#and then we still had to pull off the heist...

[twola]

Firewater - Chapter 1

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

A heist does not go as planned, and you and Arthur are at each other's throats. A/N: A bit of a different direction with this one - expect short chapters, awkward situations, and hilarity out of this one. And updates, more regularly :) taglist: @v3lv3tf0x

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ARIZONA, MAY 1897

“Y’know, if you had just listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

A large plume of smoke is your response—thick, lazy, and defiant as it floats skyward. Arthur leans back against a rough-hewn boulder like he’s got all the time in the world, even with the sting of failure hanging heavy in the heat. His hat is pushed low, casting a shadow across the narrowed set of his eyes. The desert sun hangs heavy in the sky, not a cloud to give a modicum of shade, not a single bit of respite. It's hot, hot and dusty, and a lizard scutters past his boot to hide under the red rock boulder he leans against. 

“Considerin’ half the time you opened your mouth you ain’t doin’ nothin’ but naggin’ me, ain’t worth it,” he retorts, voice cool as a mountain stream but just as cutting.

You don’t even think before you chuck a stale piece of bread at his damn head. It was all the food you salvaged after the botched heist, and even that’s been half-crushed in your saddlebag. He knocks it away with a practiced flick of his wrist, but his cigarette falls from between his lips and drops into the dirt.

Arthur scowls, jaw tightening as he crouches to pick it up. It’s dead, ruined. His hand stays near his boot for a second longer than necessary, like he’s weighing whether he should throw something right back.

���You are worse than a goddamn child,” he growls.

As if to prove his point, your boot stomps against the cracked earth with a sharp slap. Dust kicks up around your feet, and the sun— that merciless bastard that it is—beats down on your neck, sweat already drying into a salted layer.

“Oh, I’m the child? You were the one who ran in there like some hero outta one of those dime novels, guns blazin’ with no damn plan!”

“I had a plan,” he snaps.

“Your plan got us chased out by six bounty hunters, two guard dogs, and a woman swingin’ a broom like she meant it.”

“She did mean it.” He pauses, mouth twitching at the memory. “Caught me right in the jaw.”

“Good. Maybe she knocked some sense into you.”

Arthur pushes off the boulder, looming now, brushing his hands on his pants like he’s trying to scrub the conversation clean. “You didn’t exactly pull your weight neither. Hid behind them crates like a scared cat.”

You step forward, the distance between you shrinks to something dangerous. “I was covering your dumb ass, Morgan. I told you to wait for my signal.”

“And I told you I don’t take orders from—” he cuts off, teeth grinding.

“From me?” Your laugh is sharp, brittle. “Right, God forbid you take direction from someone with a brain between her ears.”

Arthur gets closer still. “You think you’re so much smarter than everybody else, huh? All them fancy words and smug looks, like you’re above it all. But you’re just like the rest of us. Mean and stupid.”

His breath is hot and whiskey-laced, as he leans in, brushing your cheek. “And reckless,” he adds with a sneer. “Don’t forget that.”

“Better reckless than cowardly.” You spit back at him, standing as firm and tall as you can when all six feet of him towers over your petite frame.

There’s a pause. His blue eyes go cold, a line drawn in the sand with your words.

You don’t mean it. Not really. But it’s out there now, and neither of you are ready to back down.

His voice drops low, warning. “You wanna say that again?”

“Why?” you scoff. “You gonna shoot me? Or just sulk at me until I drop dead?”

“I don’t shoot women,” he growls.

“That’s funny,” you snap. “You sure as hell don’t seem to have any problem talking to me like one of the boys.”

“You wish you were one of the boys.”

“No, I don't want to be treated like an idiot. Most of them boys are idiots. Like that would have gone any better with Marion.” You hiss Bill’s birth name with ridicule. Deservingly so.

Another step forward. Your chest brushes his now, breath and heartbeat tangled into something hot and furious and entirely unsustainable.

“You get treated how you act,” he says, quieter now. “You wanna act all tough? Fine, I’ll treat you like that.”

“Good,” you whisper, eyes blazing. “Then we understand each other.”

Silence. Except it isn’t really silence. It’s heavy with the cicadas screaming in the grass. With the crackle of heat in the rocks. With the sound of your breaths coming fast, too close together.

He looks at your mouth. You look at his. 

There is a danger in the air, a stillness that settles in before a rattlesnake bites. That’s all he is - poison and bluster. You want to slap him, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting that much of a rise out of you.

You scowl and turn on your heel, striding over toward your horse. Your boots angrily kick up dust under your skirts as you mount that spry little roan gelding. You pat his black mane and coo gently in his ear as you settle yourself in the saddle. 

You scowl when you get yourself situated and look back at Arthur, who remains exactly where you left him.

“You get to explain to Dutch why we ain’t got nothin’ outta this.” You snipe, eyes narrowing before your spurs dig into your gelding’s side, and he rears before bolting across the hard desert ground.

[togenabi]

pick me up

roronoa zoro (opla) x reader

♡—zoro never paid your jokes or pickup lines any mind. that is, until something happens that makes you stop.

word count♡— 3.2k

genre♡— mild angst, fluff, straw hat!reader

content notes♡— opla zoro, fem!reader, reader wears a dress and tells very bad jokes, creepy dude oc, don't be creepy be cool yall, reader pulls off a heist with nami, zoro gets jealous, alcohol consumption, no use of y/n, barely proofread

also on♡— ao3

author's note♡— this is a request from anon! I'm sorry if I tweaked a few things, I'm not the best at angst hhhh I hope you still like it!

“Okay, okay. Wait. I got it this time.” You say, already trying to keep from laughing. 

“Why were the kids having trouble in pirate class?”

Zoro only side-eyes you with his arms crossed, vehemently unimpressed. 

“Because they were overbored!” 

Watching for his reaction intently, you keep your eyes focused on his face... Nothing changes. 

You tsk, but aren’t seriously discouraged. This is how he always reacts to your jokes, after all. “I’ll get you one of these days, Roronoa Zoro.”

The swordsman only sighs, leaning back into his seat to take a nap. “You do that.”

“Don’t listen to him, love.” Sanji says from the other side of the kitchen as he cleans the counter. “I thought that joke was good.”

