlight catching the lenses of his sunglasses, making it impossible to tell exactly where he was looking—but you didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was amused. His smirk was obvious, practically dripping with enjoyment.

"You better not crash my car," he said, laughter easy, smooth, effortlessly confident, like this was nothing more than casual entertainment for him.

You exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as frustration flared in your chest. You had barely been in Monaco a few days, but the city seemed to be crawling with people like this—rich, cocky, completely at ease in a world where expensive cars and effortless charm were just a given. You muttered under your breath, resisting the urge to say something snarky. Just another arrogant idiot with too much money.

But he didn’t just walk away.

Instead, he stepped closer, taking his time, moving like he had all the patience in the world, like he had decided that watching you struggle was far too entertaining to pass up. His hands slid into the pockets of his jacket as he reached your open window, his posture casual, the smirk never fading.

"You want me to do it?" he asked, the words slow, confident, teasing—but not mocking.

You inhaled, turning to finally look at him properly, prepared to brush him off with some sarcastic remark—but then you saw him. And wow.

Messy brown hair, like he had just run his fingers through it. A mustache that shouldn’t have suited him but somehow did, framing his lips in a way that added to his already unfair level of attractiveness. Sunglasses shielding his eyes, but not hiding the way he carried himself, the easy confidence in his stance, the quiet amusement in the way his smirk deepened.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel as uncertainty flickered through your mind. Was this really a good idea? Letting a complete stranger slide into your driver’s seat and take control of your car? For a split second, an irrational thought crossed your mind—what if he just drove off? What if he disappeared down the street in your car, leaving you standing there, utterly humiliated?

But then, reality kicked in. You were in Monaco. This wasn’t some shady alley where people stole cars out of desperation. This was a place of luxury, wealth, and ridiculous displays of status. The man standing next to you had stepped out of a Ferrari—one that was probably worth ten times more than your own car. If there was anyone in this world who didn’t need to steal a car, it was him.

You sighed, finally letting go of that last bit of hesitation, exhaling sharply like the act of trusting him was somehow exhausting. "Better than humiliating myself any longer, I guess."

The moment the words left your mouth, he moved. Effortlessly, smoothly, like he had done this a million times before. There was no uncertainty in his movements, no hesitation in the way he slid into your driver’s seat. His hands settled on the wheel, adjusting for a brief second before shifting into gear.

And then—just like that—he parked.

Perfectly.

One smooth, confident motion. No back-and-forth adjustments, no struggle, no second-guessing. Just precise control, like he had been doing this since the moment he learned how to walk.

You stared, blinking, processing.

Well. That was humbling.

He stepped out of the car with the kind of confidence that only someone truly comfortable in their own world could have. His smirk hadn’t faded, and as he shut the door behind him, he glanced at you with a look that practically radiated smug satisfaction.

"See? Easy," he said, flashing a smile, like parking a car in Monaco’s ridiculously tight spaces was the simplest thing in the world.

You scoffed, crossing your arms but unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. "Show-off.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered by your comment. "I’ve lived here my whole life," he said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. "I know every parking space."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. "Every parking space?"

His smirk deepened, his sunglasses catching the light as he leaned casually against his Ferrari. "Every good one," he clarified, voice smooth, effortlessly confident.

His gaze lingered for a moment, sweeping over you before shifting toward your car’s plate, his smirk deepening with quiet amusement. There was something about the way he looked at you—like he was studying, piecing together details, making his own quiet assessments without needing to ask any questions.

"You’re not from here," he observed, his voice effortlessly smooth, carrying just enough intrigue to make the statement feel like it meant something more than just a simple remark.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly as you shifted your weight, arms crossing loosely over your chest. "Was my parking that terrible?”

The corner of his lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin, one brow lifting ever so slightly in a way that made it painfully obvious he was enjoying himself. "Maybe," he admitted, dragging out the word like he was savoring it, like he was deliberately teasing. Then, after a beat, he shrugged. "But also—your plate."

You glanced toward your car for half a second before looking back at him, the realization settling in. Right. He wasn’t wrong—your plate was a giveaway. A clear sign that you weren’t local, that you were just passing through, that maybe you didn’t quite belong here the way he obviously did.

And yet, there was something about the way he said it—the easy confidence, the teasing smirk, the way he made the most basic observation feel like it carried weight—that made you wonder if he was sizing you up for reasons beyond just where you were from.

Wow. He knew exactly how to charm a woman.

You shook your head slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you clarified, "No not at all. I'm just here for my studies."

Your tone was light, casual, the kind of response that was meant to keep the conversation simple, easy, without giving too much away. But somehow, saying it out loud made Monaco feel even more like an unfamiliar world—like you were an outsider dropping into a place that wasn’t entirely yours.

His smirk didn’t fade, but his interest sparked just a little more, like your answer had intrigued him in ways you hadn’t expected. He tilted his head slightly, watching you carefully, processing your words before responding.

"Studies, huh?" he mused, the word rolling off his tongue with casual amusement. "Let me guess—French?"

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head, knowing he wasn’t entirely wrong. "Yeah, and before you say anything, yes, I know my parking skills weren’t helping prove that."

He chuckled at that, a rich, low sound that sent a flicker of something through your chest. His posture remained relaxed, his hands slipping effortlessly into the pockets of his jacket as he continued to study you. "I wasn’t going to say anything," he teased, but there was something in his tone—something playful, something knowing—that told you he absolutely was going to say something.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling softly, feeling the light breeze move through the streets around you. Monaco might have been full of cocky, charming men—but something about this one felt different.

His smirk lingered, and even though you had answered his question, it was clear he wasn’t quite done with you yet. He shifted his weight slightly, the ease in his posture never fading, and you could tell that this conversation—this interaction—was something he was enjoying far more than just idle small talk.

"So, a week in Monaco to improve your French?" he mused, the teasing edge still in his voice. "Bold choice."

You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. "I wouldn’t say bold," you corrected, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. "Necessary might be a better word."

He hummed, tilting his head as he studied you again, like he was deciding something about you that he wasn’t going to share just yet. "And how’s that going for you?"

You let out an exaggerated sigh, glancing around for a moment, pretending to survey your surroundings like you were searching for evidence of your progress. "Well," you started, dragging out the word, "so far, I’ve mostly spoken English."

His chuckle was immediate, rich, the kind of sound that felt entirely too warm for someone as effortlessly smug as he was. "Ah," he mused, shaking his head slightly. "So, failing, then?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed any real attempt at annoyance. "I wouldn’t say failing.”

His smirk deepened, and for a second, the moment stretched—comfortable, easy, natural in a way that caught you just a little off guard.

His smirk remained steady, the confidence in his stance effortless, like it was second nature. He leaned against his car with ease, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the way he was watching you—curious, amused, intrigued in a way that made it clear this conversation was far more entertaining to him than just polite small talk.

"What’s your name, pretty girl?" he asked, voice smooth, laced with something teasing, something knowing. "Maybe I can help you with your French."

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. There was something about him—the way he was so unapologetically confident, so comfortable in the way he carried himself, so assured in his approach—that made it hard not to enjoy this. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t shy. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"I’m Y/n," you said finally, letting the words roll off your tongue with the same casual ease, letting your voice carry the same playfulness, the same subtle challenge that told him you weren’t just going to let him lead this conversation. Then, after a beat, you tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flicker over him deliberately before adding, "And you, pretty boy?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw it—a flicker of something in his expression, barely noticeable but definitely there. Surprise.

But only for half a second.

Because then, just as effortlessly as before, his smirk returned, deepening like he had expected you to play along, like he had hoped you would. And suddenly, you were certain—he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

His smirk didn’t waver, but there was something in the way his head tilted slightly, like he was sizing you up, weighing your reaction, testing the waters of your confidence. He had expected you to flirt back—you could see it in the way his lips curled, in the amused glint behind his sunglasses—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t enjoyed the confirmation.

"Pretty boy?" he echoed, amusement dripping from his tone, his posture shifting just slightly, the casual confidence never fading. "I haven’t been called that in a while."

You shrugged, keeping your expression light, playful, effortlessly unbothered. "Well, I call it like I see it.”

His chuckle was slow, rich, the kind of sound that carried more meaning than it should have, like he was taking his time with this moment, like he was deliberately drawing it out. Then, in one smooth motion, he reached up, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—sharp, green, filled with something that was equally teasing and analyzing all at once.

"Charles," he said finally, his name rolling off his tongue like it belonged here, like he belonged here.

Something about the way he said it told you this wasn’t just a name—it was an introduction. A moment meant to stick. A small shift in the atmosphere that hinted this wasn’t the last conversation the two of you were going to have.

Charles’ words hung between you, smooth and effortlessly confident, like he had extended the invitation knowing you wouldn’t refuse. He leaned casually against his car, arms crossed, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the smirk beneath them—felt the unspoken meaning lingering just behind his offer.

“So, Y/n—tonight on my yacht?" he suggested, voice easy, teasing, yet somehow carrying a quiet challenge. Then, after a beat, he added, "For a French lesson."

You raised a brow, crossing your arms, your lips twitching at the corners as you studied him. "French lesson, huh?" you echoed, letting the words stretch just enough to make it clear you weren’t fooled. "That’s the reason you’re going with?”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, completely unbothered by your skepticism. "You do need the help," he pointed out, the teasing laced in his tone impossible to miss. Then, with that same smirk, he shrugged. "Besides, is there a better way to learn than on a yacht, under the stars, with someone who actually speaks French?"

You exhaled softly, pretending to weigh your options, even though—deep down—you knew there was only one answer.

Charles watched you carefully, his smirk never wavering, the challenge in his eyes evident—even through the shield of his sunglasses. He wasn’t just inviting you onto his yacht for a simple lesson; he was inviting you into his world, into his Monaco.

And somehow, despite the little voice in the back of your head telling you to be rational, telling you that this was probably a bad idea, you still found yourself intrigued.

"Alright, fine," you finally said, crossing your arms, tilting your head slightly. "But only if you promise I’ll actually learn something.”

He chuckled, pushing off his car with a casual ease. "I promise," he mused, his voice carrying just enough mischief to make you question if he meant it.

Something told you that stepping onto that yacht wasn’t just going to be about learning French.

Charles’ smirk deepened ever so slightly, like he knew he had won—like he had expected you to say yes but still enjoyed hearing the confirmation. He reached into his pocket, effortlessly pulling out his phone, fingers moving smoothly as he sent off a quick message, probably setting things in motion for the evening ahead.

"You won’t regret it," he assured, slipping the phone back into his jacket, watching you with that same quiet confidence. "Meet me at the docks around eight."

You raised a brow, pretending to weigh the offer in your mind, even though you had already made your decision. "And what exactly can I expect from this so-called French lesson?”

Charles chuckled, pushing his sunglasses up slightly, the smirk never fading. "That depends," he mused. "Are you a fast learner, or do you need some extra motivation?"

There was something about the way he said it—something teasing, something layered—that made it clear tonight wasn’t just about learning French.

And somehow, you found yourself looking forward to it.

"I prefer motivation," you said, your smirk matching his, refusing to let him have the upper hand too easily.

Charles’ own smirk widened, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze, like he had expected that answer but still enjoyed hearing it. There was something about the way he carried himself—an easy confidence that never wavered, a natural charm that wasn’t forced but felt effortless. Every movement, every glance, was calculated just enough to draw you in without seeming deliberate.

He pushed off his car with a casual ease, adjusting his jacket like he had all the time in the world, taking a slow step forward. The shift was subtle—barely noticeable to an outsider—but you noticed. He wasn’t just moving closer; he was setting the pace, drawing out the moment, stretching the space between you just enough to make it feel intentional.

“Good," he murmured, voice smooth, carrying a teasing undertone yet laced with something undeniably confident. He let the words settle between you, his smirk never fading, his gaze locked onto yours. “Because I happen to be very good at motivation."

You raised a brow, refusing to back down, meeting his challenge without hesitation. There was a playfulness in the exchange, but also something else—something neither of you were quite willing to name yet.

───

The evening was warm, the air carrying the fresh scent of the sea as soft waves lapped against the dock. Lights from the yachts reflected on the water, casting a golden glow, making everything look just a little more magical. The docks weren’t too busy, just enough movement and quiet chatter to remind you that Monaco never truly slept.

You stood there, shifting slightly, adjusting the books tucked under your arm, as if they made this feel more like an actual lesson instead of… whatever this was becoming. Your black dress fit just right, hugging you in all the places that made you feel confident. It was shorter than what you usually wore, but tonight felt different. You had spent extra time getting ready, making sure everything was smooth, perfect, just in case.

Your eyes moved over the yachts, each one shining under the dock lights, sleek and expensive. Some were massive, almost too large to seem real, while others were slightly more understated—but only in the way Monaco’s wealthy could be. You wondered which one belonged to him.

Then, footsteps. Steady, calm, unhurried. The kind of walk that told you this person had all the time in the world.

You turned just as Charles stepped into view. He looked effortlessly put together, wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually, the top few buttons undone. He fit here, belonged in this world, carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew he was charming.

His smirk appeared the moment he saw you, his gaze sweeping over you with easy amusement before flickering to the books in your arms.

“Not bad, Y/n," he mused, voice smooth, teasing. “You actually brought them?"

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Of course," you said, tilting your head slightly. "I take my lessons seriously.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or just entertained.

“Well then," he murmured, stepping aside, motioning toward the large, sleek yacht behind him. "Let’s get started."

Charles led the way up the dock, his movements easy, natural, like he had done this a hundred times before. As you stepped onto the yacht, the soft sway beneath your feet reminded you that this wasn’t just any boat—it was luxury, through and through. Sleek, modern, with soft lighting that cast a golden glow over the pristine deck. Everything was polished, elegant, effortlessly perfect.

You barely had time to take it all in before Charles turned to you, hands slipping into his pockets, smirk still in place.

“Make yourself comfortable," he said, motioning toward the seating area at the back of the yacht, where plush cushions surrounded a glossy table.

You exhaled softly, moving toward the spot, setting your French books down before settling onto one of the seats. The evening air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and expensive cologne—a mix that somehow suited the moment too well.

Charles took the seat next to you, leaning back, stretching his arm over the edge of the seat like he belonged there, like he belonged everywhere.

“So," he mused, eyes flickering toward the books before back to you. “Where should we begin?"

You raised a brow, tapping your fingers lightly against the cover of one of the books. "That depends. Do you actually plan to teach, or was this just an excuse to get me here?”

His chuckle was immediate, warm, amused. "A little bit of both," he admitted, flashing you a grin. "But don’t worry—I’m a great teacher.”

Charles wasted no time. The moment he settled into his seat, he leaned back, his smirk unwavering as he casually started speaking in smooth, fluent French—his words flowing effortlessly, his tone relaxed yet confident, like he was testing you, like he was enjoying watching your reaction.

You blinked, trying to catch at least some of what he was saying, but it was hopeless. His words blended together too quickly, too naturally, and before you could even try to keep up, you found yourself laughing, shaking your head as you lifted a hand in protest.

“Hey, hey—slow!" you said, amusement clear in your voice, your laughter slipping between the words. "I’m trying to learn, not get overwhelmed!"

Charles chuckled, his expression practically glowing with amusement, clearly enjoying this. He tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider your request before shrugging.

“Ah, but learning under pressure is the best way, no?" he teased, eyes flashing with something both playful and smug.

“I ended with animals," you said, smiling as you flipped through the pages of your book. Somehow, despite all the effort, all the attempts at forming proper sentences, you had ended up learning random animal names instead of anything actually useful. It wasn’t exactly what you had planned when you stepped onto the yacht, but at this point, you weren’t sure if anything about tonight was going according to plan.

Charles raised a brow, clearly amused, his smirk deepening as he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights cast a warm hue over his skin, making the teasing glint in his eyes even more noticeable. "Animals?" he echoed, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement.

You grinned, feeling oddly proud of your one solid takeaway. "I know how to say owl," you announced, sitting up a little straighter, ready to flex your knowledge.

��Chouette," you said confidently, looking at him like you had just won something.

But the moment the word left your mouth, Charles burst into laughter, shaking his head immediately, his whole body leaning back slightly as he let the sound roll through him.

“Non, non,” he chuckled, his amusement clear as he ran a hand through his hair, still grinning. "Your accent—what was that?”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. "Excuse me?”

“Excuse you,” he teased, still laughing, his eyes shining with pure entertainment. "That was terrible.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing too, shaking your head as you grabbed your book again, flipping through the pages like you were searching for proof that you had said it correctly. "Fine," you huffed, pretending to be annoyed even though you were enjoying this far more than you should. "Teach me how to say it properly, professeur.”

Charles smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel too intentional. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something else—something neither of you were quite acknowledging yet.

“Gladly," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours for just a second longer than necessary.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He leaned in just a little more, closing the space between you, his smirk still firmly in place as he spoke again—slower this time, deliberate, letting the word roll off his tongue in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

"Chouette," he repeated, his voice smooth, rich, carrying that effortless charm that made even a simple correction feel like something more.

