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purplereina11 · 25 days ago

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You are the kind of woman who knows her way around engines and hearts, fast with a wrench, faster with flings, and never one to stick around. A no-nonsense car mechanic with tattoos, oil-stained jeans, and a reputation for leaving partners breathless and ghosted, she lives for the thrill under the hood and between the sheets. That is, until Alexia Putellas walks into the garage. She’s the daughter of your newest client, all polished restraint and sharp glances, dressed like she has no business in a grease-stained shop but somehow looks perfect in it. From the second your eyes meet, you want her, badly. She makes her move, expecting the usual flirt-and-win, but Alexia's not impressed. She sees through your charm and makes it clear: she’s not a pit stop.

Wordcount: 19.7k

No idea why I'm nervous to share this 🫣 Thanks to the Anon for the idea, hope it's what you wanted

You’ve got oil under your nails and a smirk on your lips when the engine purrs just right. It’s a sound that tells you everything you need to know tight timing, good compression, clean combustion. She's gonna drive like a goddamn dream.

You swipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand and lean against the open hood, satisfaction heavy in your bones. It’s been a good day. You’ll probably end it wrapped in someone else’s sheets or better, your own, with someone temporary and breathless beside you.

That’s the plan, at least, until the bell over the garage door chimes and you look up and fuck, everything shifts.

She walks in like the air parts for her. Long beige coat, sunglasses even though the clouds are low, posture like she owns the place but doesn’t need to prove it. She takes them off slowly, revealing eyes sharp enough to cut through steel and a mouth you immediately want to ruin.

You’ve seen her before, of course. Who the hell hasn’t seen Alexia Putellas in Barcelona? Ballon d'Or winner, midfield queen, captain of Spain, picture on every corner you turn by, seeing her on a screen is one thing, but seeing her five feet away, glancing around your grease-stained shop like she’s somewhere between bored and curious. That’s another thing entirely.

You wipe your hands on your rag and toss it over your shoulder, “Didn’t think I’d be getting royalty today,” you say, voice low, teasing.

She raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t smile. “My mami's car,” she says, accent smooth and cool. “She sent me to check how you were doing.”

You clear your throat, nod. “Yeah. Almost done. Was just finishing the tuning. Want to take a look?”

She hesitates just for a beat, then steps forward, trainers echoing faintly on the concrete. You watch the way she moves, precise, graceful, every step measured. It’s not just sexy, it’s controlled like everything about her is held back by design.

You offer her the keys. Her fingers brush yours when she takes them. No spark. No flinch. No reaction. You, on the other hand, feel your pulse pick up like you’ve touched a live wire.

She walks around the car. Inspects the paint job. Tilts her head slightly at the restored leather interior.

"You did this yourself?" she asks, finally looking you dead in the eye.

You grin. “These hands with all this talent would be a shame to waste it.”

Still nothing, a pause, then a hint of a smirk. “I’m sure you waste it in plenty of other ways.”

Oh. She knows exactly what you are and she's not impressed. You take a step closer, just one. “You sure you don’t want to take the car, and me, for a test drive?”

She stares at you, unmoved, then hands the keys back without breaking eye contact. “No.” She turns on her heel and walks away. "Keep my mother updated on the progress" she calls back sunglasses coming back down her face and for the first time in a long time, you realise you’re not the one doing the chasing, you’re being left behind.

You watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell’s chime still ringing in your ears like it’s mocking you.

No. Not 'maybe,' not 'later,' not even a sarcastic 'we’ll see.'

Just no.

You laugh to yourself, low and incredulous, rubbing your palm over your jaw. You’ve been rejected before, sure, happens when you live like you do fast, loose, and loud, but this one stings in a way you weren’t ready for, because it wasn’t just rejection, it was dismissal. Like you weren’t even in the running.

You glance back at the car her mother's classic '67 Mustang. Cherry red, curves like sin, restored with your own damn hands. You poured hours into that body, gave it life again. For what? For her to walk in here looking like a dream and tell you you’re not even worth thinking about?

You grit your teeth. No. You’re not going out like that.

She comes back three days later and you make sure you're the one at the front this time.

You see her first, stepping out of a matte black Cupra, hair tied back tight, sunglasses perched on her head. She’s wearing a fitted jacket this time blue Barça training top beneath it. You hate how fast your eyes memorise the shape of her.

She’s not alone, her mother is with her, you push down the twist of something sour in your gut and wipe your hands on your rag as they walk in.

“Mama P,” you smirk with a smile as you chew your gum that the older woman laps up, flirting with older women was always your strong suit, mothers always love you. “She’s ready for you.”

Alexia doesn’t look at you at first, she’s scanning the shop, like she's somewhere she'd rather not be, again.

Her mother on the other hand smiles warmly, shakes your hand. “Looks beautiful Y/N. You did good work, I don't even recognise it, my brother won't believe the wreck he said I should have never bought now looks like this.”

You nod, flipping the keys around your fingers before handing them over. “Want to give her a spin?”

She chuckles, pats the hood. “I trust you, but my daughter insisted we both come, said I wouldn’t understand if the clutch slipped.”

That gets your attention, you glance at her again, her eyes finally meet yours, still unreadable. “Smart,” you say. “Wouldn’t want a legend like you stalling out at a red light.”

That gets a blink, nothing more but she steps forward, slides into the driver’s seat like she was born to be behind the wheel. Her hands on the wheel no gloves, short nails, fingers long and elegant. You wonder what they’d feel like on your skin.

The engine purrs to life. Perfect. She revs it once. Listens. Nods, “Solid,” she murmurs, mostly to herself.

You lean on the passenger side window. “She’s got bite, if you want her to.” Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I meant the car,” you add, and for half a second, she almost smiles.

She kills the engine and steps out, handing the keys to her mother. “It’s good,” she says simply, then turns to you. “Gracias.”

She walks out without waiting, you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding and that’s when you decide, you’re not letting this go. Not because you think you can win her, but because, for the first time in years, someone was actually giving you a chase.

Eli smiled as you watched her oldest daughter leave, "Woman of few words is Alexia"

Your eyes moved to Eli's, "I've noticed" You start towards the front desk to take payment and you just had to ask, "She knows cars?"

Eli laughed to herself, "Not even in the slightest"

You couldn't help the satisfied smirk that crossed your mouth as you handed over the paperwork and the copy of her receipt, "You ok driving it out the garage?"

"I should be fine, thank you"

Eli gave you a warm hug and she left out the door with a ding and you fell back into the swivel chair behind the desk, you felt like you'd been knocked off your feet. You sat there quietly long after the car left in the silence you just couldn't stop thinking about Barcelonas Captain.

🚗

The next week, you start seeing her name everywhere, not that you weren’t already aware of her, but now it's like the universe is playing tricks on you. Highlights from her latest match show up on the TV in the garage. Some customer’s lock screen, her. Hell, one of your suppliers has her face on a sticker on his van.

You hate it. You hate how your stomach knots every time you see her. How your brain replays that almost-smile like a loop you can't break. You try to hook up with someone else one night, tall brunette, loud laugh, easy eyes. You bring her home, start undressing each other and then she says something in Spanish soft, low, meant to be dirty and suddenly all you can think of is her voice, cool, precise, controlled. You stop, apologise and lie, you say you’re tired.

The girl shrugs, pulls her clothes back on, and leaves without a word. You sleep alone. A week after that, she walks back into the garage. No appointment. No car. Just her and suddenly, everything inside you jolts awake.

You don’t expect to see her again, not really, so when she walks into your garage alone, hands in the pockets of her coat, a subtle frown creasing her brow you pause mid-step, socket wrench hanging from your fingers. She doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, looking around like the place has changed in the last two weeks.

You wipe your hands on your towel and stroll over, keeping your swagger light, practiced, but inside, you’re on high alert.

“Didn’t think Barça royalty did walk-ins,” you say, leaning on the counter. “Need an oil change, or just miss me?”

Her eyes flick to yours. Still unreadable, but she steps closer. “My Mami forgot her sunglasses. Thought I’d save her the trip.”

You nod. Right, the excuse is paper-thin, but you don’t call her on it “They’re in the office,” you say. “Follow me.”

She does. Quiet. Controlled. The way she walks behind you makes you hyperaware of your own movement your posture, your stride, the shape of your shoulders under your tee.

In the office, you dig through a drawer until you find them, classic aviators, probably expensive as hell. You hand them over, but she doesn’t take them right away.

Instead, her gaze lingers on your arms, your forearms are streaked with oil, muscles taut from the half-stripped engine out back. You catch the glance, raise an eyebrow.

“Like what you see?”

She exhales through her nose. “You’re relentless.”

“Only when I want something.”

You expect her to deflect again, shut you down like last time, but instead, she says, “What do you think you want?”

You blink, that wasn’t the game before, that certainly wasn’t part of the script you'd created in your head, you take a step closer. “You.”

She doesn’t move, her chin lifts slightly, her voice is quieter now. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to.”

There’s a beat of silence, your chest tightens, then she takes the glasses from your hand, slides them on with that same, infuriating calm. “You’re not serious,” she says.

She turns to leave, but her walk is slower this time. "You're welcome" you call as she swings the door shut behind her

🚗

You start seeing her around the neighbourhood, not often, just enough to mess with you.

At the café next door, picking up a cortado. At the park across the street, stretching alone with earbuds in. You never approach, you’re not that desperate, but one day, you’re elbow-deep in a beat-up BMW when you hear a voice behind you.

“You missed a bolt.”

You lean up fast, head just barely missing the bonnet and there she is, leaning against the frame of the garage, holding a to-go cup like she owns the damn place.

You stare at her. “You came here to critique my work?”

“No. I came for a coffee,” she says, sipping. “Saw you about to wreck the subframe.”

You glance back at the bolt she pointed to. Damn. She’s right. You squint at her. “You know your way around engines?”

She shrugs. “Heard my dad say it to my uncle when I was little”

You whistle low. “Careful, you’re turning me on.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“But you are.”

She doesn’t answer that, just watches you, eyes cool, unreadable, but not entirely distant. You look away before you say something too honest.

“Is something wrong with your car or? You wanna come inside? You're letting the bugs in”

“No.”

“Still playing hard to get?”

“I’m not playing at all.” She tosses her empty cup into the bin like it’s the end of the conversation. Like she didn’t just shake you up with six words and no smile.

She walks off and you stand there in the middle of your shop dirty, breathless, and completely fucked.

🚗

You're in a bar that is tucked on a quiet corner off Carrer de la Marina, dim and humming low, just enough of a secret that it's not ever overly busy. You come here because it’s casual, low lighting, good beer, music just loud enough to cover the silence without killing it.

You look over your shoulder, you can't believe your look as it seems half the Barcelona women's team was entering the bar but then she walks through the door, hands in the pockets of a leather jacket, eyes scanning the place she'd been brought to until they land on you, you forget how to breathe for half a second. You catch her swallow before looking away and following the group to a table not all that far from you.

"Y/N" Sarah the bar women spoke, "You want your usual?"

You nod, "Extra-"

"Extra prawns, we know" She smiled, putting a full beer bottle taking away the old one.

"Gracias" You mutter, you hear the whispering, you knew they were talking about you, you could feel the gaze, you heard, "That's her?", "She's hot", "Go say hi".

You sipped your beer and chanced a glance out the corner of your eye as two came to the bar and you caught one looking at you, as you squeeze the lemon on your paella you feel a presence beside you.

You look and there stood Alexia, "Hola"

“Hola,” you say, trying to sound cool, if you can make a hello cool.

“I thought it was you,” she replies. “And I was curious.”

You motion to the bar. “Curious about the food?”

“No. About you.”

That stops you, she takes the seat across from you like she’s doing a press conference, composed, distant, professional, but her eyes linger on your mouth when you smile. You catch it. She knows you do.

Her friend places her drink on the bar beside her and retreats “What’s the verdict then?” you ask, watching her sip.

She raises an eyebrow. “You really want it?”

“Try me.”

She sets her glass down. “You’re cocky. Reckless. The kind of person who gets bored five minutes after getting what they want.”

“And yet, you’re still sat here and not with your unsubtle friends.”

Her mouth quirks. Barely. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly.

“Disappointed?”

“No. Just… curious.”

There it is again. That word, curious and for the next hour, she comes and goes, like she can't keep away and you talk. About football. Engines. Tattoos. Siblings. Nothing too deep, but enough to feel like something’s cracking open. She laughs once at your story about crashing your boss’s van when you were sixteen. You live off that laugh for the rest of the night, but she never fully relaxes.

Even when the beers are gone and your knee bumps hers when you turn to her, even when your fingers brush as you both reach for the same beer bottle.

You lean a touch closer, she doesn’t move. “I want to kiss you,” you say. “And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”

She looks at you for a long time. Too long. Then, “You’re not what I need.”

Your chest tightens. “How do you know?”

“Because you don’t know how to want someone without trying to win them.” You’re quiet, she reaches out, touches your wrist brief, fleeting, warm. “I liked tonight,” she says. “But this isn’t where it starts.”

You blink. “Then when?”

Alexia steps back. “If I ever believe you’re serious.”

And then she’s gone, no kiss, no maybe next time. Just a chill in the air, the fading scent of her perfume, and a space beside you that feels heavier now than it did before she filled it. You catch her looking at you as she settles back with her friends before you just pay your bar tab and head out, alone.

🚗

You want to see her the next day. God, you almost try to engineer it, but the memory of her voice telling you 'You don’t know how to want someone without trying to win them' is still too fresh.

It hits a part of you that you usually keep buried under flirting and leather and oil stains. You don't see her for three days and then you’re locking up the shop one evening just past sunset, sky bleeding pink over the city and she’s there. Sitting on the hood of your beat-up Charger like it’s hers, arms crossed, sunglasses in her lap even though the sun’s almost gone.

“You missed me?,” you say, unlocking the door again like it’s nothing.

She shrugs. “I wanted to see how long you’d wait.”

You glance over your shoulder. “And?”

“I was impressed. Three days is a record for you, I assume.”

You laugh, tossing her a rag for her hands. “What do you want, Alexia?”

She hops off the hood, slow and graceful, her trainers clicking lightly on the pavement. “A ride.”

You blink. “You have a car.”

“This is more fun.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure you want to be seen in this junkyard classic?”

She smirks. “Try me.”

You drive. No destination. Just Barcelona at golden hour, the windows down and the air electric with something unspoken.

She doesn’t speak for a while, just watches the city blur past, her hand resting near the gear shift, not on it. Her legs crossed, ankle bouncing in a rhythm only she knows.

You sneak glances, she catches one. “You’re staring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“You’re trying again.”

You grin. “Always.” but this time, she doesn’t shoot you down.

Just turns her face back to the window and says, “Good.”

You end up parked on a cliff just outside the city. Not a romantic spot, not really, but it’s quiet, secluded. The kind of place someone goes when they don’t want to be seen.

She climbs out before you can open her door, walks to the edge and stands there, arms folded, the wind tugging at the ends of her hair.

You stand beside her, “You ever let anyone in?” you ask softly.

“Not often.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I don’t know why I came.”

You look at her, she’s not pretending anymore, not putting on the wall, she looks tired, not weak. Just real. “Maybe,” you say, “you’re curious.”

That gets a breath of a laugh, barely there and then, for the first time, she looks at you like she’s thinking about it.

About you. About this. You take a step closer, not touching just letting the warmth of you fill the space. “Let me in,” you say. “Just a little, I think I may surprise you.”

She looks up at you, her mouth opens, then closes and then she shakes her head, slow and sad. “I can’t,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

You nod, even though it fucking aches. “Then I’ll wait.”

She blinks. “You will?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But I’m not promising I won’t make you fall for me first.”

Alexia exhales, long and quiet. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Too late,” she says, but before you can speak, she steps away, just far enough and says, “Take me back to my car.”

🚗

It starts to mess with you, the silence. Three days pass, then four. No sign of her. No bar run-ins. No surprise visits to your garage under the pretence of sunglasses or 'funny noises.'

You're not spiralling, you’ve got things to do, hands to get dirty, wrenches to throw. Still, she’s too fucking quiet. So you try to unhook her from your system the way you always do with someone else.

It’s Friday night, you’re in a booth at some back-alley spot in El Raval, fingers around a whiskey glass, flirting with a girl you don’t really care for, she's pretty, loud and into you. You’re not into her, you’re just bored.

She's laughing too much, her nails are perfect. She keeps touching your thigh like she’s already decided where the night’s going. You let it happen, because it's easier than thinking about why Alexia has dropped off the face of the earth.

But when the girl leans in and says something like, “You’ve got that heartbreaker vibe, I love it,” you look past her shoulder and think, what are you doing? You're just proving Alexia right.

You pull away, “Bathroom,” you lie once outside, the air is cold. Barcelona buzzes and you lean back against the wall like someone punched you in the gut.

You take a few minutes before you head back inside , you tell the girl it’s not happening tonight. You don’t give a reason, she rolls her eyes and walks away, and you let her, because you know exactly who you want and she’s not here.

🚗

Two nights later, you’re working late. Sweat down your spine, engine stripped bare. Music low. You haven’t checked your phone in hours.

You're underneath the frame when a shadow breaks the light. You roll out slowly, grease on your tank top, a socket wrench in your hand like a weapon. It’s not a customer. It’s her. Alexia. Hoodie. No makeup. Hair tied up. Her expression unreadable.

“Your garage’s open late,” she says.

You wipe your hands. Try not to look like you want to grab her and pin her to the nearest wall. “Didn’t know you were still in the city,” you say coolly.

“I never left?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She leans against the workbench, arms folded. Her eyes flick over your arms, your collarbone, the smudge on your cheek. Then she looks away.

“I saw you on a run the other day,” she says, you don’t say anything, she takes a breath. “I was going to shout you but.. I didn't.”

You nod. Then throw the wrench down harder than you mean to, “What is this?” you ask. “What are we doing, Alexia? I’ve had people walk away before but they usually don’t look me in the eye first and say too late before disappearing.”

Her gaze hardens. “You don’t get to be mad.”

You step closer. “I’m not mad. I’m…” You hesitate. “Confused. You’re hot and cold. You come in here like you want something, then vanish like I imagined it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then stop pretending you're not curious.” She’s silent, you shake your head, stepping back. “You know what? Maybe I should’ve just taken that girl home Friday. At least she didn’t look at me like I’m a mistake waiting to happen.”

Alexia flinches, barely, but it’s there and for once, she doesn’t have a comeback. She just says, quietly “Maybe I’m not ready for someone like you.”

You fold your arms. “What’s someone like me?”

She looks at you then. Really looks. “Someone who knows exactly how to touch me… but doesn't know how to stay around after.”

It hits you in the gut because maybe she’s not wrong. You swallow the burn in your throat. “I’d stay,” you say. “If you asked.”

"I shouldn't have to ask" and she finally, finally takes a step forward, “You’d stay until you got bored.”

You don’t say no, you should, you know you should fight for a shot to prove her wrong but instead you ask, “Then why are you here?”

Alexia doesn’t answer with words, she just reaches out, takes your jaw in her hand, and kisses you. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s weeks of tension and confusion and restraint exploding all at once.

You kiss her like you’ve been waiting, because you have and she kisses you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear mid-breath, but just as you go to pull her closer, just as your hand finds the skin under her hoodie she pulls away. Eyes wild. Chest rising. “I have to go.”

“Alexia—”

“Don’t.” And she’s gone, again.

🚗

You’re elbow-deep in the guts of a ‘92 Defender when your phone buzzes. You ignore it at first. Too many scam calls, too many exes, too many people trying to get a piece of you when they didn’t earn it, but something tells you to check.

You wipe your hands on your thigh and pick up the phone.

Alexia Putellas (1 missed call) 1 message

Car died. C-32, near Castelldefels. Can you help?

You don’t answer. You just grab your keys, flick the lights off behind you, and hit the road.

You spot her car like a sore thumb on the shoulder, hazards on, trunk slightly cracked, hazard triangle set up perfectly like she’s still trying to control the chaos.

She’s leaning against the car, arms folded, phone in hand. A brunette perched next to her on the metal guardrail, legs swinging like this is just another Thursday.

They both look up when you pull in behind them Alexia doesn’t smile she just nods.

You hop out of your truck, boots hitting the gravel. “Nice parking job.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans. “You took your time.”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I came at all.”

The brunette watches you both with raised eyebrows, like she’s already piecing things together Alexia hasn't even admitted to her yet.

You walk past them, pop the hood, and whistle low. “Radiator’s cooked and your battery’s working overtime trying to make up for it.”

Alexia joins you, peering over your shoulder. You pretend you don’t notice how close she’s standing. You definitely don’t notice the way her perfume cuts through motor oil and asphalt. “How long to fix it?” she asks.

“Depends. You in a rush to get back to training?”

The woman snorts behind her, Alexia doesn’t answer. Instead, she says, “Can you tow it or not?”

You grin. “Baby, I could tow you with my teeth.”

The woman mutters, “Jesus,” and walks off toward your truck, you glance at Alexia. She’s trying not to smile. “You two close?” you ask, nodding toward her friend.

“She’s my younger sister. That means she thinks she knows everything.”

You shoot her a look. “Sounds familiar.”

She bumps your shoulder light, almost nothing but it lingers in your blood longer than it should, you hook up the tow. Quick, clean. Routine. Except nothing about this feels routine.

Back in your truck, Alba climbs into the back seat and Alexia claims the passenger side like she owns it. You don’t say much at first. The road hums beneath you, windows cracked just enough to let in the night air.

Then Alexia says, “I didn’t want to call you.”

You glance at her. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I mean, I didn’t plan on it. It just... happened.”

“Emergency contacts dry up or something?”

“No.” She turns to you. “But I knew you’d come.”

You grip the wheel tighter than necessary. “That so?” She nods. It’s not flirty. It’s not soft. It’s just honest and it messes you up worse than it should. "It's my job, I have to" you mutter to try and save your ego.

You pull up to the shop, kill the engine, and step out.

“Keys,” you say, holding your hand out.

Alexia tosses them over without hesitation.

“Give me two days.”

“Take three.”

You blink at her. “You’re not staying to supervise like you did with your mother's car?”

She shrugs. “I trust you.”

You watch her walk toward a taxi where Alba’s waiting, her arms folded, clearly unimpressed with the night.

Alexia pauses before getting in, turns back toward you. “You’re not what I expected,” she says.

You tip your head. “You still pretending you don’t like that?”

She doesn’t answer, just gets in the car and shuts the door. You watch them drive off, the taillights shrinking into the night.

You should feel triumphant or smug, something you can wear easy, but all you feel is that same tight coil in your chest. Like she’s giving you just enough rope to hang yourself and you’re starting to want the noose.

🚗

The shop smells like cheap perfume and lemon Fanta, thanks to the can your nine year old little sister spilled two hours ago and didn’t clean up right.

Isabella is flopped on an old recliner you rescued from the curb, one sock on, a streak of engine grease on her cheek like war paint. She’s got a sketchpad open on her knees, legs swinging over the arm of the chair, completely absorbed in whatever superhero-princess-hybrid she’s drawing.

You’re halfway under Alexia’s car when the front door creaks.

You don’t even look up when you call out, “If you’re a delivery guy, leave it on the counter. If you’re a cop, I want a lawyer.”

But then Bella gasps sharp and high, you twist out from under the car, expecting a spider.

Instead, its, Alexia. In leggings, a loose hoodie, sunglasses on top of her head, holding a coffee in each hand. “Didn’t know you had company,” she says, spotting your sister.

Bella's frozen, absolutely still, mouth open, sketchpad forgotten.

You blink. Then grin. “Alexia,” you say casually, like she hasn’t haunted your thoughts every night this week. “This is Isabella my little sister.”

Bella's voice comes out small. “You’re Alexia Putellas.”

Alexia blinks, surprised, then smiles, slow and warm. “That’s me.”

Bella scrambles to sit up properly, brushing her hands on her pants, trying to look presentable while still covered in paint smudges and wearing a shirt that says why walk when you can cartwheel.

Alexia walks over and squats in front of you, holding out one of the coffees. “This is for you,” she says to you, then glances at Bella. “And I bought a chocolate croissant to. You want it?”

Bella nods like she’s just been knighted. You watch as Alexia sits on the edge of the workbench, talking to Bella like she’s known her for years. Not the 'I’m a famous athlete being nice to a kid' way, either. She sees her.

Bella tells her about the superhero she’s drawing. Alexia asks questions, real ones, and actually listens. She even gives Bella a tip for drawing better knees, apparently, Alexia used to sketch too.

You lean back against the tool cart, sipping your coffee, trying to pretend this isn’t melting something under your ribs. Then Bella blurts, “You’re my favourite player. I watched your goal against Wolfsburg last week like thirty times. You kicked it so hard.”

Alexia laughs, really laughs and ruffles Bella’s hair, you don’t know what to do with the look on Alexia’s face. It’s not her on-pitch intensity, not the cool girl front. It’s just… soft. Real.

Later, when Bella’s gone to clean her hands and find her secret glitter rock she hides behind the garage to show Alexia, you lean against the wall beside her. “She’s obsessed with you, you know.”

Alexia glances at you. “I figured.”

“She made me watch that goal too. Kept pausing it. ‘Look at her face, look at how fast she moves,’” you mimic in a teasing tone.

“She’s smart.”

“She’s nine and terrifying.”

Alexia smiles. “She loves you. I can tell.”

You shrug. “I guess I’m not all bad.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You’re not.”

Something passes between you again. It always does, but this time, there’s no fire or pushback. Just presence, like maybe, just maybe, the life you’ve built here, wrenches and rust and late nights with your sister when your parents are working late, isn’t something you have to keep separate from her.

Alexia looks out toward the back where you're looking, where Bella’s still talking to the rock like it understands.

“She’s the best part of me,” you say, not even meaning to, it slips out, real and unfiltered.

Alexia watches you like she’s seeing something new, “She likes cars too?”

You smile. “No. She likes superheroes, princesses', painting and hiding under my bed to scare me.”

That earns you a laugh. It’s small, but real. “She lives with you?”

“She lives with my parents,” you say, “but she comes to the shop after school when they work late sometimes end up staying at mine. Thinks I’m cool.”

“You are cool,” Alexia says, and it’s so simple, so soft, it disarms you.

You shrug it off, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “She calls me every night,” you add. “Even if it’s just to tell me she saw a bug shaped like a turtle or that her teacher wears ugly shoes.”

Alexia smiles. “You love her.”

“More than I know how to say.”

Silence but not the bad kind. It’s warm in here all of a sudden, stretched between you like a thread that isn’t being pulled just held. She shifts slightly in her seat, her knee brushing yours but doesn’t move away. “You surprise me,” she says, eventually.

You glance at her. “Not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s real,” she replies. “And I didn’t expect that.”

That hits because you know she’s been trying to figure you out since day one, like you’re a locked door she’s not sure is worth opening, “You think I’m just some cocky mechanic who fucks around and leaves before sunrise,” you say. “You’re not wrong.” She says nothing, just watches you. “But I don’t leave people I care about,” you finish, quieter now.

The words hang there. She doesn’t touch them. Doesn’t reach for them, but she hears you, you know she does and for now, that’s enough. She shifts again. “I should go.”

You nod. “I’ll call you when the car’s ready.”

Alexia opens the door, steps out, then pauses leaning down just slightly as you are going back under her car,

“Tell Bella I said bye.”

And then she’s gone again, but this time, it doesn’t sting because something’s shifting, she’s not running away. Not exactly. 🚗

You’ve stopped asking why she shows up. Sometimes it’s in the morning, two coffees in hand, like she’s clocking in with you. Sometimes it’s late, after training, when her hair’s still damp and she’s in a hoodie three sizes too big. Sometimes she doesn’t even talk. Just sits at the workbench while you grease your hands and curse at a carburetor like it insulted your mother.

She always leaves just before it gets too quiet and her coffee is finished, but today, she stays longer, long after Bella arrives from school.

You’re half-distracted by her legs curled up in the corner chair and the way Bella is perched beside her, sketchpad in lap, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she draws.

“Don’t look yet,” Bella says, scribbling faster.

“I’m not,” Alexia promises, smiling into her coffee.