“You’re lying, but I appreciate the sentiment, Sanji.” You grin at him. Focusing back on the book you were reading, you miss the amused, challenging look Sanji sends Zoro.

Everyone hears Luffy approaching the kitchen before he enters. “Guys!” He bellows. “We’ll be reaching land soon. Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes!”

The majority of the day is spent restocking supplies. You were all split up into pairs, but before you left, Luffy pointed to a restaurant with a flashy, illuminated sign on top that reads: ‘Bistro of Light’. How cringey of them.

“We should meet there for dinner! You don’t mind taking a break, right, Sanji?” Luffy asks eagerly, and you think that no one could say no to him when he’s so enthusiastic. Sanji nods, and you all go through the town until the sun starts to set.

The inside of the restaurant is just as ridiculous as the sign outside. Chandeliers of every color hang on the ceiling. Huge fish tanks and fountains lined with lights almost blind you. You laugh when looking at it all causes Zoro to wince. 

“Hey Zoro,” You call for him. “You know what’s faster than the speed of light?”

“...”

“My heartbeat when I think of you!” You wink at him, proud of the joke even when he only sighs and looks away.

Usopp walks up to a receptionist standing behind a desk. “Hey. Table for six, if you would be so kind.”

“I’m afraid we’re at full capacity at the moment.” They respond. “You’ll have to wait, is that alright?”

Everyone shares a look. Except for Luffy, who looks dead set on eating here, you all feel unsure about waiting.

“When’s the next table going to be available?” Usopp asks. “We’re actually a really big deal. It’s gonna be really embarrassing for you guys if you don’t let us in.” The person frowns, face screaming, ‘is this guy serious’?

But before they can reply, a booming voice enters the restaurant. A tall man, dressed in a pristine white suit and wearing jewels on every finger, pushes you out of the way to yell at the receptionist. You stumble, but thankfully Zoro is there to catch you.

“What on earth is going on here?! Why are there so many people crowding the entryway?!” He fumes, angrily gesturing to your group. 

“If they’re not going to eat, then I strongly suggest—” The rich man freezes suddenly, his eyes trained on you.

You keep your face as emotionless as possible, but you die laughing inside when Nami swipes a brooch from his jacket while he’s distracted with you.

“Ah,” The man says. His tone softening a considerable amount as he walks over to you. “I thought I had the best jewels in my treasury, but you're the most radiant gem I've ever laid my eyes on.” It takes everything in you to not back away. Zoro tenses beside you.

“Why haven’t these guests been guided to a table?” He asks, turning back to the receptionist.

“We’re at full capacity, Sir.” Oh. He must own the place. It makes sense that the owner is as gaudy as everything else in here.

“That won’t do.” He looks back to you, and you swear you could feel your skin crawl under his gaze. 

“I am Helios. Welcome to my establishment.” The man introduces himself with a flourish, bowing to you. His jewels and gold accessories glint in the light. “What might your name be?”

Reluctantly, you introduce yourself. Had this been a normal situation, you would have turned around and walked away from him the second he saw you. But, you could feel the crew going hungry, and you’re sure Nami will want to snag another ring or two—so you play nice.

Helios smiles, repeating your name. He was probably trying to sound romantic, but he’s not doing anything for you. Not when Zoro says your name much better.

You keep Zoro’s voice in mind, remembering how nice it sounds. It’s easier to smile at Helios that way. Time to lay on the charm, “I was really looking forward to having dinner here. I don’t suppose you could help us out?”

“Follow me, my dear. You deserve to dine upstairs. The view is simply spectacular at this hour.” Helios holds out his hand to you, but Luffy—bless his soul—grabs it to shake it zealously.

“Thanks so much for letting us eat here, Mr. Helios!” Luffy claps him on the back. Helios looks dumbfounded, and the crew does an impressive job keeping their composure. 

Helios tries to walk beside you as he guides you all upstairs, but Zoro is steadfast on your right, and Nami smartly positions herself on your left. Luffy and Usopp tug the restaurant owner along, chatting his ear off. You almost feel bad for him. 

Nami murmurs, her voice carefully silent so only you can hear. “Treasury, huh?”

You smile. “Of course you’d be curious about that.”

“Think you could get us to his mansion?” She dares you, eyes aglow at the promise of a good heist.

“I know I can.” You pause walking to check your reflection on an ornate, sun-shaped mirror. After fixing your hair, you grin at your friends. “I’m irresistible, after all.”

Maybe if you weren’t busy buttering up your host, you would have noticed that Zoro wasn’t eating properly. Normally, you would force him to eat. You would pile food on his plate, telling that joke about fake noodles being impasta that always cracks you up.

Zoro frowns at the meal in front of him. The fish seems to frown back. Sighing, he decides to just order another drink. But no matter what he consumes, a bitter taste always blooms in his mouth afterwards. 

The glass in his hand almost cracks when he hears your voice sucking up to Helios again. “So, you own this place? Do you live around here?”

Helios leans far too close towards you, but you grin and bear it. “Would you like a private tour, my gem?”

You place a hand on his arm, he may read it as affection, but you hold him so he keeps that distance. “That sounds wonderful.”

Zoro huffs under his breath. He needs another drink. 

Thankfully, Helios serves good booze at his manor. Zoro almost didn’t want to drink any of it, but he needs alcohol in his system if he has to watch you flirt with this idiot so Nami can rob him blind. Whatever she steals better be worth all this, or else he might punch something. Or someone. Preferably Helios.

You share a look with Nami and give her an imperceptible nod. With that signal, she passes by and pretends to lose her footing. Wine seeps into your clothes, staining the fabric and sticking it to your skin. Did she really have to pick red wine? You liked this shirt.

“Oh, my dear!” Helios gasps. “You should get cleaned up. I’ll have my servants draw you a bath and bring you fresh clothes.”

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve watched where I was going.” Nami loops her arm through yours. “Let me help you with that.” 

And so, with another fake smile sent Helios’ way, you rush with Nami to find the treasury.

“Be quick.” Nami says once you enter the luxurious bathroom prepared for you. 

As tempting as the bubble bath is, you only take a few wet towels to tidy up. You step into the curtained area, about to strip when Nami holds out a hand to stop you.

“Wait.” She says, her tone serious. A teddy bear holding a rose is propped up on a shelf behind you. Tapping its eyes, Nami scowls before throwing the bear into the trash bin.