You watched him carefully, trying to focus on the actual lesson, but it was hard when he was this close, when the warmth of the evening mixed with the quiet hum of the water beneath the yacht, when the teasing glint in his eyes made it clear he was enjoying this far too much.

You cleared your throat, straightening slightly, determined to get it right this time. "Chouette," you tried again, mimicking the way he had said it, paying attention to the way the syllables should sound.

Charles tilted his head, considering it for a moment before nodding slowly. "Better," he admitted, though the smirk never faded. "Still not perfect, but better."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"I’m thorough," he corrected, leaning back slightly, finally giving you a little space—but not too much. "You wanted motivation, didn’t you?"

You exhaled, pretending to be exasperated, but the truth was, you were enjoying this far more than you had expected.

"Fine," you said, crossing your arms. "What’s next, professeur?"

Charles chuckled, reaching for your book again, flipping through the pages like he was searching for something specific.

"Let’s see… something useful this time, maybe?" he teased, glancing up at you with that same playful glint in his eyes.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, amusement playing behind his sharp gaze as he leaned back against the cushioned seat. There was something about the way he carried himself—unrushed, confident, like he had all the time in the world and was thoroughly enjoying the moment. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights reflected in his eyes, making his expression even more unreadable, more teasing.

"Quel âge as-tu? (How old are you?)" he asked, voice smooth, effortless, slipping into French like it was second nature. The words rolled off his tongue easily, and you wondered briefly if this was still part of the lesson or if he was just trying to collect details about you, learning bit by bit, pretending it was all just casual conversation.

You actually knew what that meant. For a split second, you considered whether he was testing you—gauging how much you had actually picked up from your lessons so far. Was he genuinely curious, or was this just another excuse to keep the conversation going, to shift things into something more personal? Either way, you weren’t going to make it too easy for him.

But you played along anyway.

"J'ai vingt-deux ans (I’m twenty-two)," you answered, keeping your voice casual, easy, like you weren’t thinking too much about the way he was watching you now. The words felt familiar, comfortable enough that you didn’t stumble over them, and you felt the smallest twinge of pride in that.

Charles raised a brow, nodding slowly, considering your response like it meant more than just numbers. He let the moment stretch for a second longer than necessary before finally speaking again.

"Vingt-deux (twenty-two),” he mused, rolling the words over his tongue like he was tasting them, testing how they felt in the space between you. "Not bad."

You smirked, tilting your head slightly, matching his energy. "And you?"

His smirk deepened, like he had been expecting the question, like he had been waiting for it. There was something unreadable in his eyes for just a brief second—something calculating, something amused.

"Vingt-sept (twenty-seven)," he said finally, the number settling between you in a way that made the space feel smaller, more intentional, like the conversation had shifted into something just a little more personal.

And for some reason, you didn’t mind.

You hadn’t expected him to be twenty-seven. Maybe twenty-five at most, but hearing the number settle between you made you reconsider. It suited him—the quiet confidence, the effortless charm, the way he never seemed unsure of himself. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly who he was, someone who had already carved out his place in the world and wasn’t wasting time doubting it.

And really, was it a bad thing?

Rich, pretty, older than you? That was basically everything you wanted wrapped up in one dangerously charming package. He had the kind of presence that made people take notice, the kind of energy that drew you in without you even realizing.

Charles must have noticed something in your expression because his smirk deepened just a little, like he could read your thoughts, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. His eyes lingered on yours for half a second longer than necessary, like he was quietly enjoying your reaction.

"Surprised?" he asked, voice low, teasing, as if he already knew the answer.

You shrugged, refusing to let him see too much, keeping your expression neutral even though you could feel the way the conversation had shifted slightly. "A little."

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, like he was figuring out the best way to keep this moment stretching just a little longer. "Don’t worry, twenty-seven isn’t old," he mused, his tone playful yet steady, as if daring you to challenge him. "I promise I’ll keep up."

He handed you a glass filled with crisp white wine, the cool surface pressing against your fingers as you accepted it. The golden liquid shimmered under the soft yacht lights, casting reflections that danced with the gentle sway of the boat beneath you. There was something effortlessly smooth about the way Charles moved, like every action was carefully measured yet completely natural at the same time.

"Comment trouvez-vous Monaco? (How do you like Monaco?)" he asked, his voice carrying that same teasing lilt he had kept throughout the night.

This time, you actually understood—or, well, you understood one word. Monaco. The rest? A blur of syllables spoken too fluidly, too easily for you to process.

Still, there was no way you were about to admit that so quickly.

You mirrored his movement, lifting your glass slightly before taking a small sip, buying yourself a second of time. Then, after setting it down, you smirked. "Monaco," you repeated, nodding as if that was a perfectly valid answer.

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slowly, setting his glass down for a moment. "That’s it?" he teased, watching you closely.

"That’s all I got," you admitted, laughing lightly, swirling your wine in the glass. "Something about Monaco. Am I close?"

His grin widened, and he exhaled through his nose, clearly entertained. "Close enough," he mused, swirling his own glass gently before taking a sip. "I asked what you think of it."

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing out over the water, the city lights shimmering in the distance, the soft hum of waves filling the quiet spaces between words.

"It’s… surreal," you admitted after a beat, looking back at him. "Like it’s not real life, you know?"

Charles nodded slowly, studying you for a moment, his expression unreadable—but curious.

"It’s a world of its own," he said, voice softer now, reflective. "Some people come here and never leave."

For a moment, you wondered if he was including himself in that.

You swirled your glass absentmindedly, watching how the golden liquid caught the yacht’s soft lighting, reflecting the quiet glow of the Monaco skyline in the distance. There was something surreal about being here, about sitting across from Charles, about the effortless way the evening had unfolded.

"Just like you?" you asked out of curiosity, tilting your head slightly, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your glass.

Charles' smirk remained, but his eyes held something softer now, something thoughtful. "I was born here, actually," he said, the words coming out effortlessly, like it was something he had explained a hundred times before.

You blinked, processing his words as you set your glass down. Somehow, the idea of Charles being born in Monaco made perfect sense—but at the same time, it caught you off guard. You had always assumed people came here, drawn in by the glamour, the exclusivity, the effortless luxury. But for him, this wasn’t just a place to visit. It was home.

Charles leaned in slightly, his smile lingering, the challenge evident in his eyes. He had been enjoying this, guiding the conversation just enough to keep you engaged, watching closely as you navigated your way through each question, each attempt at forming sentences.

"But I want you to answer," he said smoothly, tapping his fingers lightly against the side of his wine glass. "In French."

You took a breath, steadying yourself, determined not to let this moment slip. French wasn’t easy for you, and answering on the spot, with him watching, only made it feel more intimidating. But you weren’t about to back down.

Carefully, deliberately, you put your best effort into the answer.

"J'aime cet endroit, surtout maintenant (I love this place, especially now)," you said, the words coming out slower than his but clear enough, confident enough.

Charles tilted his head slightly, considering your response, his smirk deepening just a little, like he was amused by the effort, impressed despite himself.

"Not bad," he mused, taking a sip of his wine, eyes still locked onto yours. "You like this place… especially now?"

You nodded, meeting his gaze, holding onto the moment just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.

"Yes," you admitted, setting your glass down, fingers grazing against the rim absentmindedly. "The lesson is helping."

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Ah, so I am a good teacher," he teased, sitting back, watching you like he was still figuring something out.

Charles moved in, slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you with an ease that made your pulse quicken. His presence was impossible to ignore, his confidence effortless, like he knew exactly how close he could get before it became too much—except this time, too much was exactly what you wanted.

The wine had settled in your system, warmth spreading through your limbs, but that wasn’t what made you lean in slightly, wasn’t what made you hold his gaze with unwavering certainty. You wanted this. You wanted him. Even though, just hours ago, he had been nothing more than a stranger who happened to help you park your car.

His voice was low, smooth, carrying that undeniable edge of amusement as he spoke. "Tu es vraiment jolie, tu le sais? (You are really pretty, you know that?)”

And for the first time tonight, you understood every single word.

You felt your breath hitch slightly, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle between you.

"You think so?" you mused, tilting your head slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened in response.

"I know so," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, carrying just enough certainty to make the air between you feel heavier, charged.

The hum of the yacht, the quiet waves against the dock, the distant sounds of Monaco—it all faded into the background. Right now, there was only this.

Only him.

Charles’ breath was warm against your ear, his words barely above a whisper, yet you felt them—every syllable, every hesitation. They weren’t just words; they were an unspoken confession, a quiet unraveling of the careful, effortless charm he had worn all evening.

“Je te veux un peu. (I kinda want you)”

It was quiet. Careful. As if he wasn’t sure if he should be saying it at all, as if he was testing the weight of the admission before fully giving in to it. Until now, every glance, every smirk, every lingering touch had felt intentional, like he knew exactly how far to push without giving too much away. But now? Now there was something uncertain, something raw beneath his teasing façade.

“Is it weird?" he asked, his voice softer now, lower, suddenly hesitant in a way that didn’t feel like him.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, to catch the faint flicker of uncertainty in his expression, something rare, something unexpected. The space between you was dangerously small, but neither of you moved to widen it.

“You only kinda want me?" you asked, arching a brow, a teasing lilt in your voice—because you weren’t uncertain. Not even a little. You wanted him. More than hesitant words and uncertain breaths. You wanted all of him.

Charles exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against yours in quiet confirmation. His smirk returned, curving just at the edges, but there was something different about it now. Something heavier. Something decisive.

“Okay," he murmured, voice lower, thicker, like the hesitation had finally melted away. “Beaucoup. (A lot)”

Charles' eyes held yours, dark with intent, his grip firm against your waist, like he already knew what was coming—like he had been waiting for it. The tension between you had stretched for too long, simmering beneath each teasing exchange, each lingering touch, each second of withheld restraint.

And then, finally—

“Embrasse-moi, Charles. (Kiss me, Charles)”

You barely finished the words before he acted.

He kissed you. Hungrily. There was no hesitation, no teasing buildup anymore—just pure, undeniable want. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly, needing you closer, needing more.

His lips moved against yours with intoxicating urgency, fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he drank you in, as if he had decided in that moment that this wasn’t just desire—it was necessary.

The warmth of his body, the steady hum of the yacht beneath you, the rhythm of the waves against the dock—it all blurred into insignificance.

His fingers pressed into the fabric of your dress, his grip tight but controlled, holding you in place as if he couldn’t stand even the smallest bit of distance between you. The yacht swayed gently beneath you, the rhythm of the waves mirroring the way his lips moved against yours—deliberate, intense, possessive.

You sighed into him, your own hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer, matching his urgency, meeting his pace.

Charles exhaled against your lips, his breath uneven, his grip tightening at your waist like he was trying to steady himself, like he was savoring the way you fit against him.

"Dieu… (God)” he murmured against your skin, voice low, rough, nearly a groan. "Tu es dangereuse. (You are dangerous)”

Charles' lips moved slowly along your neck, warm and wet, leaving behind red marks that tingled on your skin. Every kiss felt like a spark, like he was setting your nerves on fire with every press of his mouth. He wasn’t in a rush—he took his time, letting each touch sink in, making sure you felt everything.

Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as a soft sound escaped your lips—half sigh, half moan. You could feel him smiling against your skin, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And he did. He always did.

“Fuck, Charles,” you whispered, barely able to speak, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t just desire in your voice—it was need. His name came out like a prayer, or maybe a plea, heavy with everything you were feeling and couldn’t put into words.

“J’ai besoin de toi chérie, de toi tout entier (I need you darling, all of you),” Charles whispered into the curve of your neck, his voice low, velvet-soft, and full of quiet need. The words wrapped around you like silk, and a shiver ran down your spine before you could stop it.

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed—not just by the sound of his voice or the way his hands knew exactly where to rest, but by the simple, impossible truth of it all. This moment. This man. You had never imagined anything like it, not even in your most daring, secret dreams. Yet here you were, wrapped in the arms of a man older than you, powerful, undeniably attractive, and utterly, disarmingly real.

─── SIX MONTHS LATER

The sun hung high over Bologna, casting golden light over the terracotta rooftops, warming the historic streets and filling the air with the scent of espresso and freshly baked bread. The city was alive, bustling with movement—locals chatting outside cafés, tourists wandering with cameras slung over their shoulders, the distant hum of a violin playing somewhere in the maze of alleyways.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. It was just a stop—an indulgence before heading to Neapoli to see your friend. A chance to walk these streets you’d always dreamed of visiting, to taste, to experience, to collect fragments of a place you had admired from afar for years.

But then—something made you pause.

A car.

Sleek, polished to perfection, black with a striking red and white stripe cutting through the front. It sat at the curb, motionless yet demanding attention, gleaming under the afternoon light like an invitation you weren’t sure you should take.

Your steps faltered.

You knew this car.

You had seen it before—maybe in Monaco, maybe somewhere else, maybe in a moment that had slipped from your grasp but never really left you.

Nothing seemed more fitting in the moment than pulling out your phone, filming the scene for your friend. You had vlogged your entire trip through Italy—every stunning view, every hidden café, every little unexpected moment. So why not this?

You held up the camera, steadying your grip as you zoomed in slightly, capturing the sleek black Ferrari resting against the curb. The sunlight gleamed off its polished surface, accentuating the striking red and white stripe that cut across the front.

“Questo è così familiare… giuro che ho già visto questa macchina da qualche parte (This is so familiar… I swear I've seen this car somewhere before),”you murmured into the phone, your voice lined with curiosity and amusement.

A fleeting thought pressed at the back of your mind, an eerie sense of recognition tightening in your chest. This car—this exact car—you had seen it before.

You hit record, adjusting your grip on the phone as you zoomed in on the Ferrari parked near the curb. Its glossy black finish gleamed under the Bologna sun, the sharp red and white stripe cutting across the front like a signature—bold, impossible to overlook. There was something undeniably familiar about it, something that made your heart pick up its pace, something that pulled at your memory in a way that you couldn’t quite shake.

“Ragazza, giuro che sembra una follia, ma io conosco questa macchina! (girl, I think I sound completely crazy, but I know this car!)” you exclaimed, your voice carrying a mix of excitement and disbelief as you pointed directly at the car, ensuring it was fully in the frame. The words felt almost surreal as they left your lips, but deep down, you knew it wasn’t just some passing coincidence. You had seen this car before. You had been near it.

Without hesitation, you sent the video to your best friend, watching as the message processed before disappearing into the chat.

Your phone remained in your grip, screen still bright, messages from your friend continuing to flood in one after another. Each notification made the situation feel even more surreal, like reality was still catching up, like fate had decided to drop something unexpected right into the middle of your plans.

You could already imagine her reaction—her shock, her excitement, probably yelling at her screen, demanding answers you weren’t even sure you had.

But before you could even type out a reply, before you could take a single breath to process the moment, a voice slipped effortlessly through the space behind you.

Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.

“Non mi hai detto che parli italiano. (You didn't tell me you speak Italian.)”

The words sent a jolt straight through you, freezing you in place.

Your fingers tightened around the phone instinctively, your heartbeat picking up its pace, the world around you suddenly feeling different—like the sounds of the city had softened, like the warmth of the sun wasn’t the only thing settling against your skin.

Slowly, carefully, you turned.

And then—

Charles.

Standing just a few steps away, effortlessly composed, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity, the faintest smirk playing at the edge of his lips. The sight of him pulled something deep from your memory, something tied to warm nights and whispered challenges, something you hadn’t expected to feel again.

Charles watched you carefully, his gaze steady, holding onto that slight smirk as if he already knew how this was going to unfold. His posture was relaxed, effortless, yet there was something undeniably focused in the way he looked at you—something quietly deliberate, like he was taking in every detail, like he was committing this moment to memory.

You felt the weight of it—the unexpectedness of his presence, the quiet charge lingering in the space between you, the way time seemed to hesitate just long enough to make you wonder if fate really had orchestrated all of this.

It had been six months since Monaco, since nights stretched out on a yacht, since whispered conversations and stolen moments, since something shifted in a way that neither of you had fully defined. You had left knowing there was no clear path forward, no promises, no expectations—and yet, standing here, looking at him now, it was impossible to pretend that nothing had changed.

“You surprise me, chérie," Charles said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the teasing edge to his voice not quite masking something deeper beneath it.

You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of your lips despite the rush of thoughts tumbling through your mind. "Seems like I’m not the only one full of surprises."

His chuckle was soft, amused, but his eyes held something more—something familiar yet entirely new.

“It appears fate enjoys playing with us," he mused, his voice lower now, more measured, more certain.

Charles hesitated, his gaze locked onto you with a quiet intensity, like he was studying you, searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. The sunlight slipped across his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the ease in his posture, the familiar warmth in his expression—soft, careful, holding something unspoken.

It had been six months.

Time had passed—fast, slow, uncertain—and yet, standing here, in a city neither of you had planned to meet in, it felt impossibly like none of it had passed at all.

His gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, taking you in, as if he was looking for the parts of you that had changed, the parts that had stayed the same—the parts he had memorized without meaning to.

“Will you stay this time, amore?"

The words left his lips slowly, carefully, carrying something heavier than just curiosity. There was no teasing, no playfulness—just quiet truth. Just a question that felt more like an invitation, more like a possibility, more like hope.

You felt the weight of it press against your chest, the way the words settled into the space between you, waiting—patient, deliberate, meant to be answered.

Stay.

Six months ago, the idea hadn't even been on the table. Monaco had been fleeting, temporary—a moment suspended in time, something that existed separately from reality. And yet, now, standing here in Bologna with Charles watching you, waiting for an answer, it felt like an entirely different choice.

“I will.”

babsie radio ! My first longer Charles fic!! If you’re italian/french and spot any mistakes in the translation, let me know!!

#formula 1 #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #cl16 x y/n #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #cl16 x you #cl16 fic #f1 x female reader #scuderia ferrari #f1 writing #f1 imagine #formula one fic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #forza ferrari

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goyardgoyangi · 10 hours ago

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street racer! sukuna flying you out

You’ve never flown this far for a man before. Not for a boyfriend. Not for family. And Sukuna’s neither of those things—not exactly. Not officially.

But when your phone lit up at 2:03 a.m. with his name and a text that read: Tickets in your email. I want you there, you didn’t even hesitate.

You stared at the screen for maybe thirty seconds, heart pounding like a drum in your throat, rereading the words until they didn’t look like real language anymore.

The airport is a blur of escalators, overpriced coffee, and stiff plastic seats. Your fingers wrap tight around the phone in your lap the entire time, like it might vanish if you let go. You keep checking the itinerary like the tickets will disappear, like he might change his mind.

The flight is quiet. Too quiet. You keep looking out the window even though the clouds all start to look the same after a while. You scroll through old texts—most of them short, chaotic, voice notes, a few shirtless selfies he never even commented on after sending. There’s one photo of you he took when you weren’t looking, sun hitting your skin just right.

You wonder if he looks at it too.

The room he booked was ridiculous—plush king bed, balcony overlooking the city, bathroom big enough to echo in. The towels are folded like little swans, and there’s a basket of fruit on the coffee table that you know he didn’t pick, but somehow it still feels like a love language.

You glance at the bed, then toward the empty side of the room. He’s not here.

Your heart dips before you catch yourself. You’re not here for him like that. Not officially. Not yet.

Still, your name is on the reservation. You wonder if he had to spell it out loud—if he got annoyed when they asked for your ID, or if he said it proud like it meant something. You picture him at the front desk, arms crossed, scowling while the poor receptionist stammers through the check-in. The thought makes your stomach flutter.

By the time you make it to the track, the sun is brutal and the crowd feels like it’s vibrating. Everything is loud: the engines revving like wild animals, bass-heavy music pulsing through the speakers, vendors yelling about merch and drinks and souvenir flags. And there it is—his banner. Sukuna’s face smirking down from the overhead display, tattoos sharp beneath the collar of his fireproof suit. He looks like he was born for this, like chaos bends around him.

You try to shrink into your hoodie. You feel like you shouldn’t be here—like you’re intruding on a moment that belongs to him. You’re just a girl in the crowd, aren’t you? A fly-in. Temporary.

But then— “Thought I told you to be in the VIP tent.”

You turn, heart skipping—and there he is.

Hair tied back, suit half unzipped and slung around his waist, black tank clinging to his chest like it was painted on. His tattoos coil around his biceps, disappearing beneath fabric in smooth lines that look almost sacred. He’s squinting against the sunlight, sunglasses dangling from one hand, and he’s looking at you like he’s been scanning the crowd for hours just to find you.

“Hey,” you breathe, surprised by how relieved you feel at the sight of him.

He looks you up and down, then sighs, “Didn’t I tell you to wait where it’s shady?”

You shrug, trying not to smile. “Didn’t want to be in the way.”

He steps closer, tugging on the sleeve of your jacket with two fingers. “You wearing sunscreen?”

“…No?”

He shakes his head, muttering something about stubborn girls under his breath, and pulls a small travel tube from his back pocket like he knew you'd be reckless. He doesn’t even say anything—just squeezes some into his palm and gently smooths it across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. His fingers are rough but careful, his brow furrowed in concentration like he’s tuning a car, not touching a girl.

You blink up at him, stunned silent.

“There,” he murmurs. “Can’t have you going back sunburned.”

“You always take care of your pit crew like this?”

He snorts. “You think I flew you out here just to keep you hidden?”

You roll your eyes at his sass. “Didn’t fly me first class either.”

“You liked that window seat or not?”

You try not to laugh, but he sees the way your mouth pulls into a smile, the way your eyes soften. He always sees it.

You always do this—pretend it’s casual, pretend he doesn’t mean more than he should. Pretend the butterflies are just nerves, pretend you’re just friends with benefits with frequent flyer miles. But the way he’s looking at you now… the way he touches you like you matter? It makes pretending feel stupid.

He steps in until your toes nearly touch. “Come with me.”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the pit. I want you there when I line up.”

Your brows lift. “Are you sure?”

He leans in, voice low. “I don’t want to look over and not see you.”

Your chest twists. “You’re gonna make me think you actually like me.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ do,” he says easily—like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true.

You’re still short-circuiting when he laces his fingers with yours and starts pulling you through the crowd. His hand is warm, a little calloused, his grip loose but certain. It’s not just for show. He doesn’t let go, not once. Not when security waves you through. Not when pit crew nod in passing, glancing at you like you’re familiar. Like you belong.

It’s chaos around you, heat and noise and movement, but he stays close—always checking if you’re still beside him. His thumb rubs across the back of your hand once, slow and thoughtless. You wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.

When you reach the pit, his car glints under the sun like a weapon. Matte black, red striping, the number 20 on the hood. Same number tattooed on his hands. You’re not even into cars, but you have to admit—this one looks mean. Fast. Like it has a heart that beats the same as his.

He lets go of your hand to shrug on his fireproof jacket and zip it up. A crew member hands him his helmet. You catch him sneaking a glance at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“You nervous?” you ask, voice soft.

He’s quiet for a second, then glances at the track, then at you. “Nah. Not about the race.”

That shouldn’t hit the way it does, but it does.

You cross your arms, chewing the inside of your cheek while he tugs on his gloves. You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure what you are to him.

But before the crew can herd him toward the lineup, Sukuna turns to you again.

“You stay right here, yeah?” His voice is low, almost drowned out by the rising engines. “Don’t disappear on me.”

“I won’t,” you say quietly.

He steps in close again, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes locked on yours.

Then—just when you think he might lean in to whisper something—

He kisses your forehead.

Not your cheek. Not your lips.

Your forehead.

It’s simple, but it knocks the air out of you.

He pulls back just a little. “Be good.”

You nod, a little dumb. A little dizzy.

And when he turns to walk toward the car, you already know—whether he wins or not, whether this thing between you ever has a name—you’ll remember this moment forever.

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shidoglazer · 20 hours ago

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you bought the last croissant in the bakery before hearing a man grumble about it behind you. as soon as you left the bakery and to the bustling city, there was an extra set of footsteps following behind you. “oi.” he called out, a voice that sounds a bit too familiar.

you turned your head back, the croissant already in your hand ready to be eaten as he takes out a large sum of money, more then what you paid for the croissant. “could i have that croissant? i-.. oh?” you slowly take a bite of it, savouring it a bit too theatrically as he stares at you with disbelief, yet admiration from your confidence of winning something so small.

“its mine.” you say with a mouth full of the pastry, and its surprising that you see him chuckle instead of being upset or walking away. “unbelievable.” he grabs your hand and shoves the money inside it anyways. “make sure to count the amount.” he says before walking away. you’re left there dumbfounded holding a croissant and money that looks almost too suspicious. you quickly wolf the croissant down your throat and start to count the money, before you see a piece of paper clipped in there.

“m. kaiser. xxx-xxx-xxxx. liked my act? ;)” smug. fucking. bastard. but don’t worry. because internally, he was thanking the heavens for letting everything go according to plan.

despite your “dissatisfaction”, you didn’t even hesitate to run back home and type in the number into your phone, maybe this is the start of a love story.

masterlist

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fromdove · 16 hours ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⁞ fuzzy socks && kisses

word count: ~2308 words

pairing: jason todd x fem!reader

warnings: no warnings!! just fluff fluff fluff

dove's notes: hope you lovelies feel fed! i've been in kind of a writing slump lately but this got my ass out of it, thanks jason! you sexable man

∿　　 . `💭` ㆍ

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

It’s late. Like... late-late. The kind of late that seeps into your bones.

Even Gotham—loud, wild, unapologetically feral Gotham—has finally surrendered, just for a moment, to something like stillness. The city glows in that soft amber-orange light, the kind that feels more at home in an old Polaroid than in real life. The sun is almost fully up now, low and golden, peeling the night away.

The usual chaos seems to fold in on itself, hushed by the light drizzle slicking the pavement, taming the streets into quiet. The rain isn’t a storm—just a gentle mist that turns the city’s sharp edges soft and blurry. Streetlamps still flicker with that worn-out, golden buzz—old, tired things that have been burning too long and just want to be left in peace.

Jason’s key slides into the lock with practiced ease, he turns the key just right, pushes the door so it doesn’t squeak, nudges it closed with the heel of his boot instead of the knob. and the door clicks shut behind him just as silently.

He doesn’t need to be sneaky here—not really. but old habits die hard, and years of slipping through shadows don’t shake off just because he’s home. His movements are practiced, second nature: helmet off first, carefully set on the shelf by the door. One boot, then the other—nudged off with the toe of the opposite foot, slow and quiet like the night depends on it.

The hardwood greets him with a low, familiar groan—right on cue. That same loose floorboard just past the entryway. The one he told himself he’d fix months ago. He meant to. Still does. He just... hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Too many nights chasing down people who make louder noises than floorboards ever could.

You don’t stir from the creak.

Turns out he was right. You waited up for him.

He’d asked you not to wait up. Not in a demanding way—never like that—but soft and worn-out. He’d pulled you in earlier, arms snug around your waist, face tucked into your hair. Kissed the crown of your head and mumbled it into your scalp. “Get some sleep, yeah? please don't wait.” Low, rough, he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night worried about you too.

And you had nodded against his chest, mumbled something into his shirt that sounded like “okay.” And then you’d looked up, eyes squinting, and stuck out your pinky.

“Promise,” you said, voice soft but still holding that stubborn spark. “Double pinky swear. Triple. Triple pinky swear with a twist. and the secret seal, you know the seal.”

You wiggled your pinky at him like it was the most sacred of all vows. you made it seem like it would physically hurt you for him not to make it official. And when he tried to pretend he didn’t remember the "secret seal", you just poked him in the chest, right over his heart, with a dramatic little hmph.

“Seal it,” you said. So he did. He kissed your pinky, then your forehead, and said something grumbly about how ridiculous this was. But he was smiling when he said it, all soft around the edges. so you didn't take him too seriously.

He should’ve known you’d break the swear the second his back was turned.

he should know by now what your promises mean.

When you say, “I’ll sleep, I pinky swear,” what you really mean is: “I’ll lie on the couch with something playing, just to fill the space. I’ll tell myself I’m not waiting, that I’m just resting, but I’ll keep glancing at the clock anyway. Keep listening for your key in the door without even realizing I’m doing it. I’ll stay like that until my eyes finally give up on me.”

And, well. here you are now, proving exactly that.

You're curled up in the corner of the couch, soft and still. One arm hangs off the edge, fingers loose and completely at ease. Your head's tilted in a way that would probably horrify a chiropractor, smushed against an old throw pillow that’s definitely past its prime. The blanket you meant to wrap around yourself is bunched awkwardly at your waist, halfway sliding off. Your feet are bare, sticking out at the end.

He shakes his head.

“You and the goddamn socks,” he mumbles, almost fondly.

You never remember them. He reminds you every time. Sometimes through gritted teeth, sometimes through a text sent from five rooftops away. Somehow, he always knows when you’re not wearing socks—even when he’s nowhere near you.

He swears you forget on purpose. Just to get under his skin.

He doesn’t care about Gotham winters—not for himself, anyway. But when it comes to you, suddenly it’s a national emergency. He’ll play the overbearing mom if he has to, lecturing you about cold floors and catching colds and how you’re definitely going to get sick if you keep this up. He just wants to make sure you’re warm and okay. And if that means telling you to “put on your goddamn socks” like it’s life or death—then yeah. He’ll do it. Every single time.

But it’s hard to be annoyed. Looking at you like this, he can’t feel anything but softness.

The TV’s still playing. Some old movie you’ve seen a dozen times, maybe more. you’ve worn this DVD out. You’ve cried during it, laughed at it, talked over it. The dialogue is quiet, the music gentle, and he recognizes the scene even without looking—it’s the one you always quote, the one that always makes you cry, even when you say it won’t this time.

He doesn’t move right away.

Just stands there in the entryway, taking you in.

There’s a soft crease pressed into your cheek from the pillow. Your lips are parted slightly, breath slow and even. One leg’s folded beneath you, the other hanging off the couch like you gave up halfway through trying to find a comfortable position.

For a moment, his chest aches with the gentleness of it. from how soft it all feels. The quiet trust of being missed. Of being waited for. Of being loved in a way that's steady and patient and real.

Eventually, he moves toward you, his steps light. Careful not to jostle the couch.

He crouches down beside the couch, one knee down first. Then the other. resting one forearm on the cushion as he watches your sleeping face up close for a beat longer than necessary. There’s a smear of mascara under one eye from where you must’ve rubbed it in your sleep. He notices the way your eyelashes flutter. The soft puff of your breath when you exhale. The faint remnants of whatever lip balm you’d put on earlier, faded into a subtle shine.

His hand hovers for a second before brushing a loose strand of hair off your forehead.

“You forgot socks again, sweetheart,” he murmurs under his breath.

He nudges one of your toes, just to check if you’ll move. You don’t. You’re completely knocked out.

God, you look so cold. He can’t seem to shake that thought.

He moves carefully. He takes one arm beneath your knees, the other under your back. He lifts slow. Doesn’t rush it. Your body sags against his shoulder with a sigh, head finding its usual home in the crook of his neck.

He holds you for a second longer than he needs to. Just standing there in the middle of the dim living room, the flicker of the TV painting sleepy shadows across the ceiling, your heartbeat slow against his chest.

Then he walks.

He walks you to the bedroom in silence, letting the movie play on in the background like white noise.

He leans down slowly, careful not to rush as he lowers you onto the bed. Your body melts into the mattress with a quiet sigh, your arms falling loosely by your sides, completely surrendered to the idea of rest.

Once you’re lying there, he pulls the covers up gently, making sure the blanket doesn’t drag over your face. Without really thinking, he shifts your pillow just a little, tucking it closer so you’re comfortable.

Then he slips out of the room for what feels like no time at all—just long enough to dig out a clean pair of his thickest socks. The kind so ridiculously bulky they look like something your grandma would have knitted with all the love in the world but zero concern for fashion.

The fuzzy, wool-lined ones, way too big for anyone but somehow perfect, the ones he bought you during some crazy snowstorm. the same ones you refuse to wear because you think they look ridiculous.

He kneels at the foot of the bed like he’s about to propose to your frozen feet and carefully peels back the blanket, just enough to free your toes. They twitch a little when the cool air hits them. He smiles to himself, like yeah, cold. thought so.

He warms your feet first with his hands. Rubs his thumbs gently over the arch of one foot, then the other. His palms are calloused, sure, but warm—so warm. He murmurs something barely audible while he works, something like, “You're going to be sick if you keep this up.” but there’s laughter buried in the rasp of it.

Then he pulls the socks on—slow and careful, making sure they don’t tug or stretch out of shape. He slips them onto your feet one at a time, smoothing the edges gently, his thumbs brushing softly over your ankles.

And then, like he can’t stop himself, before he pulls the covers back over your feet, he leans down and presses a slow, gentle kiss just above your ankle bone. Right in that little space between where the sock ends and your skin begins.

Then he stands back up and carefully tucks the two thick blankets around you—one side, then the other—making sure you’re snug. He even folds the top edge down near your collarbone, just enough so you won’t get too hot, but still stay cozy.

He brushes some hair out of your face. Lets his fingers rest there for a moment, just above your temple.

He probably should’ve showered by now—still smelling like sweat, gunpowder, and whatever else Gotham threw at him tonight.

Not wanting to dirty your bed, he quietly slips off to the bathroom.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The shower lasts about twenty minutes. He keeps it quick. Not rushed, just efficient. Muscle memory, mostly. Hot water, steam thick in the air, the scent of soap clinging to his skin. He scrubs away the grime of the city, the kind that seeps into your bones even when nothing technically went wrong.