You throw a wrench into the bin and try not to stare, Bella finally flips the pad around. “Tada!”

It’s... a portrait, of Alexia. Messy, wild hair. Huge eyes. Big legs, because Bella said "you have powerful calves like a puma.” A tiny football floats above her head like a halo.

You expect Alexia to laugh, maybe make a joke, she doesn’t, she takes the paper in both hands and looks at it like it’s made of glass “Can I keep it?” she asks softly.

Bella beams. “Yes, but you have to hang it up somewhere cool. No throwing it away when you’re old.”

“I promise,” Alexia says and for a second, you almost forget who she is. What she means to the world.

You wipe your hands and turn away. Play it cool. No one has to know your stomach’s doing flips over a damn crayon sketch.

The knock on the garage door comes sharp, three fast raps like someone’s been waiting too long. You look up just as it swings open. Alba. Pissed. Wearing heels and a fitted blazer like she’s just come from a courtroom or a funeral. You can see the exact moment her eyes clock the scene Alexia on the chair, barefoot, Bella beside her with ink on her hands.

“Seriously?” Alba snaps.

Alexia stands up too fast, folding the sketch like it’s contraband, “What?”

“It’s seven-thirty, Ale. We were supposed to leave half an hour ago. It’s Mami's birthday dinner.”

Alexia curses under her breath. “Shit.”

You watch her move, flustered and guilty, the way you’ve never seen her before. Bella looks up, confused. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, cariño,” Alexia says, kneeling briefly to kiss the top of her head. “I just forgot what time it was.”

That lands like a gut punch, because she never forgets the time. Not on the pitch. Not with media. Not with sponsors. Not with her family.

Just with you.

Alexia walks toward Alba, still barefoot, holding her shoes to her chest.

Alba glares at you. “I figured she was here,” she mutters, you just stare. “You're a bad influence”

That burns.

You don’t reply. You can’t reply, because Bella is right there, and because you’re not sure what you’d say that wouldn’t tear the air in half.

Alexia looks back once as she steps out the door. You don’t wave, but you don’t look away either and she knows what that means.

🚗

Three days. Not that you’re counting, but you know it’s been seventy-two hours since the last time she stood barefoot in your garage, cradling a coffee like it was sacred, laughing at something Bella said. Seventy-two hours since she looked at you like she didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss you or run from you.

She chose the latter.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted no strings. Just a friend thing, a distraction with good legs and bad timing, but then Bella asks, on the third night, “Is Alexia mad at me?”

You pause mid-bite, fork in hand. “What?”

“She said she’d show me how to make that boat with paper. She never came back.”

You clear your throat. “She’s just busy, Bella.”

“She’s a footballer. You said footballers aren't that busy, it's not a real job” Nine years old, and already calling you out.

You don’t have an answer, "What do I know ay?"

Bella pokes at her food and mumbles, “I hope she didn’t throw away my drawing.”

You bite your tongue until it almost bleeds.

Day four.

You’re wiping down the shop when you hear a car pull up, not hers. Still, you look. Nothing. You curse yourself, then go back to pretending you don’t care.

Day five.

She shows up, late, quiet, hair tied back in a braid, hoodie pulled up to her throat like armour. You’re under a car again. You hear the door. Her footsteps. The hesitation.

“Hey,” she says.

You slide out and don’t look at her. Not right away. She looks tired, not physically, but like she’s been carrying something around and refusing to set it down. “Didn’t know if you’d show your face again,” you say, voice even.

She flinches at that. Just a little. “I’m sorry.”

You shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

You finally meet her eyes. “Then why’d you ghost me?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well. You did.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling, “I got scared,” she admits.

You blink. “Of what? A kid with glitter on her cheeks and a sister who makes engine grease look like war paint?”

Alexia exhales, frustrated. “Of how easy it felt. Like I’d been here a hundred times before. Like you and her and this,” she gestures to the walls, the mess, the smell of you in the air “were already, normal.”

That hits harder than you want it to, you try to deflect. “You’ve had worse addictions.”

But she doesn’t laugh. “I don’t do messy,” she says. “I don’t do... casual.”

You cross your arms. “Then why come back?”

Alexia doesn’t answer right away, then she pulls something from her hoodie pocket and hands it to you. You unfold it, it's slightly crumpled, but not torn. Corners worn like someone’s been folding and unfolding it over and over again, list of your tools, what you call them.

“I hung it up,” Alexia says. “Right over my locker, you don't have much patience when I don't know what you're talking about so I was... studying I guess”

You don’t say anything. You can’t because there’s a voice inside you screaming, don’t let this matter and another one, quieter, whispering, it already does.

She looks at you, unsure. Guard down for once, you stare at her long and hard. You fold the engine cheat sheet back up and hand it back to her, "Good because your damn car is going to be the death of me, it was meant to be a three day job not a fortnight" You don’t smile but she does and that’s enough.

For now. 🚗

You don’t call it anything. Not a relationship. Not dating. Not whatever weird half-step you’re both dancing between, but she’s here most days now.

She brings coffee that’s always too sweet for you but you drink it anyway and she brings new headphones for Bella after accidentally breaking her old pair during a very aggressive game of 'Who Can Run Faster Around the Shop Without Dying.'

She sits on your workbench like it’s made for her. She knows where the good socket wrenches are. She even started labeling drawers, badly, in her neat handwriting:

“Danger Stuff”

“Loud Shiny Tools”

“Definitely Not a Murder Weapon (I Hope)”

You haven’t fixed it, you let it stay, it makes you smile when no one's looking.

The first time she tries to help, it’s because you’re elbow-deep in her engine and muttering like the thing insulted your lineage.

She wanders over, peers in like she knows what she’s looking at, “You want help?” she asks, totally serious.

You snort. “You gonna bless it with your left foot?”

“Rude,” she says. “I’ve changed a tire before.”

“Oh wow, Queen of Barcelona knows how to get dirty.”

She raises a brow. “You’re dying to find out.”

You choke on your spit, she grins.

It becomes a thing. You let her hold the flashlight. Hand you tools. She’s awful at both. Passes you the wrong wrench every time. Keeps asking what 'torque specs' are.

You should be annoyed. You’re not.

There’s something nice about it. About explaining things. About the way she listens, focused, like learning this stupid, greasy stuff actually matters to her because you’re the one teaching it. Like it's opening your world up to her to understand you more.

Bella watches from the corner, making bets with herself about whether Alexia will break something.

You catch her watching once and she just grins, another time yu catch her, her mouth opens, “Are you two married now?” she asks, deadpan.

Alexia blushes so hard she nearly drops a spanner on your foot.

You fake a cough. “Go do your homework.”

Bella just shrugs. “You’re both weird.” and leaves.

Later, you’re sitting on the hood of a car, feet dangling.

She’s beside you, grease on her cheek, a streak of oil on her thigh. The sun’s gone down and the lights from inside the shop spill out just enough to make her look unreal.

She leans back on her hands. “I’m still bad at this.”

“Fixing cars?”

“Letting people in.”

You nod, eyes on the sky. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I keep thinking I’ll mess it up.”

You turn to look at her. “You will.”

She laughs. “Wow. So supportive.”

You smirk. “But I’ll probably mess it up first.”

Her smile softens and then, out of nowhere, she says, “You know, I like this version of you.”

You squint. “What version?”

“The one that doesn’t always have to be the biggest asshole in the room.”

You snort. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Silence stretches again but it’s good silence, you don’t hold hands, you don’t kiss, but she bumps her knee against yours and doesn’t move it. 🚗

You didn’t even mean or want to be there. It was Bella’s idea Barcelona vs. Atlético, decent seats, popcorn too salty, her eyes wide with excitement the whole match.

You didn’t tell Alexia you were coming. She played well. Sharp. Ruthless. You didn’t cheer, but you watched. You always watch.

After the match, you hang back. Bella wants to see the players, see if maybe someone will wave. You stand near the barriers, feeling out of place in your own skin. You let Bella lean against the rail, beaming and clutching the crumpled roster sheet like it’s gold.

Then you hear her voice, Alexia, just a few steps down talking to a teammate as they work along the line of merch thrust at them to sign. You don’t mean to listen, but you do.

The tone is casual, relaxed, she doesn’t know you’re here. You hear the teammate ask, “So what’s up with the girl at the garage?”

And Alexia says it. Just like that. “The mechanic? No, she’s just fixing my car. She’s just a mechanic.”

Your stomach drops and that’s it. No she’s great, no she’s funny, no she’s someone I like being around. Nothing. Just. A. Mechanic.

You don’t wait for more, you pull Bella gently by the arm and say, “Let’s go.”

“But I wanted—”

“Now, Bella.” She doesn’t argue, something in your voice must’ve told her to not argue, the ride home is quiet.

You park in the garage and sit in the dark for a long time after dropping Bella home. The air smells like oil and metal and the faint perfume she always leaves behind.

Just a mechanic.

It loops in your head like a bad song and you know. You know what you are to her in public. What box she keeps you in. What story she tells when the world starts asking questions and maybe that shouldn’t hurt but it does. Because you showed her the soft parts, let her near Bella, let her in, even when you swore you wouldn’t and still, she made you small and insignificant.

She texts later.

A: Hey. You at the game today? I thought I saw you leaving?

You don’t reply, not yet, maybe not ever, because if she gets to think you don’t matter, then maybe you can learn to do the same.

🚗

You didn’t plan on going out, but when you’re sitting on the shop couch, staring at that text she sent again like she hadn’t just stripped you down to nothing in front of a teammate you snap.

You throw on something loose, dark, let your hair down like armour, put on your rings the girls seemed to want to die for, and head out.

The dive bar is warm and loud, filled with cheap perfume and worse decisions. You welcome it. She’s tall. Blonde. Big eyes, bigger chest. Laughs at your terrible jokes like you’re the best thing she’s seen in weeks. She doesn’t know your name yet. You don’t ask for hers. That’s the point. You’re just about to close the tab when the energy shifts. You feel it before you see it.

Then there she is. Alexia.

In joggers, fresh, flushed and glowing with that effortless look she always had. Flanked by two teammates one of them the same girl from the match, the one who laughed when you got reduced to just a mechanic.

Of course she sees you. Of course she stops.

You try to keep your eyes forward, fingers grazing the blonde’s lower back, guiding her toward the door like this is routine, because it was one you'd easily slipped back into, like Alexia doesn’t mean a goddamn thing and you were about to wash away all the progress you'd made with her thinking you weren't a 'fuck boy'.

“Hey,” she says, voice almost lost in the noise.

You don’t turn fully, just enough to meet her gaze, just enough to see the hurt sitting in her eyes. You don’t blink. “You’re car should be ready tomorrow night,” you say flatly.

That’s it. No hello. No smile. No warmth. Just business. Just a mechanic. You leave before she can say anything back, the blonde grabs your arm once you're outside. “Everything okay?”

You lie through your teeth. “Yeah.”

Later that night, after the blonde falls asleep in your bed, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.

The words echo again, you said it back tonight, she was just a customer, but the part that makes your chest ache the worst makes you want to scream into the walls, you didn’t mean it. 🚗

You weren’t at the garage when Alexia came to pick up her car. Your phone buzzed with a message from your brother.

'She asked if you took the day off.'

You didn’t reply, because you weren’t off. You were at her mother’s place, working on Alba’s car, engine humming, hands deep in grease and oil but your mind was miles away.

The afternoon sun was sliding toward evening when a familiar car rolled slowly into the driveway. Alexia’s car newly fixed, you stiffened without meaning to.

Her mother, Eli, glanced at you, eyes sharp. “You okay?” she asked softly.

You forced a nod, Alexia stood nearby, arms crossed, silent like she was waiting for the world to catch up.

You didn’t meet her eyes Eli’s gaze flicked between you two.

She smiled gently, trying to lighten the air. “Stay for dinner. We’re just about to eat.”

You shook your head politely. “No, thanks. I’m just the mechanic. No need for me to impose.”

The words came out sharper than you expected, you caught the flicker in Alexia’s eyes the slow, sinking realisation.

Her mother’s smile faltered, then softened.

You turned to Eli. “Tell Alba to stop by the garage whenever she’s free to settle up. No rush.”

Alexia’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darkening with hurt but saying nothing.

You slipped out, car door slammed behind you, you sat for a moment in your truck, phone buzzing silent in your hand.

The engine started and you drove, you checked your rearview and as her mother was retreating back into her home, she was watching you go. 🚗

You hear her before you see her, the slam of her car door, fast footsteps on the concrete outside the garage. She’s not here for her sister's bill, and you know it. Your gut clenches before you even look up Alexia walks in like a storm shoulders tense, jaw tight, fire in her eyes.

You barely glance up from under the hood of a Jeep, “Not taking dinner invitations today either?” you mutter.

She ignores the jab. “Why weren’t you here when I picked up the car?”

“Didn’t realise you’d miss me,” you say flatly.

“Don’t do that,” she snaps. “Don’t shut down.”

You step out from behind the hood, wiping your hands with a rag, already bracing. “Then what should I do, Alexia? Pretend I didn’t hear you call me ‘just the mechanic’ like I’m the fucking help?”

Her face shifts guilt, shame, something uglier too. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Oh it was exactly like that,” you cut in. “You looked your teammate in the face and reduced me to a job title. Not a person. Not someone who holds a meaningful space in your life. Just a mechanic.”

Her nostrils flare. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it?” you repeat, voice rising. “Then what did you mean? Because from where I was standing, it looked a hell of a lot like you were embarrassed.”

She steps forward, furious now. “And you? You go and screw the first slutty blonde you find in a bar like that was going to fix it?”

You go still, the silence that falls is instant, thick, choking. “So that’s what this is?” you say, stepping in. “You get to say whatever the fuck you want about me, but when I stop sitting around waiting for you to admit I matter, I’m the villain?”

“She looked like a groupie,” Alexia spits. “Is that what you want? Someone who doesn’t give a damn who you are outside of a nice face and a good fuck?”

You flinch, then you laugh, but it’s empty. “Maybe it is,” you say. “At least she didn’t pretend I meant something and then treat me like a second rate person.”

That one lands. You see it. She looks away. Voice lower. “I didn’t mean for any of this to get this... messy.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You can’t play both sides, Alexia. You don’t get to come into my life, judge me for how I choose to live my life, make assumptions on my character, and then back off the second it threatens your perfect little image.”

Her eyes snap to yours. “You think this is about my image?”

“I think you care more about what people think than what you should,” you say. “And I’m done being the one you hide in secret, you said I would get bored after I got what I wanted from you, that I don't know how to stay. But from where i'm stood Alexia, we're more similar than you'd care to admit, the only difference.. you haven't fucked me”

Silence. Her lip trembles. Just for a second. “I never wanted to hurt you,” she says finally.

You nod, cold. “Well, you did.” And you walk away into a part of the garage she's not allowed in. 🚗

The rain has uncharacteristically been coming down for hours, windscreen wipers working overtime, Bella's humming softly in the passenger seat, kicking her feet to the beat of whatever pop song’s leaking from your speakers she insists she has control over.

You’re about ten minutes from your parents’ place when your headlights catch it, a car, pulled onto the shoulder, hazards blinking weakly. Alexia’s car.

You pull over without thinking. Bella blinks at you, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Stay here,” you mutter, already throwing your hood up against the rain.

You jog toward the car, rain soaking through your hoodie instantly, as you approach, you see her Alexia behind the wheel. Her mother, Eli, and Alba in the passenger seats. She sees you, doesn’t roll the window down right away.

Eventually, it hisses open an inch. “Are you okay?” you ask through the downpour.

Alexia doesn’t even look at you. “You didn’t fix my car properly.”

There’s that tone again sharp, distant, angry, you swallow it. “Have you called for recovery?”

Eli leans over. “None of us can get service.”

You glance at the shoulder, at the way trucks blast by feet away, making the car rock each time. “Look, you can’t stay in the car it’s dangerous, especially in this weather. Come get in mine, I’ll take you home. I’ll come tow this tomorrow.”

“No,” Alexia says, arms crossed. “I’ve turned my phone off and on. I’ll get service in a minute.”

You breathe in, hold it, try not to snap. “Are you really being stubborn right now?” Your voice rises, taut with frustration. “Do you realise how dangerous it is sitting here?”

She doesn’t move. “Well maybe I wouldn’t be if your busy hands had been working on my car a bit better.”

Your jaw tightens, you step back, rain drips down your face. “Will you just come and get in my car?”

“No.”

You snap. “Alexia, don’t be so fucking stupid. I’ve got my little sister in my car, I can’t stand here playing stupid fucking games in the middle of a highway in a goddamn storm."

She looks at you, face hard, but there’s a flicker in her eyes something that breaks through the heat.

You shake your head, turning away. “I’m getting soaked. Suit yourself but I wouldn’t bother ringing our emergency number my recovery truck’s already on a job fifty miles away. Hope you find help soon.”

You turn and walk back to your personal truck, shoulders braced against the cold. When you open the door, Bella's eyes are wide as she clutches her seatbelt tight.

“This is scary,” she says eyes wide, "I don't like it."

You sigh, heart squeezing. “I’m sorry, we're going now, you're ok." You’re climbing in when you hear it, feet splashing through puddles.

“Wait!”

It’s Alba. She’s rushing with Eli down the road, arms over their heads. Alexia trails behind, slower, her hood up, rain darkening her sweatshirt.

They reach your truck, and you open the door without a word.

Eli and Alba squeeze into the back beside Bella, who gives them a nervous wave. You shift things around automatically, helping without looking directly at Alexia as she climbs into the passenger seat as you clear your diary and shit off the seat.

She’s shivering. So are you, you silently flick on the heated seats, turn the heat up.

Alexia says nothing, Eli touches your shoulder gently. “You’re soaked through, cariño.”

You wave it off, eyes forward, hands tight on the wheel. “It’s fine.”

You pull back into traffic, wipers beating back the storm, silence thick in the cab, no one speaks, but everyone feels it. "Awkward" Bella sings under her breath only you smile.

The drive is silent now, rain still taps against the roof, slower now, gentler but the tension inside the cab is anything but.

Your hands are firm on the wheel, knuckles pale. You don’t look at Alexia. She doesn’t look at you, at your parents’ place, you pull in just long enough for Bella to unbuckle.

You turn in your seat to the back and lean toward her, voice softening for the first time all night. “C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

She beams, you do your little handshake, quick taps, a snap, a pinky promise and she hugs you tight around the neck. Your entire body exhales without meaning to.

You watch her run to the front door, backpack bouncing. Your parents open it just as she gets there. You flash your lights once in acknowledgment when they're waving then you pull back out.

Alba pipes up. “I’ll direct you, just turn left at the lights.” but you don’t need the help, you know where Eli lives, you’ve been there too many times with her car and Alba's cars.

Alexia’s quiet in the seat beside you, arms crossed, body still damp.

At Eli’s, you don’t pull into the drive you stop in the street, “Thanks,” Eli says quietly, giving your shoulder a squeeze again. “For helping and for putting up with the stubbornness.”

She gives Alexia a meaningful look Alexia pretends not to see it, Alba climbs out next, shooting a cautious glance between you two before closing the door behind her.

You’re alone, still raining Alexia stays frozen in the passenger seat, watching the raindrops race down the window.

You glance at her. “You going or?” you ask, not looking at her directly.

She doesn’t move. “It’s pouring.”

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “That’s why it’s called rain.”

Eli calls from outside. “Alexia?”

Alexia huffs, putting her window down a touch, arms crossed tighter. “I’m not getting out in this. I’ll wait.”

Eli raises a brow. “You’ll wait?”

Alexia shrugs. “I’ll call a cab.”

“You’ve got no service,” you say, staring out the windshield.

“I’ll get some in a minute.”

You rub your jaw, trying not to lose it. “It’s getting late, I'm tired and you’re being ridiculous, can you not just wait in your mother's?”

You watch her mum and sister head into the house and you still wait for her, minutes pass and still Alexia doesn’t move.

Eventually, you put the car back in drive. "You're fucking annoying" you mutter she doesn’t say anything as you drive off and take the turn that leads back to your place and not in the direction only she knows she lives.

When you pull up in front of your building, you throw the truck in park and glance at her.

“You can sit here and wait for your phone to get service in a storm or you can come up just stay I doubt you'll get a taxi in this, it's your choice. I'm not playing your games” you say, opening your door.

You don’t get an answer right away, you sigh get out and shut the door, as you head through the parking garage you hear a car door shut behind you louder than necessary, you lock your car on the fob as you walk as you know she's following you without a word.

Inside your apartment, she hovers near the doorway like it might bite her arms crossed, wet hair clinging to her cheek. Her eyes scan the room but don’t settle anywhere.

She’s never been in your space before, you can tell it throws her too many pieces of you that don’t match the rough exterior she thought she knew.

The clean kitchen, the small stack of fantasy novels on the counter, the art on the wall, one clearly drawn by a child.

“Sit down if you want,” you mutter, not really looking at her as you toe off your boots near the door.

She doesn’t move.

You don’t think twice just start stripping off your soaked hoodie, then your shirt, your skin goosebumps instantly, wet fabric peeled off muscles and a scar.

You're halfway across the room, grabbing a dry tee off the clothes horse set up by the dining table, when you realise she hasn't moved.

You glance over, catch her staring, her eyes drag upward slow, her face tightens when she sees you looking.

You pull the tee over your head without comment, towel off your hair with the one you grabbed also.

“Do you want dry clothes or you planning on standing there dripping on my floor all night?” you ask finally, walking past her toward the bedroom.

She clears her throat, snapping out of it. “Yeah. I mean yeah, that’d be good.”

You toss her a soft old Barça hoodie, it felt apt, you definitely didn’t steal from your brother, and a pair of sweats that might be too big.

She disappears into the bathroom. When she comes back, she looks... smaller. The hoodie swamps her. Her damp hair is tied up, messily. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

You toss a blanket on the couch, “I’ll take the couch. You can take the bed. Don’t touch anything on the nightstand, there’s like, tools and shit.”

You see the flicker of amusement behind her awkwardness. “You sleep with tools on your nightstand?”

You shrug. “Don’t judge me, princess.”

She doesn’t, but when she turns down the hallway, she says over her shoulder “This place is nice.”

You don’t answer.

You just stand in your own living room, suddenly too aware of her smell lingering in the air. Of the wet towel on the back of a chair. Of the sound of your own breathing.

It’s quiet. Not peaceful. Just full.

🚗

You sit on the couch under an old fleece blanket, knees pulled up, one arm resting lazily along the back. The TV glows in front of you, the volume barely above a whisper. Some documentary you’re not actually watching plays on screen all low-voiced narration and muted cityscapes.

You keep the sound low, you don’t want to wake her, but about forty-five minutes in, just when you’re debating turning the whole thing off and giving in to your own restless head, you hear the soft creak of the bedroom door.

She appears barefoot, in your hoodie and sweats, eyes bleary “Couldn’t sleep,” she mutters.

You turn your head. “Yeah?”

“The hammer and drill on the nightstand were… a bit unnerving.”

That pulls a reluctant laugh out of you. “Yeah, well. Maybe they bring me comfort or some shit.” She gives you a look, but it’s not harsh. “I heard you were up,” you say after a second, nodding toward the hallway. “Your steps are loud as hell.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches, you lift the edge of the blanket a silent offer. She hesitates but she comes over without another word and sits beside you, legs folding under her as she pulls the blanket over her lap. Her shoulder brushes yours. Warm. Familiar. Too close and not close enough.

You don’t say anything. Neither does she.

The documentary drones on, forgotten. Something about Paris or maybe traffic congestion. It doesn’t matter.

She shifts after a while, curling a little toward your side, not quite touching you, but near enough that you feel the pull of it.

“Your sister’s drawing of me’s on the fridge,” she says quietly, like she just noticed.

You glance over. “Yeah. She was proud of it.”

“She gave me eyelashes for days.”

“She’s nine. She thinks everyone pretty gets extra lashes.”

That gets a breath of amusement from her. Then a pause, “She really likes me?”

“Yeah,” you say. “She doesn’t like many people. Not even our cousin. She says he talks like a cartoon villain.”

Alexia lets out a soft laugh the kind that sounds like it caught her off guard. Then she goes quiet again but after a while “I’m sorry.”

You look at her, waiting. She doesn’t turn to you, just keeps her eyes on the TV.

“For what I said. About you. The bar. The girl.” Her jaw shifts. “It wasn’t fair. And I knew it.”

You sit with it. Then shrug. “You were pissed. You’re allowed.”

“I meant it, though,” she says. Then, quieter, “That was the problem.”

You don’t answer, because if you do, you might ask her what exactly she meant and you’re not sure you want to hear it.

Instead, you shift slightly. Let your knee press against hers and leave it there.

You don’t know how long you sit like that knees brushing, blanket pulled over both your legs, TV flickering something neither of you are really watching anymore.

The silence should be awkward after everything but it’s not. It’s thick, sure. Full of the kind of tension that wants to be touched, turned over, looked at in the light but it’s not awkward.

Until she shifts beside you. “I didn’t mean it,” she says again. “What I said. At the match.”

You glance at her. She’s staring ahead like the words are costing her something. “The ‘just a mechanic’ part?” you ask, voice dry.

She winces, just barely. “Yeah.”

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. “Seemed like you meant it.”

“I didn’t,” she snaps too quick, too sharp, then she exhales, frustrated. “I was… jealous.” You blink. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek now avoiding your gaze. “One of my teammates kept asking about you. Said you were hot. Wanted your number. I don’t know.” She waves a hand like she’s swatting the memory away. “It pissed me off. And I—I didn’t want them thinking I... I didn't want them thinking I knew you well enough to set you up, so I just downplayed it. So I didn't have.. to”

You raise a brow. “By acting like I was the tyre-fitter who realigned your third gear?”

“I panicked,” she mutters.

"What were they asking?"

“If you were single,” she says, almost bitter. “If you were seeing anyone. If you were... into footballers.”

You let out a short breath. “And you got pissed because…”

“Because she’s twenty-five, stupidly hot, good at flirting, and I knew you’d like the attention.”

Your brows raise, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. “So I’m not allowed to enjoy being fancied now?”

“Not when it’s by someone I see in the locker room four days a week.”

You turn your body more toward her, one elbow draped along the couch back, the other hand under the blanket near your thigh. “Which teammate?”

Alexia groans. “Does it matter?”

“Kind of.”

She sighs. “Jana.”

You let out a low whistle. “The defender?”

She gives you a look. “See? You know who I mean.”

You laugh. “Not every day a famous, cute footballer wants to date me. Forgive me for feeling kind of smug.”

She turns her head sharply, eyes locking on yours, but something changes in her face. The fight goes out of her just a little. “Yeah,” she says after a beat, softer. “I guess so.”

The room is darker now. The TV’s off, and the only light comes from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds. You barely notice.

Alexia’s head is resting lightly against your shoulder, her breath slow and steady. You can feel the warmth of her body against you, the rise and fall of her chest as she settles into sleep.

You’d thought the night would be heavier loud with words you weren’t ready to say but now, all that pressure seems to have folded in on itself, leaving just this.

You don’t move, not even when your arm starts to go numb beneath her, not when the blanket shifts and slips a little. It’s the kind of quiet that speaks louder than anything you could say.

Her hair brushes against your neck. The soft scent of rain and something faintly sweet, maybe shampoo or soap. You wonder how many nights she’s spent feeling like she had to be tough, like she couldn’t let anyone in and here she is. So close you can count the freckles along her jawline.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself feel it this strange mix of peace and something like hope.

🚗

Sunlight filters through the blinds, slanting gold across the kitchen tiles. The smell of coffee hangs faintly in the air.

You’re already dressed for work faded jeans, a plain tee, sitting at the small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in your hands.

Your eyes flick up every now and then, watching her sleep, Alexia is curled up on the couch, hair messy and damp from the night before. You hear her take a sharp intake of breath as she wakes, she stills for a moment before looking around then, over her shoulder in your direction.

You raise a spoonful of cereal and grin, “Want some?”

She blinks, the slow realisation hitting. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

Her eyes snap open, and panic flashes across her face. “Shit. I’m going to be late for training.”