“A camera?” She nods. “Seriously? What a creep.”

You and Nami inspect the room. It’s not clear if there are other hidden cameras, but she stands guard in front of the shower curtains just in case.

“Hey,” She starts. “Did you notice Zoro acting weird tonight?”

You frown as you change into the dress Helios prepared. “What do you mean?”

Nami hums in thought. “He’s just…” A dumbass, she wants to say, but doesn’t. “He seems extra grumpy.”

That causes you to laugh. “I guess I should prepare more jokes for him when we get back.”

She winces. “...I’m not that sure he likes those.”

“Hm… Maybe not, but,” You pause to think. He may not laugh loudly as Luffy does, but he never shot you down for being bubbly around him. “Zoro would have told me to shut up by now if he didn’t, right?”

“Huh.” Nami says. “You got a point.”

You push the curtains aside, grinning at her. “Come on, let’s break into that treasury.”

“Of course, my gem.”

“Oh my god, if that sticks I’m going to be so mad.”

The treasury was a vault full of everything from jewels to ornamental weapons. Nami playfully crowned you with a diamond tiara, and she put on dangling emerald earrings that looked stunning on her.

After filling your bags and pockets with the most you can carry, you and Nami head out to find the others. You run into Usopp on the way back to the lounge.

“I see you two cleaned up well.” He jokes. “Luffy and Sanji are in the kitchen. I was just on my way there.”

“Where’s Zoro?” You ask.

“With Helios. You know him, still drinking.”

“We should leave soon.” Nami insists. “We risk getting caught the longer we stay.”

“Right.” You hand Usopp your bag, his eyes widen comically when he feels how heavy it is. “I’ll just go say goodbye, I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Before you even enter the lounge, however, you hear Zoro speak your name. Are they talking about you? You press your back against the wall, straining to hear their conversation.

You almost wish you didn’t.

“She tells the worst jokes and doesn’t know when to quit it. Thinks she’s hilarious but she’s really not.” Zoro speaks in that deep voice that would usually be comforting to you—but his words now pierce through you painfully.

“What exactly is your relationship with her?” Helios asks, and Zoro is silent. It feels like your heart crumbles for every second he doesn’t answer.

You’re friends! You’ve been dreaming of more but, you’ve always been friends.

…Aren’t you? Doesn’t he think so?

“I don’t know.” Your heart fully shatters. What does he mean he doesn’t know? “She just sticks to me a lot. It can get annoying.”

“Well. That’s unfortunate, but it’s nothing to sob over.” Helios kisses his teeth. “I don’t care about her attitude. All that doesn’t matter as long as she has that pretty face.”

You wait for Zoro to say something. Anything. You want him to cut Helios where he stands.

But he doesn’t. The silence drags on. The air feels like it’s pushing you down, crushing your lungs. You have to get out of here.

You burst into the kitchen, trying your best not to cry. Nami immediately rushes to you, holding your shoulders to steady you. “What happened?”

Letting out a shuddered breath, you whisper, “You were right.” It’s impossible to think straight right now. “I want to leave.”

You look to Luffy, still shaken up. Your captain’s expression is serious as he nods. “Go ahead, we’ll get Zoro and catch up.” Not needing to be told twice, you head out the door.

Before she follows you, Nami hisses at Sanji, “Talk some sense into that dumbass, won’t you?”

The entire walk back to the Going Merry is silent. You’re grateful Nami doesn’t immediately press you for what happened, but you know that you should answer her questions. You finally get the words out in the safety of her cabin.

You sit cross-legged on the bed, and everything comes pouring out. “He called me annoying.” 

“Zoro?” She asked, offering you a box of tissues.

“Yeah.” You sniff, taking the box.

“I’m sorry. That was fucked up of him to say.”

Unsure how to properly comfort you, Nami gets up and retrieves extra pillows from a storage compartment.

“Why don’t we have a girl’s night?” Nami asks, offering you a smile. It pulls a smile out of you too, the first one you mustered since Zoro crushed your spirit. 

“I’d like that.” 

Zoro is confused to find that you and Nami had left before them. Luffy gave Helios some lame excuse that you weren’t feeling well, but Zoro knew better. If you were really sick, the whole crew would be panicking and rushing to get to you.

He stares at Sanji and Usopp, trying to piece together what really happened. They both turn away from him, refusing to say anything.

In the next second, a maid rushes out, panting and screaming, “Mr. Helios! The treasury has been robbed!”

Fine. Answers can come later. For now, they need to run.

Once they’re back on the ship, Sanji follows Zoro into his cabin. He stares at the chef blankly, “Get out.”

“Did you do something?” Sanji leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Get out.” Zoro repeats, about to push him out of the room when Sanji speaks your name.

“She was upset. Asked to leave as soon as possible.” Sanji’s gaze is almost menacing, and his frown deepens when Zoro’s face falls. So, that’s what happened. You had heard him.

“Fuck.” Zoro groans, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Everyone noticed you getting bitchy over Helios.” Sanji notes “Did you confront him or something?”

Scoffing, Zoro sits on his hammock, the fabric dips under his weight. “It was something, all right.”

Wanting Zoro to explain himself unpromptedly, Sanji just watches him and lets the silence hang in the air. After a solid, suffocating minute, the swordsman caves.

“I called her annoying.” Zoro breathes out deeply. “I said her jokes aren’t funny and that she sticks to me a lot.”

“Man, that’s screwed up.” Sanji gapes. “I thought you cared about her?”

“Of course I do, but I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” Zoro defends. “Luffy’s the only one who laughs at her jokes, and she’s always by my side.” 

Sighing, Zoro continues, “...but I never minded any of it. I learned to care for those parts of her a long time ago. I was only trying to get that shithead off her back.”

“You’re an idiot.” Sanji concludes. “You have the emotional depth of a sink, sometimes.”

Zoro, surprisingly, doesn’t insult the chef back. He stares at the wall, slouched and looking the most empty Sanji’s ever seen him.

“What should I do?” He asks. “How should I make it up to her?”

Sanji’s eyes light up, he beams and claps his hands together in excitement. Even if Zoro hasn’t heard it yet, he already dreads the chef’s suggestion. 

“I have an idea.”