He’s not injured tonight. No bruised ribs, no split lip, no blood staining his knuckles. Somehow, it was a quiet patrol—so quiet it made the back of his neck itch with suspicion. But nothing happened. For once, Gotham gave him her version of a night off.

And he took it. Reluctantly.

Now, clean but still a little damp, his towel-dried hair curling at the ends, he’s wandering down the hallway barefoot and shirtless. Jason’s a total hypocrite—always fussing about you wearing socks and staying warm so you don’t get sick, then here he is doing the exact opposite. If you were awake and saw him like this, he’d never live it down. But honestly, you’re no different—you’re always on his case about being careful and responsible. Guess that makes you two just two sides of the same stubborn coin.

Every step slightly quicker than the last, the hum of the apartment settling into sleep around him.

The bedroom door creaks faintly as he pushes it open. You’re still in the same position he left you in—curled up beneath the blankets, your breathing deep and slow. He smiles to himself.

He pulls back one side of the blanket slowly, careful not to let the cool air wake you. Then he climbs into bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. The sheets are warm. You are warmer.

As soon as he settles, you stir—just a little. Your body shifts with the change, but you don’t wake. Not really.

Still, your hand finds his.

It’s slow and searching, like your body is half-asleep but still knows exactly where it wants to be. You don’t even open your eyes. Just reach out blindly, fingers brushing along his until they slot perfectly between his own.

He Just stares at your face in the low light filtering in through the curtains. His chest tightens—not in the bad way, not like panic or dread. In the way that makes him feel too full. Like there’s something blooming under his ribs and it doesn’t know where to go.

You tug his hand toward you slightly, not even aware you’re doing it. He shifts closer without thinking, until his chest is pressed to your back and his forehead is resting in that familiar dip just behind your shoulder. He exhales slow. Letting himself sink.

Your skin is warm beneath his touch, and your hair still carries the soft scent of your shampoo.

He presses the lightest kiss to the curve of your shoulder blade, actually not even really a kiss—more like a pause. A place to rest his mouth.

Night, sweetheart,” he whispers. His voice is rough, a little low and lazy from sleep he hasn’t let himself have yet. But there’s something softer underneath it.

You don’t speak. You just make a quiet sound in the back of your throat—something between a sigh and a hum. The kind of noise someone makes when they feel something good and safe and familiar settle beside them.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

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fdelopera · 2 days ago

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Queer Jews have been at the forefront of queer liberation since the beginning of the gay rights movement. And now most goyim are trying to shove queer Jews out of the civil rights movement that we have given our blood, sweat, tears, and sometimes our very lives to.

Same as it ever was. Jews do the hard work, and then goyim STEAL our contributions and slam the door in our face.

Queer goyim need to remember that many of the rights that they take for granted were secured for them by queer Jews like Harvey Milk who literally died for the cause of queer liberation.

Harvey Milk’s Jewish Identity

August 27, 2018

The Jewish identity of Harvey Milk—arguably the most famous gay man in modern history—was as important to who he was and what he did as his gay identity. In San Francisco where he became a prominent gay leader and politician in the 1970s, he often introduced himself as a “New York Jew.” He liked the upfront bluntness of the appellation; but it also described a personal history that was formative for him.

Harvey Milk was born on Woodmere, Long Island in 1930. His grandfather Mausche Milch had been a Yiddish-speaking peddler from Lithuania who’d made good in America, opening the town’s first department store and co-founding its first synagogue. Like much of Long Island in the early decades of the twentieth century, Woodmere had been a hotbed of anti-Semitism. In the 1920s, Mausche and several other Jews who wanted to affirm their American success tried to join the local country club—but they discovered it had a “no Jews” policy. Mausche helped establish a Jewish country club. In the 1930s, a music teacher was rejected for a position by the Woodmere School Board because she was Jewish. Harvey’s father Bill, together with other Jewish parents, fought the school board until she was hired.

Harvey learned not only those stories but stories about the Klan marching regularly on Long Island in the 1920s; he learned too of the German-American Bund, a Nazi organization that held huge rallies on Long Island throughout his childhood. In 1943, six days before his bar mitzvah, the Warsaw Ghetto fell. Harvey remembered all his life the adults around him explaining that the Jews of the Ghetto who fought to the end knew they were doomed, but “when something that evil descends on the world, you have to fight, even when it’s hopeless.” Such things left an indelible stamp on him. They affirmed for him his identity as a Jew, and they helped determine who he became as a political figure.

In 1947, on his own for the first time and a student at the New York State College for Teachers in Albany, Harvey sought to carry on the Jewishness he’d learned at home. He joined a Jewish fraternity, and he attended Sabbath dinners at the campus Hillel and meetings of the Intercollegiate Zionist Federation of America. Coming home for winter break one year, he visited a high school friend, a Catholic, whose family was hanging Christmas lights. “Here, let me help,” Harvey said, and he was given a section of lights to hang. Always a cutup—but also lest anyone forget who he was—Harvey fashioned his section into a twinkling Star of David.

Years later, when Harvey opened Castro Camera in San Francisco, he displayed his bar mitzvah photo prominently on a wall in the store. He loved to talk Yiddishkeit with his Jewish customers. Elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors and swamped with official duties, he was nevertheless visited often in his office at City Hall by Henrietta Abrams, an elderly constituent who called him her “little Jewish prince.” Henrietta, who’d learned of Harvey’s sweet tooth, baked him cookies and brought them to him on the bus. According to Harvey’s assistant, Anne Kronenberg, Harvey would usher Henrietta into his office, close the door, and together they’d munch cookies. Their talk was sprinkled liberally with Yiddish.

But Harvey’s Jewishness went far beyond such charming sentimentalities. He once declared, “Jews know we can’t allow discrimination—if for no other reason than we might be on that list someday.” There may have been a degree of wryness in the statement; but it also hints at how marked he was by what he’d learned in his youth of anti-Semitism. The Holocaust became a major metaphor in his speeches, decades after the tragedy. In 1978, Proposition 6 qualified for the California ballot. If passed, the Proposition would have prohibited gay people from working in any capacity in the public schools. Harvey was a leading figure in the fight against it. The witch hunts that its passage could trigger seemed to Harvey to have catastrophic potential; and his very emotional speeches often referenced the greatest catastrophe he knew. “I cannot remain silent anymore,” he told one audience. “There was silence in Germany because no one got up early enough to say what Hitler really was. If only someone did, maybe the Holocaust would never have happened.” He told another audience, “Just as Proposition 6 would prevent gay people from teaching in the public schools, so forty-five years ago did the German law prohibit Jews from teaching or holding any other civil service positions.” He gave fevered warnings: to ignore the deadly threat to which Proposition 6 would lead, he said, was “to be like Jews in Nazi Germany as they were being loaded into box cars and hoping they will be treated nicely and not put into the ovens.”

But the Jewishness that Harvey brought to his politics went beyond such frenzied fears. From his mother (who died of a heart attack in 1962 after delivering a twenty-four-pound turkey to a settlement house so the poor could have a Thanksgiving dinner) Harvey learned the obligation of tikkun olam. For him it meant championing not just the gay people who had been largely responsible for putting him in office, but all those who were discriminated against or oppressed. Harvey served on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors for only eleven months before he was assassinated. In that brief time, he fought hard to pass a strong gay rights bill—but he fought equally hard for rent control, for humane treatment of troubled youth, for the city’s divestment from apartheid South Africa. He fought for the rights of workers, women, the disabled, racial minorities, and senior citizens. Though as an adult Harvey Milk rejected the religion in which he’d been brought up, he adhered closely to one of its major tenets.

Lillian Faderman is a distinguished scholar of LGBT and ethnic history and literature. She has received numerous awards for her previous eleven books, three of which, Surpassing the Love of Men, Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers, and The Gay Revolution, have been named by The New York Times as Notable Books of the Year. Her latest book is Harvey Milk: His Lives and Death.

I’m having complicated feelings as we enter pride month. I’m a proudly queer and a proud member of the jewish community. And I feel like I’ve been shoved out of the queer community now. I mean it’s been a creeping feeling for years. The Jews that were kicked out of the Dyke March for having the rainbow Jewish flag. I’ve seen Jews that were forced out of other pride demonstrations for having this flag or just being visibly Jewish. Queer Jews deserve to exist as both. We deserve to feel safe in both spaces. We deserve to show our pride in both. We deserve to be visibly Jewish in queer spaces. But this year I feel too scared to go to pride events that aren’t explicitly Jewish. And that’s not a fun feeling. So yeah. I’m proud and scared again

The sad part is every single queer Jew I know feels the same way.

So happy pride month to every single queer Jew here. I love you all and I’m kissing you all on the forehead.

#harvey milk #jewish history #queer liberation #queer history #queer rights movement

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buckysleftbicep · 11 hours ago

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all the little moments 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: so, so much fluff

summary: bucky tries to remember the moment he fell for you—but it wasn’t just one. it was every laugh, every late night, every quiet second beside you. and he finally realises, he’s been falling all along.

word count: 4.7k

author's note: hi my loves! i absolutely loved writing this! thank you @buckyismysafehaven for your request 💓 i hope i got it right! thank you guys for reading!! love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!

The bedroom is quiet.

Not silent, the low hum of the ceiling fan stirs the air, the soft buzz of the city seeps through the walls, but quiet in the way that wraps around you. It was gentle, familiar and safe.

Outside, the moon is high and full, casting its silver glow through the parted curtains. It spills across the sheets in soft waves of light, catching in your hair, brushing the curve of your cheek. Painting you in silver.

And Bucky—he’s lying there beside you, unmoving, watching you breathe.

He should be asleep.

The day had been long. A mission brief that dragged on, the kind of sparring session that left his muscles aching, a too-quick dinner with the team where he had barely touched his food. He should be out cold.

And he is—just not in a way that lets him rest.

His arm is draped loosely over your waist, the dip of your back pressing into the warmth of his chest. He can feel the steady pull of your lungs, the rise and fall of your breathing, even and peaceful. A little hitch in every inhale, like your body forgets it’s safe and has to relearn the rhythm.

He knows that feeling. A little too well.

You make a quiet sound in your sleep, something between a sigh and a murmur. and it knocks the air from his chest. A fragile, instinctive kind of sound that’s so you it aches. Like your soul is brushing against his without even knowing it.

It never gets easier—loving you.

Not because you’re difficult to love. God, no.

You’re the easiest thing he’s ever known. That’s what scares him. That’s what keeps him awake tonight, blinking into moonlight and trying to gather the pieces of a feeling that’s far too big to hold.

Because it crept in quietly, and it stayed loud.

Sometimes, like now, he finds himself trying to trace it. Trying to find the precise moment it all shifted, the second everything inside him stopped running, and turned toward you.

There had to be a moment. Right? One blink. One breath. One laugh. One look.

Where something inside him softened, where the walls cracked just wide enough for you to slip through. Where you reached him, not the soldier, not the weapon, not the caution-taped pieces of a man, but him.

The part no one else could seem to find.

Was it when you touched him like he wasn’t fragile? Like your hands already knew how to hold what everyone else had dropped?

Was it when you argued with him about The Princess Bride at 3 in the morning, eyes bright, voice sharp, utterly unafraid of him?

Was it when he realised he wanted to argue with you forever, just to keep hearing you talk?

He doesn’t know. Not really.

But the question sits heavy in his chest tonight. Settles into the quiet like a second heartbeat.

When did he fall for you?

He looks at you again.

The moonlight makes you glow, not in some poetic metaphor, but really. Soft skin and warm breath and shadows curving at your jawline like you were carved for this moment.

There’s a crease between your brows, like you’re dreaming of something that doesn’t quite sit right. He wants to smooth it away with his thumb. Wants to take whatever burden you’re carrying and hold it himself.

But he doesn’t move. Just watches.

And maybe that’s what love really is.

Not always doing. Just being. Being the one who notices the little things.

How your lip quirks when you’re about to wake. How you press your face into the pillow when the wind howls. Or how you always keep one arm out of the blanket, even when you’re freezing.

His fingers twitch, aching to touch, memorise and hold you.

He breathes in slow, careful. Like if he’s too loud, he might wake you.

And again—

When did he fall?

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t echo. It’s not a scream or a cry or a revelation. It’s just there. Steady. Present. Just like you.

Maybe it wasn’t one moment at all.

Maybe it was a thousand tiny ones, the quiet seconds, split between laughter and comfort and breathless stares, that slipped past him before he ever realised how deeply they mattered.

Maybe he’s still falling. Even now.

He exhales, a soft breath ghosting past your ear, and shifts closer. His arm tightens slightly around your waist, not possessive. Just something quieter.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder. Barely there.

You don’t wake. But you shift in your sleep, inching back into him, like your body knows the shape of his even in dreams.

And Bucky closes his eyes, chest full, heart aching in the best way.

Mind already drifting—

To the first time he laughed wholeheartedly. To the night you stayed up talking.

To all the pieces that led to this moment.

It started with the smoke alarm.

Loud, relentless and shrill enough to pierce vibranium.

Bucky was halfway down the hall when he smelled it—burnt sugar, maybe?

Burnt something. The scent clawed at his throat. He picked up his pace, boots heavy against the tile as the shrieking alarm dragged on.

By the time he burst into the kitchen, it looked like the aftermath of a food fight staged in a war zone.

Yelena stood frozen near the stove, oven mitt dangling from her fingers, smoke curling from a tray of what used to be croissants.

John was shouting something about protocol and “fire triangle theory,” which no one was listening to.

Alexei was on his knees in front of the smoke detector, swatting at it with a spatula like it had insulted his mother. Ava was holding a fire extinguisher in one hand and a coffee mug in the other like it was a normal Thursday.

You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a bowl of batter still in front of you. Perfectly calm.

And then—

The tray slipped from Yelena’s hands. It hit the stove with a loud clang. A poof of flour shot up like an airbag.

Alexei screamed. Loudly. Dramatically. “MY EYES—”

And amidst all of it—no panic. No drama. Just your voice, clear and dry, like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to land.

“This is why we don’t get invited to normal places.”

Dead silence.

Then chaos—again, but different.

Yelena cracked first. Let out a wheeze so sharp it echoed through the room. John burst into laughter so hard he had to brace himself against the fridge. Alexei wheezed through smoke and tears. Ava didn’t even try to hide it, just laughed into her mug, bright smile on her face.

And Bucky?

He broke.

It started slow—just a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Then a laugh. And then another. He bent forward, hand braced against the island, the sound torn straight from his chest like it had been waiting for this moment.

Not the polite kind of laugh he’d give politicians, not the guarded kind.

It was full-body. Shoulder-shaking. Head-tilting-back kind of laugh.

Because it wasn’t just what you said—it was how you said it.

Like you weren’t even trying. Like the disaster unfolding around you didn’t faze you anymore. Like you knew the team too well, and this exact kind of chaos was just another Tuesday.

You didn’t even flinch when they all looked at you, faces red and breathless, wiping tears and coughing from the smoke.

You just raised your brow and added,

“Honestly guys, this is better than last week. No stitches this time.”

Yelena doubled over.

John made a choked sound, grin on his face as he sighed.

Alexei, wiping flour off his face mumbled “she right”

And Bucky—he couldn’t stop laughing.

He didn’t want to. Not yet.

Because for once, the heaviness in his chest had cracked wide open. And inside it, there was nothing but light. Laughter. And you.

He watched you move through the chaos—grabbing a towel, waving smoke away from the oven, nudging Yelena gently out of her daze.

You weren’t flustered. You weren’t demanding praise.

You were just holding them all together like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And god, you were funny. Not in a loud, performative way. You didn’t crack jokes for the sake of attention.

You just saw the absurdity and named it. Softly. Calmly. With perfect timing. And somehow, that made it so much worse—for his composure.

Later, when the kitchen had been aired out, when the croissants had been buried in the trash like fallen comrades, and everyone had migrated to the common room to recover, he sat beside you on the couch.

Not too close. But close enough.

You were reading something, feet tucked beneath you, hair still dusted with flour.

He watched you for a long time before he spoke. Then, quietly:

“You always that calm in a crisis?”

You didn’t look up. “What, like emotionally or logistically?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. Shook his head. “Both.”

You finally glanced over at him, eyes warm, the smallest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

“It’s a talent.”

He was quiet for a second. The team had settled into the kind of silence that comes after shared laughter — breathless and soft, like they’d all needed it and didn’t even know.

Then he said it. Low. Honest.

“I haven’t laughed like that in years.”

You turned to face him fully then. The teasing gone. Smile still there, but quieter now—softer, edged in something that looked a lot like understanding.

You didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Just held his gaze and said:

“Then I’m glad I got to be the one.”

And for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

That warmth. That steadiness. That way you made everyone feel like they belonged — even him.

Especially him.

The memory drifted, softened— —and now, here he was.

The quiet of your shared room, the soft rustle of blankets as he shifted onto his back, careful not to wake you.

You were curled against him, one leg tangled with his, your hand resting gently against his chest like it had always belonged there.