You laugh quietly, a little teasing, a little warm. “Chill. I’ll drop you.” She blinks at you, clearly surprised. “And don’t worry about your car, I’ll sort it out it's already back at the garage. I’ll just let you know later what’s going on.”

She nods, still looking a bit flustered, but there’s a spark of something softer behind the rush. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, half smiling.

You shrug, trying to play it cool, but inside it’s like your chest just got lighter. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me something everyone doesn't say”

She leans back, watching you eat your cereal like this is totally normal and for now, maybe it is.

🚗

The drive to Barcelona’s training ground feels longer than it should, and completely out of your way, the sky’s still soft with morning light, but there’s a weight in the car that neither of you breaks.

You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel she sits beside you, quiet, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.

The radio hums softly, but neither of you turns it up, the tension simmers unspoken things, half-formed feelings swirling between you like the mist on the glass.

Finally, you pull up near the entrance to the training grounds Alexia turns toward you, eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. “Thanks,” she says quietly.

You nod, voice low, a little rough around the edges. “Welcome. Have a good day.”

She offers the faintest of smiles, then opens the door and steps out you watch her walk away confident, strong, but maybe just a little softer than before.

You start the engine and pull back onto the road, the silence inside the car now almost peaceful. 🚗

The garage is quiet when they walk in.

You’re under the hood of a Peugeot, grease across your knuckles and a wrench resting on the workbench beside you. The sharp click of the front door bell pulls your head up.

Alexia with her mother and Alba trailing behind, all three of them dressed in the casual comfort Alba's got something heavy in her hands a crate of Estrella.

You raise an eyebrow, already suspicious. “We brought you this,” Eli says, setting the crate down with a proud smile. “For everything.”

You wipe your hands on a rag and step around the car. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Alba grins. “Well, we did. So just say thank you and drink it.”

You chuckle. “Thank you. Very much.”

Alexia stays near the door, quiet for a second before she steps further into the space. Her eyes flick to the car parked just outside the open garage bay. “Did you manage to fix it?”

You nod, already reaching for the keys. “Yeah. All sorted.” As you hand them to her, you add casually, “Filled your petrol tank up,”

She stares at you, blinking. “Wait, what?”

You lean against the workbench, smirking. “When the little petrol pump light comes on, it means you have to fill it up. The fuel’s actually a pretty important part of the whole engine system. Helps it... you know-go.” you shove your head forward for dramatic affect

She shoves it away with a scoff, but there’s laughter in it. “Dickhead.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” you say, lifting your hands in mock surrender. “You’d be surprised how many people do it.”

“I'm not embarrassed,” she lies, even as her cheeks flush pink. "And I'm not that stupid"

You catch her mother glancing between you both, her eyes knowing, you ignore it. “Anyway,” you say, stepping back toward the bench, “next time you’re stranded on the roadside, I might not be so quick to play chauffeur, given the attitude”

“You love it,” Alexia mutters under her breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You don’t deny it, but you don’t confirm it either. 🚗

Later that evening, the garage is quiet finally. You’re closing up, dragging the shutter halfway down when you hear the sound of footsteps on gravel, you already know it’s her before you look.

Alexia stands just outside the garage, hoodie on, hair damp like she showered quickly after training, hands in her pockets, like she wasn’t sure if she should come.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again today,” you say, letting the shutter go and walking toward her.

She shrugs, toeing the ground with the side of her shoe. “Left something in the car.”

“You mean the car that’s parked safely right behind you? That you drove here in?”

She gives you a dry look. “Yeah. That one.”

"I have an unclaimed pair of sunglasses, maybe they're yours?"

She shrugged, "Maybe"

You open the door behind you without a word, stepping aside. She follows you in, and something about the silence makes your skin itch not uncomfortable, just... expectant.

You grab the sunglasses from behind your workbench and toss them to her. She catches them easily. “I really did mean to fill it up,” she says, like she’s been waiting to admit it. “I just forgot.”

You smirk. “I figured, but the sarcasm was too easy.”

Alexia grins, stepping a little closer. “You’re smug.”

“You like it.” You mean it as a joke, but the second it leaves your mouth, the space between you shifts her eyes flick up to yours and stay there.

You feel it, the weight of the silence, the rise of something heavy and electric in your chest. You clear your throat, turning to grab a rag even though your hands are already clean, it had become a comfort blanket of sorts whenever she was in the garage lately.

She speaks again, voice low. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Fill up someone’s car. Check on their mother. Give them rides. Fix everything, even when they don’t ask.”

You turn back to her slowly. “No. Just yours.”

It’s quiet again, this time, she doesn’t look away. “I didn’t know what to do with you,” she says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“Back then, when I came to check on mami's car. When you looked at me like you already knew who I was, but didn’t care.”

You lean against the bench again, arms crossed now, trying to stay neutral even though your heart’s beating fast. “And now?”

“I still don’t know what to do with you.” You stare at her for a second, then smirk, just a little. "Don't ruin the moment with something like, I wish you'd do me"

You laughed at her mocking voice, before shaking your head, "I wasn't.. I was going to say you could start by saying thank you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Thank you.”

“And maybe stop calling people 'slutty blondes’ when you’re jealous.”

Her mouth falls open slightly. “I wasn’t—”

You tilt your head, she shuts up and then, you step forward, close, but not touching. She looks up at you like she’s trying not to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating between you but you don’t move. Not yet. “Night, Alexia,” you say softly.

She blinks, then nods once. “Night.” And turns to leave, breath catching just a little as she walks out.

You wait until the shutter’s down, the lights are off, and the street’s quiet before you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

🚗

The next few days are a rhythm, your usual grind at the garage. Her texts, a little more frequent now. Not flirty, exactly. Not obvious but still there.

How long does an oil change take? Why do I keep hearing a clicking noise when I reverse? Be honest. Did you touch my seat settings?

You answer every one. Sometimes with sarcasm. Sometimes with patience. Always with a smile you try to hide.

Late one evening, after closing up, you’re wiping your hands clean when headlights flash through the window.

You already know who it is.

Alexia parks terribly, crooked and too close to your truck, but you say nothing when she steps out holding two takeaway coffees.

She lifts the cups in a small peace offering. “Figured you wouldn’t have eaten.”

You eye her. “I don’t usually eat my coffee.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes one into your hand. “It’s a peace offering, Mechanic.”

You nod, amused. “We fighting?”

She shrugs. “Not today.”

You both sit on the bench outside the garage, backs against the cool metal shutter. The coffee is warm, the air cooler now that the sun’s dropped behind the rooftops. “Training?” you ask.

She nods. “Double session. My legs hate me.”

You gesture to her cup. “You want me to spike that with WD-40?”

She huffs a laugh. “If I didn’t think you’d actually try, I might say yes.”

There’s a pause. One of those heavy, quiet ones you’re both too used to now. You don’t look at her, but you feel it when her leg shifts just slightly, the denim of her jeans brushing yours.

Not on purpose. Not quite.

“I told my mami you'd got her part in for the car"

“And?”

“She asked why I keep showing up here.”

You lift your coffee. “Told her it’s my killer whit?”

She laughs again, more genuinely this time. “She said… maybe you’re the kind of girl who knows how to take care of people. Even if you pretend not to.”

You go quiet at that not because you don’t have a response, but because you’re not used to hearing things like that.

Especially not from someone like Alexia. She doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t explain or deflect.

You glance sideways. She’s looking straight ahead. Jaw tense. Lips parted just slightly, you clear your throat. “You know your seat’s still too far from the wheel, right?”

Her had snaps toward you, a groan already forming. “You did touch it!”

You grin into your cup. “Gotta keep the streak alive.”

She kicks your boot, and you catch her laughing again, another night, another almost but she’s still here.

🚗

It’s nearly 9PM when your phone buzzes. You’re halfway through a plate of reheated pasta, legs kicked up on the coffee table, a mindless documentary on TV.

Alexia: Hey… sorry. Are you busy? My car’s making a weird noise.

You stare at the message for a second.

You: What kind of noise?

Alexia: Like… a clicking? Or maybe a tapping? Or maybe it’s just… different.

You smirk.

You: Is this your version of a booty call? Because you’re gonna have to get more specific.

Three little dots appear. Then disappear. Then return again.

Alexia: I hate you.

You: I’m grabbing my keys what's your address?

Twenty minutes later, you’re in your car outside her home security gates, she buzzes you in without a word.

When she opens the door, she’s in a hoodie that definitely doesn’t belong to her baggy, old, familiar. Yours. You left it in her car two weeks ago.

She doesn’t mention it. Neither do you. “Where’s the patient?” you ask.

Alexia points to the left. “Just there. Thought I heard something earlier.”

You follow her gaze, her car sits perfectly fine under the car port, nothing leaking, nothing sagging, and probably nothing clicking.

You glance back at her. “Uh huh.”

“What?”

“Just wondering how long you rehearsed this ‘weird noise’ story.”

She crosses her arms, defensive but trying not to smile. “I thought I heard something.”

You squint at her. “You wanted me to come over.”

“Shut up.”

“Could’ve just said so.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.” You toe your boots off and step inside fully, she already has two beers on the counter. Opened. You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. That’s so weird. This beer… it’s making a clicking noise.”

She groans, but she’s laughing now, leaning against the kitchen island. “I’ll punch you.”

You take a long sip, eyeing her over the bottle. “No you won’t.”

She shakes her head, pushing off the counter. “Come sit.”

You follow her to the couch, where she tucks her legs up, like this is routine, like it’s always been this easy and it is, somehow.

You watch whatever she puts on without really watching, both of you half-focused, shoulders brushing when one shifts, knees close enough to warm each other through the cotton.

Eventually, she glances sideways. Her voice soft, casual. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“What?”

“This. Us.”

You take a beat. “No.”

She nods, slow. “Me neither.” Another moment, another almost, but neither of you pulls away or pushes forward.

🚗

The bar is loud. Some throwback indie track blaring overhead, neon lighting catching in your half-drunk whiskey glass. You’re leaned against the bar, half-listening to your mate spinning a story about her train-wreck date last week, when she excuses herself for the bathroom.

You stay there, swirling your drink, phone in one hand, scanning the room lazily.

You don’t notice the group until she’s coming back and even then, you don’t notice her not until your friend sits back down, looking like she just witnessed a murder.

“What?” you ask, raising a brow.

She doesn’t answer right away, just grabs her drink and downs half of it. Then, her eyes snap to yours. “I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be straight with me.”

You frown. “Okay…”

She leans in. “I just overheard Alexia Putellas talking to her friends… she was talking about someone they called the mechanic.” Her eyes narrow. “Is that you?” You blink. Once, and the way your body reacts before your mouth can say anything, the way your head jerks up, the stillness that passes over your face, tells her everything she needs “Fuck off,” she breathes. “You’ve just answered my question.”

You drag a hand over your mouth. “What exactly did you hear?”

“She said,” She leans forward, voice lower now, urgent. “She said, ‘She would’ve made a move by now if she wanted me like that.’ Then her friend asked her why she was so sure and Alexia said, and I quote, ‘Because she isn’t exactly shy. She’s a girl who goes for what she wants, and doesn't give a fuck who cares.’” You press your lips together, your face unreadable. “She’s talking about you,” your friend says, more certain now, leaning closer. “Isn’t she?”

You exhale slowly, eyes flicking past her toward the other end of the bar. There they are. Alexia, Mapi, Patri, Ingrid, all laughing. She hasn’t seen you yet, she’s sipping a mojito and pretending she’s fine, but you know that look.

“Holy shit,” your friend mutters. “You like her.”

You don’t deny it.

“You’ve been pretending this whole time, telling us she’s just someone you’re helping with her car and meanwhile, you’re out here catching feelings.”

You finally meet her eyes. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

She stares at you. “And she thinks you don’t want her because you haven’t made a move?”

You nod once. "Apparently so"

Your friend snorts. “You’re both fucking idiots.”

You glance back toward Alexia, she’s still laughing but there’s something in her eyes. Distant. Worn.

“She’s torturing herself,” your friend adds, echoing something you hadn’t heard. “One of them said that.” Your hand tightens on your glass. “You gonna let her keep thinking that?” she presses.

You glance at your friend, then back at the woman across the room and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you should go over to a woman, because maybe you're afraid she won't believe you, or you want to make sure when you do, there’s no going back.

Your mami and her friend soon turn up, better late than never, your friend who is your mami's best friends daughter shows them to the bathroom so you're left alone again

You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for your drinks order, when you sense her before you see her that lingering stare, the weight of it tugging your attention sideways.

Jana Fernández. Barcelona defender. And very clearly clocking you.

You turn toward her with a half-smirk. “Hello.”

She tilts her head, arms casually folded. “You know who I am?”

You take a beat. “I know of you.”

Jana shifts her stance, glancing over your shoulder like she’s checking the coast. “You alone?”

You shake your head, keeping your expression unreadable. “No. I’m here with my mami, her best friend, and her daughter. They’ve gone to the bathroom.”

Jana blinks. You watch the gears turn slowly, she nods, eyes flicking briefly toward her table. “I was going to say… you should join us.”

You blink once. “Us?”

She gestures behind her with her thumb. “Yeah. Alexia and the girls. We’re sat in the back.”

You raise an eyebrow, taking your drink off the bar and lifting it casually. “Well. If I get bored of the quilting club tales, I’ll be sure to find you.”

That earns a surprised laugh out of her. Not mocking impressed, she watches you for another second, then just says, “We're just over by the dance floor, if you want to.. come say hello maybe”

You glance past her, to the back of the bar, where you can just make out Alexia in profile. Not looking at you. Not drinking much either.

“Ok,” you murmur, “maybe.”

You turn, drink in hand, and head back to your table before Jana can say anything else, but her eyes stay on your back the whole way and you're already bracing for what the next round of games will look like, because you’ve just been invited into the lion’s den.

And this time… You might be ready to walk in.

You watch Jana walk back to the table, already knowing she’ll say something. You don’t wait to see if Alexia looks, you just move.

Drink in hand, you cut across the bar like you own the damn place, ignoring the buzz of music, the chatter, the glances. When you get close enough, it’s Alexia who sees you first. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t wait. Her hand reaches out and touches your arm. Light. Barely there.

“Sit with me,” she says quietly. Not a command, not a plea. Just something simple. Soft and that’s all it takes.

You sink down next to her, close the kind of close that says there’s no pretending this isn’t something anymore.

It’s loud, but it’s like you’re both in a bubble, the others talk, joke, drink, but all you can hear is her. Her shoulder brushes yours as she leans in. “You're here,” she says, eyes scanning your face.

“Jana invited me,” you smirk. “And I figured the quilting stories could only keep me entertained for so long.”

She laughs, low, genuine but doesn't question what you mean, but then her expression shifts, her eyes narrow slightly, focusing on something. She lifts her hand slowly and gently tilts your chin. “What’s that?”

You blink. “What’s what?”

She brushes her thumb under your eye it stings faintly when she does. “That,” she says. “You’ve got a bruise.”

“Oh. That.” You shrug like it’s nothing. “Piece of exhaust slipped from the chain. Caught me good.”

Her brow creases. “You didn’t tell me.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t know I had to report injuries to my client.”

Alexia doesn’t laugh. She just keeps looking and maybe it’s the lighting, or the proximity, but there’s something in her eyes that hits you different tonight. Less guarded. More raw. “You should be more careful,” she says softly.

You watch her. “You always worry about your mechanic like this?”

Her lips twitch. “Just the reckless ones.”

You clink your drink against hers without looking away. “Guess I’m special, then.”

Alexia smiles the real one, that rare, radiant one that turns her eyes gold and for a moment, even though the whole world is humming around you… It’s just you two. That soft golden look in her eyes doing things to your chest you’re too stubborn to name, when a voice cuts through the moment,

“There you are,” she says, thick with warmth and mischief, you don’t have to look to know who it is, but you do anyway.

Your mother’s standing there, hands on hips, eyes scanning the table with a grin so wide it should come with warning signs. She’s already clocked everyone especially the way Alexia’s arm is still touching yours. “I told Theresa,” she continues, loud enough for Alexia’s entire table to hear, “when I found you, you’d be surrounded by beautiful women.”

Alexia presses her lips together clearly trying not to laugh. You don’t move much. Just flick your eyes up to her with a flat look. “Did you need something, mother?”

She waves a hand, already over it. “Just letting you know the drinks arrived and that Camila is not interested in that lad with the mullet, no matter how many times he tries to teach her how to play pool.”

You nod once. “Good to know.”

“Enjoy yourself, mi amor,” she says, already turning. “But don’t be rude. Introduce your friends next time.”

Then she’s gone, back across the bar to her table, like she didn’t just cause a small earthquake. You sigh and shake your head, lifting your glass again.

“Theresa?” Alexia asks, amused.

“Family friend,” you mutter. “Runs a bakery. Always says I’m ‘a good girl who needs more pastry in her life it's not normal to have abs.’”

Alexia chuckles. “She sounds wise.”

You turn to her. “You laughing at me or with me?”

“Neither,” she says, eyes soft again. “I’m just glad I came out tonight.”

You watch her for a long second, then let your shoulder brush hers with a bump, “So am I.” her knee lightly bumps yours under the table now and then, both of you sipping your drinks, basking in the lull after your mother’s interruption.

That is, until you clock movement from the side of the room.

It’s Theresa’s daughter and your friend Camila young, sweet, carefully carrying your drink across the bar toward you.

Right behind her, the mullet.

He’s cocky. Grinning like he’s already won something. Gesturing like he's telling her the funniest story in the world. She’s smiling, but it’s brittle. The second she catches your eyes, she mouths silently

"Help me."

You exhale through your nose and shift your weight.

Alexia straightens, noticing. “Everything okay?” she murmurs, barely audible under the music.

“Give me two seconds,” you mutter.

You rise from your seat just as Camila reaches your side. You take your drink with a small, quiet thank you, and then you pivot to the guy beside her.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it. “Hey, man,” you say, voice level but cold. “Why don’t you head back to your friends?”

He pauses. “I was just—”

“Yeah. I saw,” you interrupt, stepping slightly forward, closing the space. “She’s not interested. You’ve had your shot. Time to walk away.”

His eyes flick between you and Camila, who’s now tucked safely just behind your shoulder. Then he laughs, holds his hands up, and backs away. “Alright, alright. Jesus. Didn’t realise I was stepping on your toes.”

“You weren’t,” you say. “But you’re stepping on hers.”

That shuts him up. He finally turns and walks off, muttering something under his breath that doesn’t matter at all.

You turn back to your oldest friend and tilt your head. “You good?”

She nods, smiling gratefully. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you say. “But maybe don’t follow guys into the back room to learn pool next time, yeah?”

She laughs and gives you a thumbs-up, hurrying back to the table you really should be at.

You drop back into your seat beside Alexia, she gives you a look eyebrows raised, lips twitching with the effort not to smile. “Do I even want to know what that was about?”

You pick up your drink. “Let’s just say I’ve got a strict no-mullet policy when it comes to people I care about.”

Alexia tilts her head. “You care about her?”

You shrug. “She’s a good friend, she’s family, kind of, known her since I was 2” you add, glancing sideways at her, “I’ve got a thing about stepping in when someone’s being ignored.”

Alexia just looks at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she leans in slightly and says, “Remind me never to bring a mullet around you.”

You grin. “Smart move, Putellas.”

🚗

You’re not even trying to pretend you’re not watching her.

Alexia’s across the bar with her teammates, laughing too loud, cheeks flushed, glass dangling from her fingers. Mapi’s saying something in her ear. Ingrid’s arm is around her shoulder and Alexia, she’s swaying a little. Her smile’s still the most dangerous thing in the room but tonight, it’s drunk, too drunk.

You’re sitting with your mother and both your friends, but your eyes haven’t left her.

You don’t even notice your mother watching you not until her hand finds your arm. “She doesn’t look steady,” she says softly, like she’s letting you off the hook before you even ask. “Go help your friend get home safe.”

You don’t answer. You just stand. You cross the bar in seconds, weaving through elbows and laughter and loud music. When you reach Alexia’s side, she doesn’t see you at first she’s too busy trying to pour herself the last of someone else’s drink, missing the glass entirely.

You gently catch her wrist, her head snaps up, and when she sees you, really sees you, her face changes. Surprise, embarrassment, then relief. Like maybe she’d been hoping you’d come after all.

“Hey,” you say gently, but firm. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out she just nods, slow and small, and lets you take the glass from her hand.

Mapi grins behind her. “About time.”

You ignore her. “I’ll get her to text when she’s home,” you say, already guiding Alexia through the crowd.

Once outside, the air hits her hard she wobbles, you loop an arm around her waist automatically.

“You alright?”

She nods again. “Too much wine.”

“No shit,” you mutter.

She leans into you without asking and you let her. You help her into your truck, buckle her in, crank the heating. You drive in silence, thankful you only had a couple drinks before going to soft drinks, every few minutes you glance at her she’s quiet, head leaning against the window, eyes glassy but calm now.

When you reach her street, she shifts. “I don’t wanna go in,” she mumbles.

You turn the engine off. “Why not?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

You study her face. She’s not just drunk. She’s worn down, like something’s caught up to her tonight, and all her usual guarding walls have melted away.

“Alright,” you say, soft. “I'll stay until you fall asleep then I'll go.”

She looks at you, blinking slow. “Really?” You nod and she just whispers, “Thank you.”

You unlock her front door with her keys, her chin heavy on your shoulder as she watches your hands move.

She’s quieter now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t come from being shy, no, not with Alexia, but from being too full. From holding back the words she doesn’t quite know how to shape.

You help her kick off her shoes at the door, her hand finds your forearm as she straightens.

“I’ll get you water,” you say gently, heading to the kitchen like it’s muscle memory. You’ve never been here long enough to pretend it is but you know her home better than you should given the time spent here.

She sits on the couch in a graceless sprawl, her head leaning back, eyes closed. Her makeup’s smudged, mascara settled just below her lashes. Her hair’s pulled loose from her pony, she’s beautiful, in that devastating, real way.

You bring the glass over, set it in her waiting hand, she cracks one eye open. “You’re not leaving?”

You shake your head. “Not until you’re asleep, that was the deal.”

She nods slowly. “Stay the night.”

You pause. “Alexia—”

“Not like that,” she says quickly. “Just… stay.”

There’s a pull behind her voice, like gravity, and something in your chest answers.

“I want you to stay where I can see you. I don't like the thought of you walking home alone, it's late.”

That hits somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t name, you reach to take the glass back before pulling her to her feet, her body pressing into yours, she leans her head to the side, resting against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your arm comes up behind her instinctively, letting her settle into the space like she belongs there.

After a long stretch of silence, her voice comes quiet, smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“You're still here” you try to not laugh, at the fact even though you're the one holding her, she'd clearly thought maybe you'd gone

“I’m still here,” you say.

She nods against you, before doing the most adorable yawn, it was like watching when a baby yawns.

The stairs feel taller when she’s leaning on you for balance, her hand clinging to the back of your sweatshirt like a lifeline.

"These are dramatic stairs," she mutters, eyes focused like she's climbing Everest.

You smile small, not smug and keep her steady, hand pressed at her lower back as you guide her into her bedroom. "I’ll wait outside," you say once you reach the door. “Get into something comfortable. Let me know if you need help.”

She looks up at you, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. "You’d like that, huh?"

You give her a look. "Go get changed, Alexia."

She laughs softly, swaying a little as she walks into her room and closes the door behind her.

You wait in the hallway, eyes on the floor, hands in your pockets. You could leave. You could call her mother, or Alba, or one of the many women who’d trip over themselves to help her right now, but you stay, as promised, because it’s her and when it comes down to it, you care about her. Maybe too much.

When the door opens, she’s in an oversized Barça training top and cotton shorts, her bare legs already blotched with marks where you heard her bump into her furniture.

You wordlessly offer your hand again, and she takes it, letting you lead her into the bathroom. The light is soft, warm, she sits on the toilet lid as instructed, head tilted back looking at you.

“You gonna scold me again?” she murmurs, eyes closed.

“I’m not your coach.”

“You sure about that?” she smirks, barely.

You don’t answer, you just wet a cotton pad and stand in front of her. She doesn’t speak as you remove her makeup, slow and careful, like she’s made of something that needs preserving. Her skin is warm beneath your fingertips, flushed from the alcohol, but soft. Real.

Her eyes flutter open halfway through, watching you. “You always do things like this?” she asks, voice quieter now. “Take care of girls who get to go home with you? Or just me?”

“Just you.”

She doesn’t smile, but something about the stillness in her face shifts. You finish her eyeliner, reach for a clean cloth to wipe her cheeks. The towel grazes her jaw when she speaks again. “You should hate me.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t.”

She nods, almost like that hurts more than the alternative.

You rinse the cloth, hang it back up, and stand. She’s still watching you like you’re some riddle she’s only now trying to solve.

“You’re good at this,” she whispers. “At caring.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say, turning off the light. “Ruins the reputation.”

She lets you help her to bed, pulls the duvet around herself like armour. You wait until she’s settled before you move to leave. “Stay,” she says again, voice already heavy with sleep.

So you do. "I'll sit here until you go to sleep, ok?"

You curl into the armchair near the window, hoodie pulled over your head, watching her breathing slow as she drifts and just before your own eyes close, she whispers your name in her sleep.

🚗

There’s a golden streak of sun creeping in past the blackout blinds when Alexia stirs.

Her body’s slow to wake, dulled by the hangover pressing into the sides of her skull, but she registers the warmth of her bed, the soft ache behind her eyes, and the sharp, vivid memory of you in front of her the night before. Steady. Patient. Quietly good.

She turns her head and sees you. Still here.

Slouched awkwardly in the chair by the window, knees spread wide, arms crossed over your chest, hoodie pulled up around your ears. You’d shoved a spare throw over your lap sometime in the night, but your face was tilted sideways, pressed into your shoulder like you hadn’t moved once since she fell asleep.

You stayed. Her heart stumbles over itself.

She gets up slowly, legs unsure beneath her, and pads over barefoot. You’re asleep, and not in that light kind of way you’re fully out. There’s a crease in your brow even now, even resting, something in you never switches off.

Alexia crouches in front of you, watching the way your lips part slightly with every breath. She takes you in, the lines of your jaw, the faint purplish hue of the bruise under your eye, the grease still under your fingernails from work the day before.

The hoodie you’re wearing used to be her favourite before you stole it back, she reaches forward and tugs the hood back gently.

You blink awake, confused and slow, your eyes focusing on her. She sees it the flicker of alertness, the way you straighten in the chair like you're ready to protect something, even now.

“Morning,” she says softly.

You grunt, adjusting in the seat. “What time is it?”

“Too early.”

You rub a hand across your face, sitting forward. “You alright?”

She nods. “Bit of a headache. Nothing fatal.”

You lean your elbows on your knees, glance toward her bed. “You should get more sleep.”

She watches you for a second. “Why didn’t you come lie down?”

You shrug. “Didn’t want to over step.”

"I wouldn’t have minded.”

That makes you glance at her again, this time slower. Your eyes settle on hers. “You sure?”

She smiles, it’s soft, barely there. “You look good in the morning.”

You shake your head, smirking despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

She stands up, takes a step closer, tugging your arm. “Come to bed. Have five more minutes.”

You hesitate and then you let her pull you.

The bed dips as you climb in next to her tentative, careful. She doesn’t hesitate, though. She leans into you, lets her head rest on your shoulder, one hand curling around your hoodie.

You lie there in the quiet, sun warming the room inch by inch.

You don’t know how long you lie there her head still on your shoulder, and your arm has gone a little numb, but you’re not moving. Not when her fingers are gently tracing the small patch of skin she found at the edge of the seam on your hoodie, her breaths still even, slow.

And then she shifts, just slightly enough to look up toward you. You look down at the same time she looks up. It’s quiet. Still and yet everything in you tightens like something electric is crackling through the mattress beneath you both.

She doesn’t speak. Neither do you. You don’t need to, because the way her eyes drop to your mouth and hover there is louder than anything she could say. Because when you tilt your head slightly, her breath hitches, because when your noses brush, there’s no going back.

You kiss her.