When you woke up the next morning, you had every intention of avoiding Zoro like the plague. It was still really difficult to look at him, the hurt you felt still stings your heart. 

But unfortunately for you, he had other plans. 

You’re gazing out into the sea on the forecastle deck when you hear a familiar set of heavy footsteps. You sigh. “I don’t want to talk, Zoro.”

“I’m not here to talk.” You turn to him questioningly, but you really shouldn’t give him the time of day. Wasn’t he the one who complained about you clinging to him?

You don’t say anything. Only glaring at him and hoping he sees how disappointed you feel. Zoro stands here, appearing strangely vulnerable. If you weren’t so hurt, you would have hugged him by now. 

But you are. So he has to wallow in the awkwardness of the consequences of his words. He—wait. What’s that on his face?

“I…” Is he… blushing? “I’m sorry I wasn’t around in the past.” 

You make a face and blink at him. What is he up to?

“...Can I be part of your future?”

That knocks the wind right out of you, your jaw practically falls to the floor. Did Roronoa Zoro just use a pickup line? On you? You can’t help but glance at your surroundings to check if the sky is still blue.

No—hold on. He can’t win you over just like that. He needs to explain why he said what he did. 

“You said my jokes are the worst.” You grumble.

“They are.” Zoro looks straight into your eyes as he speaks. “But you’re one of the best things to ever happen to me.”

“You said I always stick to your side.”

He doesn’t miss a beat and answers earnestly, “You do. And I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else.”

“…You said you didn’t know what our relationship is.”

That causes Zoro to pause, searching your eyes as if he’ll find the answer in them. “…I don’t.”

Oh, this impossible sword-brain of a man. Your lips quiver, and you realize you can’t fight back your smile anymore. “I love you, Zoro.”

His expression shifts from anxiousness to shock, relief, and a bit of something else... 

“I love you, too.” Ah, of course. Love, that too.

Slowly, tentatively, he raises his arms, inviting you to an embrace. He’s adorable, looking a teensy bit nervous that you wouldn’t want to hold him. Giggling, you rush to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as he envelops your shoulders. 

“I bet Sanji taught you to apologize with that line.” You murmur into his chest. “If you tell me another one…” Zoro cringes, his frame tensing. 

“...I’ll give you a kiss.” His expression lifts, seriously considering it.

After a minute, Zoro clears his throat. You almost squeal in excitement.

“Roses are red, violets are blue…” A classic. This is going to be good.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel awkward, I just want to have dinner with you.” You gasp, squeezing him tighter. 

“Yes! That was perfect.” Laughing, you reach up and hold his face to keep your promise. 

You plant a sweet, short kiss on his lips. When you pull away, he’s looking at you like he would fight anyone for you. He probably would, if you’re being honest.

“You’re perfect.” He breathes, mouth against yours and then he’s kissing you again.

Hiding behind a pile of crates, the rest of the crew whoop and cheer. (Silently.)

“That was such a good line!” Luffy whispers.

“I still think he should have used the ‘I don’t speak angel’ one.” Usopp whispers back.

“What are you talking about?!” Sanji angrily, quietly mutters. “That was perfect because he apologized and delivered the line.”

“Shut it, you guys. I was right, he didn’t last a day with her mad at him.” Nami holds out her palm. “Pay up.” The others groan, handing her some berry. All’s well that ends well.

© togenabi 2023 | see here to be added to my taglist ♡

taglist: @songsofadelaide-archive @amitydoodlez @sweetexistentialism @msmisasoup @writingmysanity @hotchocolattee @dimplewonie @hearts4zoro @kenkenmaaa @appalost @hi3431 @akakaze @lownna

[amirasainz]

Oh, I'm sorry, but my ideas for Leclerc's stepsister are in my head and there are so many of them, I don't have the nerve to send them all, but... I just want her to be very different from baby Sainz, she was very independent, hardly accepted help, was a little (and sometimes a lot) shy, defiant, but at the same time for the Leclair brothers she was a princess, and their parents wanted to enjoy the fact that everything was fine

With love from CH 💜

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

- xoxo babygirl ♥️

No Part 2!

Independent, but Loved

It was a typical sunny afternoon in Monaco, and the house was alive with the sound of chatter and laughter. Yn was sitting cross-legged on the couch, her manicured nails clicking against her phone screen as she scrolled through her social media feed. The comments on her latest post were already piling up.

@queenYnislife: “She fixed her car and still looks better than me. HOW??”

@monaco_royalty: “Yn, the real princess of Monaco. Bow down, everyone.”

She smirked at the comments and tapped her nails thoughtfully against her chin. "You know," she said, her voice laced with playful sarcasm, "I should start a DIY YouTube channel. 'Fixing Cars with Yn.' I'd show everyone how to slay while being a mechanic."

From across the living room, Arthur groaned. "Yn, you didn't fix the car."

She raised an eyebrow at her 19-year-old stepbrother, her dark brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "Excuse me, mechanic Arthur. I literally fixed it myself. My nails were covered in grease for days!"

Lorenzo, the oldest at 25, laughed as he walked into the room, carrying a tray of drinks. "Oh, princesa, you really think that car is still the same one?"

Yn frowned. "What do you mean?"

Arthur leaned forward, unable to suppress his grin. "We got you a new car."

Her jaw dropped. "No, you didn't!"

"Yes, we did," Lorenzo confirmed with a shrug, his grin widening. "Do you honestly think you ‘fixed’ a blown engine with a wrench and some nail polish remover?"

Charles, who had just walked in after a training session, leaned against the doorway with an amused look. "To be fair, you were very convincing with your grease-smudged selfies."

Yn stared at her brothers, utterly scandalized. "Wait a second. You mean all my TikToks about ‘fixing’ the car were based on a lie?"

Arthur snorted. "Pretty much, yeah."

"You guys distracted me?" Yn accused, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at Charles.

Charles threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Guilty. But it was Lorenzo's idea!"

Lorenzo chuckled, clearly unbothered. "You deserved a better car, princesa. That old one wasn’t safe anymore."

Yn crossed her arms and pouted, her glossy lips forming a perfect little scowl. "You could have told me instead of treating me like a clueless baby."

"You're not clueless," Arthur said quickly, his tone softening. "We just wanted to make sure you were safe. You know we only do these things because we care about you, right?"