He lied beside you in the dark, the bedroom quiet except for the steady sound of your breathing. Moonlight poured through the half-open curtains, painting silver across your cheek, the slope of your shoulder.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched. And thought about that moment.

“I think it started then,” he thought, “when you made me feel like I could laugh again," he admitted to himself.

Because it wasn’t just the joke. It was you.

And all it took was one fire, one broken croissant tray, one perfectly timed line, and he’d started to fall.

It came to him out of nowhere.

One moment, Bucky was lying in the dark beside you, still, warm, breathing in the quiet. And the next, his mind wandered.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the curl of your fingers resting gently against his ribs, the safe, rhythmic hush of the night—it pulled him under.

And suddenly, he wasn’t in the bedroom anymore. He was somewhere else.

A kitchen. A memory.

Not a loud one, just something small and steady. One of those moments that pressed itself into the shape of him when he wasn’t looking.

The music had been low—some oldies playlist shuffled into a classic. Something bright and brassy. The kind of beat you couldn’t ignore if you tried. He couldn’t even remember the song now, just the way it had felt: light and loose and alive.

And you—you were dancing.

Wearing one of his shirts that he had lent you and never got back. Too big, too soft, the sleeves stopped at your elbows and the hem just barely covered your thighs. Bare feet on the kitchen tiles. A wooden spoon in your grip like a microphone as you swayed and spun.

He’d only meant to get water. But the second he stepped into the room, he stilled.

You hadn’t seen him. Not yet. You were lost in the music, mouthing the lyrics like they belonged to you, hips moving with the kind of ease that couldn’t be faked. The stove hissed quietly behind you, some sauce or soup still bubbling. Alpine wove around your legs, tail flicking, like she’d been part of the choreography all along.

Bucky leaned against the frame and watched.

You danced like no one had ever told you not to. Like the world didn’t weigh on you. Like there was still magic left in the mundane.

You twirled again, laughing as your spoon nearly slipped from your hand. The music glitched—just for a beat—but you didn’t stop. Just clicked your tongue and spun again, sliding across the floor like you owned it.

His chest ached.

He hadn’t realized he was smiling until his face hurt. Hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out on a soft exhale that didn’t sound like his own.

There was a light in you.

Not flashy, not bright like a star. But steady. Warm. Like a candle left in a windowsill, stubborn against the wind.

You moved like someone who had known darkness—but chose not to live there. Someone who had every reason to be bitter and decided to choose joy instead. It wasn’t performative, it wasn’t naive, it was real.

And it gutted him.

That warmth bloomed in his chest again now, in the present—slow, consuming. The same one he’d felt. Familiar and still somehow too big to name.

The song ended. You turned, startled, a little breathless, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. “How long have you been standing there?”

He crossed his arms, leaning casually. "Long enough to question your multitasking skills."

You flushed, stirring the pot without meeting his gaze. “You’re lucky these aren’t burnt.”

“I’d eat them anyway.”

The way you looked at him, then—surprised, soft, like something shifted in the air.

The silence between you held.

You turned back to the stove. “You want some?”

He hesitated. “In a minute.”

The moment passed—but it stayed

And now, in the hush of the bedroom, with your hand curled over his chest and your breath warm against his skin, Bucky thought about it again, felt that moment again.

That light. That laughter.

The ache that wasn’t pain at all—just a kind of fullness that made him feel like maybe he could be more than just what the world had left behind.

And now, Bucky wondered:

"Was it then? When you were just... dancing like the world hadn’t broken you?"

Because maybe that’s when it started.

When you had slowly weaved through the cracks of his walls and into his heart.

Bucky sighed as he turned to look at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. You were still fast asleep beside him, breath soft against his shoulder. The next memory played before he could stop it.

It came back to him on a night that had crept in colder than most.

The compound's heater had broken down days ago, and despite the team’s best efforts, namely John wrestling with the thermostat and Alexei threatening it with a wrench, it hadn’t come back to life.

Blankets had been hoarded, socks pulled up over sweats, and everyone resigned themselves to the kind of chill that sank into the bones.

Bucky hadn’t minded at first. Cold didn’t bother him the way it used to.

Not really.

But tonight—it was more than the cold. His thoughts had been loud. Restless. The kind of noise he couldn’t drown out, not with sparring, not with long walks through snow-covered paths around the compound. They followed him, nipping at his heels, dragging him into a version of himself he was always trying to stay ahead of.

By the time he made it to the common room, his breath puffed out in faint clouds. His sweatshirt hung heavy on his frame, damp at the collar from the wind. His shoulders ached. And all he wanted was quiet—the kind that didn’t echo.

And then, he saw you.

Curled into the corner of the couch like a storybook illustration, knees tucked beneath you, wrapped in that oversized knitted throw you always stole from the armchair. A book was open in your lap, pages bent slightly from how long you’d been holding it, your eyes locked on the words like they held the entire world.

The fire Alexei had finally gotten going crackled low in the old fireplace in the corner casted flickering gold across your features. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, it was quiet, peaceful.

And Bucky…he stopped.

Stopped in the doorway. Stopped breathing, maybe. Just for a moment.

Because there was something in that image—something so quietly lovely it rooted him to the spot.

You were frowning slightly at the page, brows furrowed, lips parted like whatever twist had just hit the plot caught you off guard.

Your whole body was slack with comfort, one arm burrowed beneath the blanket, the other resting on the back of the couch as if it had always known that spot.

Like you belonged there. Like you always had.

He didn’t want to disturb you. He didn’t want to move at all.

Eventually, though, you looked up. Caught him standing there, halfway between the hall and you.

You smiled.

It wasn’t big or showy. Just soft. Familiar.

“Hey,” you murmured. “You look cold.”

He was, now that you mentioned it. He just hadn’t felt it before.

You lifted the blanket wordlessly, just a small shift of your hand, a space made beside you.

A quiet offer.

And Bucky—he crossed the room like he always meant to. Sat down. Let the weight of the day and the cold and everything else fade when the blanket draped over both of you.

The heat of you soaked into him slowly. Your thigh pressed into his. Your arm settled back across the couch, fingers brushing his shoulder like a second thought.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

You just turned another page.

He leaned back, let the fire crackle, let your presence ground him.

Time passed like that. He didn’t keep track. Didn’t care to, he just sat with you. In the warmth you created.

He didn’t even know the book. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was how peaceful you looked. How easily you shared your quiet with him.

No expectations. No forced conversation.

Just… space.

Yours. His.

Shared.

Now, lying beside you in bed, your hand warm against his chest and your breath soft against his neck, Bucky thought of that moment again.

The space you made for him without asking why he needed it.

And he thought, "maybe it was then. When you gave me quiet without asking for anything in return."

Because love hadn’t broken down his door. It hadn’t come with grand gestures.

It had arrived in a soft smile and a space made beside you.

And he’d been falling ever since.

He’d already fallen for you. Bucky knew that now, as clearly as he knew his own name. He didn’t remember when it had started—not exactly.

Maybe it had crept in slowly, like water seeping through old stone, maybe it had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to be noticed.

But it was that night, that quiet, aching night—somehow made it undeniable.

It didn’t just confirm what he felt for you, it was carved into him.

It was one of those nights, the kind that made sleep feel impossible.

The storm outside had rolled in sometime past midnight, all low rumbles and steady rain, tapping against the windows like a lullaby with no melody.

Thunder growled like it had bones to pick with the sky, and the wind sighed through the corridors of the compound, long and low. Not quite violent. Just persistent. Just enough to keep the restlessness in Bucky’s bones humming.

He hadn't even tried to sleep. Not really. His body ached, not from pain, but from presence—that awful, too-familiar feeling of being in it. In his own skin, in his own mind, too aware of the quiet, too aware of the weight in his chest that never quite left. There were nights when it dulled. Nights when he forgot. But tonight, it sat there, aching.

So he drifted.

Down the halls, past the rooms with closed doors and quiet breathing. Until he found himself in the common room, drawn by the dim glow of a flickering emergency light and the faint shuffle of movement.

You were there.

Blanket draped over your legs. One arm cradled around a cup of tea, the other curled beneath your head. The couch sagged gently beneath your weight. You looked up when he entered, eyes soft, tired—but not surprised.

“You too?”

He nodded. “Storm’s loud.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Then, “Or maybe our minds are louder.”

That made him huff a quiet sound. Not a laugh, exactly. But close.

You gestured at the couch. “Come sit? Might as well not sleep together.”

He blinked, and you immediately made a face. “You know what I meant.”

He chuckled under his breath and took the spot beside you. You shifted to make room, the blanket spreading to cover both your legs. The warmth of you hit him slowly, like a tide instead of a flame. No rush. No pressure. Just there.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The quiet stretched—but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt full. Like a space that had been waiting for the both of you to fill it.

You were the first to break it.

“Okay. Worst date you’ve ever had.”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked at him, mouth tugged in a sleepy grin. “Worst date. Everyone’s got one. Don’t say you don’t.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the couch. “Alright. ‘42. This dame fell asleep halfway through the movie. Woke up, asked who I was.”

You snorted. “Wow.”

“Yeah. I think she thought I was someone else the whole time.”

Your laugh was soft, real. “That’s kind of impressive.”

“Your turn.”

“Blind date. The guy said he ran a startup. Which turned out to be code for unemployed. Also wore crocs to our date. Bright yellow ones.”

He winced. “That’s worse.”

You nodded. “And I stayed for the entire dinner. So really, I lost.”

He laughed. You did too. It bloomed between you—gentle, quiet joy. The kind you didn’t have to earn. The kind that just happened.

The storm rumbled again. But it didn’t feel so loud now.

“Steve used to love nights like this,” Bucky said, almost absentmindedly.

You turned slightly, your smile fading into something softer. “Yeah?”

He nodded, eyes on the ceiling. “We’d sneak out of camp sometimes. When we could. We would sit on rooftops and talk about what we would do when the war was over.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let him go on.

“He always said he’d find a place with a porch, you know the real quiet ones. Said he wanted peace, but not too much of it. The kind that makes you grateful.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Did you ever find a place like that?”

His throat worked. “Not really.”

“Maybe not a porch,” you said, gently. “But you found the peace part. Or you’re getting there.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in him shifted.

You leaned forward slightly, knees brushing his. “I miss her,” you said. “Nat. I still hear her voice sometimes when I train, telling me to keep going, that I always had it in me.”

“Bet she’d be proud,” he said softly.

“I hope so. She always saw more in people than they saw in themselves.”

You were looking at him when you said it. Not pointedly. Just… truthfully.

His hand was resting on the couch between you. Yours wasn’t far.

The room felt warmer now. Not from the storm. Not from the tea. Just you. Sitting close. Speaking like it was safe. Like the night wasn’t so long. Like maybe this was the kind of quiet Steve had meant.

You nudged his foot gently with yours. “We’ve both lost a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… I’m starting to think not everything is gone.”

Your fingers touched. Neither of you moved.

You looked down at them—just barely brushing. Then up at him again.

“Do you ever think about the moments that change everything?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I think this might be one of them.”

And there it was.

That ache in his chest that wasn’t painful. That warmth that was too big to name.

He didn’t kiss you. You didn’t kiss him.

But your faces were inches apart, your breaths mingling. You leaned your head onto the couch cushion. He turned to face you, his eyes steady on yours.

The silence returned—but it wasn’t empty. It was full.

Of everything unsaid. Of everything still coming.

You fell asleep like that. Fingers laced. Breaths in sync. Noses almost touching.

And Bucky stayed awake a little longer.

Just to look at you. Just to be there.

Because something about that night—the laughter, the closeness, the weightlessness—felt like more than a memory.

It felt like a beginning.

Was it that night? he wondered, when I didn’t want to fall asleep because I didn’t want to stop looking at you?

Maybe.

Maybe that’s when it started.

Or maybe he’d been falling long before.

But this? This was the moment he knew.

The room was quiet. Not silent—just full of the kind of stillness that came when everything had settled. The kind that felt earned. The kind that made you want to breathe softer, like even sound might disturb it.

Bucky lay there beside you, his chest rising slow, your body warm against his. You were curled toward him, fingers tucked near your chin.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just… looked at you.

And thought about all the moments that had led here.

The burnt croissants. The laughter. Your laughter. The way you danced in his old t-shirt like nothing in the world had ever broken you. The nights you let him talk about Steve, about the war, about the things he’d lost without flinching. Without pity. Just… listening. Staying.

And that night on the couch when your fingers had found his in the dark, and you’d fallen asleep inches apart like it had always been meant to happen like that.

He thought about all of it.

And this ache bloomed in his chest, not the sharp kind. Not the kind that clawed. But a full ache. Heavy and thick and alive. Like love had taken root somewhere behind his ribs and grown too big to contain.

Because he knew. He knew.

It hadn’t been just one moment. It had been all of them.

A quiet accumulation of grace. Of breathless laughter and wordless comfort, of light handed to him again and again, until he finally believed it was his to hold.

Every glance, every silence, every shared second where you just let him be, all of it had been falling. Quiet and certain. Like gravity, like truth.

He didn’t know how to carry something this soft. This good. But god, he wanted to try. He wanted to hold it right. Carefully. Like it was something sacred.

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. You stirred, just barely, and leaned into him, like your body knew his touch even in sleep.

Like something in you had decided that he was the one..

He pressed his forehead to yours.

Closed his eyes.

"It was always you," he whispered, voice low and raw.

And it was true.

He hadn’t just fallen in love with you—he had unraveled into it. Slowly. Completely. Like warmth spreading through frostbitten limbs. Like air returning to lungs that didn’t know they’d been holding.

He loved you.

So deeply it scared him. So honestly it steadied him.

Not in grand gestures, but in quiet knowing. In the way your presence never demanded anything from him.

He kissed your temple, slow and steady, and the weight in his chest didn’t crack this time. It settled.

"I love you," he said, softer now.

Like it had always been true. Like it would always be.

Just a twitch of your mouth. Just enough to let him feel it again, that bloom. That quiet, endless warmth.

He stayed like that, forehead against yours, hand cradling your waist almost as if you were something precious.

Someone he'd never stop choosing.

Because for once, Bucky wasn’t afraid of loving someone this much.

a/n: i had so much fun writing this!! i hope this love finds all of us! 💖

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silkliingerie · 2 days ago

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Mark grayson headcanons ★

ᯓ. Mark grayson/invincible x gn! Reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖🌀

Sfw+nsfw headcanons

(Small bit of female, but rest is gn! headcanons)

Reblogs and likes are appreciated ✶ ᶻz .ᐟ

divider by @/bbyg4rlhelps on tumblr💙

SFW ★

★ He never stops trying to impress you. Even if he fails, it's still so cute.

★ he always craves you, not even just sexually but physically, too. Just your smell, your vibe, your company. Just you.

★ hates seeing you sad, angry, etc. He thinks he might've done something to make you feel that way. So he does everything in his power to get you out of it.

★ such a cuddle bug, like my baby loves being touched and touching you.

★ this boy is soo clingy. He's always following you, holding on to your hand or sleeve.

★ loves hugs. Every time you're at a counter or a table, he always walks behind you and hugs you from behind.

★ you'd always let him babble away about his day or seance dog. Yk, nerd shit.. and he noticed how you'd genuinely listen and was interested in what he'd talk about. It made him giddy and happy.

★ Always gives you cheek kisses every time you guys hug or cuddle.

★ will always fly you anywhere you want, whether it's another city or country. Even if it's just going to the grocery store, he'll never let his princess walk.

★ very affectionate with you,he’s a man after all. He loves to show his gal how much he loves you.

★ if you guys are talking to the GOTG gang or yalls friends, just a lil hand hold or eye contact with you will have this man melting for you. He just loves you soo muchh.

★ SO MUCH PRINCESS TREATMENT WITH THIS MANN. he'll always open doors for you, breakfast in bed, and brushing your hair.

★ He likes taking showers with you, but not in a pervy way. He just likes it when you help scrub and wash his hair, and your hair too!

★ His favorite little nicknames to call you are baby, princess/prince , my love

★ always so quick to do anything for you. Want food? He already out the door. Cold? Blanket is already covering you. Need a hug? Immediately wrapping his arms around you and kissing you gently. He'll do anything for his sweet girl/boy to be satisfied.

Fem headcanons

★ always making sure you're prepared for when you're on your period, making sure you have the right medicine, pads, and snacks.

★ㅤ hates it when you get cramps, hates seeing you in pain. Always holding you in his arms, kissing your head as he cradles you.

"Sshhh.. it's okay, sweet girl."

"I know it hurts, baby.. I know.."

NSFW ★

(Mostly fem)

★ loves seeing how flustered you get by him just doing the smallest things, like when he flexes his arms or lowers his voice a little just to see your thighs clench and face blush red..

★ SHOWER SEX.

★ definitely a pleasure dom, he always puts your pleasure first before his.

★ Loves eating you out, you tasting so good to him. Your wet slick all over his face.

★ pushes your thighs back whenever he’s eatin it

★ his favorite positions are just the basics. Doggy, missionary, and... yk. 69.