It’s slow unsure for only half a second until her mouth parts beneath yours, warm and open and wanting. She sighs into it, a sound that lands somewhere low in your stomach, and you kiss her again, like you’ve wanted to since the first moment she walked into your garage with too much attitude and not enough patience.

You shift, body over hers, hand braced beside her head, not touching too much, just enough, but her hands are bolder than you expect.

They move to your hips, sliding up your sides under your hoodie to your ribs. You freeze slightly when her fingers splay across your skin, hesitating like she’s waiting for permission, and when you don’t stop her, she slides the hoodie up to your shoulders. You sit back to help her, she watches as you pull it off.

Her eyes are wide, unblinking, like she’s trying to memorise you in this light, vulnerable, a little breathless, lips parted, heartbeat clearly visible in your throat.

You’re both suspended for a moment her head tipped back against the pillow, your body hovering just above hers, the world narrowing to the curve of her lips and the heat between you.

Her fingers, still trembling with that early-morning haze, find your abs, you catch your breath as she gently traces them, decisive motion.

Your lips brush hers again gentle at first, testing, savouring. Then everything shifts, her arms wind around your neck, pulling you closer. Your hands settle beside her waiting, holding her there as if you’re afraid she’ll vanish if you loosen your grip.

The kiss deepens, slow and hungry. You cup her jaw, thumb tracing her cheek, and feel her fingers play with the hair at your nape. The space between you ignites, the morning light, the faint scent of her hair, the rising pulse that thrums through your chest.

You trail gentle kisses down her neck, each one a promise. She arches into you, fingers tangling in your hair, urging you nearer. In that moment, all the tension and teasing of the past months dissolves. It’s just the two of you, breathless and real.

She presses her body up to meet yours, and when her lips find yours once more, full, open, searching, you know you’re exactly where you need to be.

You shift your weight, careful, keeping your palm flat on the mattress so you don’t crush her, but she’s not shy, not anymore, she stretches up like she wants to erase whatever distance is left, and your hand lands at the point of her hip where her t-shirt is bunched. You have to steady it, make yourself move slow, let this last. She makes a soft noise when you press your mouth to the corner of hers, then to her jaw, her pulse, her collarbone. She tastes like sleep and faint salt, and you want to run laps over every inch of her, learn her until you could do this in your sleep.

She whispers something you don’t catch, just a breath of a word, and it jams the air between the two of you. For a second you’re paralysed, the question in her eyes so open it makes your chest hurt, but then you nod once, slow, and she grins, actually grins, like she’s won some kind of prize, and you don’t have to be careful anymore.

Everything is fast and breathless, a scramble to get closer, her hands under your shirt and yours under hers. She’s soft and solid and so alive beneath you, and she’s laughing, like it’s the best joke she’s ever heard when you accidentally find her ticklish spot. You want to make her laugh forever. You want to never stop this, not ever. Her skin is warm and she’s tugging you down, hooking a leg over your hip, and you kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her.

You’ve never felt this way. It’s new and it’s terrifying, but it’s the best kind of terror, like standing at the edge of something huge and wild and knowing it’s yours for the taking. She moves under you and you want to cry, shout, sing, something, anything to let it out. There are no words for this.

No words for the way she pulls you in, the way the world goes blurry and bright and she’s the only clear thing. The way she gasps when you find her throat, her shoulder, the dip above her collarbone, the way she’s so close you could drown in the scent of her, the feel of her, and it would be the best way to go. You push her shirt up, slow and eager, kissing every inch of skin as it’s exposed. She’s unravelling under you, hands in your hair, breath catching in her chest, and you think, yes, yes, yes, this is it, this is it, this is it.

Everything is just her, only her. The sun creeping through the window, a witness. The quiet that should be awkward but never is, not with her. You lose track of your own heartbeat, the way it’s keeping time with hers. You lose track of the hours, of the light shifting from dawn to something brighter, bolder. It’s like the world is holding its breath, and you’re holding yours, everything is a blur of skin and touch and heat. She arches when your hand finds her waist, her side, lower, and you’re not careful anymore, not even a little. Her moan is a tug in your gut, and then you’re gone, mouth on her neck and chest as she moves and writhes beneath you, as she comes apart under your touch, as she gasps your name.

You want to brand it into your skin. You want to say it back to her over and over until it’s meaningless, until it’s the only thing that means anything. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she’s looking at someone else entirely. She slings an arm over her eyes, and for a moment you think she’s embarrassed, but there’s still a smile breaking loose across her face, uncontainable and bright as noon. You slip your arm around her back your hand resting on behind as she rolls to bury her face in your neck, you whisper, "Don't go all shy on me"

"I liked that" she whispered into your ear, as your hand was smoothing over her skin.

You hum, "You did?" she nodded, you guide her leg over your hip and your hand moves in from over her thigh, her face reappears as she gasps and her head goes back when your fingers disappear inside her once again.

Her hand cradles your face as your 'busy hands' as she had always called them were indeed busy, she hums against your lips as she kisses you.

"Let me hear you" you whisper as her forehead is pressed to yours her body stiffening again, a breath gets caught in her throat and comes out as moan followed by your name, "Good girl"

Her shoulders come up tense both hands gripping your face as your fingers pump the veins standing out on your tattoo'd forearm, her chest was flushed red with a shine of sweat, "I'm gonna.." she breathes, but again it gets caught as your thumb finds her clit and begins moving in time with your fingers.

"That's my girl" you smirk eyes fixated on her, her eyes rose to meet yours as her breathing was ragged her chest heaving, her arm moved around your neck putting your mouth near her ear as she needed you closer, "Come for me" you whispered and her body instantly reacted, her head went back giving you access to her neck and your fingers slowed as you let her ride her orgasm out licking sucking and kissing her neck you quickly realised she liked.

🚗

The morning after is slow, unhurried.

You’re both in comfy clothes, Alexia in her oversized tee and messy bun, you in the hoodie she keeps stealing. The kitchen light is soft, bouncing off tile and kettle steam.

You'er perched on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, watching her try to fry eggs without setting off the smoke alarm. There's a smug smile on your face. She tries to ignore it.

“You want to help, or just critique?”

“I’m here for emotional support,” you say, reaching for a grape off the counter.

She turns, smirking. “Emotional support while I feed you?”

You hold out another grape like a peace offering. “Don’t complain. This is domesticity you wanted, no?”

She raises an eyebrow and takes the grape from your hand with her teeth, grazing your fingers deliberately as she does. “This is you eating my food and laughing at me when I burn toast.”

You grin wider. “Which is charming.”

She holds the spatular to you, you smile hop down taking it you raid her spices to make the eggs how you like them, her turn to sit on the counter watching. She wouldn't admit it but your eggs did look good.

You step between her legs, resting your hands on her thighs. Her laughter quiets.

“I like mornings with you,” she says softly.

Your chest tightens, just enough to notice. “Yeah?” you murmur.

She nods. “Didn’t think I would. I thought this would always be... fast. Dangerous.”

“You thought we’d be dangerous.”

“I thought you would be.” Her smile is smaller now. Honest. “You had the whole ‘too cool to care’ thing going.”

You chuckle, pressing your forehead gently against hers. “Still do, apparently.”

“No,” she says, and her voice is light but her eyes are serious. “You care. You just pretend you don’t, but I see it.”

You tilt your head and kiss her soft, slow, no rush to make it more than it is. You kiss her because you can because you want to, because it’s her.

She kisses you back like she already knows. The eggs crackle gently in the pan. The kettle clicks off behind you. Outside, the world starts its usual chaos. But in this kitchen, it’s quiet.

“You really thought I wasn’t interested?” you ask against her lips.

She leans back just far enough to look at you. “You never made a move.”

“I was busy trying not to prove I can stay when I want to.” She smiles and kisses you again, you laugh into her mouth, pull her closer by the hips. “Still hungry?”

“For food?”

You glance at the stove. “Might be safer to order in.”

She shrugs. “I’m good here.”

You hum in agreement, tucking your face into the curve of her neck, arms around her waist, her legs around yours. You both smell like sleep and coffee. Like something shared. Like something that finally makes sense.

There’s no big ending. No grand gesture. Just a mechanic and a footballer in a sun-warmed kitchen, burning eggs, stealing kisses, and building something they never expected to find.

Together.

The End.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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societyfolklore · 3 months ago

Text

Trapped Together

Title: Trapped Together

Pairing: Sheild!Bucky Barnes x Sheild!Female Reader

Summary: A mission doesn’t go as planed. The result? Bucky and you find yourselves handcuffed together without the key and no easy way out.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Accidental Handcuffs, Forced Proximity, Smut, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Soft Dom Bucky, Mild Dubcon Elements (squint), Mentions of thigh riding, Porn with min plot.. but yeah.. No Beta

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for Bucky 108th Bday event – Final square! Square: A2 – ‘I didn’t do a thing’ Card Number: 4B003 The mission was supposed to be simple- just a routine investigation of an old HYDRA base. No hostiles, no active threats, just a sweep for any lingering tech or classified intel. But, of course, things didn’t go to plan.

The air was thick with dust and the scent of rusted metal as you navigated the dimly lit corridors, your boots scuffing softly against the cracked concrete floor. The remains of outdated HYDRA technology sat abandoned, wires frayed, panels dark, the remnants of a long-dead organization still clutching at relevance. It should have been nothing more than a cleanup job- catalogue the junk, confirm there were no active threats, and get the hell out.

You were scanning a particularly decrepit-looking console, fingers grazing over a series of faded HYDRA insignias, when something clicked.

A sharp snap echoed through the room as a metal cuff clamped down around your wrist.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered, instinctively tugging at it.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s voice was immediate, sharp with concern. He was at your side in an instant, his vibranium hand gently gripped your forearm as he inspected the cuff. His brows furrowed as he studied the mechanism, and before you could warn him to be careful, his metal fingers drifted too close.

With a soft hiss, another cuff snapped into place- this time, locking around his vibranium wrist.

You both froze.

“Seriously?” you exhaled, staring at the unforgiving metal that now physically attached you to Bucky Barnes.

He let out a slow, deliberate breath through his nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Your heart hammered as you gave the restraint a sharp tug, testing it. The metal didn’t so much as shift. You turned, twisting your wrist, but Bucky moved with you- because there was no getting away.

Panic crept into your voice. “Okay, okay, we can just take these off, right?”

Bucky pulled at his side, first experimentally, then harder. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he yanked at it, but the cuff refused to budge. His frown deepened as he examined the lock.

“No keyhole.”

You blinked. “What do you mean ‘no keyhole’?”

“I mean,” he muttered, voice edged with irritation, “there’s no keyhole. No latch, no release.”

Your stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “So… what? We cut them off?”

Bucky flexed his vibranium fingers. “They’re HYDRA-made. If I try to break them, I could crush your wrist in the process.”

The realization settled between you, heavy and unshakable.

You inhaled sharply. “Fantastic.” Then, with far less patience: “We’re stuck.”

Bucky exhaled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Yup.”

And then the inevitable happened.

“This is your fault!” you snapped, yanking at the cuff in frustration, your wrist burning from the chafing metal.

Bucky had the audacity to smirk. “Doll, I didn’t do a thing.”

“You- ugh!” You yanked again, but it was pointless. You weren’t getting out of this without cutting off his damn arm, and even you weren’t cruel enough to suggest that he try to dismantle parts of it.

Being this close to him was already annoying on the best of days. His constant 'follow my lead' attitude, the way he always seemed so sure of himself- it drove you insane. And now? Now you were literally stuck to him. Your pulse kicked up for reasons you refused to acknowledge, and you scowled, masking the unease with irritation.

You huffed, turning your attention back to the restraint. “We need to find a way to break these.”

Bucky tilted his head, looking far too entertained. “Oh, I dunno. Could be fun like this.”

Your glare could have cut through steel. “We are not staying cuffed together, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugged, tugging lightly at the cuffs again. “I’m sure Stark will get us out of these once we get home.”

You grumbled under your breath. “Great. Our extraction isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle. "Guess that means we're getting real cozy till then, huh?" He glanced down at where your wrists were bound together and smirked. "Hope you don’t snore, Doll."

Despite your efforts there was no solution. The cuffs were far beyond ordinary restraints. No brute force, no backdoor override, no simple trick was going to free you. And with Bucky’s metal arm restrained, even he wasn’t willing to risk hurting you to break them.

Which meant you had no choice but to wait for Tony to take a look.

And that? That was going to be a problem.

By the time night fell, exhaustion was settling in. You both managed to find a somewhat decent place to rest- an old, creaking bed in a safehouse nearby. The mattress was thin, the sheets smelled vaguely of dust and damp, but it was better than nothing. But sleeping while attached to Bucky Barnes was proving to be a nightmare.

“Stop moving,” you grumbled, trying to get comfortable without your arm getting yanked.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Kinda hard when you’re sprawled all over me, Doll.”

Your cheeks burned. “I’m not- ”

But you were.

There was no way around it- his arm was wrapped around you, keeping you pressed against his side. Every shift, every twitch of his muscles, sent a jolt of awareness through you. The heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the sheer size of him against you…

You tried to shift away, but the cuffs made it impossible. Every tiny movement just pressed you closer, your body molding against his like a puzzle piece that fit all too well. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell, steady, unbothered- while your own breath was coming far too fast for comfort.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, twisting slightly, only to freeze as Bucky's grip instinctively tightened around you.

“Doll,” his voice was low, rough with sleep, “if you keep wiggling like that, neither of us are getting any rest.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I’m not- ” But you were, again, shifting just enough to feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the slow flex of his vibranium fingers resting against your waist.

You swallowed hard, willing your body to ignore the way he felt against you. But it was impossible- the warmth, the solid weight, the steady, controlled power that had you feeling far too aware of every single breath he took. You could smell him, the faint traces of sweat and gunpowder mixed with something unmistakably Bucky.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Just go to sleep.”

Silence stretched between you before Bucky let out a slow chuckle, the vibrations rolling through his chest, through you.

“Whatever you say, Doll.”

And somehow, despite everything, you did.

You blinked awake, mind still foggy. The sky outside the safehouse window had shifted to muted shades of gray, the first signs of dawn creeping in through the thin curtains. The air was thick with early morning stillness, broken only by the soft creaks of the old bed beneath you. As you stirred, trying to shift into a more comfortable position, something stopped you.

Something warm. Solid. Heavy. The unmistakable weight of an arm draped over you, pinning you in place. Not just any arm- his arm. The hard, unyielding pressure of metal wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him even as he slept. The sensation was grounding and suffocating all at once, leaving you hyper-aware of every shift, every breath, every slow, unconscious squeeze of his vibranium fingers against your bare skin.

But it wasn’t just his arm. Sometime during the night, you had gotten tangled together, his leg slipped between yours, pressing up against your crotch in a way that made your breath stop. The pressure, subtle yet insistent, had you far too aware of how sensitive you felt, of the heat pooling low in your belly. The way your body responded, the way the tension in the air had shifted from mere discomfort to something else entirely.

You tried to move his hold was unyielding so you shifted back.

Only this time your butt was pressed firmly against something unmistakable.

Bucky was hard.

Heat rushed up your spine, your senses suddenly painfully aware of everything- the solid warmth of his chest flush against your back, the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing, and the way his hips had begun rocking against you, even in sleep.

You swallowed hard, torn between panic and something far more dangerous as another slow, instinctive roll of his hips sent a spark of heat straight to your core. You should move- you should wake him up- but then a quiet, needy sound slipped from his lips, muffled where his face had buried against the back of your neck.

His vibranium hand flexed, the cooler metal splaying over your stomach. Skin to metal. Your shirt had ridden up during the night, leaving you bare beneath his touch, and when his thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath your ribs, your entire body tensed. A shiver rolled through you, unbidden, and that’s when you felt it-

Your own arousal.

The ache that pulsed in time with the steady press of his body against yours. The sharp awareness of how easily, how seamlessly, your bodies fit together, the tension stretched so tight between you it felt like a live wire.

You needed to wake him up.

But trapped as you were, there was no room to press your thighs together- only to shift, just barely, along the firm muscle of his leg between yours. The motion sent a ripple of sensation through you, what had you done in the night that had gotten you as wet you were becoming. Shifting your hips again trying to do something to make it better- Bucky growled.

His nose brushed against the back of your neck, breath hot, lips so close to your skin. His hips pressed against you again, slower, deliberate, sending a shockwave through your already tense body. His grip on your stomach tightened, just enough for you to feel it, to need more.

Then came the sharp, teasing graze of teeth against your nape.

His voice was hoarse, rough with sleep and something else entirely when he muttered, “Stop moving, Doll. You’re making it worse.”

His breath fanned against your skin, sending another shudder through you, and suddenly you weren’t sure who was torturing who.

You stiffened, before trying to move away.

"I just- "

"Said stop moving." His grip tightened, pulling you back against him, his leg pushing up harder, and you swallowed the moan that nearly slipped past your lips.

"Been teasing me all damn night in your sleep."

"I didn’t do a thing.”

"Really?" His breath was hot against your ear, voice rough and edged with something dangerous. "'Cause I can smell it, you know..."

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

Bucky's fingers flexed against your bare skin, his tone dark with amusement. "You. Been leaving little wet patches on my leg with all your grinding…"

His words sent another wave of heat through you, your breath hitching as your body betrayed you yet again. Bucky hummed, his lips grazing your neck as his grip on your waist tightened. "Drove me crazy, y'know. All those little sleepy moans while you were riding my leg. Thought I was imagining it at first, but nah- " his teeth nipped at the delicate skin just below your ear, making you jolt, "- you were using me, weren’t you?"

"I wasn’t- "

"You're always such a brat in the field, you a brat in the bed, too, Doll?" His voice was smug, teasing, completely in control now. Your fingers clenched around the cuffed hand as he slowly dragged it down your stomach, his movements deliberate, testing. You tensed, instinctively trying to pull his hand back up, but the metal was unyielding. His fingers merely flexed beneath yours, a silent warning that he could take control if he wanted to.

"Don't get all shy on me now, sweetheart…" Bucky murmured, his lips tracing a slow, heated path down the side of your throat. "Not after all the trouble you've already caused."

Bucky's hand cupped you through your pants, his palm pressing against the damp fabric, making you gasp. A dark chuckle rumbled against your neck as he felt the heat radiating through the thin material.

"Undo your pants," he murmured, the command cutting through the thick haze of tension.

You found yourself shifting, your own shaking fingers undoing the button and pulling down the zipper, Bucky’s hand sliding in without hesitation. The sensation made you arch, your body betraying you as his fingers made contact. A little whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

"All that grinding made you all ache and sensitive, Babydoll…" His metal finger barely pressed your underwear against your swollen clit, the faintest amount of pressure making your breath stutter.

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, his fingers starting a slow, teasing circle over the fabric still covering you. "Bet you've been dripping for me all night," he murmured, his lips tracing the shell of your ear. "So wet and needy, and you don’t even wanna admit it."

His hand slid further, fingers pushing past the final barrier of fabric to find you bare beneath, slick and ready. He groaned at the feel of you, his grip tightening as his fingers slipped through your wetness, coating themselves in evidence of your arousal. "Fuck, sweetheart… you're soaking."

A strangled sound caught in your throat as his fingers circled your clit, the cool contrast of metal making you shudder. You tried to resist the pleasure flooding through you, but Bucky was relentless, keeping you spread open with his thigh between yours.

"Bucky- "

"Shh, sweetheart. Just let me feel you," he whispered, voice thick with desire. His hand moved with intent now, slow and devastating strokes that had you trembling against him. "That’s it, good girl… just like that."

His fingers slid lower, teasing along your folds, gathering the slickness that betrayed just how much you wanted this. A wicked smirk ghosted across his lips as he pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in before pulling back, his touch agonizingly light.

"So sensitive," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. "So fuckin’ wet for me."

You let out a strangled moan as his metal finger circled your clit again, more pressure this time, more purpose. Heat coiled low in your stomach, each slow stroke sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. Your hips moved before you could stop them, chasing the friction he so cruelly teased you with.

"That’s it, sweetheart," Bucky coaxed, voice laced with dark amusement. "Knew you wanted this. Knew you couldn’t resist."

You barely had time to bite back another moan before he flipped you onto your stomach, his grip firm as he pressed your cuffed hand down against the mattress. His free hand slid to your hip, tugging your pants lower, the cool air ghosting over your bare skin making you shiver.

The bed creaked as he moved behind you, the unmistakable sound of his belt being undone making your breath hitch. The rasp of his zipper sent anticipation curling through your spine, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His own pants coming down, the clank of his metal belt

"Been waiting for this all night," Bucky murmured, his hand smoothing over the curve of your ass before squeezing. You felt your hips raise back to meet his hand, instinctively seeking friction, rubbing against the heavy, hard length pressed against you.

He groaned at the contact, his breath coming out harsher as he gripped your waist, his flesh hand against your skin. "That’s it, sweetheart," he muttered, grinding his cock against you slow and deliberate. "You want it, don’t you?"

You barely had time to answer before his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing along your already slick folds. "So fuckin' wet for me," he groaned, his touch purposeful as he spread your arousal with slow, torturous strokes. "Bet you were dreamin' about this, weren't you? Ridin' my leg, gettin' yourself all worked up..."

Your breath stuttered, a whimper slipping from your lips as he pushed a finger inside you properly, curling it just right, making your body jolt. The pleasure was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

"Bucky- " you gasped, barely able to form the words as he worked you open, his touch both devastating and precise.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, teasing, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed another finger in, stretching you further, our cunt clenching and holding onto his fingers. "That feel good, sweetheart? You gonna admit how bad you wanted this?"

Your fingers curled into the sheets, a desperate moan slipping from your lips as he thrust his fingers deeper, stroking the spot that had you trembling.

"Fuck- Bucky, I- " you tried, but your words cut off into a whimper when his thumb circled your clit, sending another wave of pleasure through you.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Let me hear you."

Bucky chuckled, dark and pleased, withdrawing his hand only to replace it with the heavy press of his cock against your entrance. "Gonna take my time with you, Doll," he murmured, voice thick with hunger. "Gonna stretch you open nice and slow... make sure you feel every inch."

And then, with a deep, steady push, he sank into you, stretching you inch by inch, until there was nothing left between you but heat, pressure, and the raw, unrelenting pleasure of being completely, utterly filled.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned, the weight of him making it impossible to properly move. Your walls fluttering around him as you let out a soft whine.

Bucky’s fingers tightened against your hips, his breath ragged against the back of your neck. “That’s it, not so sassy now, are ya baby?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. His thrusts deepened, each roll of his hips sending pleasure spiking through you. “Just needed my fat cock to make you behave.”

A choked moan escaped your lips, your body arching instinctively, pushing back against him. The stretch, the pressure- it was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the desperate sounds spilling from your throat.

Bucky chuckled darkly. “Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, his pace picking up, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room. “Moanin’ like a needy little thing. Thought you hated being stuck with me?”

You couldn’t even answer, couldn’t form words between gasps and whimpers.

“C’mon, sweetheart, use your words,” he taunted, his flesh hand slipping beneath you, fingers finding your clit. “Tell me how good I feel stretching you out.”

Your breath hitched, your back arching as pleasure ripped through you. “Bucky- I- fuck- ”

He groaned, thrusting harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made you see stars. “That’s it, take it, baby,” he rasped. “You’re so fuckin’ tight- so fuckin’ perfect wrapped around me.”

Your body clenched, heat coiling in your belly, the pleasure unbearable as his fingers worked you mercilessly, pushing you closer to the edge.

““Gonna come for me?” Bucky growled, his grip on your waist tightening. “Gonna soak my cock like a good girl?”

Your breath hitched, your body tightening around him, the pressure building unbearably fast. His fingers on your clit never relented, pushing you closer and closer, his thrusts turning sharper, rougher, until it was too much-

The pleasure crashed over you in a blinding wave, your cry muffled into the pillow as your body convulsed beneath him. You clenched around him, squeezing him so tight he let out a strangled moan, his grip on your waist turning bruising.

“Fuck- just like that,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his body seizing as he drove into you one last time before he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering groan. The heat of it sent aftershocks rippling through you, your body still pulsing with the remnants of your orgasm as he slumped over you, both of you panting, sweat-slicked, and utterly spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress. His breath fanned over the back of your neck, warm and uneven, his heart hammering against your spine. Neither of you spoke, your bodies still tangled, still connected, the cuffs a firm reminder that there was no pulling away just yet.

Bucky chuckled breathlessly, his lips ghosting over your shoulder as he murmured, “Guess being stuck together ain’t so bad after all, huh?”

His words sent a lazy shiver through you, but you were too boneless, too utterly wrecked to argue. Instead, you let your eyes drift shut, exhaling slowly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Yeah, you were definitely in trouble.

By the time backup arrived, you were fully dressed again, but nothing about the tension had faded. If anything, it had settled deeper. The flight home was quiet, and you were quiet too.

Bucky hadn’t let go of you the entire time. His fingers brushed your thigh every so often, casual, like it was nothing. Normally, you would have said something- told him to quit it, nudged him away- but right now, your brain was too hazy, too fluffy to form a real thought. The ache between your legs made every small movement an unspoken reminder of where he'd been, of what he'd done.

You kept your eyes on the window, forcing yourself to breathe, to act normal. But in the reflection, you saw it-

Bucky watching you.

That same small, satisfied smile on his face.

As the jet touched down, Bucky finally pulled at the cuffed connection, his vibranium arm giving a gentle but insistent tug. Your gaze snapped up, attention pulled from the window as your fingers instinctively curled into your lap.

"On your feet, Doll. Don't wanna keep Stark waiting."

"Yes, Sir." The words left your lips before you could even think about them, your breath hitching the moment you realized what you’d said.

Sir? When had that slipped into your vocabulary?

Bucky’s smirk deepened, though he didn’t comment, just gave a slow hum of amusement as he stood, the cuffed hand ensuring you followed right after. Blinking, heat creeping into your cheeks, you cleared your throat and got to your feet, falling into step slightly behind him as you made your way toward Stark’s lab.

Tony raised an eyebrow at the sight of you and Bucky, still cuffed together. "What the hell happened here?"

"Long story," Bucky muttered, avoiding your gaze, though his grip on the cuffed hand lingered a second too long before finally letting go.

Once the cuffs were finally removed, you should have felt relief. Should have been grateful to be free. But instead… you hesitated.

Bucky hesitated, too.

You both lingered, standing too close, the air between you charged with something unspoken. His fingers flexed at his side like he was fighting the urge to touch you again, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered over you, lingering on the places he'd marked just hours ago. And for one, sharp moment, you thought he might- might say something, might pull you back in, might remind you exactly how good you felt under him.

But then, he just smirked. Slow, knowing, dangerous.

"Don’t think this means you’re off the hook, Doll."

Your breath caught. "I’m not?"

Bucky leaned in, his voice dipping into something husky. "Not even close."

His eyes held yours, heavy with meaning, and your stomach flipped, heat flooding your face and running down your chest. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering as he finally stepped back-

But instead of leaving, he gave your cuffed hand a light tug, guiding you toward the hallway. "C'mon, sweetheart," he murmured, his smirk deepening. "Think it's time I take you somewhere a little more comfortable."

Your breath hitched, your body still too warm, too sensitive from everything that had happened. "Bucky- "

He shot you a look over his shoulder, teasing but firm. "Unless you wanna sleep alone tonight?"

A nervous giggle bubbled up before you could stop it, and you cleared your throat, shaking your head as he led you toward his bedroom.

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the-californicationist · 6 months ago

Text

Brisance (1/2)

When Johnny MacTavish finds the woman of his dreams, he didn't expect her to be strapped with ten pounds of C-4... but he kinda likes it. Or: How Johnny MacTavish learned to stop worrying and love the bombmaker...

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2

Brisance

— August —

Ghost sighed, knocking his bootheel on the edge of the desk where he was perched, smoking his last cigarette, and scrolling through Reddit threads, bored to death and letting everyone know about it.

“I can hear ye, Ghostie. I’ll jus’ be a wee bit longer,” Johnny called out over his shoulder.