Her pout melted into a small smile. "Fine. But I'm still mad that you lied to me."

"We'll make it up to you," Charles promised. "How about dinner on me tonight? Wherever you want."

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

Yn grinned, her previous annoyance already forgotten. "Okay, but you’re paying for dessert too."

"Deal," Charles said, ruffling her hair.

---

That evening, as they all sat around a table at Yn’s favorite restaurant, their parents, Pascal and João, joined in on the fun. Pascal raised his glass, a proud smile on his face. "To my incredible children. I love seeing how well you all take care of each other."

"Even if it means pulling off elaborate car heists," Yn teased, earning a round of laughter from everyone at the table.

João, always the peacemaker, smiled warmly at her. "They just want to make sure you're happy and safe, filha."

"I know," Yn said, her voice softening. "And I love you guys for it. But don’t think this gets you off the hook for messing with me."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Great, here we go."

Yn smirked, leaning back in her chair like the queen she was. "Just wait until I prank you back. The internet will love it."

Lorenzo groaned. "Please, no more viral chaos."

"You should know by now," Yn said with a wink, "I am chaos."

Charles sighed dramatically. "And we wouldn’t have it any other way."

As the evening went on, the teasing and laughter continued. Yn, their sarcastic and fiercely independent little sister, was their princess. And while she might never let them forget their sneaky car replacement, the love and bond between them was unshakeable.

They were, after all, family.

[zepskies]

BUBBLY

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Reader

Summary: On your first vacation together, you and Russell take advantage of the hotel hot tub.

AN: This can be a stand-alone drabble, but it’s really set after More of This and Lost Time in the Every Second Counts-verse.

Originally released on Patreon: 2-25-25

Word Count: 800

Tags/Warnings: Fluff and feels…tinge of angst?

“Careful!” you giggled, trying to keep chlorine water from getting in your (third) glass of champagne.

Russell was less tipsy than you, but his cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling. The hot tub water splashed when he vaulted himself back in. In one hand he held above his head, he carried a tray piled with assorted mini quiche, finger sandwiches, and his personal favorite, some mini buffalo chicken empanadas. When he lowered the plate between you, your eyes widened at the haul. 

“Oh my God,” you said in a hushed whisper. “Did you steal that from the buffet?”

“Steal is a strong word. I prefer the term secured,” Russell whispered back. “Procured. Liberated, if you will.”

You bit your lip, but couldn’t stop yourself from reaching for the quiche. You still shot him a warning look. “The hotel’s going to liberate us from our suite if…”

The reproach died on your tongue as you watched him pull out an entire (opened) bottle of champagne from under his shirt. You gasped.

That’s why his other arm was bent like a chicken wing, you realized.

“Jesus, Russ,” you whisper yelled. You looked around discreetly to make sure no one was paying attention to you two on the far end of the pool site. But you were begrudgingly impressed. By that self-satisfied grin on his face, so was he.

“We could’ve just paid for another bottle,” you pointed out, even as you let him refill your glass, a smile playing on your lips.

“Now where’s your sense of adventure,” he teased. “Besides, this shit is way overpriced.”

He set the plate on the edge of the hot tub and stripped off his shirt again. He’d only put it back on to attempt his little foodie heist. After he submerged himself half under the water and into the seated spot beside you, he slipped an arm around your shoulders to guide you against his side. You went willingly, releasing a sigh. You rested your head on his shoulder.

“Here’s to us, sweetheart,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Six months down.”

Your heart swelled with loving affection, along with your smile.

“Six months,” you echoed, clinking your glass with his. Half a year you had been with this man, and you two were finally on a nice weekend away together. The thought made you set down your glass.

You turned towards him and reached up for his cheek. His brows rose in question, but you just smiled and guided him down for a kiss. It was gentle, just a slow meeting of lips. Your thumb caressed his jawline, prickling a bit on his beard.

Russell set his glass on the edge of the hot tub so he could pull you tighter against him. His free hand slipped into your hair as he dove in for a deeper kiss. He tasted bubbly champagne on your tongue. He caught the faded scent of coconut lotion on your skin. His fingers slipped under the strings of your bikini.

You broke from his lips slightly and hissed in pain. “Careful, baby. Think I got sunburned.”

Russell hummed in sympathy. “Mmm, sorry. Let me see.”

He hugged you to his bare chest and swept your wet hair aside so he could take a peek at your back.

“Ooh yeah, you’re well cooked. Think I’m gonna eat you up with some butter,” he joked. “Maybe some chimichurri sauce. You know me. I’m a zesty kinda guy.”

Scoffing, you pinched his side in retaliation. He flinched with a laugh. You actually got him in the one place he was ticklish.

“All right, no need to play dirty,” he said. He gathered you tighter in his arms, so you couldn’t move yours. You laughed and struggled to get out of his hold. Your hands pressed against his chest, but it was no use.

“Russ!”

“Nope. This is penance. You’re gonna stay right where I want you.”

He had you trapped. And if you were a good girl about it, maybe he’d feed you an empanada. 

Russell’s amusement softened into fondness. Part of him still couldn’t believe he’d been able to make it work with you for this long.

Just three more months, he’d promised you, and he’d be done taking contract jobs for Horizon. He’d be out, and he’d start working on his brewery. He’d start truly setting down roots with you in Laramie, building something that would stick.

For once in his life, Russell was optimistic about his civilian future.

If only he knew what was coming.

AN: 🤭 Yes, I do plan to continue this, don't worry lol. I don't have it written yet, but it's aaaaall up here. 🫡

Special thanks to Michelle - @luci-in-trenchcoats - for giving me tons of Tracker spoilers from the books that helped me shape the idea for "what's coming" next. 💜

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[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (55/59)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Game night with friends is great - even if you're playing Monopoly.

Warnings: fluff, tiny bit of angst (talks about their relationship), Kika and Pierre are a menace but we still love them

Word Count: 3.7k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: thanks for being so patient with me. only four chapters to go! feedback is appreciated!

The rain had started just before sunset, a gentle percussion against the windows that makes everything inside feel more like a refuge. You’re already sunk deep into the soft beige couch when Kika’s voice floats in from the kitchen. 