★ he'll always make sure not to be too rough with you. He wants to be gentle with you.

★ always checks up on you when you guys make love, making sure you're comfortable with what he's doing.

"Tell me if it's too much okay?"

"I'll stop when you need me to baby."

★ absolutely adores your body. He loves how soft and squishy you are, especially your thighs.

★ he lovess it when you ride him in cowgirl.. holding on to your hips and thighs. Tits bouncing in his face. It's to die for.

★ HES A THIGH GUY. Don't get me wrong, he loves the rest of your body, but your thighs are his favorite.

★ he could never punish you or be rough with you.. you're his sweet girl.

★ But if he were to punish you, he'd go with edging. He loves teasing you as he edges you, seeing you being a whimpering whiney mess as you he pulls his fingers away.

"Not this time baby.. nuh uh."

"You wanna cum so bad huh? Just wanna cum for me?.."

"It's okay, pretty girl, you can take it. You're a strong girl.."

"Look at you shaking baby, you want it so fucking bad huh?"

"Fuckk you look so pretty like this."

★ tbh he's a switch, but mainly dom. (I'll have sun headcanons for him later.)

★ loves praising you, telling you how good your doing and how good you are for him.

A/N: SORRY if this is rushed babes.

#first post #invincible #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #invincible smut #invincible x reader #invincible headcanons #mark grayson smut

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krupiika · 3 days ago

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you take the man out of the city, not the city out the man

#resident evil #resident evil fanart #re9 requiem #re9uiem #re9 #resident evil art #resident evil 9 #comic art #artists on tumblr #leon kennedy #jill valentine #grace ashcroft

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 18 hours ago

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change of plans

Summary: Your plan of waking up Harry with breakfast in bed gets interrupted when Harry finds you in the kitchen wearing only his shirt.

Pairing: Harry Castillo x fem. reader

Wordcount: 2k

Rating: E

Warnings: established relationship, some domestic fluff, smut (unprotected sex), kitchen sex, a hint of breeding kink, fluff, making plans about the future (reversal of a vasectomy)

A/N: I haven't watched the movie since it doesn't come out here until august, but I don't care I love him lol

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Main Masterlist // Harry Castillo Masterlist

It wasn’t often that you were awake before Harry.

Usually he’d be up and out of bed before his alarm went off at 5:30. He’d check the stock market and his emails before he’d kiss your forehead and quietly got up to get ready for the day.

You’d usually wake up when he was about to get out, giving him a tired smile when he came back to bed to kiss you goodbye.

You’d been dating for almost a year, living together for the last two months after your the lease of your apartment ran out and your landlord wanted 1k more. Per week. For a shitty one room apartment that always smelt like Chinese foods from the restaurant in the same building.

And like it was nothing, Harry just offered his place. You had been spending most of the time here anyway but still. Your relationships never were like it was with Harry. You didn’t have to constantly proof your worth or walk around on tiptoes.

For the first time in your life you felt like you were in love with someone who loved you just as much, if not more back. And it felt wonderful.

Dating a billionaire was not on your agenda when you finally gave in and agreed on a blind date your sister wanted to arrange for you.

Only that the man she had set you up with never showed up. Fed up and warming up to the idea that maybe ending up as a single cat lady, you were about to leave when Harry sat down across from you with a warm smile and the question if he could invite you for a drink.

You had spend almost every single day together since then.

Now you were looking at him as he slept. He was laying on his stomach, his face squished into one of his pillows, the bedsheet almost up to his nose. He had come home pretty late, you’d already been asleep when he slipped into bed, cuddling against you and pretty much falling asleep immediately.

One of his biggest projects in Abu Dhabi finally had been signed and with that he could finally relax.

You fought the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair and instead slowly slipped out of bed, grabbing his shirt on your way towards the ensuite.

You grabbed the suit he had been wearing yesterday when you had freshened up, making sure to add them to the pile of the dry cleaning that would be picked up later today, before you walked slowly through the penthouse, towards the kitchen.

The view from so high up was still breathtaking every single time. The sun just so peaking over the clouds, as if you were floating above New York City which was hidden beneath the clouds.

Humming to yourself you walked towards the coffee machine, pressing the button for your favourite before you turned towards the screen that managed almost every device in the penthouse, turning on the radio on a low volume before you walked towards the enormous fridge, opening it.

You picked everything you’d need to make some pancakes, setting it down on the kitchen island before you grabbed your drink, taking a long sip, humming along to a song on the radio.

You wondered if you could surprise Harry with breakfast in bed.

You had taken some days off work, Harry telling you that he wanted to take you out of town to celebrate your upcoming anniversary.

Smiling to yourself you reached for a bowl before you began to add all the ingredients for the pancakes. Whisking them together as the news announced the successful deal Harry had made yesterday, making you smile like a proud mother.

Jumping when you felt arms wrap around you from behind you let yourself relax against his broad chest, Harrys face nuzzling against your neck, his lips pressing against your skin.

„Good morning,“ he hummed and you pouted with a smile.

„I wanted to make you breakfast in bed,“ you said, feeling him smile against your skin. His arms around you tightened and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth when you felt him rub his hard on against your ass.

„How about a different kind of breakfast?“ He kissed up the side of your neck, his facial hair softly scratching over your skin. You were still slowly whisking the pancake mix when one of his hands slipped under your shirt, slowly up your stomach.

„Mhhhh and what do you have in mind?“ You smiled, tilting your head to the side to give him more access.

His hand found one of your breasts, giving it a gently squeeze as he moved his hips against yours, a low moan escaping your lips.

„How about I show you?“ He mumbled as his other hand slipped between your legs, groaning when he found you wearing nothing underneath.

You gave up on the pancakes when his fingers slipped through your folds, the whisk falling down on the marble island with a clang. Turning your head, his lips were on yours immediately, two of his fingers pushing inside of you.

He hummed against your lips, his tongue slipping between them, deepening the kiss all while his fingers moved inside of you, lazily working you up.You brought one arm up and behind you so your hands could reach him, your fingers slipping into his hair.

„More,“ you mumbled against his lips and and he grinned, his thumb rubbing over your clit and you gasped.

„Wanted to wake you up with my mouth on you,“ he said, voice hoarse. You let your head fall back next against him, his mouth on your jaw as your lips parted.

„Take my time with you,“ he said, his hand on your breast playing with your nipple.

„Been so busy with work lately, I missed you,“ your other hand came to hold on to his arm across your stomach.

„Missed your wet little pussy,“ he sucked on your earlobe and you moaned, already close to your orgasm.

„You fucked me in the shower yesterday,“ you reminded him, voice breathy and he chuckled.

„Not the same. When we get off the plane I intend to not leave the bed for at least three days,“ he whispered against your ear, his fingers finding the spot inside of you that made you shake, focusing his fingers on it. You came with a soft cry of his name, and Harry hummed a „good girl“ against your ear as he continued to pump his fingers into you.

When his fingers finally slipped out of you you release a long breath before you turned your head to kiss him again.

„Plane?“ You mumbled against his lips. He smiled, kissing your nose.

„Surprise,“ he winked, bringing his hand up, licking his fingers clean, his other hand still on your breast. Narrowing your eyes playfully you turned around, crossing your arms behind his neck.

„Where are we going?“ You asked and he hummed, shaking his head.

„All you need to know is that you don’t need any clothes, we’re gonna be alone for four full days,“ he grinned and you rolled your eyes, fighting unsuccessful against the smile that spread on your lips.

„Hmmm… Four days naked? Whatever are we going to do?“ You asked, letting your hand run down his chest, eyebrows raising in mock surprise when your hand slipped straight into his boxers and wrapped around his hard cock.

„I have a list,“ he grinned before he kissed you again. You chuckled against his lips, slowly pumping his cock.

„Oh yeah?“ You mumbled against his lips.

He moaned against your lips and you were about to get on your knees for him when his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you onto the kitchen island, making you giggle. You spread your legs as he got closer towards you.

„Oh yeah. I’ve been working on it during my super long and boring meetings,“ his hands pulled your shirt up until he could pull it over your head, throwing it to the floor, leaving you sitting naked with your legs spread in front of him.

„You mean the super long and boring meetings that made you 300 million dollars richer?“ You teased and he slipped his boxers down before both of his hands ran up your thighs. One hand wrapped around his cock and you parted your legs even wider as he slipped the tip though your folds.

„Those exactly,“ he nodded, notching against your entrance.

„Multitasking. I like it,“ you teased and he laughed, kissing you again while he slowly pushed into you, both of you moaning. You let yourself fall back, both of your hands on the counter behind you, arching your back.

„You’re so fucking beautiful,“ he shook his head slightly and you moaned deeply when he began to slowly fuck into you, filling you deeper and deeper until finally his cock was fully inside of you. He set a slow pace, both of his hands coming down to lean against the kitchen island, his head dropping down to kiss the soft skin on top of one of your tits before he softly sucked your nipple into his mouth.

„Oh fuck,“ you moaned, your head falling backwards, arching your back even more to get closer to him. You slowly moved your hips to meet his thrusts.

„So my plan is a lot of hits,“ he mumbled against your tit and you actually laughed. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he looked up at you, before he let go and came to stand to his full height, hands pulling you closer to the edge, towards him.

He moved faster, pumping his cock into you, his skin slapping against yours. You moaned.

"A little bit of that,“ he groaned and you smiled out of breath.

One of his hands slipped between your bodies, his fingers playing with your clit as his thrusts intensified.

„And fuck. Yeah definitely this,“ he said with a moan and you crossed your legs behind his ass, pulling him even closer as he pumped into you in quick, hard thrusts.

„Oh shit baby,“ you pushed yourself up, hands coming to rest on each side of his neck, both of you looking down to where he was fucking into you, while continuing to rub your clit.

„Look how wet you are for me,“ he mumbled against your ear, kissing your shoulder.

„Just for you baby,“ you slipped one hand into his hair and he leaned in to kiss you. It only took a few more seconds until you came, wave after wave washing over you as you moaned against his mouth.

He let his forehead fall against yours, now chasing his own orgasm.

„Cum for me baby,“ you whimpered, lightly pulling his hair and he groaned.

„Gonna cum. Gonna fuck, pump all my cum inside of you until….“ He stopped himself and you tilted his head up so you could look at him.

„Until what? Until you get me pregnant?“ You asked and he nodded with a moan, twitching inside of you.

„Do it. Fuck me full of you. Fuck a baby into me Harry,“ you whined and his lips parted, moaning as you felt him cum, fucking his cum into you until he stilled, his cock deep inside of you.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He kissed your temple until you looked at him.

„I’ve been thinking…“ he began and you raised your eyebrows.

„More on your list?“ You asked and he chuckled, shaking his head.

„Not on the sex list. On… our future list,“ he said softly and you smiled, interested. A few weeks ago you had dreamed about your future together. How you wanted to grow old together. And maybe start a family.

But Harry had a vasectomy almost fifteen years ago.

„I made a appointment to reverse the vasectomy,“ he said and your eyes widened.

„Really?“ You asked and he nodded.

„How do you feel about that?“ He asked and you smiled up at him.

„Ecstatic,“ you grinned before you kissed him.

#my fic #harry castillo #harry Castillo x fem. reader #pedro pascal #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #pedro pascal characters

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sunday-bug · 2 days ago

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Popping Cherry Blossoms

Pairing: 40's!Virgin!Bucky x Virgin!Girlfriend!Reader

Word Count: 2k

Content: mostly fluff, brief mentions of sex, virginity loss

Synopsis: Bucky and his girl sneak away from the Cherry Blossom Festival for some sweet alone time.

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for AA Spring Bingo; inspired by the song "Hold Her While You Can" by Stephen Sanchez

Prompt/Square: "Cherry blossom festival"/1

Card Number: AAS002

This is the first time you’ve travelled with his family, and you are a bit nervous. His mom and dad are both quiet folks, but you’ve always gotten along with Rebecca. You just really want to make a good impression. The drive from Brooklyn is a little over four hours long, and thankfully the weather is decent with a nice breeze. His parents put the top down as you get into D.C. proper, and Bucky helps you secure your scarf over your hair.

“Real nice day for this,” his dad says from the driver’s seat, looking out at the cherry blossoms in the distance.

“It certainly is,” his mom agrees, turning toward the three of you in the backseat. Rebecca is sitting in the middle, always the chaperone. “I’m glad your folks let you come along,” she says sweetly. “And I know Bucky is ecstatic.” You look at him and see his cheeks redden at his mom’s comment. Rebecca giggles in between you both.

“Here we are,” his dad murmurs, pulling into the hotel’s porte-cochère. Bucky opens his door and slides out, helping his sister and then you. You all stretch your legs, and Bucky sneakily brushes his knuckles up your bare arm.

“James, come help this young man with our bags,” his dad orders, nodding to the porter. Bucky smiles at you sweetly and walks to the trunk, pulling out the bags.

His parents check in to the hotel and you are led up to your conjoined rooms. One for you and Rebecca, and the other for Bucky and his parents. Your parents agreed to this trip on one condition: separate rooms, and his parents agreed heartily.

Your bags arrive at your respective rooms and you unpack your items into the wardrobe for your two night stay. You all plan to visit some landmarks in the area on your second day here. Becca flops down on the bed near the door, marking it as hers, which you’re glad for. You love looking out at the stars before you fall asleep. You pace the room a bit, checking your profile in the mirror and blotting your lipstick.

“You look beautiful as always,” Becca says, rolling her eyes. “He thinks you hung the moon, you know.”

You look away from the mirror and smile, smoothing your dress. “Thanks Becca.”

A soft knock raps on the conjoining door and Bucky’s perfect head of hair peeks through. “Are you ladies decent? We’re getting ready to walk down to the festival.” You giggle and ruffle his hair. “We’ll be out in a moment.”

You and Rebecca gather your handbags and help each other knot your scarves around your hair as the day was a bit breezy before stepping into the hallway to meet the other three. You all head down to the lobby and Bucky offers you his arm as you step onto the city sidewalk, directing you away from the street. His parents and Becca walk a few feet ahead of you, leading the way to the festival.

“My dad said we could break off once we get there and walk alone,” he says sweetly. You look up at him, the sun shining through his dark hair, and sneak a quick kiss on the cheek, wiping your lipstick off of his soft skin after.

“Destroying the evidence?” He teases.

“Something like that,” you chime.

“I’m glad you could come,” he leans down to whisper into your ear.

“Me too.”

You all walk in peace for several blocks. The sweet smell hits you before the sight of the actual trees does. The soft perfume of the pink flowers fills your nostrils and you take a deep breath in. The breeze is light enough that you take your scarf off and let the air blow through your curls. Bucky takes a breath and sighs. “They don’t smell as sweet as you,” he brushes against your hair and a shiver runs down your spine.

Becca walks back toward the two of you and hands Bucky some money. “Dad says don’t spend it all in one place and behave. Meet back at this spot in two hours.” Bucky laughs and takes the money from her before putting it in his wallet. You spy the photo he took of you at Christmas in the wallet and smile to yourself, your hand reaching up to touch the locket around your neck that contained a photo of him taken last summer. Becca skips away to join her parents and Bucky steers you across the street to walk under the blooming trees.

You walk arm in arm again, looking up at the perfect pink petals and at his profile. He catches you looking and smiles, his eyes and nose crinkling. “You’re going to be the reason I have wrinkles while I’m still young,” he jokes, kissing your forehead.

You giggle and look down at your Oxfords. “Well, you’re the reason I have creases in my shoes.”

“How do you reckon that?” He asks playfully.

You stop walking and grab his hand before reaching up to kiss his lips. As you break the chaste kiss, you look down at your shoes and his eyes follow, noticing the ever-growing crease in the leather from having to stand on your tiptoes to reach his lips. Bucky chuckles and nods.

“Then I hope you always have creases in your shoes,” he says, picking up a fallen twig of cherry blossom and handing it to you. You accept it gratefully.

“And I hope I have the privilege of seeing you with wrinkles,” you reply, smelling the flower.

“You will, doll. I promise you that.”

You keep walking down the street until you come upon a steaming cart that smells heavenly. Roman’s Roasted Nuts is printed on the side and you look up at Bucky with pleading eyes. He smirks and walks up to the cart, purchasing a small bag for you two to share. You find a park bench nearby and sit down as he opens the bag. He pulls out a pecan and offers it to you, which you gratefully accept. It’s hot, sweet, and delicious. “Thank you. I’m spoiled by you,” you giggle.

“My girl deserves it,” he says, kissing a bit of sugar from your lips. You blush at the continued PDA.

“Bucky…” you start, holding his hand in yours.

“Yes, darling?”

“I have the key to Becca and I’s room.”

He swallows and his eyes go wide. “You do?”

“Yes,” you whisper, taking it covertly from your cardigan pocket to show him.

“Are you sure?” He asks, rubbing your arm. You nod in response and stand up, waiting for him. “Well, we have,” you look down at your wristwatch, “one hour and thirteen minutes until we have to be back here.”