His masked lieutenant sighed audibly. He thought Soap looked ridiculous in that lighted, magnifying headset, the plastic lenses making his big blue eyes look like saucers. The sergeant had been hunched over an inert explosive device and its mechanical guts for the better part of four hours now, inspecting every inch of the thing, commenting on technical mambo jumbo that Simon hadn’t ever heard - or cared - about. Bombs were not his forte. He knew how to set one, and he knew how to avoid them, but that was about it.

Soap let out a low whistle of admiration, and Ghost rolled his eyes, knowing some brainy quip was coming next about the “detonation velocity” or the “elastomer bonding” or whatever demolitionist jargon he was moved to speak on.

“Innit tha’ the bonniest thing there ever was, mate?” Johnny crooned, sounding like a proud father.

“Does this one kill us real special-like?” Ghost snarled, tired of Soap’s preening exploration of this device.

“You dinnae understand, LT. This is… well, it’s the bloody Mona Lisa of IEDs.”

“Come off it.”

“No, I’m serious. Come see,” Johnny moved his chair over to show off the open, black box where the device’s innards were housed, pointing to a series of tightly-strung wires and cables, “Ye ken how the last one cut through three layers of concrete at the Kadurin silos?”

“Aye,” Simon sauntered over, peering into the mess of wires, trying to divine what his sergeant was seeing.

“See this block here? It would take ten times the RDX to get a high enough brisance to pound through all three layers at once,” Soap sounded like a kid at Christmas, “But, look at how this bastard staggered his fuse layers. He used a visco fuse, cut it like a flying fish, and only had to send one electric match to charge it! Bloody fuckin’ brilliant.”

“English, MacTavish,” Ghost groaned, “Please…”

“This wee box survived because it contains the initial housing, but the bomb itself was in the fuckin’ room, not the detonation package.”

The lieutenant furrowed his brow, taking one last drag of his cigarette, and begging Johnny to clarify,

“So, you’re sayin’ that the bomber was in the cafe before the device was planted?”

“Aye,” Johnny’s eyes got even wider, comical when set behind his magnified lenses, “And tha’s not it. They made this box to last. Someone is sendin’ us a message.”

“What does it say?” Ghost looked back into the wires, expecting them to spell out H-E-L-L-O or F-U-C-K-O-F-F.

“I dinnae ken. Not yet. But, I think he left me a clue.”

“A clue? The fuck…”

“See this? This is a visco fuse alright, but it’s Cordtex, and its got traces of collodion.”

Johnny was waiting on the edge of his seat, buzzing with anticipation, praying for Ghost to have the same, nearly-orgasmic eureka moment that he was. And yet, bored dark eyes glared down at him, waiting for the punchline. So, Soap gave it to him,

“He’s makin’ these from scratch. And,” Soap ripped off the headset and stared down into the box in amazement, “I think he’s a Brit. He could’ve just used any old visco fuse, but he didn’t. He went bloody far out of his way to make these, and I wonder…”

The headset slid back on and Johnny returned to the device, picking around the mechanisms like a dog hunting for a treat, sniffing his way around for anything to chew on.

“British,” Simon hummed, “Hm, I’ll tell Cap. Maybe he can get Laswell to send it off for testing.”

Soap didn’t respond. As Ghost left the room, he called back over his shoulder,

“Don’t stay up all night, Johnny. Got PT at 0430.”

“Mm-hm…” Soap replied, not bothering to look up when Ghost finally made his exit, too busy making eyes at his one true love: a beautifully crafted bomb.

— October —

The ticking was the worst part, but as he stared down into the blackness of a rigged, plastic tote, Johnny almost wished he would have something to keep him company, even some of that infernal ticking sound that should be happening. But, it wasn’t. The room was silent like the grave, and if Johnny made one wrong move, it would become his own.

A voice crackled through his headset,

“Five minutes, thirty seconds.”

Gaz was keeping count for him, checking in at regular intervals, his voice trembling from the stress. Johnny wished he wouldn’t worry. This was a timebomb, yes, but it needed input. Someone was waiting for something, and if he could figure out what, maybe he could stop it.

“Aye, any movement from overwatch?”

A short pause and then his lieutenant’s voice came through,

“Negative.”

This bomb was truly a piece of work. There was no indicator, and in fact, no traceable fuse. All of the ignition was internal to the RDX modules, and there were eight of them altogether, each with its own unique housing. Johnny had disarmed five of the eight, and he was working on number six as quickly as he could.

The bombmaker had a great deal of skill, but so did Soap, and it was less of a race than it was a fluid, complicated, one-sided conversation. With every choice in material and fuse design and chemical agent, the bombmaker was telling Johnny all about himself.

The Semex block and guncotton in housing three, wrapped in flash paper and copper-coated fuse links? This bloke had access to high-quality chemicals. The wooden housing and saltpeter dusting in number five? When he didn’t have access to those high-quality chemicals, he was resourceful enough to know how to make do without them. The way the fuse line lay independent from the center of each housing, and yet initiated from different grafting points? Making bombs was more than just a hobby. The bastard was designing these devices like challenges, giving Johnny puzzle after puzzle, testing his abilities.

Soap should have been angry, but he wasn’t. In fact, this particular model of IED hadn’t taken a single life. The bombed buildings were strategically placed against Makarov’s forces, almost as if this terrorist was on a mission of rebellious freedom. The Russian oligarch’s people were fighting back against their own leader, rejecting his authority. This was the work of a highly intelligent man out for justice, not a simple murderer.

Johnny had spent the last two months discovering more and more about this particular insurgent, and now that he could see the pattern of his behavior, Soap was more likely to label him as a true freedom fighter. Laswell didn’t seem to care about labels, but Johnny felt like he almost had the captain convinced.

“This might be someone we could pull to our side, Cap’n,” Johnny had suggested.

“Just make sure you end the day with all your fingers still fuckin’ attached, lad. How about that?” Price had sniped, but it was toothless. Johnny knew he was starting to see the pattern, too.

Staring down at his hands, all ten fingers still hard at work, he marveled at the commitment to craft in everything from the fuses to the housing shells. The sergeant cut through blocks of C-4 in cubes six and seven before Gaz had given him a seven-minute warning. As he inspected housing number eight, Johnny almost felt disappointed that he and the maker of these bombs would never meet. The things he could learn from an artist like this…

A green laser trembled and danced in front of his face, pointing directly to the bottom of the eighth block. Johnny’s eyes shot up, finding the source right away. Through the window, a cloaked figure crouched on the roof, dressed all in black, tucked behind an air vent, their eyes pinned to him as he gaped in disbelief.

It was him. The bombmaker was here.

“Overwatch, target at eleven o’clock, south rooftop, copy,” Johnny’s voice gave away their position, and as soon as he heard the confirmation from Ghost, his ears also picked up on a soft, almost delicate ticking sound. Gunshots popped wildly outside, and the bombmaker disappeared, his body lithe and quick, avoiding danger and leaving Johnny to die at the hands of his creation.

As quick as he could, Johnny cut through the eighth housing, searching for the fuse. But, he came up empty. Then, he remembered where the laser had been pointing. He turned the dark layer over and saw a hole in the RDX material. On nothing but instinct, he cut down into it and hit something solid. The housing broke open to reveal a wristwatch.

There was no fuse. And all of the other housings had been rendered inert, so there was no danger.

Why would the bombmaker start the timer without anything to blow? Johnny’s mind swam with possibilities, and then he turned the watch over to inspect the back. Written in big, bold pen, Soap saw the letters JFM on the dull metal. His initials. John Fergus MacTavish. Not even Ghost knew his middle name.

Suddenly, Johnny heard more ticking. It sounded like a collection of clocks had just come to life. He dug around in the box, finding it empty, but he discovered the final clue too late. A small lip on the edge of the crate hinted at another layer of explosive material, hidden from plain sight.

“Shite! Fall back!” He shouted.

There was a false bottom, and when Johnny pulled it up, he discovered ten more tightly-packed Semex blocks that were fused up together with that same Cordtex line, ready to explode. All over the plasticine blocks, the letters JFM were cut into the material, recurring like an endless pattern. As he looked down at his initials littering the bomb he was trying to diffuse, his head swam with confusion. But, there was no time for that.

Johnny slammed the lid shut and bolted, running for cover. His legs burned as they hauled him out of the stone building, his feet sinking into the dirt and sand outside of the door. Soap could see the cover wall, and he dug in, using every bit of strength he had to reach it and scale it before he was just a stain on the dirt. He barely made it, and as he tumbled behind the sturdy wall, he could feel the searing heat of the blast on his back and legs. It felt like needles were stinging his skin; it was so hot.

A few moments went by, and although the world was quiet for Johnny, he knew that was just the hearing loss. In fact, he understood that the reality was quite the opposite. As he looked up, he saw Price stomping over to him. The captain was yelling something, but his voice couldn’t reach his ears. All he could see was the bearded man hollering and carrying on with a wrathful look on his face. Then, bits and pieces came through.

“... could’ve… killed… fuck.. thinkin’... Johnny?!”

Price tried again, pulling his sergeant up from the floor by his gear vest,

“Do you hear me? What the fuck was that? Almost lost you, boy. Jesus Christ!” Captain Price sounded like he was underwater, but at least the words were coming through.

“Sorry, sir. But, I needed to find the last clue,” Johnny held up the watch as if it was his well-deserved trophy.

“You were almost the last clue, you bloody idiot,” Price ran his hand through his hair and knocked his boonie hat onto his shoulders, totally exasperated.

Soap knew he should feel guilty, or at least a little fearful, but everything was different, now. After the realization that the bombs were designed specifically for him, Johnny found himself actually looking forward to the next one.

— November —

The mission had gone sideways right from the start. Their comms had been nothing but staticky garbage while they were clearing out the Kotovo Blocs, trying their best to evacuate civilians while simultaneously managing Makarov’s squadrons. It was a crapshoot every time they opened another door. Half the time, a mother and her children rushed out screaming, and the other half, they were greeted by bullets.

Even worse, they’d been separated by a particularly nasty collection of smoke-filled pipe bombs. It was nothing nasty, but it was enough of a hindrance that they’d lost formation. The plan was to regroup at an abandoned fueling station one klick southeast of their current position, and that’s where Johnny was heading. He tried to connect on comms again, but all he got was soft static.

“Ghost, Gaz come in! Bravo-seven to Bravo-actual. Do you copy?”

No one replied. He was flying solo. His senses were on high alert, and all of his movements were carefully calculated, measured, and aligned to his new mission: survive.

Luckily, Makarov’s men had been retreating, and there was enough gunfire to scare off most of the civilians, but it was still a long way to the fuel station.

Suddenly, in his ears, he heard a voice loud and clear.

“Bravo-seven, huh? I think we both know that’s not your name, soldier.”

Johnny’s mind reeled. It was a woman’s voice. She had a sort of blended accent, something he’d heard all of Laswell’s spies use so that no one would be able to tell where they were from.

“Who is this?” He asked, checking his six and making sure to stay tucked below the window ledge. It would make moving through the bloc much slower, but if someone was in a sniper position, he couldn’t take any chances.

“Mm,” she whined, “You wound me, Mr. MacTavish. I thought you’d know me by now, especially after I left you that little gift basket in Levin.”

Soap stopped in his tracks, whispering even though he was very much alone,

“It’s you…”

Her voice turned sinister,

“Vladimir is mine. Stay out of Kotovo. You’re too handsome to be in more than one piece.”

The noise in his headset went dead and he knew that she was gone. When he saw movement out of the corner of his eye – a flash of a black cloak, tattered and torn like a destitute comic book hero – Soap looked to the rooftop to find her.

The moment his eyes met her face, she pulled back her hood to reveal her eyes, piercing and furious, and a full, pouting mouth. When she caught him gaping at her, crouching far out of cover and in a state of pure shock, her lips turned up into a slight smile before she jumped down the opposite side of the bloc building, disappearing into the pelting snow.

“... –vish! Co– … John– where ar– … Johnny!”

“LT?” Johnny tried to listen in to his comms, ducking back under the window and rushing out of the building, “I found her. In pursuit west north west to the docks.”

“What? Soap, we need to RV at the fueling st–”

“There’s no time! I cannae let her get away.”

“Wha’dya mean her?” Gaz asked, interrupting their back and forth, “The terrorist is a fuckin’ bird?”

“Aye,” Johnny panted, running flat out through the thick snowfall, chasing her across the parking lot of the bloc complex, “Bonnie as fuck, too.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, MacTavish?! Get the fuck back to RV. Tha’s a bloody order!” The captain demanded.

“Aye, sir. Be there in two shakes.”

Johnny muted his mic and ignored the protests from the other end of the comm line. They were coming for him, predictably, so if things did go south, he knew he’d have some backup.

Suddenly, just as his wee birdie was making her way down the main road to the docks, gunfire popped across her path. On instinct Johnny raised his weapon and returned fire, getting her attention. She peered over her shoulder at him, surprised that he was not shooting at her instead, and pulled her handgun to help him take down the small group of Makarov’s men who were advancing on their position.

Enemy squads were in direct pursuit, and it was hard to tell if Soap or the bombmaker was their main target. It didn’t matter, in the end. Johnny took out the first squad in a matter of moments, barely reducing his speed to return fire, but there were two stragglers from the second squad, hidden behind a small electrical shed, popping off stray shots in her direction.

He altered his course, but she stopped him in his tracks. She’d shot at the ground right in front of him, keeping him away from the shed. Soap slowed, but he changed back to his original path, not understanding her motive. It wasn’t until he saw a blinding, golden blaze of fire erupt out of the electrical housing and felt the shockwave of her bomb rattle around in his chest that he understood why she had stopped him.

“Holy fuck…” he breathed.

Her teasing voice cut through his comms, silencing the chatter from the 141,

“Did ya like that, baby?”

Soap peeled his gaze away from the fiery explosion and found her perched behind a shipping container about fifty meters ahead of him. She was breathing hard, and her body was tense, but she was looking straight at him, a clever smile pasted across her mouth.

He smiled back,

“Tha’ was bloody beautiful, lass.”

Then, her eyes left him, turning back to her path towards the boat slips, and her tone became resigned,

“You can’t come with me, soldier.”

The line went dark. She had cut his entire communication. He couldn’t even hear Price barking orders anymore. Soap peeled the buds out of his ears and let them hang down by his throat mic. Still, he pursued her. He wasn’t going to give up that easy.

He was also gaining on her. She was trying her best to weave between shipping crates and huge piles of knotted ropes, but it was no use. He was faster, stronger, and by the time he was ten paces away, she knew she was caught. Suddenly, she ducked into a rundown storage building and disappeared into the room.

Johnny followed right behind, ignoring his training to stop, assess, and plan his ingress.

He came into a large, nearly empty room. At the far end, the ceiling was missing from the roof and it cast pale sunshine down into the open area. It illuminated two large wooden crates where his fiery little bird was sitting, waiting for him. The floor was covered in sand and snow, and he couldn’t see the boards beneath his boots. It was like there was no floor at all. The outside was inside, and the destroyed roof let in the wilderness where there should have been cold, clean civilization.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, holding his gun at the ready position, staring up at her like she was the winged Nike, shaken by her power and amazed by her beauty. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Her lips were pillowy and expressive, her eyes full of her sharp intellect, her body soft with curves yet heavy with muscle… to mix her stunning appearance with her phenomenal talent with demolition engineering seemed almost blasphemous. No one woman could be so perfect, and yet…

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Her voice was soft like rain, and it hit his skin in the same way, leaving little drops of its effect behind to remind him of it.

“Why?” He asked, standing very still as if any movement might scare her off again.

“I’m going to a place where no one ever comes back from. Alone. Vladimir Makarov killed my sister, and he has to pay for that. I will make him pay.”

As she finished her explanation, she smiled in a sorrowful, resigned way, understanding that she was on a suicide mission but unwilling to change her course.

“He will, bonnie. We willnae let him get away this time. You have my word,” Johnny promised her, earnestly.

“My hero,” she teased. Then, after a short pause, she asked, “Do you have a sister, Mr. MacTavish?”

“Aye. Three wildlings, in fact,” he had taken no truth serum and yet it came pouring out of him anyway.

“Bridgette, Maggie, and Jenny…” She reported back, “All older than you, right?”

Johnny’s heart stopped in his chest,

“How’d you –”

“When a handsome, young, black ops soldier comes in and defuses a sixteen stage daisycutter that I designed myself, I make sure to learn a thing or two about him. And,” she unzipped her jacket and began to pull it off of her shoulders, “I also know that a man like that, a man with sisters… is not the kind of man who just gives up.”

“No, lass. I willnae give up. Let me help you. If we… oh, Christ,” Johnny watched in horror as she pulled the jacket the rest of the way off to reveal an intricately woven vest packed with explosives with perfectly laid Cordtex wires winding in and out of each of the housings, live and ready to blow.

“Hands up!” Price’s voice echoed through the empty room as he, Gaz, and Ghost filled in the space behind their sergeant, guns pointed right at her, their red laser sights dancing on her chest like fireflies.

Johnny held out his hand with the signal to halt, and everyone froze. She, however, slid off of the crate and walked over to him, little white flecks of snow sticking to her hair and cheeks, taking each step slowly and deliberately. As she got closer and closer, Soap could smell her sweat, heady and musky, and he could hear her breaths, hanging on each of her exhales like it was some heavenly edict, memorizing the pace of them like it would unlock all of the world’s many secrets, a passcode to the truth.

She whispered, inches from his open mouth,

“You can help me,” she put her hands on his neck, using her thumbs to rub against the scruff of his five o’clock shadow, letting the stiff hairs burn under her touch, “By staying the fuck out of my way.”

Despite the warning timbre of her voice, she was open and pliant for him, letting her lips hang open slightly, like she was expecting his kiss. Johnny leaned toward her, his mouth slotting across hers, tasting her on his tongue and moving his body into her space. He ignored the danger, well aware of the fact that she was strapped with enough Semtex to blow a city block into a dirty crater, and he kissed her deeply, as if they had been lovers for years, as if this was not their first touch.

She stepped back, pulling away from him, and he took a step forward to follow.

Click.

Time stopped. Johnny’s skin flashed hot and then cold, all of the adrenaline he had left flooding his system.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” She chided him, backing away while he remained frozen in place, “Sit… stay…” Then, that same sad smile, “Good boy.”

She climbed up on the crate and escaped through the hole in the roof before any of them could react to what had just happened.

Captain Price gave an order to Gaz,

“Go after her!”

“No!” Johnny protested, “All of you, get the fuck out of this room. I stepped on a wee mine, and if I know her, this whole dock will be at the bottom of the bloody ocean the moment I lift my boot.”

Ghost came up behind him, shifting his feet carefully through the sand, searching for secondary devices. Then, he used his pneumatic tool to blow the snow away from Johnny’s left foot to reveal the device.

“Well, she got you fair and square, didn’t she, Johnny? I’ll tell your mum you died a hero’s death,” there was a joking tone in Ghost’s voice that made Soap peer down at the toe of his boot.

He had stepped on an empty soda can.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny sighed, feeling the tingle of relief skitter through his limbs.

Then, panic again as Price’s voice growled darkly behind him,

“I should send you on the first flight back to Glasgow with your papers in your fuckin’ hand, boy. What the hell are you doin’, MacTavish? You’ve got one fuckin’ chance to explain yourself before I replace you with a damn bomb robot. At least then I won’t have to write a letter home when he gets blown to bits.”

“I put a tag in her pocket, Cap’n. Should be able to watch her on the SAT-NAV now. She already mapped where Makarov’ll be next. I think we should help her.”

“What’s your deal with her? Are you…” Gaz asked, bewildered by his friend’s unusually careless behavior.

“I dinnae ken how to explain it, but I need to see this through.”

Price’s exhausted sigh was the only response he received, but Johnny knew that the silence was a form of assent. They would help him, and he would help her, if only he could get to her before she did anything too permanent.

Chapter 2

AO3 Link

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kaq3yma · 8 months ago

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MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER! sakura haruka.

syn: the royal princess nightly-meet up with an unknown man.

୨୧ qeena brief note: ello fellow readers and mootsies, i finally got to wrap up my vamp!sakura haruka x royal princess!reader fic yaeyyy, i'm happy i successfully finish a 4.6k words fic (in almost a month) lol i'm not built for this clearly but still a big special thank you to @flowerloves for this request. ofc it's a x reader fic but this was made specifically for you obvi and i love you sm, bae ur so understanding ilyyyy! i promised i will get this done in a week somehow but got caught up with assignments, tests and society club soooo lol i'm not a fast-adapter BUT i hope everyone enjoy this fic even though it's ass at some parts (especially the confession part) lmao i swear i did my best but lemme know what you guys think, that's all thank you, i love you, reblogs and comments are very much appreciated and happy reading xoxo 🍡

special tags: @flowerloves, @hanaeriin, @reapkusho, @isadollie, @kyuujo, @sommii, @amaderika

The night breeze sways in the middle of the night, carrying scents of the open ocean and waft pass the air gently. The faint caws and rattles of crows in the distance is the only noise you heard for the past ten minutes aside from your own square heels clicking noise against the shattered concrete pavements.

As you look back, the image of your castle almost fade into the background, growing daintier as you walk further inside the woods. It's a long walk for you, with unsure destination to reach, you keep walking until you can barely to.

You look for a place to sit down, and rest, or presumably to enjoy the book you've been cradling in your hands for the past minutes. Swaying your head left and right to find a suitable spot you can sit down on until suddenly you heard a rustling noise came from behind a bush. Gulping down a huge lump stucking in your throat, you drag your feet backwards to make a run in case whatever creature is in that bush that decides to cause a chaos, you'll have time to run but— a white bunny hop from the small space in between the bush and make its presence known. You almost jump in surprise, chuckling when the brainless creature tilt its head at you.

You watch the animal cradle his neck to the side before hopping away. Hoping to catch and bring the animal home with you, you ran after it only to lost it a few seconds later "Oh, no..." You look around, realizing you're no longer on your path. No concrete pavements beneath your feet but muddy textured ground. You grip the book you have in your hands, starting to feel scared. Why do you think going out in the middle of the night is a good idea again?

Not wanting to make the worse situation anymore worst than it can get, you came to a conclusion to just walk back where you came from, at least back where you believe you came from. You walk mindlessly towards directions you assumed was right, unaware you're walking deeper into the forest as the shadow beneath the trees darken casting an even longer shadow across the forest floor.

You take a deep breath, taking long strides hoping you would just escape this woods what seems like an endless maze. Tears set afoot beneath your eyelines and rush across your cheeks but you won't allow your emotions to take over just yet. You jog and jog with sweats starting to prominently appear on your face until you halt in your rushing steps.

A loud thunder burgles from behind a massive tree and you slowly drag your feet to inspect. The sight before you elicit a small gasp past your open lips. What seem like a serene oasis site in the middle of nowhere, its beauty strikes in contrast to the arid surroundings. Crystal clear water glimmer under the warm moonlight, softly rippling as a gentle breeze past through. What you felt a moment ago sink and disappear together with the welcoming passing air. Now, all that you feel mid centre of your heart, and in the depth of your tummy is tranquil and peace.

Slowly, you walk forward and sat by the cool water, carefully dipping your feet into the pool, wheezing at the cold touch of the inviting dew. You didn't realize how much time had passed, it's like you've only been there for a couple of moments but before long, you skim through the last page of the book you just started. Night seem to darken even further, and only then realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You are still lost. No matter how any more beautiful this place could get, you're still lost and in need to return home.

Sounds of footsteps scuff against the ground behind you cause you to jump in fear, knowing that whoever it was behind you, is most definitely not an animal but something else, worse, other people! "Please don't—"

"What are you doing here?"

You turn around, surprised to see a man, stood tall in his white ruffled shirt with dark trousers fit snugly and fall straight down. His hair, now that you grasped, is in dual color of black and white, neatly slicked showing off his flawless temple — well, not so flawless considering his face is batter up with bruises and deep gushes.

You look into his eyes, your own waver in fear of not knowing what to respond "I— I was—"

"This place is mine. You shouldn't be here."

You thrust your head down, fearful for your own safety. No matter how attractive the stranger is, the fact that they're a stranger and unknown to you is a danger as it is. You fiddle with the book in your hands, stuttering a sentence to form "I'm lost. I don't know how to get out of this place."

Instead of lunging at you like a beasty animal, you hear him gruff incoherently to himself "If I able to get you out, will you leave quietly?" Jerking your head up and down aggressively, you thank him profusely with a smile. He look away, fishing his hands under the front pockets of his trouser "Let's go, then." You plod behind the male, eyes glue to his back as he guide you out of the place.

"You're a princess, right?" That results you to stop on your movements, skeptic as to how did he know. He shrugs "I have my way." Huh...?

He let out a fake cough, gesturing you forward "There." You look up, relieved to catch a glimpse of your castle "Thank you!" Beaming, you look at him with a smile and chuckling in relief. However, once again, he look away.

"I'm going, be safe." With that, he walk back into the woods, vogue silhouette dissipate like snowflake in an ocean.

Sakura turn around just before you walk down the road and disappear from his sight. He look away, taking long strides back to where he belongs. However, further he went, the thought of you doesn't melt from his mind, the sight of your smile, not once but twice cause his stomach to flip, an unknown feeling rippled through his belly making his face go hot.

The next morning, you wakes up in bed, feeling tired and throbbing pain aches from below your thighs. It must have been the aftermath of your constant walking the night before. The door of your chamber burst open and came in the head of your maid. The old lady walk and stand beside you, helping you putting on a pair of flat slippers and guide you to behind the veil where you're able to clean your body using clean water and get ready. She get you your usual high-waisted skirt that reaches and fall to your ankles and a light color blouse which are slightly puff and tuck it in under your skirt and finally, she help you putting on another set of square heels and help adorning your hair "Your father and Her Majesty is waiting in the dining room along with Prince Choji."

The mention of your spoiled step-baby-brother and step-mother earn an eyeroll but you hum, allowing yourself out of your room and steps into the dining room. Your father, his Majesty sit at the other end of the table with his wife and son beside him on the left.

You look down, taking a quick walk and sit beside him on the right, facing Choji. The small feast begin but none of you said a word. For the rest of breakfast, the only noise made is the faint clanking sound of forks and knife against the plates.

You got up after you're done, bowing down and bidding good bye to his Majesty until he said; "What about to your Mother?" You stopped in your track, hands stiffled and face tight. You didn't dare look back but you said one thing, clear and loud "Her Majesty is not my mother. She's your wife."

You heard him slam his on the table, smashing his wine cup on the process and yell at you to get back but you didn't, and instead you pick up your pace and run to your room. After the echoing slam of the door, silence deafened inside your chamber. The dimmed-lighted room cloud over like a passing rain cloud, the once cheery room fill with laughters and bedtime stories now cramped with defeaning silence and darkness. You sat down on your bed, feeling as the soft mattress dip at your gentle force.

Sighing, you pick up that small frame from your nightstand desk. The image of your lovely mother dressed in appealing red dress cradling you in your light green colored dress. Your father beside her, one finger lock against your small grip. All are smiling, genuine and raw with emotions for their first complete family picture.

She shouldn't have die... If only they was quick enough, if only your father was quick enough to find the cure, your mother won't have to die. She'd still be here, and there won't be enough space in the picture for your step-mother and his son to waltz into.

You plop onto your bed, hang the frame in between your chest and hug it tightly. Closing your eyes, you hope for sleep and last night exhaustion to consume you.

Perplexed, confused and in disbelief by your own behavior to sneak out the castle once again, however this time prepared with a small map inside your pocket in case you got lost like last night and a lamp, lit enough you can make out the ground a few small inches before you.

Walking around the same path, you stop at a familiar bush you saw the bunny hop from, grinning to yourself as you think you're near. You bring out the map but only then you grasp no such thing as an oasis is mentioned in the map. You look around, determined to make it to the place you've been last night and then you heard that voice, that familiar husky voice "I told you to leave, didn't I?"

You turn around, facing the man whom helped you last night "I wanted to visit that place again!" Surprised by your sudden exclamation, he look at you with a quirk brow "That place is mine, not yours to loiter around."

You huff "This is a free land, not yours to claim." He grumbled under his breath, tucking his neat hair in between his locks and look at you "... Me..."