„No. Absolutely not. Salt and vinegar chips are aggressive, Pierre.“

„They are honest“, he counters. „They have character. Unlike your … hummus.“

You glance at Charles, who’s sprawled next to you with one leg crossed over the other, nursing a bottle of beer. His mouth curls upward without hm really smiling. 

„They’ve been in there for ten minutes“, you say. 

„Twelve“, he replies, checking his watch with mock seriousness. „They’ll emerge either with snacks or serious injuries.“

You chuckle and shift your weight, leaning slightly into his side. The couch smells faintly of lavender and some kind of woodsy incense Kika always uses. It’s the sort of home that feels lived-in in a curated way – plants in every corner, art books fanned out just so, mismatched mugs that somehow match. 

„She’s going to veto anything that leaves dust on fingers“, you say.

„She banned Cheetos last time“, Charles nods. „Tragic.“

In the kitchen, the debate escalates into dramatic rustling – cabinet doors open and slam, a bag crinkles, someone groans. 

„You think we should go help?“, you ask, not moving. 

Charles raises an eyebrow. „You want to walk into a domestic snack standoff?“

You don’t. The couch is too soft, and there’s something nice about this moment – just the two of you in someone else’s home, in that quiet space between arrival and activity, before the jokes start flying and someone gets way too competitive about something. 

„I like their kitchen arguments“, you admit. 

„They make it sound like they’re planning a heist“, Charles says. „No, not that dip, you fool!“

You both laugh, and just then, the kitchen door swings open, Kika appears with a triumphant grin and a tray of bowls – olives, popcorn, baby carrots, fancy crackers shaped like leaves. Pierre trailes behind her with two bags of chips cradled under his arms like contraband. 

„Okay“, Kika announces. „We reached a diplomatic compromise.“

„No hummus“, Pierre says solemnly. „But I secured limited rights for kettle chips.“

„Under strict supervision“, Kika adds.

„I’ve never felt less free“, Pierre mutters. 

The Portuguese sets the snacks down on the coffee table like sacred offerings. „We’ve matured“ she tells you both. „This is what growth looks like.“

„See? No Cheetos“, Charles whispers to you. 

You give him a subtle nudge with your knee. „Don’t get us kicked out bevore we even pick teams.“

„Teams?“ Kika perks up. „No teams tonight. We’re playing Monopoly.“

Pierre freezes mid-chip pour. „Non. Kika, we’ve discussed this. Monopoly is violence disguised as capitalism.“

„I love violence disguised as capitalism“, she says sweetly, already pulling the battered game box from the bottom oft he stack next to the small table. The corners are frayed, the logo almost worn off from years of grudges.

You glance at Charles, who looks as though he’s just been handed a ticking bomb. He leans in, murmurs, „This is how families fall apart. Just like mine did when you cheated during the game on Christmas.“

You nudge him once more and watch as Kika sets the board down with the gravity of a courtroom clerk opening a trial. „Exacty. That’s why I’ve been saving it for a night when we all really trust each other.“

The French sinks into an armchair with a groan. „I trust no one here.“

„That’s the spirit“, she beams. She unfolds the board with a ceremonial gravity, the creases stubborn from years of being tucked away, corners curled like they remembered past battles. Kika smoothes it flat with the palm of her hand while Pierre laid out the stacks of money with the precision of a disgruntled accountant. „No teams tonight“, she repeats, her usually sweet voice now like a knife wrapped in velvet. „Just four adults making emotionally healthy financial decisions.“

Charles rolls his eyes and grabbs the dog token, rolling it between his fingers before placing it a GO. 

„Perfect“, you mutter, grabbing the battleship. „I’ll just go full naval dominance.“

Your best friend selects the top hat without hesitation while Pierre eyes the thimble, considers, then chooses the wheelbarrow with a dignified nod.

By round three, the board starts to fill like a storm creeping in. Kika has Park Place, Charles has a dangerous hold on the oranges, and Pierre is quietly gobbling up railroads like he has a personal vendetta against public transit. 

You land on unnowned Boardwalk, pausing for a moment, reading it like it might say something else this time. Then you buy it, casually. Too casually – something the others notice. 

„Really?“ Pierre says. „Already?“

„I manifest luxury“, you say, sliding the blue deed toward your pile. 

Charles lets out a low whistle. „That’s going to be a problem.“

You smile at him like a dare. 

Midway through the game, it’s clear that civility reached ist expiration date. Kika enters what she calls speculative frenzy – trading like a Wall Street broker in a blackout, building houses across the dark blues and light greens with unsettling speed. 

„You’re overleveraging“, Pierre warns, scowling as he lands on her Connecticut Avenue with two houses. „This is how bubbles burst.“

„No“, Kika grins. „This is how you win.“

Charles lands on one of Pierre’s railroads next turn. „Jesus, again?“, he groans, peeling off another $200. „He’s bleeding me through infrastructure.“

The French is serene. „This is socialism with Pierre characteristics.“

But it isn’t until you place your third red hotel on Broadwalk that the table shifts. Literally. The Monegasque leans back and blinks at the plastic monument. „Wow“, he says. „That’s – aggressive.“

You shrug. „Kika wanted to play Monopoly.“ 

Pierre sits back as well, arms crossed. „There are war criminals with more restraint.“

The game stretches long into the night. Charles keeps landing one swaure away from danger like he has some unspoken deal with the dice. Pierre clings to his railroads, bitter and oddly proud. Kika tries to orchestrate a mega-deal – trading utilities, two yellows, and a get-out-of-jail-free card to bankrupt Charles – but he turns it down, smiling. 

„I’d rather die than owe you.“

„Your funeral“, she says sweetly.

You start to win. Not loudly, not dramatically, but with the cold precision of someone who decided they’ve had enough of losing. You build slowly, collecting rent patiently, and refuse almost every trade. When Pierre finally lands on Boardwalk, you say nothing, just holding out your hand. 

He counts bills in slow motion. „You’re a monster“, he says, sliding the bills across the table. 

„You said that like it’s a revelation“, Charles mutters, sipping what’s left of his beer. But when Charles finally lands on it too – late in the game, when the room is quiet and the snacks are almost empty – he just laughs. 