Bucky smirks at you and stands up, offering you his arm again as he looks around the crowd for a sign of his family. “They must be way down the road in the thick of it. Let’s go.”

You both rush back to the hotel, walking a little faster than necessary and not speaking much. You take your cardigan off as you get into the hotel, warmed from the walk back in the sun. Bucky takes it from you and carries it for you. The elevator operator takes you to your floor as you stand there like two kids about to get reprimanded by the principal even though you are both technically adults. Bucky takes the key from your cardigan pocket and unlocks your door slowly, sighing deeply.

“We don’t have to do this, Buck, if you don’t want to,” you assure him. He closes the door behind you both.

“Oh, sweetheart. I want to. Trust me,” he groans, walking toward you and pulling you in for a deep kiss. He tastes like toothpaste, roasted pecans, and sugar. You open your mouth and let him explore yours with his tongue. He breaks off suddenly, his pupils blown wide. “I just want you to be sure. And I don’t want it to be… bad,” he finally admits.

“I’m sure. And I’m sure it won’t be bad, love,” you say. “Let's give ourselves some grace. We’re both new to this,” you tease gently. “I love you. I want this with you. And only you.”

“I love you so much,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “Should we get undressed?”

You nod and turn around, “Unzip me.” He unzips your dress and it falls to the floor, leaving you in your slip and undergarments. He’s seen you in your slip once before by accident when he was picking you up for school and forgot to knock on your bedroom door. You watch him as you remove your slip and hose, leaving you standing in your panties and bra. His eyes travel slowly from your breasts to your waist and legs and back up again. You walk to him slowly and start to unbutton his shirt. He timidly rests his hands on your bare waist and your skin prickles as you work his shirt off and over his broad shoulders until his chest is bare. You plant a small kiss over his heart and he shivers.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, running his hands up and over your bra. You feel his arousal press into your leg and look down. He starts to unbuckle his belt and you feel the first bit of real nerves flood into your body. This is really happening. Finally, but no - not finally… right on time. He pulls his trousers down and is left in his underwear.

“I think we’re supposed to put a towel down,” you murmur, walking quickly to the bathroom. “Rosemary in fifth period was talking about it. In case… ya know, anything happens.” Bucky just nods and watches you pull the bed covers back and lie the white towel in the center. “Should we get in bed, then?” You ask softly, playing with the clasp of your bra.

“Yes,” he stammers, watching as you unhook it and let it fall to the floor. The smallest noise escapes his throat at the sight of your bare breasts and it sends a wave of heat and pleasure to your core that you’ve never experienced at this caliber before. You’re suddenly both in bed under the covers and Bucky is hovering over you, kissing your lips and your neck desperately.

“I love you so much, doll. I’m going to marry you someday. I promise,” he murmurs, looking in your eyes.

“I love you, James,” you whisper.

You both work your underwear off and lie there for a moment, staring at each other. “Should I…?” Bucky trails off, not sure what to do next. You nod, encouraging him.

“It’s okay,” you say, playing with his hair. “Go ahead.”

He maneuvers himself into the right position and pushes into you ever so slowly.

“Oh my God,” he hisses. You bite your lip as your body accepts him with a stinging stretch. You make love for the first time together and it’s everything you thought it would be - sweet, sensual, a little awkward, and over fairly quickly. Afterwards, you lie next to each other under the covers for a few minutes and hold hands.

“That was incredible,” he admits with a soft laugh, kissing your lips. “Did it hurt, sweetheart?”

“It hurt a little bit, but it was nice,” you say, running your nails gently down his arm. “I’m glad we could be each other’s firsts.”

“First and last,” he corrects with a kiss to your hand. You both sit up and get dressed quickly. You check the clock on the wall and notice that you have twenty minutes to get back to the festival. Bucky picks up the towel and remakes the bed.

“Destroying the evidence?” You ask with a giggle.

“Something like that,” he remarks.

🌸

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #40s bucky #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x you #aaspring #Spotify

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hcneymooners · 17 hours ago

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❀ my favorite fic writers on tumblr except my descriptions are oddly specific. ( pt. 1 )

@pbaz7: sleek, refined, luxurious. you always want to keep it on the tongue. you always want more, but you know better than to overindulge. the best way i can put it: every single piece takes the ordinary and deepens it. a conversation is never just a conversation. it’s about what you didn’t say, what you didn’t text, what you thought you mentioned but know you didn’t. it feels like night-riding: slowing down on the highway but going top speed, the world slurring into a blur of headlights and a pitch black sky, someone else driving you in the body of a dark black car. always looking in, a love that never asks you to look out. every word hits like a broken-off piece of dark chocolate. the world expands like a pupil under a drug. luxe, perfect, niche. writing that doesn’t worry about what you think of it; it just knows you will think of it.

@bucketsorbueckers: fucking lush. the exact feeling of going on a deep water dive—pressure, but gentle. perfect exploration of domination and submission without ever feeling cliché. it invites you in, but never lets you out. did you want to leave? maybe. but you know staying is better for you. cyclical. everything comes back around, everything is a lesson earned. feels like that girl you keep seeing in slips of light when you’re out somewhere: you keep looking at her, at her flash of teeth, her perfect outfit, her thrumming veins, her hip bones. makes you feel like it’s only you, and then you blink and it's not. it’s about attention. attention in every form: learning people, learning the rules, watching them, breaking them. reading is letting go, and when it’s over you feel hungover in the most delicious way. dark red, berry pink, burnt orange. a trust fall where you never land. so good. the exact experience of a contact high with someone you love, of chasing someone you need.

@elleaitch22: b.o.a.t by camila cabello. the feeling of being someone’s favorite baby—someone’s favorite anything. staying after everyone’s left just to get a moment alone. kisses in someone’s lap. secret smiles because you share an internal inside joke. stumbling through your twenties but being honest about it. hands in your hair as you dance in a dark room. roses—specifically thick and pink. the remnants of perfume on a sweater you can’t bring yourself to wash because you miss them too much. peonies. fingers clasped under the table. privacy screens on a cellphone. bella hadid bare face. airplane mode. that suspended feeling of safety when you’re with someone you trust. forehead kisses. friendship bracelets. talking into a kiss. hands around your hips. non-toxic possession. trying again because this time, you will get it right. happiness that’s earned. a quiet life. the city under a sunset bleed, light flashing off a skyscraper and blinding you for six perfect seconds. the shower after the beach. love as a tightrope. skinship. you made it. you knew you would. vanilla and amber.

@loeysoi: mariners apartment complex by lana. faded-out camera, route 66, bubblegum fondness, loose freshly washed hair. driving over bridges and backroads, forgetting to text back but the people who know you forgive you anyway. it’s that careless kind of affection, messy and soft, that song you never skip. reading lyra’s work is like sitting in a car with the windows down, sun slipping low, everything blurred at the edges but somehow sharper inside. poetic, lyrical, never trying too hard. she’s finding it and you’re looking with her, only to have a minute more of her time. she’s your woman, she’s your man. a kind of quiet recklessness: wanting to be seen but a little afraid to ask for it, loving without explanation or ceremony. humorous but never at your expense. tan lines and sun-freckled skin, random shit to keep a spot in a book, sun-bleached denim, the specific energy of someone trying to keep the smoke out of your face, the warm ache of trying to hold on while knowing you probably won’t. endlessly fragile, endlessly real.

@lupinqs: maddie’s work can’t be described as anything other than a vast emotional landscape. it feels like i’ve been let into a secret world i never want to leave—an outsider sitting quietly, watching someone else’s life unfold in great detail. her blog, both in content and aesthetic, is the equivalent of slipping outside during a night out and sitting in the haze of smoke, while the light refracts off of you and dusts across someone else. it’s effortlessly nuanced and emotionally mature, without ever begging you to notice. i can’t explain the correlation, but it gives cool, calm middle daughter who’s riotous and fun when you slowly cut into her like slicing into a cake. always lovely, always self-assured, always carrying a tone that acts like a calling card. you couldn’t mistake it for anyone else’s, but it’s sweet when someone says you remind them of her.

@azzibuckets: cessa is a snapshot. straight glitter down a throat. a million memories you keep guarded like a dog. the same perfect feel as being pressed close to someone in a photo booth. a sweet spot, a soft spot, just tenderness always spilling over, without the embarrassment of being so revealed. first love. a perfect crush. a bright summer that seems to last forever. the gentle nature of waking up after a sleepover tangled together, legs brushing. instantly recognizable, with its bright, bubbly beat. it’s laughter caught in a cup, the low hum the low hum of fizzy emotional texture, the safety of being known without having to explain. kissing a girl under the excuse of trying out her lip gloss. the sun caught under your tongue and deep in your belly. you’ll never die here. you’ll be alright here. writing that feels like holding hands without realizing you reached out first.

@luvergirl-535: honeymoon album by lana del rey, cherry soda fizz, the perfect lip combo made up of products you can’t find anymore. a slow, dulcet hum that’s both dreamy and daring. writing that drips with lipstick glazed by too much time in the sun, tongue-in-cheek with a wink caught just right in the corner of a smile, dimples, playful but never shallow, a streak of mischief with a quiet, certain knowing of what she wants. coachella when it was still fun. leaning on a shoulder. being picked up behind the knees into someone’s arms when you fall asleep in the car. sweetness with an edge: bubblegum kisses that sting a little, drifting close enough to taste. a private world, empty beaches, desire when it feels both tender and sharp. what you’re holding onto when you feel yourself growing up. stairway to heaven. soft, sly, and unforgettable.

part two coming soon. x

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #i love my moots #that's why i got carried away

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crescenthistory · 14 hours ago

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“welcome to the neighbourhood”

Neighbour!Remus Lupin x fem!Reader

Synopsis: You and your trusted companion, Luna, are new to the building. When she runs off, you're lucky to find it's just down the hall – where you also happen to meet your new neighbour.

WC: 2k

CW: fem!reader, modern muggle au, meet cute, temporary anxiety and panic, your cat is your soulmate, you have an ambiguous background, missing cat, flirting, just fluff

Your biggest fear during the move was your cat.

Perhaps that speaks to a concerning lack of self preservation, but you preferred to call it selflessness and love. It didn't matter how you put it, no amount of stress about a huge career change, a city in which you know no one and a rather impromptu move could compare to your worries about how your cat would take it.

Luna, who has been your companion ever since you moved into a flat by yourself 4 years ago, was the light of your life. You didn’t care if it was a stereotype; your cat was your person and that was that.

At the minute, though, that very same cat was missing. And you were two seconds away from breaking down in hysterics.

“Luna?” you called for the umpteenth time, rattling the box of treats. “Luna!”

You had looked in every open cardboard box and under every piece of furniture, but your flat wasn’t big enough for you to delude yourself – she was missing. You had done everything right, keeping her confined for the appropriate amount of time and helping her adjust to the big move. She was such a sweet and soft thing, but with a distinct personality and an inclination for mischief, the latter of which made you increasingly panicked.

You stopped up, shut your eyes and tried to walk back the events of the day. You had decided to tackle cleaning the kitchen, as your letting firm had done a shabby job of cleaning the flat for you before you moved in. During your cleaning, you had gone outside with the trash more than once.

Could she have gotten out? The thought made your blood freeze. You were scared to open the door again, lest she had been hiding and would dash out, but it was worth the risk.

You grabbed your keys, the clinking sound only furthering your anxiety, and opened the door as barely as possible to slip out, body pressed to the doorway.

You recognised you must look like a madman in the hallway, with your sleeves half-haphazardly rolled up, your cleaning bottoms on and your hair a mess from all the movement as your head whipped around to search for her. Not to mention the surely disturbed look on your face.

All you were hoping for was to find Luna. You didn’t think of much else. Thus, when you did catch sight of her brown fur, you let out a huge sigh of relief bordering on a whine before you took in the rest of your surroundings. “Luna!”

One door down from you, Luna laid on her back, purring – as a man scratched her tummy. He sat in his opened door, leaning back against the frame with one leg in his flat and one in the hallway, Luna splayed out between them.

Maybe the sight should make you panic, but the relief of finding your cat washed away any such sentiment. Not to mention, the man looked kind. Young, yet dressed like a grandfather with his corduroy and oversized jumper, his tousled tawny hair catching the light trickling in through his window gorgeously. Amber eyes locked on yours, and for once they weren’t your cat’s.

When he heard you call out for her, he furrowed his brows and looked apologetic. “Hi, love,” he greeted, an accent you couldn’t quite pinpoint already poking out. “Sorry, I would have gotten up to greet you, but I’m a bit… preoccupied.” He gestured to Luna with his free hand.

You didn’t mind, nor really listen. You rushed from your own door, not caring to close it behind you now that you had found the runaway. The floor of your hallway was dirty, but you were already looking a mess, so you paid it no mind as you dropped to your knees beside them, cooing at Luna.

“Baby, where have you been,” you admonished her, reaching out to scratch behind her ear. The culprit only purred more.

Only when you had your hands on her did you look up at your neighbour, almost flushing at the proximity. “It’s alright, I’m sorry. Where did you find her?”

He pursed his lips, somehow looking both amused and sheepish. “Crazy thing jumped down from your balcony.”

Your jaw dropped. You didn’t mean to be theatrical, but you must surely look it, giving the way he began to smile. “You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not, love.” Luna decided this was the perfect moment to chirp, as if defending her reputation. You noticed that it made your neighbour smile in a way where his ears lifted a little. “‘S not as dramatic as it sounds. I walked into the courtyard after work and saw her perched on the ledge. She spotted me and jumped down. Quite gracefully, might I add.”

You have a tiny Juliet balcony that can’t even fully fit you. The top of the door could detach like a regular window to air out the flat without opening the door entirely. You had briefly opened it earlier today, thinking there was no way she could get out through that crack.

Luna looked at you with dazed eyes that clearly read, “Hah! You thought.”

You shook your head, settling your elbows on your knees and dragging your hands over your face. “You bastard,” you mumbled at Luna, shaking your head.

“Hey now, don’t blame her,” your neighbour retorted, fake shielding Luna from you. “Clearly, she was just drawn to me. Couldn’t help herself.”

You cracked open an eye at that, raising a brow at him even as a smile helplessly spread on your face. “Don’t defend her – you don’t even know her! She’s a repeat offender, I’ll have you know.”

“Well, my mate’s an attorney, so I’ll make sure she has proper counsel to protect herself from further accusations.”

You snorted. Your eyes flicked over him, taking him in properly. “In that case, you should know that her name is Luna and she will make your life hell but you’ll love every second of it.”

Your neighbour smiled at you, regarding you in the same way. His hands never let up in scratching Luna, who was purring happily. “And what about her sweet mum?”

There most certainly was not a flush on your face. No, you wouldn’t do that. Even still, your voice was meeker as you told him your name.

His smile softened in turn. “It’s lovely to meet you, then. I’m Remus.”

“Do you regularly catnap your neighbour’s pets, Remus?”

“Only when they come as willingly as this one.” To prove his point, Remus moved Luna around and she let him without any problem, absolute putty in his hands. You tried not to relate.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” you said then, genuinely. “Even if you let me freak out alone in my flat for quite some time.”

A look flashed over Remus’ face that you couldn’t quite place – something akin to fluster? “Sorry about that, love. She was simply too demanding. And captivating. Probably takes after her mum.”

It was your turn to fluster, but you nodded nontheless, unable to blame him for being infatuated by Luna. You looked away and wound up peeking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his flat behind him. It matched his personality thus far, though you tried not to stare; you could see browns and greens, books and candles.

“How long have you lived here?” You couldn’t help but ask.

He bobbed his head. “A year or two now, I believe. I used to live with my mates before they shacked up.”

You grimaced. “They kick you out?”

He laughed heartily, eyes distant as if remembering old times. “Not quite, I saw myself out. They needed… space. But they’re great, they’re perfect. You’re bound to see them in passing if you stick around.”

Though he didn’t phrase it as a question, his tone was inquisitive. You looked down at Luna, who seemed so perfectly at home already, even if she scared the living daylights out of you by running off.

“Yeah, I reckon we will.” You met his eyes once more, only to find he had already been watching you, gaze soft around the edges. “It’s new, you know, but exciting. I got a work opportunity I couldn’t pass up on, even if the move felt drastic.”

Something resembling concern seeped into his gaze. “Do you know anyone here, dove?”

For a second, you thought you misheard the word love, but when you processed his question, you realised you hadn’t. The term of affection settled comfortably on your skin. “Not yet. Makes it all the more of an adventure, no?”

He seemed pleased with your attitude. “Atta girl. And hey, now you – and Luna – know me. Call it an alliance of neighbours.”

You tried not to visibly perk up, but failed miserably, Remus' smile widening at the sight.

“Sounds reassuring,” you said softly, scratching Luna's bum. “Maybe we could exchange phone numbers? You know, as neighbours.”

Remus looked down at his lap with a flashing grin as he fished his phone out of his back pocket. He wordlessly fiddled forth the correct app and handed the phone to you with your name already typed out, with a simple, “Please.”