Now, it's your turn to quirk your brow at him "I can't hear you...!"

"I said, follow me." He pocketed his hand beneath his pocket and walk forward, purposely leaving the cemented path to mingle on an unfamiliar walk, presumably to the place.

"What's your name?" He didn't stop in his tracks nor did he said anything, a respond or something "Hello—"

"Sakura Haruka. You are that princess, right? Your Father rule Shishitoren." The sudden unneeded mention of your father make you groan in annoyance "Yes. How do you know?" He shrugs, stopping in his tracks "Is it not obvious?" What does he meant by that? He lift the leaves curtains in front of him, revealing the same place you've been dying to be at since this morning.

A small smile crept to your face, grinning and thank him for bringing you back here. A furious red hue spread across his cheek, caressing his paled complexion. After a moment, you sat down by the pond, legs dip into the the water. Sakura watch you from afar, his expression unreadable.

"Are you going to keep staring? Say something if you have anything to ask." He grin, showing off his pearly whites. He trudge beside you, but not to dip his legs as he just sat down, legs thrown into a criss-cross. You look at him from beside, your own eyes graze over every details of his feature, his pointy noise scratch and wounded, the side of his chin bruised and a deep wound gush on his cheek "How come you're more badly wounded than last night? Do you always fight?" He hiss in return of your words, clearly unappreciative of what you just said.

However, unlike how any other humans would react, he didn't react to your pressings on his wound, instead when your cold finger brush against his skin "I don't have anything but..." You pull a piece of napkin from the beneath of your gown pocket and dip it whole into the water "I can at least clean them." Sakura lean away, not very much fond of the idea at which you sighed, pulling him forward "Relax, you should at least clean it."

Starting with the long cut on his cheek, you dab the wet napkin over the lines to clean dried blood, patting the napkin to his wound to at least clean it. Yes, you might have not notice your close proximity since you're so immense on the taking care of the wound but he has. Sakura can make out the way your lashes blink as you close your eyes to regain focus on your vision. The way it hugs your cheeks, the slightest details he can see now because you're so up close.

Finally you look up but just as you did, your nose touches. It cause him to blush and you to flinch. You almost fall back in the water but he caught you just in time and pull you "Careful, moron!"

Dazed. Fixed. You are unable to say anything for a few seconds, blinking away flusteration. Regaining your composure, you cough out and look away. Oh, why is everywhere burning?!

"You should tend them properly. Make sure to bandage it up." He look at you, perplexed. You point with your finger to your own face "The wounds. You need to take care of it." It's a silly word, indeed is. A silly, meaningless word of concern but why is his heart is beating. So loudly he thanked the sounds around him for masking it.

This is a first for Sakura. The first he felt like this in hundreds years, perhaps, a thousand. Not once, never once did he feel like this, how can a stopped-beating heart thump anyway? Absurd! There must be some sort of mistake, that's right. A mistake. A coincidence that bound to happened.

The night fell and the day came. It's a repetitive motion for a month since he met you. That mistake. It turns out it's not so much of a mistake at all. Love. At least, that's what his friend, Nirei, told him.

Love... What a strange emotion.

Tonight, like any other nights, he wait by the oasis, waiting for you, like a shining beacon to come and just be here already. Sakura heard footsteps, familiar footsteps of your heels arriving. The leaves curtain lift and drop when you came, like an unfamiliar sunlight, you shone the place loom with darkness and shadow for him.

You greet him, and in your hands there's another book for you to read together. You stopped in your track, tilt your head and give him a strange look "You've been fighting again, have you?" The male huff, crossing his hands together.

You climb the rock he's sitting on, site your place beside him and bring that same napkin you bring every night "You really should stop getting into fights, you know?" You scolded to which he only scoff and laugh at. As always, whatever you say went to his right ear and slip to his left, whiff into the air.

"Haru, I'm serious..." That made him stop, he grunt something incoherent in your ears but you questioned no more, getting the hint that maybe, he finally decided to listen.

"I got this book from our library today. Want to read it together?" Yeah, how can he ever deny your request? Nodding his head, you immediately begin skimming through the pages to start reading.

"Haru." You suddenly mentioned in between your reading and he hum, allowing you to begin again "Where do you live? You never tell me where you live." He freeze, not knowing how to answer your question. Right, you didn't know. About his being, his true beings. Who he is, what he is. How could he tell you? Would you... Would you look at him the same...?

"—Ru. Haruka." He flinches, giving you an unreadable expression. Reluctantly, he shake his head, a silent plea for you to stop mentioning whatever you just mentioned.

You wanted to say something but bite it back, hum in understanding and said nothing. He slipped this once but he can't be so sure next time. Sooner or later, if he truly cares, he needs to tell you.

And it's been a week since then, you stopped coming for a while as you're busy preparing for a banquet your father are hosting for his fellow friends. You didn't quite get to mention it to Sakura as it has been rather a last-minute plan. It makes you wonder if he ever look out for you during the past days.

Whilst you're helping your step-brother picking a suitable attire for the night, you subconsciously replay to your conversation the previous nights. Up until today, you are still wondering, interest to know where he live. He knows where you live so it's only fair that you do to. What is he so hesitant about anyway?

The night resume, the small banquet lit the night and laughters fill the entire ballroom. Everyone is either engaging with each other or indulging themselves and as for you and Choji, it's always the latter.

When your father, his wife and his friends arrived at your table, everyone is obliged to be silent and let them have the talking. You didn't quite intrigued to hear whatever they're yacking about, well, not until your step-mother mention marriage. It's only fair or you, now officially nineteen, a damsel in distress, and also the next one in line to be married.

You hope, hope to dear God your father would say something, anything to drop the topic but all you can see he's doing was nodding his head. Almost dropping your utensils, you thrash your head in displeased. Both your father and his wife, along with the other parties turn to you, shocked.

"I'm not getting married." You stood up but your father words caught you in your trance "You leave, you mustn't come back." Your step-mother look in between you and your father, fearful expression contorts on her face.

"Must you do this, Father? Forcing me into marriage with someone I barely knew?" You hear him grunts, motioning for you to take your seat. At this point, hot tears has gathered and if only Choji didn't secretly hold your hand in reassurance, you would've flipped out.

That's right, you have to learn to control your temper. There's so many people tonight in this room, you wouldn't want to embarrass yourself and be label as the 'disgrace to royalty'.

Endured a painful hours long of discussing, you finally excused yourself after they did. Strutting back to your room, you locked the door behind you and cries silently. All you ever wanted, at least right now at this moment, is the warmth of your mother.

You locked yourself away for the entire night, and not once did you give away your ego when your father knocked on your chamber door multiple times moments ago. When the clock strikes twelve, when the shadow aligns, you carefully make your way out of your room. The entire castle is pitched black, unable to see, you discreetly bring a lamp with you.

The raw wind blows on your face when the door opens. Nobody is around and silence is the sole melody plays throughout your journey to the woods. You hope you can find him. You need to find him.

As soon as you arrived, a vogue silhouette of a familiar someone greet you by the rock. He's slouching, eyes closed with a subtle troubled expression on his face. You tip-toed near him as quiet as possible, wish to surprise him when all of a sudden "I know you're here."

You yelped, almost throw the lamp off if not for him to catch it on time. He laughs at your reaction, he won't tell but he find it somehow endearing how you look so surprised and shocked. Sakura soft laughter died down when he look into your eyes, your usual bright eyes and slightly, very slightly dull. Your cheeks is red as we as the tip of your nose. It's like you've been crying for hours long.

"What happened?" You smiled, telling him it's nothing and that you are just tired. Sakura was usually dismissive, he rarely feel a thing so he never bother to check up on others but, the sight of your dried-teary face. Surprisingly enough, it make his heart ache. If that was possible, of course... "You are not tired. You cried."

You thought washing your face is enough to cleanse the evidence but it seems not. You take a sit beside him, a visible long sighed escaped past your open lips.

"My Father forced me to marry..." He lift his head up, tracing your skin with his eyes "That so..." Sakura seem to have not notice it but you're starting to look back, you stared back at him as he continues to stare mindlessly. He only realized when he move his eyes upwards and you stare back at him, smiling but bewildered.

Normally, he would freak out, turn his head away but not now, he keep staring into your eyes. A furious red creep up to his cheeks and he can hear your heartbeat thumping loudly against his ears. On impulse, he bring his hand forward, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. His skin make touch to yours and it send a chill down your spine. His hands feel cold, inhumanly cold.

He cup your cheek using one hand, gently bring your face forward as he too, leans in and kiss you. His lips is cold too, too cold but it's not making you uncomfortable. You return his kiss with a small sigh of relief. Being this close with him for the first time ever, you can make out a faint mint smell radiate in the air. Sakura move his hand down to your waist, pulling you gently closer to him as the world outside seemed to fade into the background.

When you break of the kiss, Sakura finally look away, coughing out nothing in embarrassment "I... There's something I need to tell you but I'll tell you tomorrow." He look into your eyes, silently pleading "Can you come again?" Smiling at him oh-so brightly, you nod your head in agreement.

"You cannot do this to me!"

"Yes, I can. Especially when you misbehaved like this and sneak out the castle every night!" The guards push you in and throw you on the ground "Reflect what you've done and until then, you will stay in your room." Getting up, you storm to the door only for it to close before you and your father lock it from outside.

Planting your ear on the door, you can hear their quiet pleas, both your step-mother and step-brother, begging him to unlock the door. He said nothing and his large footsteps descend downstairs. You tries to take a deep breath, voice breaking in silence "Don't do this to me, please..."

It's been hours, perhaps a day, and during that time, you slouched against the door, wiping what you thought was the last tears only for a few to rush suit. It's a struggle to regain composure but when you heard footsteps outside the door followed with small steps of a certain someone's skipping, you got up slowly.

"Princess..." It's her voice, the voice of someone you always believed was vile and pretentious. The door creaks and gently push open.

You saw the Queen peeking behind the door, scared she'll get caught but Choji stood there, both hands on his waist as if he was proud to help, to rescue you. You turn to both of them, a silent gratitude expression plastered across your face "I—"

The Queen put both hands on your shoulders, crouch down eye-level "We both got many untold things to share so go, and come back fast. We'll be waiting..." She hope to share a quick hug but she's aware it's not yet a good time so she watch you leave, running downstairs and escape the castle.

You race to the forest, the sun barely set but it's almost dark. The weather is clouded over and it seems like it's about to rain. Pick your dress over your ankles, you hurry, praying to meet him at the place. Hurriedly lift the curtains, your vision immediately drawn to a familiar man. He wear what you remembered he wore the first time you both met. The white ruffled shirt and his signature dark trouser "Haru..." You didn't quite make out his face but you can tell it's scrunched, like a hurtful look. Why would he look at you with such look, you wonder...

"Where were you? We were supposed to meet yesterday!"

"...I waited."

You clutch the bottom of your dress, pained and frustrated "I'm sorry, it won't happen again." You make a move, walking towards him and slowly begin to put your distance to a closure "You said there's something you'd like to tell me. Can you tell now?"

His whole body tensed, Sakura jerk his head aside with a bitter look still on his face "Moron, what makes you think I forgive you so easily—"

"Haru, I promise I have my reason. I promise I will tell you after you do." It's not short, nor is it easy to make him spill whatever on his mind but he's determined to tell you everything. Gently and carefully, he pick your hand up, that inhumanly cold hand of his brush against your much warmer ones.

"Would you... Would you leave me if I'm not who you thought I was?"

"Haru, what do you—"

"I'm not a good person, there is a truth that dwells within me, a shadow that clings to my very soul. It is a truth so monstrous that I fear you may never look at me the same again."

He wish not to lie to you anymore, let it be the end of your sweet meet, he wish to be honest with you once and for all "I'm not a person, I'm a vampire."

Your eyes widen, a slow gasp elicit past your open lips. To say you are shocked is an understatement, you are beyond speechless, nearly forgetting how to breathe and swallow back "H— Haru..."

"I don't wish for you to stay. You may leave if you wish. I just— I thought I'd be honest for once," He look down and stare into your eyes, and for once, his usually hard stares mix with a tinge of vulnerability "Especially to whom I like."

He close his eyes, unable to see you leave his sight. His fist bawl tight that his paled skin turn out paler. His eyes widen as he accidentally lets out a loud gasp of surprise when you suddenly tackle him into a hug "What are you—"

"If you are to be a monster, the darkness, let me be your light, Haru — as long as I'm not your next victim of thirst..." Giggling, you secure your arms around him, nuzzling your face against his chest. He almost let out a laugh but instead he smile, so big it radiates the sun to shine within the dark night.

"You still owe me an explanation." You hum, quick to take an understanding why the hands of the man you like is always cold, so, very inhumanly cold.

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dc-gotham-instincts-wild · 3 months ago

Text

Of Skateboards and Robin Magic. (DC Fanfic)

Summary: Jason steals a skateboard. He gives it to Tim. Dick is looking for his brothers.

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Jason didn’t mean to steal a brand-new skateboard.

It just kinda… happened.

The Outlaw mission was supposed to be simple—some arms dealers, a couple of explosions, maybe a car chase that maybe had multiple driving laws broken..

Nothing that warranted a -technically- stolen skateboard.

But there it was, tucked under his arm as he made his way back into his Gotham apartment at dawn, still wearing his gear.

He found it occupied.

Tim was perched on his kitchen counter like a baby gremlin. His laptop was open beside him, and there was an empty coffee cup near his foot.

Breaking into each other's places was pretty normal for the Bats. Jason's seemed to be a favorite of Tim's, though, to be fair, the little gremlin had been spending more time with the second-eldest brother than Dick ever since the whole Bruce-in-the-time-stream incident.

Jason had tried to pretend that he wasn't worried about Tim during those days, and right after he'd come back. He'd failed.

Jason sighed. “Hey there, little crow.”

Tim looked up, tired ice-blue eyes locking onto the skateboard. “...That for me?”

Jason blinked at him. Looked at the board. Looked back at Tim. “…Yeah, I guess.” Tim beamed, hopping off the counter, giving the elder a quick squeeze before grabbing it from his hands.

“Sick.” He flipped it over, inspecting the design. “Where’d you get it?” Jason dropped into a chair, rubbing his face. “Some idiot tried to hit me with it after grabbing it from a store.”

Tim paused. “And you stole it?”

“I confiscated it, little one,” Jason corrected. “Kept it 'cause I heard your old one broke. You can paint it, too. It’s a crime-fighting skateboard now.”

Tim snorted. “That makes it better.” He set the board down and stepped on it, testing the wheels. “Man, I missed my old one. I think this one's better quality though...”

Jason leaned back, watching as Tim carefully rolled back and forth in the middle of the kitchen. He still looked exhausted—probably hadn’t slept at all—but there was a small, genuine smile on his face.

One Jason hadn't seen for too long.

Jason huffed. “You better not break your neck.”

Tim grinned that gremlin grin of his.. “No promises, big brother.”

~~~~~~

Dick was getting real tired of this.

Jason and Tim had a habit of disappearing together lately, and it was weird.

Not bad, necessarily—just weird. He was glad that his little brothers were bonding, though.

Jason barely tolerated anyone on some days, and Tim was usually off doing his own thing, but for some reason, the two of them had been hanging out a lot. And by "a lot," he meant they were practically glued together when they weren’t working solo. '.....Must be a middle child thing.'

Dick had checked all the usual places: the Manor, Jason’s apartment, the Cave—nothing. Even Bruce had no idea where they’d gone, which was just insulting.

Finally, after way too much searching, he decided to do what he probably should’ve done first.

He called them.

Jason didn’t pick up, obviously. But Tim? Tim answered after three rings.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you?" Dick asked.

A pause. Sounds of.. wheels on concrete? Then, in the background, Jason’s voice:

"TIM, DON’T—"

A loud crash. A yell. Tim started laughing. It was a nice sound to Dick. Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tim. Timmy. Where are you?" Tim, still laughing, finally answered, "Uh. Nowhere?" "Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne." "Okay, okay, jeez. We’re at the skatepark."

Dick blinked. "The—what."

"The skate park," Tim repeated.

".....I thought your old skateboard broke? Dad was planning to order a new one-" "Someone on Jason's Outlaw mission tried attacking him with a completely new and unused skateboard from a shop, so he, um....... took -I mean confiscated- it."

Dick took a second to process that. Then he sighed. "Stay there."

Tim snickered. "Sure, sure.”

In the background, Jason’s voice rang out: "I swear to God, if you hit me with that—"

Another crash. Laughter.

Dick started moving faster.

Crazy little brothers.

~~~~~~

They were indeed fooling around at the skatepark.

Jason apparently was right about his Robin being magic, because this was the first time Dick had seen Tim this happy in a while.

Jason was watching Tim with a half-amused smirk, sitting on a bench with his legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest.

But it wasn’t the usual teasing smirk. There was something almost... fond, about it.

Tim did a little trick—a kickflip, of all things—and landed it without falling. He pumped his fist into the air, whooping as if he’d just won an Olympic gold medal. Jason’s laugh, deep and warm, followed.

Tim was darting around the park, expertly flipping off ramps and pulling off tricks like he was born on a skateboard. He was laughing, his eyes bright, his whole posture loose in a way Dick hadn’t seen in months—maybe longer.

It was the kind of happiness that had been mostly missing since they lost Bruce, the kind of joy that wasn’t tainted by duty or trauma or guilt. Tim had always been self-sufficient, always the one who buried his emotions under layers of work and responsibility, but this?

This was something Dick hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Jason caught sight of him first, raising a brow. “What?”

Dick didn’t answer at first, just stood there watching Tim, who was now expertly riding up and down the halfpipe with the same reckless energy he usually reserved for casework or missions. There was no hesitation in him.

He looked… free. Happy.

“He's never done this, in a while,” Dick murmured, a little caught off-guard by the sight. “Not this much. Not this carefree.”

Jason grinned, just a little smug. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’m a good influence.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “You’re a bad influence.”

“No, I’m a wild influence. Timmy needs to learn how to just... be for once. Relax. Even Robin gets a break.” Jason’s voice softened, but there was a hint of pride behind his words.

Dick’s heart squeezed. “It’s good to see him like this.”

Jason gave him a pointed look. “Face it, Dick, I can be a big brother, too.”

Dick swallowed, his gaze never leaving Tim, who had just pulled off another trick and was now heading their way, grinning from ear to ear. His eyes were sparkling, bright with something that wasn’t there the last time they’d all been in the same room.

“Yeah,” Dick muttered, a little embarrassed. “I know. Just didn't think he'd take to you that much, considering how scared of you he was after the whole Titans Tower thing.”

Jason shrugged a hint of guilt in his eyes. "Took a while. I had to coax him out of hiding a lot. Got easier once I realized how much of an affection-starved little $hi# he was."

Tim skidded to a stop in front of them, breathless but laughing, hair wild and messed up from the wind. “You should try it, Dick. You’d be amazing.”

Jason gave him an exaggerated side-eye. “Yeah, sure, Dick. I’m sure you’d look real graceful on a skateboard. He's a circus boy after all.”

Tim snickered and pushed Jason lightly. “As if you could do better.”

Jason grinned, his eyes lighting up with that familiar mischievous spark. He jumped up, grabbing one of the spare boards that workers left on the side for people still learning. “You wanna bet, baby-bird?”

Tim immediately sensed his impending doom and bolted, kicking off hard and zipping down the slope of the park’s concrete incline. Jason didn’t hesitate—he followed, fast and fluid, not bad for someone who usually worked with guns and explosives instead of tricks on wheels.

Dick stood there, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched the two of them go.

Tim yelped when he noticed Jason gaining on him and booked it, kicking off hard and shooting down the slope of the park’s concrete incline.

Jason followed, crowing and gaining on the younger..

And Dick—Dick had to take a second because wow.

Both of his brothers were actually having a bit of fun like this. Usually their fun involved speeding on the road, jumping off building and grappling in the last second, dangerous vigilante-fun stuff.

But still, Dick smiled, his heart swelling a little as Tim’s eyes shone.

This was the kid who could hack into any system in minutes, this was the kid who could plan a mission like nobody else. This was the kid that had saved their family more than once.

But now, here he was—just a kid, a little out of breath and laughing because he was having fun, like the weight of the world wasn’t on his shoulders for a moment.

This was so weird.

Not bad, though. Not bad at all.

It was awesome, actually.

Just—he’d never seen Tim -or Jason- this happy in a while.

Tim didn’t look as tired or overworked or too-grown-up as usual. He looked happy, just a kid doing kid things.

Jason didn’t seem angry or closed off. Hell, nowadays he even seemed to be working things out with Bruce. Right now he was just a big brother.

Dick hadn’t realized how much he needed to see that.

The younger Robins had always carried their scars, but this was a side of them that Dick had almost forgotten. Seeing them together like this—light, carefree, alive—was a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there was a way forward. Even after everything.

Tim totally nailed another trick (While escaping Jason’s clutches) and looked up at Dick, ice-blue eyes sparkling with the kind of joy he hadn’t seen in far too long. “C’mon, Dick, try it! I promise you won’t break anything. Well... maybe just your pride.”

Dick’s smile widened, though his heart still felt a little tight. “You’re lucky I love you, kid.”

Jason, glancing over his shoulder from a ramp, shot Dick a cocky grin. “Face it, Grayson, me and Tim are too good for you. We know more than the basics, even if you’re a circus boy. It’s fun.”

“In a minute,” Dick called back with a shake of his head, but the fondness in his voice couldn’t be missed.

Jason laughed, then pushed off with a smooth motion, zooming down the incline after Tim. The two of them weaved together in perfect synchrony, grinning like they didn’t have a care in the world.

It had been so long since he’d seen them like this.

....

Maybe Robins were magic.

Jason had been right about that all along.

Maybe it just took two Robins together for that magic to show itself.

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si1verghosts · 1 year ago

Note

Hi!

3. A kiss on the forehead😌

helloooo dear anon!! i am sorry this took so long i could not for the life of me figure out to write but then ! i wrote this on the 4th and i realized it could work... maybe... sorta. this may not be what you were expecting/wanting but there's forehead kisses in there.... somewhere 🫡 also, if u are not american i apologize for giving you a july 4th fic 😭 but the holiday is relatively inconsequential here like theres no patriotism it's just a backdrop if u know what i mean.... anyway, i hope u enjoy <33

you taste like the 4th of july

di leon s. kennedy x fem reader (no use of y/n)

wc: 3.5k

18+ | cw: mentions of drinking | tw: thoughts about death and dying

tags: established relationship; fluff (i guess??); slight changes to canon to suit author's headcanons

read on ao3

a/n: for the past few months i've been working on this very insane multi-chap post di leon fic 😵‍💫 this was written with that in mind But does not have a place in that story... probably.... idk!!! either way, i think it can be read as a standalone just fine

additionally, there is a scene in here where leon picks the reader up. i would just like to say like... he gets thrown into concrete walls on a biweekly basis and gets up and walks it off without issue so i think he can lift anyone no matter their size or shape!!

not beta read or proofread - sorry if any of it is gibberish i've had a wicked migraine the past few days... will maybe attempt to proofread once i can see correctly again 🚬🧍‍♀️regardless, all mistakes are my own

i do not own leon or any other resi character mentioned, etc etc, please don't sue me <3

please do not use my work to train any sort of AI chatbot and/or writing generator.

-----

"It was a good day, wasn't it?" Leon asks, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stand over the patio table, cleaning up the abandoned plates and platters.

You hum. It was; a beautiful, cloudless July 4th, spent with Leon's friends in the backyard of your home. The only ones missing were Ashley and Ingrid; the former having a standing family commitment and the latter planning to spend her holiday on the beach, away from the country and your fiancé.

Typically, Chris hosted the Independence Day cookout, but Leon offered up your new home as this year's venue, citing your in-ground pool and the plenty of extra space you have for guests to stay. In reality, he just wanted the chance to out-grill Chris - he'd been preparing since Memorial Day; testing different spice and sauce combinations as well as stocking your freezer full of large cuts of meat.

He'd started before you were even awake, chopping and seasoning in the kitchen, slowly loading up the smoker. You'd joined him on the patio a few hours later, watching from your pool floaty as he poked and prodded at various things.

You don't even eat meat, didn't know the whole thing was so involved, but you did enjoy the view; worn blue jeans hugging his frame as he crouched to check a thermometer.

You had taken a short break from the water, tying up lights and setting a few little decorations around before your guests arrived. Rebecca was the first, tucking her jugs of pre-made cocktail and platter of deviled eggs into your fridge before joining you on the patio.

Chris wasn't far behind, unloading two coolers filled with beer and containers of homemade potato and pasta salads. He'd handed one off to you, grinning, "Claire made one just for you this year."

You'd thanked him, making another attempt to get him to share his family's recipes with you. It was futile, you probably couldn't even waterboard it out of either of them.

Claire had arrived on her motorcycle shortly after, pulling a bundle of fireworks out of her saddlebags. "Sorry I'm late," she said - even though she wasn't - dumping the pile on the ground, thankfully far away from the grill. "Had to stop for these."

Leon had crouched down to inspect them, listening intently as Claire told him about all the different varieties she'd purchased while you relaxed back into the pool.

Sherry arrived next, Jake trailing behind her. She'd left both him and her bags of chips at the table, giving Leon and Claire quick hugs before immediately joining you in the water.

She'd slipped in right beside your floaty, grabbing your hand to get a look at your engagement ring - she'd yet to see it, having been so busy with work. Her eyes widened at the ring as she pushed her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head, "Leon picked this out? Our Leon? Leon Kennedy? Are you sure?"

You'd giggled at her astonishment, "Ashley helped him out; took him to one of her favorite jewelers."

"I should've guessed," She nods. "For my 20th Birthday, he bought me this crazy cute pink tennis bracelet and I was like, 'no way you picked this out alone.' He fessed up that he got a little help from a friend named Ashley.

"At the time, I thought it was just some girlfriend - or hoped, I guess. Back then, I spent a lot of time hoping that Claire and Leon weren't just… working; I liked to think they were taking time for themselves, that they were happy," she had trailed off then, looking off to the tree line behind your house for a minute. Blinking the mist from her eyes, she shrugged, continuing on, "Anyways, I'm thankful to Ash for that bracelet, it was there with me though… a lot. And I'm thankful to you for making him happy, like I always wanted him to be."

With that, you slid off the float to give her a hug, holding her tight as you whispered your thanks. You had worked to bite back your tears - if she didn't cry, neither would you.

Luckily, Jill had walked in a few seconds later, providing a distraction in the form of the most ridiculously large watermelon. "Hey, Kennedy," she shouted, pulling Leon out of his conversation with Claire as she gestured to the melon tucked under her arm. "Can't burn this, can I?"

Leon had thrown his head back with a laugh - in previous years, Jill had always brought boxed brownies with extra crispy edges and Leon invariably had to make a comment about them. "I don't know," he had shrugged, "When it comes to you, Valentine, I'll never say never."

Jill had reared the watermelon back, acting as if she was going to throw it at him. Leon had thrown his arms up, shielding his face, causing everyone to crumble into laughter at the scene.

"It was nice," you agree, reaching to pick up the barong machete he had given Jill when she asked for a knife to cut the melon. "We do have kitchen knives, you know," you scold mockingly, gently waving the blade around.

"I know," he says, releasing you to reach around and pluck the machete out of your hand. "It's good to exercise these every once in a while, though."

You roll your eyes at him, "It's a machete, Leon, not a horse."

He waves you off, slipping through the patio door to wash the blade in the kitchen sink. You take the opportunity to speed clean, knowing it'll be a much harder task once he returns and wraps his arms back around you.

Thankfully everyone had taken care of their own plates and cups - they'd tried to stay and do more but you had ushered them out of the backyard, wanting Chris, Sherry and Jake to depart before the traffic picked up with the crowds leaving the city following the fireworks shows. Jill, Claire and Rebecca had taken up on your offer to stay, at least, piling into your guest rooms. You were glad to have them, secretly plotting to drag them to brunch once you all woke.

You finish piling the platters as Leon makes his way back outside. Before he can get his hands on you and derail your progress, you point to the stack, "Take those inside."