Of course, it’s Charles. Of course, he lands there after you built the whole thing up. He looks at the hotel, then at you. There’s a pause, a long one. He glances down at his dwindling stack of Monopoly cash, flipping through the bills theatrically – mostly tens and ones, a crushed five. 

„Well“, he says. „I appear to be financially devastated.“

„You’re short by two hundred and fifty“, you say, barely hiding your grin. „And that’s with the discount for being cute.“

Kika makes a noise between a gasp and a snort. 

Pierre leans forward, delighted. „Ah! Romance enters the economy!“

Charles places his last bill down, slides it slowly across the table like it weighs much more than it does. Then he leans back in his place, tilts his head toward you and says with mock solemnity, „In lieu of payment, I’d like to offer alternative compensation.“

„Oh?“, you raise your eyebrow. „Like what?“

„A kiss for each hundred I owe“, he says smoothly, „and one bonus kiss for emotional damages sustained while being financially crushed by someone I trusted.“

Pierre claps. „This is better than Netflix.“

Kika tosses a baby carrot at him. „Shut up. Let them negotiate.“

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, feigning deep consideration. “So that’s three kisses total?”

“Three now. More if you offer a payment plan.”

You can feel the heat rise up your neck, but you keep your voice cool. “Is this a legal tender situation? Because I don’t think the rules of Monopoly include mouth-based currency.”

“I’m improvising,” he replies. “It’s either that or I give you Pierre’s remaining railroad.”

Pierre hugs his last deed card to his chest. “Over my dead body.” He looks over at his girlfriend. „I take it back. I don’t like this negotiating thing.“

“I’ll accept the kisses,” you say, sitting back and crossing your arms. “But I’ll be filing a report with the Monopoly banking commission.”

Charles grins and leans closer to you. Everyone else has gone quiet now — not uncomfortable quiet, but that hushed space people give when something sweet is unfolding and no one wants to ruin it.

He leans down, one hand resting behind you on the back of the couch, and kisses your temple first.

“One.”

Then the corner of your mouth.

“Two.”

Then finally — soft, warm, and far too brief — your lips.

“Three.”

“Bonus kiss?” you murmur.

He smiles. “With interest.”

The room exhales in a ripple of laughter and fake groans. Pierre throws a napkin in the air like a referee calling the end of a match.

Kika stands and stretches. “Okay, game night is officially over. You’ve turned it into Love Actually.”

You laugh, but you don’t move. Charles‘ arm is around your shoulders, warm and certain, pulling you into his side with that casual confidence that makes it feel like he’s always known exactly where you’re supposed to fit.

The others start packing up. Pierre is half-heartedly scooping dice and Chance cards into the box, humming a French song under his breath. Kika’s loading empty glasses into the dishwasher, narrating every step like a cooking show host who’s also mildly tipsy.

You and Charles stay seated on the couch, sunk into that rare, effortless quiet that only happens after a night full of laughter — where you don’t feel the need to speak because everything has already been said in jokes, in glances, in gestures.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t check it right away. Just presses his chin lightly against the top of your head and breathes in.

Another buzz.

You feel him sigh against you, just barely.

He pulls out the phone and unlocks it. The screen lights up his face in the dim room. His eyes skim the message, and you feel the shift before he says anything — his body going just a little stiller, his breath just a little quieter.

“What?” you ask, not moving away, but already knowing it’s not nothing.

He shows you the screen. A message from his boss, or maybe someone higher — formal, clipped.

“Need you in Maranello by Thursday. Ferrari x Shell gala locked in. Black tie. PR expects full grid image – don’t be late.“

You stare at it, the words too cold to hold onto.

“Maranello?” you ask softly.

Charles exhales through his nose, still staring at the message like it might change if he waits long enough. “Yeah. Shell sponsorship gala. Some new multi-year thing. They want the whole team there. Photos, speeches, charm.”

You blink, letting that settle. “So it’s not just a dinner.”

“No. It’s a full Ferrari circus. Tuxedo, press, sponsors, probably some awkward speech I’ll have to fake-smile through in Italian.”

“And you’re flying out -?”

He looks at you. “Wednesday night. I’ll be gone maybe four days. Five, max.”

You lean your head back against the cushion, the ceiling suddenly more interesting than the conversation. You can feel him watching you, waiting for the follow-up questions that haven’t formed yet.

Then, softly: “Come with me.”

You turn your head. “To Maranello?”

He nods once. “You’d be working. Ferrari wants content from the whole week. Behind-the-scenes, pre-gala, the event itself. I could ask for you to be cleared as my personal photographer, that you already are." His gaze softens. „And as my girlfriend.“

The official term makes your heart race.

You hesitate, unsure of how to respond. The idea of flying out with him feels overwhelming in the best way possible, but also complicated. It's one thing to be his personal photographer, to stand behind the lens and capture the moments that everyone else misses. It’s another to be there as his girlfriend — visible to the public, to his team, to the world.

"Charles," you say slowly, your voice threading with uncertainty, "You know it’s not just that easy, right? I’m not - I’m not sure I can be both at the same time. I mean, how do I even show up there? As your photographer? Or, what? As your girlfriend? It’s one thing to be behind the scenes, out of view, but to be visible, in the middle of all that? I don’t know how –"

You feel a twinge of panic at the thought of all the eyes on you, the people who will look at you and immediately know who you are. How will they see you? Just another girl in the spotlight, or someone who’s there for work? Maybe both, but it feels like one will overshadow the other.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, but his eyes lock onto yours, steady and patient.

“I get it,” he says softly, his voice careful, measured. “But that’s what I’m asking. You to come with me. Not just as my photographer, but as everything. We’ve talked about this before. We’ve kept things quiet for a reason, and I’ve kept you out of the spotlight because I didn’t want you to feel like you were defined by me or my job."

The words settle in your mind, and you realize how much he’s been thinking about this, how much he’s weighed the possibility of putting you in a situation where you might feel like you’re exposed, vulnerable.

“You said you didn’t want me to get caught up in the circus,” you remind him quietly, your gaze dropping for a moment. “That was the whole point of keeping things separate. You wanted to protect me from all of it. From the pressure, from the opinions - the cameras. But now -” You let your words trail off, unsure of how to finish.