You filled out his contact and sent him a message immediately. “This is Luna and Y/N from flat 202.”

He looked up at you with a silly expression. “I already know that, love.”

“I know.” You shrugged, feeling sheepish beneath his gaze. “Doesn’t hurt with a reminder.”

Remus pulled his knees to his chest, freeing Luna from her spot between his legs, drawing an indignant chirp from her. “I wouldn’t forget it,” he said with a disturbingly sincere tone.

Your stomach spun wildly. To distract yourself, you scooped Luna up into your arms. She remained pliant from all the attention she had received, happy and relaxed. “Noted,” you whispered before clearing your throat and pulling yourself together. “I hope I’ll see you around, Remus.”

“I hope so too, dove.” He got up from his spot on the floor, his knees clicking disturbingly, though his face bore no sign of it. “And you will.”

You exchanged final smiles as you stumbled to your own feet, Luna a calming weight in your arms. When you turned around to reenter your flat, you couldn’t help but cast another glance over your shoulder, only to see Remus still leaning against his open doorway and looking up at you through his lashes. He waved slightly and you flashed him a shy grin before disappearing into your flat.

You didn’t release Luna from your arms before you made sure all windows were properly shut. Even once you did, you slid down against your door, holding her out to look at her little face. She meowed at you and you meowed back at her.

“What did you just do to me, Loons?” you whispered, feeling a warmth settle in your chest.

She chirped in response. You didn’t know what she meant.

You released her and watched as she padded away towards her water fountain, with her tail swinging gracefully behind her like she hadn’t just been a runaway teen.

You’re pulled from your thoughts as your phone plings with a message. You open it to find a new message.

“This is Remus from flat 204. And here’s my temporary hostage.” Attached were 14 photos he had taken of Luna over the span of an hour.

You scrolled through them, saving each one and studying them, surely spending too much time looking at his large hand buried in her fluffy fur.

With a soft thunk, you leaned your head back against the door.

What a welcome to the building.

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mercurial-chuckles · 14 hours ago

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Blissful Summer Bruises

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes | Stucky x F!Reader WC: 2.6k Warnings: Established relationship | Domestic fluff | Cavity-causing Fluff | Language | Hot supersoldiers alert | Protective Supersoldiers| A bunch of cheesy pick-up lines | Allusions to naughty times | Poly relationship | Unbeta'd | This is a buffed post from earlier, originally written for Essie's 300 follower celebration with the prompt: Why's it...sticky? | Lemme know if I'm missing anything. Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Set in Captain Softly Stern and Sergeant Toughly Tender universe!

Indulge Away!

You picked up some seeds at the Farmers' Market last week, planning to sow them in the garden. This morning, you decided to wake up early and get to work before it got too hot.

But your men had other plans.

You didn't wake up to the alarm. No. It was Steve's relentless rutting into your ass and Bucky's sharp nips at your neck that woke you up.

Well, your morning turned into a very different kind of plowing. Not that you minded AT ALL.

Safe to say, you were famished after falling apart so many times. Bucky, determined to feed both you and Steve something delicious, had decided to prepare a special lunch today.

Never one to deny him the pleasure of any kind, you both agreed to let him take over the kitchen.

Not that Bucky gave you much of a choice, "Stay away, or I'll spank that fine ass," he'd said earlier when you sauntered into the kitchen to prepare something.

Like a good girl, you complied. Though you were itching to test him, you didn't, mostly because you were starving, and your body was already overstimulated from the morning session.

Despite Steve's longstanding reputation as the better cook, after you, of course, Bucky had been devoting himself to learning both cooking and baking. To your surprise, he was definitely starting to outdo you both.

So you let him be and decided to just watch. And boy, was he a sight for hungry eyes. He looked practically edible in those shorts and a faded blue, short-sleeved t-shirt.

That man could seduce you just by chopping vegetables.

Sadly, your hungry worshipping got cut short when Bucky insisted you leave since you couldn't stop staring at him.

Such a buzzkill!

You groaned, hopping off the island and heading out to see where your other man was.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, pretty girl," Bucky called out loudly.

You flipped him off, which only made him chuckle.

The sun was glaring down on your lakefront home. It was hot, but all the luscious trees cast cool, calming shadows. You lived far away from the city, just a few miles away from the compound, which made life much easier for the three of you.

You looked around for Steve and found him on the boat, most likely cleaning. You and Steve had bought the boat as a surprise for Bucky's birthday three months ago. It was the best decision ever. The three of you often took it out on the lake at night to stargaze or just relax during the day.

You walked onto the pier and tried to join Steve, but he denied you outright.

"Sit your fine ass down, relax, and gimme a nice view," he said, kissing your lips and squeezing your ass. You squeaked and obeyed.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

Honestly, you didn't mind being pampered. Who were you kidding? You needed it after all the inhumane hours you'd been putting in over the past few weeks. That was why your men had forced you to take a break from work. Tony had vehemently agreed, reasoning that you were getting more spiteful with all the lack of sleep.

And right now, lounging on your favorite chaise on the porch, a book in your hands, and the peaceful sounds of nature around you, it really did feel like a great idea.

The occasional trilling of the birds, married with the sounds of wind chime put you in a happy trance, and you were quite immersed in the book you were reading.

It was Bucky's grunted huff that broke your reverie.

He placed a bowl of freshly cut fruit with a fork beside you on the small table, a deep frown on his face as he stared at Steve.

"That punk," he mumbled, and you raised your brows in confusion. Bucky turned to you, his expression softening.

He placed his left hand behind you at the top of the chair and hovered over you, pulling your chin up with his warm hand. You felt the familiar heat spread through your entire body as he rubbed his thumb along your jaw and pulled you in for a kiss.

You moaned happily into his mouth. But he broke the kiss too soon, and you whined at the loss of his soft lips.

Placing a kiss on your cheek, Bucky winked at you, "You've had enough for today. You need sustenance," he smirked, tugging at your thighs and suddenly pulling you down. You collapsed haphazardly onto the chair, your book falling to the side.

"BUCKY," you yelled, trying to smack his stomach, but he dodged away quickly.

"I hate you," you mumbled, trying to use the armrests to straighten up in the chair, but Bucky gently picked you up and set you upright.

"No, you don't. Eat up. Food'll be served in an hour," he said, pecking your forehead. You grinned, placated for now.

"Now, I have a mission to get to," he added, pulling something from the windowsill. He glanced at you, lips twitching as he held up the sunscreen.

"Good luck," you snickered, already anticipating what was about to unfold.

Bucky chuckled, walking purposefully toward Steve.

Steve was just coming out of the garage with the mower, looking sinfully gorgeous in his black track pants, which hung a little too low for your sanity. Such a slut! He'd discarded his white shirt on the porch banister near you a while ago, and you'd folded it and set it aside on the swing.

As soon as Steve spotted Bucky from a distance, he visibly withered.

Far more interested in the scene unfolding before you than the story in your hands, you let the book rest on your lap, the cover felt pleasant against your skin.

You watched as Steve rolled his eyes and took a step back.

"Bucky," Steve groaned, glancing toward you for help.

You blew him a kiss and pulled your book up to cover your face, just peeking. Steve scoffed, shaking his head before turning to the menace walking toward him.

"Buck," he tried again.

"Come on, Steve," Bucky said exasperatedly.

"I'm fine. I don't need it."

Bucky shook his head, stepping closer. "You say that every fucking time, and then you suffer and bitch. Just let me do it."

You tried to stifle your laughter as you watched the back and forth. Gosh! They're fucking adorable.

"Don't test me. I WILL tackle you, punk," Bucky warned.

Steve held his arm out, stopping Bucky, "I can do it myself."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, "Yeah, because you did such a great job last time, right?"

Steve Rogers hated sunburns and loathed sunscreen. It was funny, really. For a supersoldier, he sure whined a lot about sunscreen.

Not that his sunburns lasted more than a few hours- thanks to the serum- but boy, did he bitch about it, making you and Bucky coo and soothe him. The last time you went out on the lake, Bucky had gotten so irritated when Steve avoided sunscreen and ended up burned. So now, he'd taken it upon himself.

"Fine, but make it quick," Steve huffed, turning around reluctantly and muttering under his breath. Bucky squirted a generous amount of sunscreen, starting on Steve's shoulders.

"And he faced Thanos," you added gently, wiggling your eyebrows. Bucky sniggered with you.

"This stuff is sticky and smells weird," Steve grumbled, wincing slightly as the cold lotion made contact with his warm skin.

"We bought the unscented one," you told him.

"Oh, but I can still smell it, sweetheart," Steve retorted. Bucky smacked his ass, winking at you.

"Of course, you do," you muttered playfully, fully aware he heard you just fine.

You did forget you lived with super soldiers. In the domesticated bliss, you three fell into such a natural rhythm that their super strength felt entirely normal.

"You want to smell like burnt skin instead?" Bucky teased, his hands moving expertly over Steve's back and front, ensuring every inch was covered.

"Buck, you're using too much," Steve whined, his voice muffled as he hung his head.

"Shut up," Bucky shot back, "Besides, I'm almost done. Quit being such a baby."

You couldn't stop giggling, watching Steve squirm.

Steve sighed dramatically, glancing over his shoulder at you with a pleading expression. "He's using too much, isn't he?"

"No, he isn't. Come on, Stevie. You got this. You can do this all day, can't you?"

Steve rolled his eyes, and after a beat, he added, "You know I could do you all day."

Well, facts!

Though his remark shot straight to your core, you laughed. So did Bucky.

"You have a really dirty mouth, Captain," you exclaimed.

"But you love it," he replied smugly.

You did.

Bucky pulled Steve into his arms, hooked his fingers in the waistband of Steve's joggers, and tugged him closer before planting a smothering kiss on his lips.

"That's for being a good boy," Bucky said, and proceeded to smack Steve's ass again, "And that's for whining."

"BUCKY!" Steve roared after him mirthfully.

"Can't really blame him, Stevie. That's one fine ass!"

Bucky simply laughed and headed inside to check on the food.

It was always so endearing, seeing how much they loved each other. You were so frickin' lucky.

You caught the faint blush dusting Steve's cheeks. Biting your lip, you tried to keep your own laughter in check as you absentmindedly turned a page in your book.

"Cut it out," he guffawed, when he caught your gaze, before getting back to mowing the lawn.

You finished the last of your fruit and decided to get up and tend to the garden because if you stayed in that chair any longer, you were definitely going to fall asleep.

"Oi, Rogers," you called out, setting the shovel aside and grinning wildly at him as you stood and dusted off your hands.

"Are you a garden? 'Coz I'm diggin' you."

Steve shook his head and gave you a mock glare. You'd been catcalling him with the cheesiest pickup lines, and though he was clearly amused, he was doing his best to hide it.

"Okay, wrap it up. Food's almost ready," Bucky yelled from the kitchen window.

Steve gave him a nod, and you threw up a thumbs-up.

"That means shut up and get inside," Steve said, smirking.

"Oh, come on, Steve. You love them, and you love me," you giggled.

"Only one of those is true," Steve mumbled playfully.

"I love you too! Okay, I've got another one: are you a campfire? Because you're hot, and I want s'more!"

"That's it," he said, stepping toward you.

You squealed and took off running toward the porch, only realizing too late how stupid it was to think you could outrun him. Steve was on you the very next second, cornering you at the far end of the porch.

"C'mere," he said smugly, hands on his hips.

Not thinking it through at all, you jumped right off the banister, landing on your ass with a thud a good three feet down.

"What the hell, sweetheart?" Steve's face morphed from amused to horrified as he rushed toward the railing.

You giggled, hardly believing you'd just done that, and took off running again.

"Oh, you little shit! Get back here," Steve laughed, shaking his head as he vaulted off the porch with far more finesse.

You glanced over your shoulder, only to see him right behind you. You picked up your pace, laughing as you went. Steve, meanwhile, was barely jogging, clearly letting you think you stood a chance at outrunning him.

"You've been teasing me all day. Do you need something? All you had to do was ask," he drawled, closing in.

You gathered your wits, barely, and shot back smugly and quite breathlessly, "I don't need anything. Besides, I don't like to beg." You shrugged.

Lies. All lies. You were just baiting him.

"LOOK OUT!" Steve shouted suddenly.

You realized too late you were about to crash straight into a tree.

Steve reached out quickly, placing his large palm on your forehead, and pulled you into him to soften the blow. Still, your right knee slammed into the bark.

"Ouch," you winced, the pain flaring instantly.

"Jesus!" Steve immediately pulled you into his arms, carefully taking the weight off your legs. He carried you back to the porch and sat you down in a chair. Then he knelt before you, lifting your leg onto his thigh to inspect it.

"It's sticky. Why the fuck is it sticky?" you hissed, eyeing the bruise.

"Where did you trip now?" Bucky appeared, mostly disappointed, slightly amused.

"Oh, she fell twice," Steve said, and you flicked his forehead. That didn't really stop him from narrating the whole thing anyway.

Bucky squatted beside Steve, eyeing your knee.

"That looks like tree sap," he said, blowing gently to ease the sting.

"Yeah, I figured," you pouted.

"Should we take her to the hospital? Is that stuff poisonous?" Steve asked, glancing at Bucky.

Your heart warmed. Gosh! How much you loved him. Steve was smart as a whip- linguist, strategist, and blessed with an elephant memory, but when it came to you or Bucky, he worried about things as small as paper cuts.

You rolled your eyes just to tease him, sharing a look with Bucky, who chuckled and leaned over to press a quick kiss to Steve's temple.

"You're adorable," Bucky teased, winking at him.

"Don't patronize me," Steve scoffed.

"I'm not," Bucky answered. He slid one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you effortlessly.

"You are," Steve muttered as he followed you both inside.

"He is," you chimed over Bucky's shoulder.

"Shut up," Bucky groaned, biting your nose.

"Hey," you yelped, swatting at him.

Bucky set you on the couch.

"Let's clean that wound," he said. Steve was already back with the first-aid kit.

The oven timer beeped.

"I got this," Steve said, as he settled sideways on the couch before you, pulling your leg over his.

"Buck, just hand me…" Steve didn't even get to finish, and Bucky already handed him the isopropyl alcohol and cotton swabs before walking back into the kitchen.

Steve cleaned it gently with so much tenderness, and it made your insides flutter.

You knew exactly what he was thinking.

Gawd! This man!

"Steve. Stop worrying, will ya? I'm not that hurt," you told him, your voice gentle but firm.

"But you did get hurt, and I didn't catch you in time, doll," he muttered.

"Steve." You sighed.

There was no use arguing with him. Distraction it was then!

"Where's your shirt?" You asked playfully, eyeing his bare, sweat-slicked chest.

"Where are your pants?" he asked, blue eyes gleaming as his large hand rubbed your thigh in slow, soothing strokes. It was sweltering outside, and all you had on was an oversized T-shirt and panties.

"Touché." You chuckled.

"Food's ready," Bucky announced, walking back to the couch happily and leaning his arms on the back.

"Damn. It smells delicious," you said, smiling widely at Bucky.

"I can't smell anything over this stupid sunscreen," Steve mocked. Bucky and you rolled your eyes in tandem.

Steve huffed, applying the ointment now. You hissed loudly, gripping the back of the couch. Bucky pulled your hand into his warm one, placing a kiss inside your palm. You smiled up at him.

"Hey, Buck," you called out.

He leaned in. "Yes, pretty girl?"

"Did you just come out of the oven? Because you're too hot to handle," you said with a straight face.

Steve groaned.

Bucky looked at you, deadpan, and shook his head.

"Whaaat. That was soooo good!" you exclaimed, throwing your hands up.

"Where are you getting these lame pickup lines from?" Steve asked, squeezing your calf.

"theknot.com disagrees with you, Captain," you told him smugly.

"Why do you need pickup lines?" Bucky frowned, gently pulling your jaw up toward him.

Such a possessive little shit. Yours, though.

"Calm your horses, old man. I've been doing some research for Darcy. She made an account on a few dating apps."

"Good," Bucky breathed against your lips before placing a kiss.

"Oh. Oh. Steve, this one's for you. Do you have a Band-Aid? I scraped my knee falling for you," you grinned proudly.

Both your men scoffed in sync.

Steve chuckled, pulled out a large Band-Aid, and exaggeratedly rolled his eyes before placing it over your knee.

"You both are tasteless! Ugh!" you faux-scoffed.

"Tasteless? That's not what I heard you moaning this morning," Steve winked at you.

Bucky laughed, smacking Steve's shoulder proudly, and you teetered off the couch, blushing. He quickly steadied you.

"I dare you not to fall for one whole day," Bucky challenged, looking into your eyes intently.

You frowned at him.

"Yeah, not happening in this lifetime, Buck," Steve said, pulling you into his lap and kissing your frown away.

It didn't matter if they groaned at your pickup lines. You were going to test every single one on them anyway, mostly for your own amusement and partly for Darcy.

Blissful was an understatement.

Set in Captain Softly Stern and Sergeant Toughly Tender universe!

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