He frowns, "Can't it just wait until tomorrow?"

"We'll get ants; come on, five minutes and it'll be done."

He sighs, but doesn't protest further, carrying the heavy plates inside as you follow him with the utensils. You stack everything by the sink before turning to him, "Is there any of Becca's cocktail left?"

He cocks his brow, tilting his head, "You really want to try that again?"

It's a valid question - you had given it a go earlier and despite everyone's warnings to take it easy, you had thrown back a large mouthful right off the bat. You ended up wincing in pain, "Fuck, that burns. What'd you put in there, Becca?"

She'd shrugged, "Oh, you know, a splash of this, a splash of that. And," she teased, drawing out the vowel, "A bit of my own creation."

"Your own creation…" You had muttered, trailing off before it hit you, "Test tube alcohol?"

She had giggled, grinning, "Takes some getting used to."

You had tried another, much tinier sip. You were able to enjoy the sweetness of the juice for a moment before the burn kicked in again, causing you to curse once more, louder.

Leon had shifted his attention from Chris to you at your exclamation. Seeing the jug of Rebecca's cocktail in front of you on the table, he quickly pieced together what was happening, calling over to Rebecca from his place by the grill, "You trying to kill my fiancé, Becks?"

"Absolutely not; that'd be a stupid thing for me to do," she'd shot back. "She's the only one who can keep you in line, and we kind of like you like that."

"Well," you start, rolling the word around your mouth, "No. But yes - there's gotta be some sort of trick to it, right? Everyone else drank it just fine."

"The trick is," he starts, voice low, reaching out to grab ahold of your hips, "To not drink it. Let me make you some tea instead."

"Fine," you pout, relaxing into his grip, not bothering to argue - tea won't make you hate yourself in the morning.

He moves his hands from your hips, sliding his fingertips along your spine. "Go wait outside," he says, releasing you with a featherlight kiss to your forehead, "I'll bring it out."

With a brush of your lips against his cheek in thanks, you slip away from him, heading back out to the backyard and pulling off your shorts, settling onto the ledge of the shallow end of the pool. The air has cooled with the setting of the sun, becoming a comforting warmth instead of an overbearing heat. You dip your legs into the water, thankful you insisted on having a pool when you and Leon were house hunting.

Someone is still setting off fireworks; they're a few miles away, though - you can hear them more than you can see them. Resting back on your palms, you close your eyes, imagining what bursts of color may be accompanying each sound.

Leon joins you a few minutes later - just after the fireworks had died down - sporting his swim shorts and carrying your tea. He bends, setting the mug next to you with a kiss to your temple, nosing at your hair. "Earl Grey," he reports before drawling, "How terribly unpatriotic of you."

"You going to arrest me for treason, Agent Kennedy?" You laugh, reaching up to squeeze his thigh below the hem of his shorts. "You're the one who made it; they'd nail you as an accomplice."

He falls into a crouch, leg muscles bunching under the pads of your fingertips as he shifts closer to touch his lips on your cheek. "They can hang us together, then," he remarks, voice a bit too serious for it to be just a joke. "Side by side, off the same branch."

You sit back just enough to get your eyes focused on him, reaching your other hand out to thumb at his bottom lip. "Dulce et decorum est pro cor mori," you whisper, tacking on a hum in question.

He cocks his head at the unfamiliar words, nipping at your nail playfully, "English please, baby."

You consider him for a moment, the translation of the true phrase running through your mind; how sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country. The old lie, it's come to be known as - fittingly.

It's a similar sentiment to one that's grown to become your fear; that he'll die for the sake of the country, under orders from the government, believing it was his duty.

But you think your spin on it may be true; would be willing to find out.

You don't want to weigh him down with the thought, though, choosing to reel him in for a kiss instead. "I love you," is the answer you settle on, laying the words down right on his tongue.

He seems content with your translation - the method of delivery likely having something to do with it - humming into your mouth. He kisses you back lazily for a long, languid moment before he pulls away, "As much as I'm enjoying this, I've been wanting to get in there all day," he says, nodding his head towards the water.

"Go," you chuckle, giving him a gentle push away from you with the hand still resting along his face.

He lays another quick peck against your lips before standing, padding around the edge to the steps. He pauses for a moment to pull his shirt over his head, skin honeyed under the soft glow of the lights you'd hung around the patio.

A second later, he slips under the surface without hesitation; kicking off the steps, moving quickly to the deep end. He almost shimmers as he glides along the floor of the pool, the rippling of the gentle waves he'd created making him seem like some sort of mirage as he passes by you.

He comes up for air once he hits the far wall, tossing his hair back, smoothing the water from his eyes. He doesn't rest long, though, beginning to swim short laps across the width of the deep end.

You observe him, sipping your tea slowly, appreciating the way his back and arms work with each stroke. He continues long enough for you to nearly drain your cup, stopping short when another trio of fireworks set off in the distance.

Setting your mug down, you eye him, preparing to slip into the pool to soothe him if you have to, but he relaxes once he connects the sound to the flashes in the sky. The tension that had flooded the line of his shoulders drains into the water as he shifts to wade backward, moving closer to where you sit.

You finish off your drink as he starfishes out across the surface of the water, floating just a few feet in front of you. You wonder if you could use him as a floaty, pinning up a note in your brain to try it out sometime.

"I'm glad you insisted on a pool, sweetheart," he sighs, breaking your companionable silence.

You hum, pleased, kicking your legs out gently and causing the water to lap against his skin. More fireworks sound out; he doesn't tense this time, but he does get his feet back under himself, moving to where you sit along the ledge.

Sliding his hands up your legs, he pillows his head in your lap, wet hair fanning out across your thighs. You shift your weight back onto your right hand, laying the other along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed as you brush your thumb along his cheekbone and the scar that runs beneath it.

He picks at the tie of your bathing suit absentmindedly, tugging at the strings when you slide your hand into his hair, scratching at his scalp. "Sherry said something to me earlier."

He makes a noise urging you to elaborate, not bothering to open his eyes.

"She told me that when she was younger, she hoped that you and Claire were living your lives; that you were doing more than just working, you know? She said she wanted you guys to be happy," you explain, working to keep your voice even.

He cracks his eyes open, picking his head up to watch you as you continue. "She thanked me," you swallow thickly, "for making you happy, like she always wanted you to be."

He smiles at your words, and it's a beautiful thing. You still get all twisted up inside with how gorgeous he is; neurons overclocking themselves with the thrill of being the subject of his attention.

"I owe you a thank you, too, baby," he starts, pausing to nose at your wrist.

"You don't owe me anything, Leon," you tug at his damp strands still between your fingers, highlights catching the yellow glow from the lights around the patio.

"I do," he says, the words sending a jolt through you. You never intended on getting married, yet here you are now, eager to hear the phrase on the altar.

He kisses the thin skin of your wrist, lips lingering as if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat; knows that the pace has picked up under his affection. "All this," he pulls back, taking a hand off you to gesture to the pool; the backyard; the house; to you. "It's something I never thought I'd get.

"Sherry's right - you're behind basically every bit of happiness I have now, sweetheart; I owe it all to you." He reaches up, untangling your grip from his hair, thumbing gently at the ring he put there, "Thank you."

You can't respond verbally, will burst into tears if you do. In lieu of speech, you lean forward, pressing your lips against his insistently.

He seems to get the message; understands that the pleasure is all yours, that you'd give him anything and everything you can - knowing he'd do the same for you.

He gets his arms back around you, continuing your kiss as he lifts you from the edge of the pool and into the water with him. You wrap your legs around his waist, safe and secure in his hold.

His teeth catch along your bottom lip and the neighbors down the street set off fireworks, the bright bursts of color painting your backyard in reds and blues and greens and oranges. The sparks reflect off the surface of the water as he slides his nose against yours and not for the first time, you think this may all be a dream. Maybe you died four years ago and this whole thing has been some sort of afterlife; you aren't sure you'd done anything worth this treatment, though.

Maybe it's more supernatural in origin; an intricate hallucination weaved by a Djinn that's got you chained up in some dark, damp basement as it feeds off your blood. Or maybe you just went crazy and the pool is actually a padded room, Leon's mouth against yours a product of your mind working to distract itself from your reality.

Whatever the case may be, it certainly feels real when he shifts his hold on you, hoists you up higher to get at your neck, laying kisses up and down the column of your throat, nipping at your jaw.

But before he can venture much further, the neighbor's fireworks show grows into an extravaganza, the relentless popping and bursting becoming a nuisance, shattering the illusion of your teeny-boppy movie moment.

"Jeez," Leon mutters, breath hot against the saliva cooling on your skin, causing you to shudder. "Did they buy out a whole tent?"

"Did you check that Claire actually went to bed?" You ask, shaking yourself free of his hold. "She could've joined them; brought everything I wouldn't let her set off here."

He hums, letting you down into the water, considering your words - even though you said it as a joke, it certainly is a possibility. You seem to come to this realization at the same time, eyes narrowing at each other as the spray of fireworks continues overhead. "We should…" He starts, nodding towards the stairs.

"Yeah," you agree, already beginning to move.

You pause to grab your towels, wrapping your own around yourself, throwing the other over Leon's shoulders when you catch up to him at the patio door. Stepping inside, you hear someone knocking around your kitchen.

Luckily, it's Claire. She steps back from the cabinet she'd been rifling through to face you and Leon with a frown. "Isn't this shit ridiculous?" She remarks, pointing to the ceiling in reference to the fireworks.

"You're one to talk, Claire," Leon shoots back. "Didn't you just set off about five hundred dollars worth of them in my backyard a few hours ago?"

"Yes, a few hours ago," she reiterates. "Nothing should be set off after the show at the Capitol is finished - after that, you're done; you missed your shot; better luck next year."

"Exactly," you nod in agreement at her reasoning, "They should put you in charge."

She grins at your words, moving to continue on, but Leon cuts in before she can start; "What is it that you were clawing through my cabinets for?"

She sighs, displeased with his interruption, setting her hands on her hips. "Where do you keep the ibuprofen?"

Leon shoos her out of the way, padding across the kitchen to get the medicine himself. Claire relents without argument, attention immediately shifting back to you as she leans over the counter. "So," she wiggles her eyebrows, "It seems like that pool was a good investment, huh?"

You bite at your lip, ears burning with embarrassment that she'd seen you and Leon necking in the water like teenagers - even though you shouldn't be flustered; it is your house, after all.

Leon sets the bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water down in front of Claire, annoyance evident with the way he uses a bit more force than really necessary, causing the items to clack against the marble.

"What?" Claire questions, glaring at him. "It was cute."

Leon huffs in response, unable to hide the flush that crawls up his neck at her words. You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you, enjoying the way they bicker like siblings.

Claire leaves Leon to stew, tossing you a grin as she collects the bottle and glass, bidding you goodnight once more before she leaves the kitchen.

You move around the counter to Leon, steps careful in an effort not to slip on the water that has dripped off him and onto the tile. The neighbors must've ran out of fireworks while you were distracted by Claire as it's silent when you wrap your arms around him, tucking your face into his neck. "Still a good day?" You ask, voice muffled against his skin.

He slings an arm around you, fingers fanning out along the small of your back, "Still a good day."

#if anyone would like to see the ring i literally had a mockup created #because im crazy #its not exactly what i was thinking so i may have another one done.... we will see #also if my latin is incorrect just ignore it pls #its been over 4 years since my last latin class #my hs latin teacher would be mortified to know i had to google declensions #and still probably fucked it up #sorry mr. d.....#(inbox)#(writing)#leon kennedy #leon s. kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s. kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s. kennedy x you #what is The leon x reader tag #i've yet to figure it out

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zeroseuniverse · 5 months ago

Text

Promise Of Hope

Word Count: 2.0K Summary: Her brows lifted in genuine admiration. “Impressive. Let me guess—you’ll need someone to test it?” “Someone who’s efficient,” he replied smoothly, meeting her gaze with an unspoken challenge. She tilted her head, a smirk curving her lips. “You know where to find me.” Pairing: Seonghwa X fem reader

Disclaimer: Please be aware that this is apart of the from the ashes series. This series will have aspects of violence, weapons, angst, blood, injuries, killing, and will heavily focus on oppression and segregation of mutants, Look after your mental state if any of these make you uncomfortable please.

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The air inside Seonghwa’s workshop hummed with energy. The faint glow of molten metal cast flickering shadows across the walls, illuminating rows of meticulously crafted weapons displayed like art pieces. Every tool was placed with precision, every surface spotless, yet the space radiated an undeniable intensity. It wasn’t just a forge—it was a sanctuary for creation and destruction alike.

Seonghwa stood at the center, his sharp features framed by the dim light, his hands working fluidly as though he commanded the metal itself. Sparks flew as he manipulated an alloy, his mutant ability weaving molecular bonds into something impossibly strong. He didn’t look up when the heavy door creaked open, though he knew who had arrived.

“Seonghwa,” a voice drawled, light yet edged with grit. She strode into the room, her boots scuffing against the concrete floor. She carried a satchel over her shoulder, its weight suggesting more than just supplies. She dropped it onto the nearest table, the thud echoing through the room. “Got your alloys. Nearly got myself gutted for them, too.”

He glanced up, his calm eyes locking with hers. “And yet here you are,” he said evenly, his tone as cool as his demeanor. “Not gutted.”

Her smirk was faint but unmistakable. “What can I say? I’m resourceful.”

Seonghwa approached the table, his gaze flicking to the bag. “You cut it close,” he murmured, unfastening the straps and inspecting the contents. His fingers moved deftly, lifting pieces of rare metal and inspecting their purity as if judging their worth with a mere touch. “If these are as good as they look, they’ll do.”

“Good?” She crossed her arms, leaning against the table. “Try perfect. Got them from a Vanguard outpost in the dead zone. No alarms, no trails.” Her expression turned sharper, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “And no thanks to your outdated map.”

He arched a brow, setting a slab of gleaming metal down with a deliberate click. “Outdated? Or perhaps you were simply reckless?”

“Efficient,” she corrected, a glint of challenge in her eyes. “Got in, got out, and made a few friends along the way. Well, friends who won’t be talking anytime soon.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Seonghwa’s lips. “Remind me to recalibrate my equipment. It seems I underestimated your… efficiency.”

“Glad to see we’re on the same page,” she quipped. Her eyes scanned the workshop, taking in the new designs sketched out on glowing screens and blueprints. “So, what masterpiece are you working on now?”

“Something experimental,” he said, his voice tinged with pride as he gestured to a sleek prototype resting on a nearby stand. It gleamed with a dark, liquid-like sheen, almost alive in its sharp elegance. “An adaptive weapon. One that will read its user’s movements and adjust in real time.”

Her brows lifted in genuine admiration. “Impressive. Let me guess—you’ll need someone to test it?”

“Someone who’s efficient,” he replied smoothly, meeting her gaze with an unspoken challenge.

She tilted her head, a smirk curving her lips. “You know where to find me.”

And so he did. As soon as the weapon was complete—a sleek blade with an obsidian sheen that pulsed faintly with an inner glow—Seonghwa tucked it into its custom sheath. He slung it over his shoulder, his usual meticulous demeanor untouched even in his excitement. The weapon was a masterpiece, and he knew exactly who deserved to wield it.

The journey to the abandoned subway was uneventful, his footsteps echoing faintly as he descended the graffiti-stained stairwell. The air grew heavier, cooler, carrying the metallic tang of rust and forgotten machinery. He navigated the tunnels with ease, following the faint rhythm of fists striking leather.

He found her there, locked in her own kind of battle. Her form moved with a fluid intensity, each punch a precise symphony of power and control. The bag shuddered under the force of her blows, the chain it hung from rattling like a warning. Her dark tank top clung to her frame, damp with sweat, and her hair was pulled back, leaving her sharp eyes focused on her target.

She didn’t stop when Seonghwa approached, though her lips quirked into a faint smirk as she caught sight of him in her periphery. “Didn’t peg you for the type to slum it in places like this,” she said, her voice carrying over the rhythmic thuds.

“Necessary circumstances,” he replied, his tone calm but carrying an edge of purpose. He leaned against the nearest pillar, watching her finish her sequence—a vicious right hook that sent the bag swinging wildly. She caught it with one hand, her breathing steady despite the exertion.

“What brings you down here?” she asked, wiping her hands on a nearby towel before slinging it around her neck. “Not like you to leave your sanctuary unless it’s urgent.”

He straightened, unshouldering the sheath and holding it out to her. “I finished it,” he said simply.

Her brows lifted in surprise, but curiosity quickly replaced it. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the smooth surface of the sheath before drawing the blade. It slid out with a whisper, the weapon catching the dim light and refracting it in an otherworldly way. She turned it over in her hands, testing its balance, marveling at the way it felt almost alive in her grip.

“Damn,” she muttered, giving him a sidelong glance. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Seonghwa’s lips twitched into a rare smile. “It’s adaptive,” he explained, his voice tinged with pride. “It’ll learn your movements, anticipate them, and adjust accordingly. It’s meant for you.”

She gave the blade a testing swing, the air around it seeming to hum in response. She grinned, something feral and electric. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special,” she said, spinning the blade expertly in her hand before pointing it toward him in a mock challenge. “Think you’ve got what it takes to keep up with me now?”

His calm gaze didn’t waver. “I built it. I’d be disappointed if I couldn’t.”

Her laughter echoed through the abandoned tunnels, a sharp contrast to the cold, empty air. “Alright, genius,” she said, stepping back and dropping into a ready stance. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Her stance was poised, comfortable, but her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—never left Seonghwa. It wasn’t just about the fight. It was the weapon, yes, but also something deeper, unspoken. There was a trust between them, a bond forged in the quiet moments of shared strategy and understanding. They didn’t need words to know what the other was thinking.

Seonghwa stood a few feet away, unfazed, watching her as she shifted her weight, the blade still humming in her hand. There was something intimate about it—the way they moved around each other, the unspoken understanding, the way each knew the other’s next step before it was taken.

“I hope you’re ready for this,” she teased, a grin pulling at the corners of her lips. Her voice was steady, almost playful, but her eyes were intense. She had to focus now—everything about her, her movements, her mind, her heart, was attuned to him.

“I wouldn’t have brought it to you if I didn’t think so,” Seonghwa replied, voice low, deliberate. There was something almost dangerous in the way he spoke, like he knew exactly what she was capable of—and he wasn’t backing down.

She lunged first, quick and fluid, her footwork a blur. The blade sliced through the air with a whistling sound, a swift strike aimed at Seonghwa’s shoulder. He sidestepped with minimal effort, his body reacting with the precision of someone who knew exactly how she would move. She was faster than most, her strikes precise, honed from years of combat—but he had studied her like no one else, seen every flicker of hesitation, every pattern in her fight.

As she spun around, the blade singing with the movement, Seonghwa caught her wrist—his fingers closing around her arm with a firm but gentle grip, preventing the next strike. His face was inches from hers now, his breath brushing against her skin. They were both frozen in that moment—her pulse hammering in her chest, his steady and calculated, just like everything else about him.

“You’re quick,” he said, voice a breathless whisper, his thumb lightly grazing the inside of her wrist. His touch was careful, deliberate, as if every movement was calculated to not only disarm her physically but to unravel whatever tension had built between them, slowly, subtly. “But you’re not unpredictable.”

She leaned into his grip, not trying to break free, but instead allowing the closeness to linger. Her lips parted slightly as she spoke, her voice soft, teasing, but with an undercurrent of something more—something that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface. “And you’re too damn calm,” she replied, a challenge hidden in her tone. “I thought you'd give me a run for my money, not stand there like a statue.”

Seonghwa’s lips quirked, just a hint of a smile. “I’ve learned enough to know that underestimating you would be a mistake.”

Her gaze flickered to the blade in her hand, still humming with energy, then back to his eyes. They were so close, the space between them electric, charged with something unspoken. She could feel the heat of his body, the slight pressure of his fingers around her wrist, and it made her heart race in a way she hadn’t anticipated. This wasn’t just a demonstration. It wasn’t just the thrill of the fight.

“Then why don’t you show me just how much you’ve learned?” she whispered, her lips barely a breath away from his.

For a moment, Seonghwa didn’t move. His eyes traced her face, studying her as if trying to read something deeper, something more than just her words. But his gaze softened, a flicker of something else beneath the surface—a spark, a connection that neither could ignore any longer.

He let go of her wrist slowly, a decision, a choice, an invitation. “If I must,” he murmured, his voice rich with something deeper, something both thrilling and dangerous.

Without another word, he stepped back, his hand drifting to the hilt of the weapon on his back—the energy blade now resting at his side. He didn’t need to say anything else. The challenge was clear, the stakes were high, and the connection between them had shifted, subtly but irrevocably.

She raised her chin, her eyes never leaving his. She wasn’t just fighting for the weapon. She wasn’t just testing its power. She was fighting for something that had been brewing between them for a long time.

They circled each other once more, but this time, it was different. Each movement, each strike, was filled with the knowledge of the other, of years spent learning how the other fought, how the other thought. It was an unspoken language, one only they understood, built on the quiet moments of collaboration and the way they balanced each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

As she advanced once more, blade raised, Seonghwa met her halfway, his own blade flashing with sudden brilliance. He parried her strike with expert precision, but this time, he didn’t just counter—he took the opening she had left, his body moving with fluid grace, pushing her back.

For a split second, she lost her footing, but before she could regain control, Seonghwa was there, his hand catching her arm and pulling her back to steady her. The world seemed to pause, the tension between them crackling in the silence that followed. They were so close again, their breaths mingling, the weight of everything that had been left unsaid hanging in the air.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

“This is more than a weapon, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice a blend of awe and something else.

Seonghwa’s gaze softened, his hand still holding her steady. “It’s a promise,” he said, his voice low, almost a vow. “For you, for the future. That we can fight, together.”

And in that moment, with the blade still humming in her hand and Seonghwa standing so close, she knew that nothing would ever be the same.

#ateez #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #atz scenarios #atz imagines #atz fluff #atz x reader #ateez fluff #park seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa #seonghwa imagines #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa ateez #seonghwa fluff #Fromtheashesseries

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corebuilding · 11 days ago

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A pre-settlement inspection is your final opportunity to ensure the property you're buying is in the agreed condition before settlement. It allows buyers to check that all fixtures, fittings, and agreed repairs are completed, and that no new issues have appeared. Skipping this step can lead to unexpected costs or disputes after you move in. Because buying a home is more than just a transaction — it’s the beginning of a new chapter in your life. That’s why peace of mind is so important.If you agree and are now looking for a trusted inspection company, turn to Core Building Inspections. We’re a Melbourne-based company offering detailed and professional pre-settlement inspections to ensure your future home aligns with your contract terms. Our experienced inspectors help you move forward with clarity and confidence. Make yourself double sure before you settle — call us today for more information or to book your inspection.

#Pre-Settlement Inspection #Pre-Settlement Inspection in Melbourne #Building Inspections #Home Inspection in Melbourne #Concrete testing

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mysteriesmuse · 1 year ago

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oh my gawd Shoto is definitely one that’s super into superstitions!!!

Like he insists on these small intimate —maybe silly, rituals that he believes contributes to your combined success and wellbeing. It’s one of your first encounters with him that you tell him this: “Well you know red hair is considered lucky.” And Shoto, with his small tight lipped princely smile shakes his head and shrugs, “Maybe so . . .” All the while you’re on your tiptoes gently picking bits of concrete and rubble out of his hair on the left side. Your nimble short manicure fingers gently teasing around the edge of a giant welting knot from where he’d pulled you out of harms way. The other hand placed on his shoulder as you pulled yourself up to inspect the injury. Elegant hands floating around every curve and inch as he tried to pull your attention away from his own check up. ProHero Shoto’s dual-colored eyes practically going cross eyes as he tried to do his due diligence and you looked him over for any injures. Now Shoto thinks his little bit of supposed “luck” had little say in this chance meeting with you, but his luck has certainly changed since then.

And you think that the old superstition on red hair must be true after having what would be your future boyfriend save your life. And at Shoto’s insistence — more than your own he makes sure you get every single ounce of love, support, and any luck he can possibly give you.

Always ducking his head down with michevious gleaming eyes as his gaze meets yours gazing up at you with mismatched eyes. All for you - the love of his life - to cup his cheek and ruffle your hand through the dark auburn hair of his left side affectionately. For every single big event in your life; an interview, a test, a presentation, a dentist appointment, a girl’s night, a rivalry game, anything your heart could possibly desire. And, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but Shoto insists that you his good luck charm, should borrow whatever luck the genetic gods have placed on him. Which, in the Japanese public’s opinion is a lot.

Shoto thinks he’s just the luckiest man on the planet when he’s with you. Never hesitates to follow you around the house like a cat and ask you for a good luck kiss before he leaves for hero work; a big mission or a regular shift. Not that you’d ever deny him one anyway, but the way he asks is so mind-numbing, so toe-curling, and so so Shoto.

In the stairwell, as you’re just making your way downstairs to both start your days. Shoto always going down in front just to turn around, spread his arms, and prompt you for that good luck kiss with his smooth silky tenor voice. And who are you to deny? Stopping on the step or two above him as you lean down from the waist to kiss him. Your hands coming up to cup either side of his face and plant a kiss on that gorgeous face of his. And as you pull away you’re never sure if the way he places both hands on the wall is to cage you in for another one, or to catch himself as the tall man visibly melts an inch or two; his arms bracing himself. Because, from Shoto’s point of view, it’s like he’s being kissed by an angel. Which naturally happens when you place somehow framed in the pendant light above you. He does so intentionally, he thinks it’s only the natural way to see you in your full natural beauty.

Other times it’s standing at the doorframe, big sleek eyelashes blinking slowly at you, a shiny pouty bottom lip, and his hands pressed in prayer under his chin. The whole while he’s dressed in his hero costume waiting to cross the threshold of the door with his lean broad shoulders nearly squeezed by the frame until you finally stop pretending to think about it and nodded leaning in. With his gorgeous elegant fingers sneaking behind the curtain of hair at the base of your neck once you consent; rolling your eyes and giggling.

And sometimes it’s as he’s running about at work when he realized he forgot one and he races back to your place, school, work, etc. Having rushed over, skidding on a path of ice, and not stopping until he’s right in front of you. His breath casting a little puffy cloud from the icy cold he used to get there. His hair all mused as he takes in your hands and bewildered expression before giving you the most passionate chaste kiss he can manage in your workplace. Absolutely drinking in your breath as you part — before he dashes away like Jack Frost.

And he’s never one to question magical powers, or your own secret quirk. (a conspiracy he’ll animatedly reveal when you’re ready for it. IT being his incredibly detailed series of notes dedicated to his findings) And the record shows he’s always made it back home safe to you when you’ve kissed him with luck — and Shoto intends to fight with the goal to return into your embrace each and every time he has to leave it.

#mysteriesmusing #shoto todoroki #shoto todoroki fluff #shoto todoroki x reader #shoto headcanons #happy birthday shoto!! ❄️🔥#shoto x reader #he’s a conspiracy nut OF COURSE he’s superstitious

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whimsimille · 1 year ago

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THICKER THAN BLOOD

Chapter 3: Cherry Blossoms

Jeong Jin-Man x Reader!

Ensuring the cold steel pin snapped back into the slide with a click? Check. Carefully inspecting the barrel, the recoil spring, and guide? Check. Examining the magazine, the safety mechanism, and the trigger, testing each one to guarantee they were functioning at their optimal level? Check.

“Yeah... I still got that," you murmur to yourself, the words barely audible over the soft crackling of the vintage radio playing a forgotten tune from the 60s in the background: Cherry Blossom Ending. Mom’s favorite.

Taking another long drag of your cigarette, you savor the rich taste of a blend of Turkish tobacco that Pasin introduced you to.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, you watch it drift upwards lazily before dissipating into the stale air of the room. The sight brings back memories of foggy winter mornings back home, when the world seemed shrouded in a blanket of mist. But, unlike those mornings, there's no fragrance of dew-kissed roses or the sweet scent of mom's freshly baked apple pie to erase your nose scrunching—not when this place smells like a battlefield. The distinct aroma of gunpowder and the sharp tang of sweat mix in the air like a witch's potion, creating an unsettling olfactory cocktail.

Your eyes fall on the poster of an old concessionary you once visited, featuring a sexualized pit girl with improbably large breasts for her leather crop top. You sigh. No amount of decoration, no matter how weird or random, can erase the sensation that men in tactical gear might spring up through the gun stock’s door any minute. In your mind’s eye, they empty all the shelves as they run, their gazes wild with bloodlust, chins coated with saliva as the drugs they took to make them more alert take hold of their minds.

Yet, amidst the chaos, your eyes notice the old wooden table, scarred with years of use and abuse. Its familiar creaking sound, especially from the third leg, the one that always needed fixing. Despite its oddities, this place has a certain charm.

As a woman, you know that there are environments that society still judges as masculine. But whether you want it or not, whether you identify as a feminist or not, these judgments don't matter to you.

Whilst memories flood back—your father patiently teaching you how to shoot, your mother cheering you on at the shooting competition—you can't help but listen to the echoes of your parents amidst the gunpowder. The rusty corner nearby the Glocks shelves reminds you too much of your old house, of mom and dad dancing across it the way they used to on Saturday nights, their laughter filling the room. Even the leftover smell of Gun's piss on the floor brings back how Honda brought home that forsaken cat that you've learned to love.

These memories remind you that this has nothing to do with being feminine or masculine. This is about being you.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated, breaking your shitty reverie. It was a muffled sound by the work table, buried somewhere beneath the scattered assortment of guns—pistols, rifles, and shotguns—in your twin's meticulously disordered workplace.

Discarding your half-smoked baby into the overflowing ashtray, you slowly rise from the creaky stool, stretching your stiff muscles. A dull ache radiates from your lower back—the result of countless hours spent hunched over the workbench.

Ignoring the discomfort, you navigate through the maze of scattered tools and disassembled machinery, your boots echoing against the concrete floor, until you reach for the incessantly vibrating device under a pile of blueprints.

You lean against the graffiti and poster-covered wall, its coldness seeping through your top. Your gaze drifts to the multiple monitors displaying the gradually emptying streets of Seoul, illuminated by the neon glow of streetlights.

Honda always had an obsession with surveillance, with keeping an eye on every single movement outside.

To the uninitiated, it might come off as paranoia. But in your line of work, it was a necessity. The last thing you both needed was someone sniffing around your... less-than-legal activities.

You swipe the screen, bringing the encrypted chat to life.

Younger brother by 6 minutes:

Hey, sis! Just checking in.

I trust Sukku's client came to pick up his custom order—the modified Glock 19? Did he give any trouble? Notice anything out of the ordinary? Are there any signs of suspicion that we might need to worry about?

Considering the late hour and the fact that you've been alone in this place all evening, do you want me to swing by? Gunpowder is already fast asleep. I took her to the vet earlier. They think it might be chlamydia. Apparently, it's a thing in cats.

Big sister by 6 minutes:

Chlamydia? In a cat? That's news to me. Is she going to be okay? Will she need any special treatment?

As for the client, there are no issues whatsoever. He seemed satisfied with the custom Glock. Even complimented the grip modifications.

And don't worry about me. I'm used to the workshop without you by now. Besides, I’ve been productive. Uploaded a few of our modified guns and encryption codes on our site for our initial clients to browse.

I also completed a thorough maintenance check on the old Sig Sauer P226. Replaced the recoil spring, cleaned the firing pin and even polished the slide rails. It's as good as new now. You know, just in case we need some extra firepower.

But yeah, if you're free and not too worn out, do swing by. We can grab a late-night snack from the 24-hour joint down the street. Their kimchi jjigae has been on my mind.

But for now, don't rush. I'm fine on my own. I will keep the place locked down and secure until you get back. It's not like we have a shortage of security systems.

And tell Gunpowder her noona got her back. And ask her to keep her paws off my toolbox.

Watching the gray bubble with your message pop up on the screen, you hit send.

Just as you were about to pull up the Murthehelp site on your phone—the one you had coded from scratch after many long, caffeine-fueled nights—a sudden flicker on one of the large monitors caught your attention. You squinted, setting your phone down on the table.

There, in the grainy black-and-white footage, you could make out a figure. It was vague and blurry, moving in the shadows, but their height and gait unmistakably suggested a man.

He was coming towards the workshop, his path unwavering and purposeful. You quickly glanced at his attire—a dark jacket and a baseball hat pulled low over his face. Not exactly the outfit of someone who was just strolling by, especially not at this late hour when even the nocturnal creatures had retreated to their burrows.

Keeping your nerve, you reached for the console, fingers nimbly dancing over the buttons to turn off the monitors. You didn't want the soft blue glow of the screens to betray your presence in the otherwise dark room.

Leaving the gun stock downstairs, you entered the quiet workshop, the smell of oil and metal heavy in the air.

After tiptoeing towards the reinforced steel door, you hid behind a towering metal shelf cluttered with an assortment of spare parts, rusted tools, and half-assembled machinery, their metallic sheen glinting dimly in the ambient light.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the steady tick-tock of an old clock on the wall. Your heart pounded in your chest as you braced yourself for a loud bang, anticipating a forceful break-in. But instead, the soft rustle of someone kneeling near the entrance reached your ears. The muffled clicks of a lock being picked followed and then the door was gently pushed up, its usual creak betraying its motion conspicuously absent.

The moment the man stepped in, you sprang into action and the workshop transformed into a battleground.

You dove under a swing. A wrench grazed your arm—a missed punch. You retaliated with a swift kick, watching as he stumbled back, barely keeping his balance. But despite your best efforts, your back soon hit the cold metal of an old car under repair.

Cornered, with no way out.

A thin ray of light from a partially opened window cut through the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows. As your eyes adjusted, you saw him—Jinman. His face was as cold as the winter wind, revealing nothing of his intent. He held a knife in his hand, the cold steel pressing ominously against your stomach.

"Complacency could get you killed," he admonished as he tossed his baseball cap somewhere in this place. "In Babylon, I trained you to be sharper, faster, but you've let yourself grow soft. One inch to the side, and this blade could have nicked an artery. It would've been a messy end."

“Damn you, Jinman! What the hell were you thinking, barging in here like some low life thug?" Your hand instinctively went to your side, where your trusty Smith & Wesson lay as you watched through hooded eyes as he leaned against you, his nose scrunching in what might be the unique signal of pain from your attacks. “I mistook you for some gangster trying to get a hand on our stash! I could've shot you, you reckless idiot!" You pushed his hand away, stepping out of the claustrophobic corner.

“Do you remember our lesson on critical injuries?”

"The intestine, when damaged, can lead to sepsis," you replied, his voice flat, your eyes never leaving his as he begrudgingly sheathed his knife. You quirked up an eyebrow as you saw blood under his nails, but you didn’t dare say a thing, you knew he wouldn't talk about it anyway. Jeong was stubborn like that.

"And if left untreated, the mortality rate is high, even with immediate medical attention.”

Ignoring his continued lecturing, you moved past him, heading towards the narrow staircase that led back to the lower level where the gun stock was kept. He trailed behind, his usually light steps now heavy and labored.

"So, care to explain your sudden, unannounced break-in, Jinman?" You questioned, the cool air from the underground level hitting your face like a welcome reprieve. Without waiting for his response, you kept talking, "And why the sudden interest in giving me a lecture on gut wounds? Planning on stabbing my twin next?

"Because you..." he began, but his voice trailed off, replaced by a pained grunt.

Alarmed, you turned around just in time to see him stumble, clutching his side. He landed heavily on the last few steps, letting out a string of curses.

"Jinman?" you called out, rushing over to him. "What's wrong?"

His response was a mere groan, his face a sickly pale hue contrasted by the cold sweat forming on his forehead. The hole in his shirt as he shed his coat could be a smudge of dirt from his shoveling chore, and the blood that has soaked his shirt is almost invisible in the dim light. He's now making a strange whistling noise each time he inhales. He'd been shot. Near his intestines.

"Oh, God, Jinman! This... this is serious," you stammered, your hand shaking as you reached out to check his wound.

You have seen injuries before. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, broken bones are occupational hazards that come with your line of work. But seeing Jinman, your former partner and mentor from Babylon, bleeding and weakening struck a nerve. A sudden adrenaline rush surged through you, coupled with a rising protective instinct. You had to act quickly, keep your wits about you. Panic wouldn't help either of you now.

"Alright, Ahjussi," you said, forcing a steady tone into your voice. "We need to get you lying down. Now."

He lets go, or maybe just loses the strength to hold on, as you maneuver him onto a makeshift bed—a heap of old, worn-out blankets and tarps that you usually use when working on cars. You pull back a little—not far. His eyes regard you from their deep and blackening sockets. They are as brilliant as ever, but you see, they are also full of terror and (this is what frightens you most) some wretched, inexplicable amusement.

Still speaking low—perhaps so only you can hear, maybe because it's the best he can manage—Jeong says, "Listen, little woman. I can handle myself.."

"No—you have to stop."

He pays no attention. He draws in another of those screaming breaths, purses his wet red lips in a tight O, and makes a low, incredibly nasty chuffing noise. It drives a fine spray of blood up his clenched throat and into the sweltering air.

He turns his head to the side, spits a wad of half-congealed blood onto the hot tar, then turns back to you. "I guess it's karma.”

You understand that he means it, and for a moment (surely it is the power of his eyes), you believe it's true. He will make the sound again, only a little louder, and in some other world, Bale, that lord of sleepless nights, will turn its unspeakable, hungry head. A moment later, if you don’t just move and fucking think, in this world, Jeong Jin-Man will simply shiver in this old place and die. The death certificate will say something sane, but you’ll know: his dark past finally saw him, came for him and ate him alive.

“I guess I’m getting old, huh?”

Leaning even closer. Into the shivering sweat and blood of him. Leaning in until you can smell the last palest ghost of the Prell he shampooed with that morning and the Foamy he shaved with. Leaning in until your lips touch his ear. You whisper, "Be quiet, Jin-Man. For once in your life, just be quiet. Don’t you dare make this pussy sound again.”

Looking around, you knew no bandage in your medicine cabinet would be enough, so you ended up tearing long strips from a sheet. The sheet is old, but you mourn its passing just the same—on a waitress's salary (supplemented by niggardly tips and only slightly better ones from the faculty members who lunch at Pat's), you can ill afford to raid your linen closet. But when you think of stuffing it into his mouth to muffle his screams and grunts, you don't hesitate.

You caught sight of an old bottle of Korean whisky, a forgotten souvenir from a past mission to Jeju Island. Honda had won it in a high-stakes game of poker but never got around to finishing it. Now, it seemed like a fitting antiseptic.

Raising the bottle to your lips, you took a swig, the liquid burning its way down your throat—a twisted semblance of courage. Then, with a grimace, you drenched the wound with the help of a cloth, the sharp smell of alcohol mingling with the raw scent of blood. Jinman’s body tensed, a deep groan escaping his clenched teeth.

“I’m hot.”

"Shit, Ahjusshi." Emboldened, you rubbed your freezing, leaking hand along his right cheek, his left cheek, and then across his forehead, where drops of whisky-colored water dripped into his eyebrows and then ran down the sides of his nose. He hums in satisfaction. "You should have been more careful."

The room was filled with a heavy silence, the only sounds being the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe somewhere overhead and Jinman’s labored breathing.

You remembered a mission in Gwangju, back when you two were still new to the field. It was a stormy night, the air was so heavy with rain that it felt like you were walking through a cloud. The neon lights of the city were blurred, painting everything in an ethereal glow. There was a sense of surrealism to that night, a feeling of being detached from reality. That was the first time you had seen Jinman truly vulnerable, his usually stoic demeanor giving way to panic as a bullet grazed his shoulder.

“It’s just a scratch,” he had grumbled, his hand tightly gripping yours as you tried to clean the wound. He licked at his lips. You saw the blood on his tongue and it turned your stomach, but you didn’t pull away from him.

Now, years later, history is repeating itself. But this time, the stakes were much higher.

"Listen to me, old man," you began, your voice breaking the overwhelming silence. "We've been through worse, haven't we? Remember that time in Busan when that crazy bastard tried to stab you with a switchblade?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, his eyes half-closed, the sheets between his teeth stained with blood and saliva. "Yeah, and you broke his nose."

"You're damn right, I did," you chuckled, your fingers gently tracing the outline of the wound, assessing the damage, before rising up again in search of your purple lighter somewhere in this place. "And we made it through that night, didn't we? So, we're going to make it through this shit too. But you need to stay with me, alright? Don't you fucking dare drift off on me!"

Found it!

As you kneeled again and prepared the needles and threads, sterilizing them over a small flame, your throat felt as dry as the barren lands of the Mojave Desert. Words stuck in your mouth like cotton, but you forced them out.

"Do you remember that pawnshop in Itaewon? The one with the old, rusted sign hanging crookedly and the fat, ginger cat named Tofu who would lazily sprawl across the counter? The owner—what was his name? Sungmin, right? He had this weird obsession with Elvis Presley. Used to play vintage vinyl records on that old gramophone he had all day long. You hated it; you said it was too 'old-fashioned' for your taste. But I caught you humming 'Love Me Tender' once."

His eyes met yours, a faint glimmer of amusement in them. You could see his chest rise and fall, each breath a little more labored than the last. But he was listening, a hint of a smile tugging at his bloodstained lips.

"And then there was that time in Hongdae," you continued, your fingers gently manipulating the sterilized pliers inside his abdomen. He hissed and jerked, the sudden movement causing the tools in your hand to clatter loudly. But a stern glance in his direction had him stilling, his jaw clenched tightly to suppress any further sounds. "We stumbled upon this cute little bakery at three in the morning. The owner was this old lady, who claimed her red bean buns were the best in all of Seoul. You were skeptical and said nothing could beat your grandma's recipe. But, after the first bite...”

You paused, recalling the look of sheer surprise on his face. "You devoured five of those buns in a matter of minutes. You even tried to flirt with the old lady, hoping to score the recipe."

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, his grip tightening around your free hand. "And she said... she said she had a... strict policy. No sharing recipes with… playboys."

"Exactly!" You exclaimed, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you noticed the mischievous light returning to his eyes. "She definitely put you in your place, didn't she?"

“Shut…up.”

“I like you too. Please don’t die on me. I don't want to hear Honda crying in my ears at your funeral.”

As you finally found the bullet, the harsh reality of the situation loomed over you, a grim reminder of the danger he was in. But for now, for just a few moments, it felt like old times. Just you and Jinman, bleeding wounds, guns on your feet and hips. You and him.

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

The short walk from the taxi to Jin-Man’s porch had been enough to thoroughly drench you, with your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Raindrops dripped from the brim of your hat, splashing onto the porch's wooden planks, causing the aged wood to glisten under the feeble light from an old lamp hanging precariously above the door.

A sudden gust of wind made you shiver, and you quickly pulled your coat tighter around yourself, silently cursing the weather. You couldn't help but take a moment to observe the changes Jin-Man had made to the entrance—the broken lilies and the shattered pot had been replaced by beautiful blue hyacinths. You admired them briefly before bending down to retrieve the spare keys hidden beneath the ugly cat statue.

"Hey, ugly one! Been taking care of them for me?"

As you straightened up, key in hand, the door suddenly swung open.

Jin-Man stood in the doorway, his eyes softening as they took in your soaked floral skirt, the one he had always nagged you about, and the top that clung damply to your torso. He looked spent, with dark circles under his eyes and the distinct smell of ink and gunpowder clinging to him. The stubble on his face stood out more prominently against his tired features.

"I didn't think you'd come home.” Unusually, he started to balance on one foot while his hair was too long in the back—he needed it cut badly. You know he looks in the mirror and sees a Kpop star but you look at him and see a vagrant out of a Woody Guthrie song—dust in the wind.

What Jeong didn't say was, "Why didn’t you come in earlier?" Or, "Why do you look so hurt?"

As Honda had pointed out on more than one occasion, Jin-Man had what was surely among the rarest of human talents: he was a business minder who did not mind too much if you didn't mind yours. As long as you weren't making explosives to throw at someone, that was, and in your case, explosives were always a possibility.

You shrugged off his remark; the tension between you two is still palpable. "I'm not here for you, Jin-Man," you replied, your gaze hardening. "I'm here for Ji-An."

Stepping past him, you entered the house, your gaze scanning the familiar surroundings—a mix of vintage and modern decor. Everything was just as you remembered it; the mahogany coffee table with its assortment of vintage car magazines, the worn-out, leather Chesterfield couch that bore the imprints of countless lazy afternoons, and the rustic brick fireplace that still smelled faintly of burnt cedar—the same furniture, the same arrangement, the same scents.

As you moved further into the house, a familiar sound reached your ears: the quiet jingling of a collar. Turning around, you saw Gunpowder padding towards you, her amber eyes glowing.

"G-Pow," you called, crouching down to her level, your hand reaching out to her.

The moment stretched uneasily as she mulled over your extended hand and her new master, standing a distance away. “Betrayal alert: Hostile territory,” seemed to be the message running through her kitty brain.

Just when you were about to etch another loss, Gunpowder decided otherwise; tail held in festive high, she padded towards you, meowing a soft welcome.

A chuckle rippled through you as your fingers slid behind her ears, playing briefly, "Missed all this mess, didn't you darling?”

Gunpowder meowed in response, her tail flicking playfully.

“My good girl.” You kissed her fur before she ran away to the couch.

Standing back up, you turned to face Jin-Man, your gaze hard but determined. "Is Ji-An asleep?"

He nodded, running a hand through his hair—a nervous habit you remembered well. "She's had a long day. But she'll be excited to see you in the morning."

"That's good," Bidding your drenched jacket and your hat goodbye onto the nearby coat rack, your eyes danced around the familiar kitchen layout till it landed on the kitchen counter, noticing the half-eaten sandwich and the glass of milk. "Eating habits are still the same, I see."

Jin-Man shrugged, his gaze avoiding yours. "Habit is a hard thing to break."

"You should try sometimes. It wouldn't kill you to have a proper meal."

His gaze finally met yours, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "I can take care of myself, Y/N."

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. "I know you can, Jin-Man. But taking care of yourself doesn't mean you have to do everything alone."

He didn't reply, his gaze dropping to the floor. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head; his mind was probably grappling with the fact that you were back in the house after months of absence.

Deciding to break the silence, you moved towards the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the contents. "I'll make dinner. It's about time we had a decent meal. And while I do that, could you fetch me some dry clothes? I'd prefer the black shirt with the Nirvana logo if it's still around.”

He sighed, closing the fridge door abruptly. “Stop it,” he demanded, his voice carrying that note that you hated so much. The note of a boss talking with his partner. “Stop thinking about me and go take a shower. You’re freezing, and no shirt, Nirvana or not, is going to help with that.”

"Okay, okay, bossy much?" You rolled your eyes as you moved past him, heading towards the doorway. "By the way, I'm not freezing. I'm just a little wet."

With a sense of nostalgia, you began to tread softly down the hallway, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards echoing in your ears.

Gliding past Ji-An's room, you lightly pressed the door ajar. Bathed in the subdued glow of her nightlight was a picture-perfect scene—a tiny human swaddled in warmth, clutching onto her fluffy bunny with all the ferocity her little fists could offer.

With feather-light steps, you ventured further in, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead as whispers of "Goodnight, Noona" danced around your heartstrings.

Clutching your top hem, your mind began to drift back to the past as you continued down the hallway. The memories of nights you spent in this house were like a movie playing in your mind: the arguments filled with passion, the shared meals around the worn-out dining table, and the shared silence that spoke more than words ever could.

After Honda’s death, you hadn't wanted the slice of cheesecake he would bring home from the restaurant for dessert, and you certainly hadn't wanted to go to any Hollywood movie... but you had wanted all those things with Jin-Man. Yes. Because over the last couple of months, and especially over the last months, you’ve come to depend on him in a funny way. Maybe it's corny— probably—but there's a feeling of safety when he puts his arms around you that wasn't there with any of her other guys; what you felt with and for most of them was either impatience or wariness. (Sometimes fleeting lust.)

But there is kindness in Jeong (hidden between the rusty corners and dark basement of his heart, but, yes, there was), and from the first you felt interest coming from him— interest in you—that you could hardly believe, because he's so much smarter and so talented. And he speaks a language you grasped greedily from the beginning. Not the signing language, but one you know very well, just the same—it's as if you were speaking it in dreams.

But what good is talk and a special language if there's no one to talk to? Someone to cry to, even? That's what you needed tonight. You’d never told him about your crazy fucked-up family or your past before him—oh, pardon me, that's crazy smucked-up talk in Honda's speech—but you meant to tonight. Felt you had to or explode from pure misery.

Walking into the bathroom, its altered landscape consumed your attention. Pristine countertop occupied by practical necessities: a single toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and straight razor aesthetically laying on top screamed 'functional' compared to it once being decorated chaotically with personal effects nestled among skincare bottles alongside makeup and a carelessly thrown hairbrush—an exquisite mosaic of a life once lived.

Stepping into the shower, the hot water cascaded down your body, washing away the grit and grime of the day. Still, no water could stop you from remembering the last time you were in this shower—the last time you were in this bathroom.

"Can I join you?" Jin-Man's voice had echoed off the bathroom tiles, the door creaking open slightly.

Looking back, you found him leaning against the door frame, sleep-ruffled hair visible over the frosted shower barrier—a low-hung towel only embellishing his irresistible nonchalance.

“If you promise not to fuck me against the tiles again, sure, why not?”

“Alright, alright,” he had chuckled, opening the shower door and stepping in. The water immediately started soaking his hair, the droplets trickling down his face and chest. “I promise, no fooling around.”

You had laughed then, tilting your head back to rinse the shampoo from your hair. “Good. Because I need to get ready, and I don’t have time for your… shenanigans.”

Jin-Man simply smiled at that, his hands reaching out to help rinse your hair. His fingers were gentle as they massaged your scalp, working through the tangles. “I’ll behave. Scout's honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes at his antics but not being able to suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth.

"But I could have been. Imagine how good I would have looked in the uniform."

You laughed at that, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls. "Yeah, right. You would have been the rebel scout. I can just see you now, trying to start a fire with a pocket knife and a piece of flint, and ‘accidentally’ burning down the entire camp because some weird boy thought it was funny to pull on my pigtails."

"Probably," he agreed. His hands moved to your shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there. "But I bet I would have been the best at telling ghost stories around the campfire."

"That's true. You do have a knack for dramatic storytelling. You could have scared all the other scouts half to death."

His hands stilled on your shoulders, and he pulled you closer, his chest pressing against your back. "I only scare people because I care," he murmured in your ear, his breath warming against your skin.

"Is that so?" You turned to face him, a soft smile on your lips, and you reached up to trace the line of his jaw. "Well, in that case, I guess I should be grateful."

"You should be. Now, let's get you rinsed off. We wouldn't want you to be late, now, would we?"

"No, we wouldn't.”

As you stepped out of the shower, you reached for the towel hanging on the rack.

Dressed in the Nirvana shirt and a pair of his boxers, you padded back into the kitchen, finding Jin-Man leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands. He looked up as you entered, his eyes automatically dropping to take in your attire. He said nothing, but you could see the flicker of something in his gaze—the ghost of a memory, perhaps.

His other friends saw his talent and were dazzled by it at first. You saw how he sometimes struggled to meet the eyes of strangers. You understood that, underneath all his smart (and sometimes brilliant) talk, in spite of his stern expressions, you could hurt him badly if you wanted to. He was, in your dad's words, cruising for a bruising. Had been his whole charmed smucking—no, check that—his whole charmed fucking life. Tonight, the charm could break. And who could break it? You could.

Any tension laying dormant was pushed aside as you reached into the refrigerator, selecting ingredients for tonight's culinary endeavor: crisp bok choy leaves, thick udon strands slightly sticky to touch, and leftover samgyeopsal marinated with sesame oil, which filled the air with a slightly charred meaty smell while cooking yesterday. The symphony of chopped vegetables thudding on a wooden cutting board, accompanied by a sizzling pan flanked by the soft purring of the refrigerator, announced another evening feast showtime.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore.

“Stop staring and say something, Jin-Man.”

He blinked, his gaze lifting from the coffee mug in his hands to meet yours. “You look…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Okay.”

You let out a sigh of relief, turning back to the stove.

“I wasn’t going to say you look good.”

“No?”

"Nope," he said, maintaining eye contact while parking his well-loved first edition Penguin mug with a soft thud. "You've got this 'This is my kitchen' glow about you—no make-up, tousled midnight hair against your cheeks, and my shirt on your body... You look like you belong at home, in this kitchen, with me."

“Oh, shut up, Jinman. Are you sure that coffee isn't spiked? That cheap bag of Dong Suh you've been hoarding since you bought it from that old market in Gyeongju?"

He laughed then, a deep, rich sound that echoed warmly around the room, bouncing off the peeling sunflower-yellow wallpaper and the worn-out, wooden cabinets. "I promise, it's just regular coffee. But if you're not careful, I might start spouting poetry next.”

"I'd like to see you try," you challenged as you moved to add the noodles to the boiling pot.

At the same time, however, a soft melody began to fill the room. Turning, you saw Jinman’s back turned towards you. He was hunched over an old radio placed precariously on the window ledge over the sink—an old Philco with a cracked case. It had been his mother’s; he kept it out in the barn and listened to it while he was choring. It's the only thing of hers that he still has, and you keep it in the window because it's the only place where it will pick up local stations. It was secondhand even then, when Jin-Man gifted it to her after earning his first paycheck, but when it was unwrapped and she saw what it was, she grinned until it seemed her face would crack and how she thanked him! Over and over!

The tinny sound of the old device was playing a song that you recognized immediately—it was your mother's favorite song. A smile tugged at your lips as you watched him, his fingers delicately turning the knobs to get the best reception.

At the end, he cocked a thumb at the radio and said, stupidly proud of his useless knowledge, "That's Busker Busker. The original indie version."

"Jeong…I—”

You had no idea where to go from there, and it seemed there was no need. The man raised the forefinger of his left hand like a teacher who meant to make a particularly important point, and the smile actually resurfaced on his lips. Some sort of smile, anyway.

"Wait," he said.

"Wait?"

He looked pleased, as if you had grasped a difficult concept. "Wait."

And before you could say anything else, he simply walked off behind you, turning off the stove before his hands found your waist. His warm body pressed against your back, his head burying itself in the crook of your neck.

The aroma of your cooking, mixed with the familiar scent of Jin-Man and the sound of the old song playing on the radio, transported you back to simpler times. Times when life was not about surviving, not about fighting, but about living. About enjoying moments like these.

He began to sway, his movements leading you in a slow dance around the kitchen. His touch was gentle yet firm and you allowed him to lead, your body moving in rhythm with his as you danced barefoot on the cold ceramic tile floor.

Beyond the rustic kitchen windows, Mother Nature cooed her own ballad—soft chirps cushioned in cool country air under the moon's watchful eyes, dressing everything in stretched-out shadows—that played on repeat. Gunpowder was outside too busy bullying a moth under a moon-bathed silhouette, while Ji-An’s gentle snores added a comforting motif to your nighttime symphony.

It felt like you were in some sort of dream, the reality of your world forgotten for a moment. You were not a killer, not a fighter. You were just a woman, dancing in the kitchen with the man she secretly might like.

Turning you around, he looked down at you, his gaze soft and filled with emotions you could not decipher. Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked up at him through your eyelashes, your fingers idly playing with the hem of his worn-out puma shirt.

The world outside did not matter at this moment. The only thing that mattered was Jin-Man and the way he held you, the way he looked at you. You could see a mirror of your own emotions in his eyes—longing, fear, and a hint of sadness.

As the last note of the song played, you rose to your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was filled with promise, with hope—a kiss that said more than words ever could.

As you pulled away, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the two of you stood in the middle of the kitchen, the smell of your cooking still lingering in the air.

"Welcome home, Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the radio.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged.

#imagine #lee dong wook #lee dong wook x reader #a shop for killers #jeong jin man #lee dongwook x fem! reader #lee dongwook x reader #jeong jian #seo moonjo x reader #lee dongwook #so minhye

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