He shifts, leaning closer, his hand finding yours, holding it gently as if to remind you he’s right there with you, standing in the same uncertainty. “I didn’t want you to be part of the circus back then, no,” he admits. “But things are different now. This – what we are, it’s real. And I don’t want to hide it anymore. If you’re not ready, I understand. But I’m asking you because I want you to be there, with me. Not just working, but being with me. And I want the world to see us, too.”

There’s a rawness to his words now, something almost vulnerable in the way he’s looking at you. You’d been caught up in your own fear of what this all meant for you — how you’d fit into his world, how others would see you. But now, looking at him, you realize that maybe he’s just as scared as you are. Scared of pushing you too far, too fast.

Scared of losing you in the process.

“I don’t want to hide,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost like a confession. “Not from you, and not from the world. If you come with me, it’ll be because we’re doing this together. I’m not asking you to be invisible. I’m asking you to be with me.”

You think for a moment, feeling the weight of what this would mean. The risks, the pressure, the eyes that will be on you. And yet, when you look at Charles, there’s something comforting about the idea of being by his side. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But maybe, for once, it doesn’t have to be.

“I’m scared, you know,” you finally say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “What people will say, how they’ll look at me. We haven’t even really talked about us — what we are, what this means, and now you want me to step into that world? Just like that?”

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “I don’t want to rush you into anything. But I also don’t want to hold you back, or keep you from what you deserve. If you’re not ready, that’s okay. But if you are, if you can handle it - then I’d love for you to come. As you — as my girlfriend, as my photographer. Whatever you want. Whatever you are comfortable with.”

There’s something reassuring in his words, something that makes you feel like you’re not alone in this decision. You know it’s not going to be easy. But maybe, just maybe, this could be your chance to step forward and own this moment, both the professional and personal sides of yourself.

“Okay,” you say finally, the uncertainty still lingering but fading just a little bit. “I’ll go. But only if we do this together. I’m not just your photographer, and I’m not just your girlfriend. I’m me, and I need you to see that.”

“I see you,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze never leaving yours. “Always.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, and you feel the weight of them, heavy with promise. You watch him, still unsure of how all of this will play out, but something about the way he’s looking at you — like you matter just as much in this world he’s a part of — makes you feel a little more certain.

“I know this is a big ask,” he says, his tone soft but firm, as though he's been thinking about this for a while. “And I’m not rushing you into anything. I’m not asking you to step into the spotlight with me right away, if that’s not what you want. But when we hit the red carpet, I want you to be my personal photographer. I want you to capture all the moments. The behind-the-scenes stuff. That’s your space. I know you’re amazing at it, and I want that for you.”

He pauses, his thumb brushing lightly over your hand, the gesture gentle and deliberate, grounding you in the present moment.

“But after that, when the red carpet's over and the cameras are focused on other things, when the spotlight’s not so much on me -” His voice trails off, and when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something softer, more vulnerable in his eyes. “If you’re ready, you can come an be by my side. If that’s what you want. No pressure. I don’t want you to feel like you have to. But I don’t want you standing behind a lens forever, either. I want to be able to look at you, to be with you, when we’re not in the middle of the circus.”

The room feels quieter now, his words sinking in like a quiet but steady rhythm. He’s giving you the space to make this choice for yourself — to step into this new world at your own pace. It’s not an ultimatum. It’s not a demand. It’s just an invitation, one you feel like you could take.

You blink, your heart beating just a little faster. “So you’re saying I’d be free to move between both worlds? The photographer, the girlfriend -”

“Exactly,” he says, his voice a little lighter now, but still steady. “No pressure to pick one over the other. You do what feels right in the moment. If you need to step back and do your thing, you can. But when the moment’s right for you — when you’re ready to stand beside me as more than just the photographer, as us — I’m not going to stop you from that.”

You let the silence settle between you, letting the idea marinate in your mind. It feels different now, lighter somehow. The boundaries are less rigid. You could be there as both, if that’s what you wanted. Not just one or the other, not just his photographer or his girlfriend, but you — with the choice to move in and out of both roles when it felt right.

“You’re giving me a lot of space,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “But I need to know something, Charles. You want me there with you as both, right? It’s not just because you’re asking me to do my job. It’s because you want me there with you — as me?”

His eyes soften, and the smile that forms on his lips is quiet, but so full of sincerity that it makes your chest tighten just a little. “I want you there because you’re you. Not just because you’re my photographer. Not just because you’re my girlfriend – even if we haven’t talked about the formalities yet. I want you there because you make this whole thing feel... real. And I want to be with you, no matter where we are.”

The words settle in your chest like a promise. You don’t have all the answers, and maybe there’s still a little uncertainty. But for the first time, the idea of stepping into his world doesn’t seem as daunting. He’s not just inviting you along for the ride — he’s giving you the freedom to be yourself, both professionally and personally, and trusting you to make the decision that feels right.

You take a breath, finally letting the tension leave your shoulders. “Okay,” you say, the word carrying more weight than it did before. “I’ll do it. I’ll come with you. As your photographer. And as your girlfriend, if you want me there. But we do this together, as us.”

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the uncertainty between you both feels like something you can navigate — together.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “It’s always been us, even if we didn’t know it yet.”

[rosesradio]

Luke Castellan x Fem!Reader (smut)

word count: 1,418

warnings: hand stuff 👋, thigh riding, coming in pants (some sub!luke as well, as a treat)

summary: in a pocket of alone time, you surprise luke by wearing his boxers underneath his sweatshirt. he's Unwell about this.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

It wasn't as if you were trying to hide anything. Still, you couldn’t deny how your heart pounded when you were caught.

For once in a blue moon, the Hermes cabin was empty. All of its campers were at an Athena-cabin-organized arts and crafts exhibition. Luke had dropped by the event briefly, though seeing as you had told him you’d be in his cabin, he made his way back fairly quickly.

Luke had entered the cabin with his back to you, locking the door with the swift urgency of a heist mission.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Luke whispered, turning around. “The Stolls can do my unlocking trick, and—“ his voice faltered. “Is that my sweatshirt?”

You nodded, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips. You loved wearing your boyfriend’s clothes, especially this piece. The black sweatshirt had the white Camp logo on it. It was a size too big on you and smelled like Luke, so it felt like being hugged by him even when he wasn’t there.

“You look adorable,” Luke smiled, moving over to his bed as he looked you up and down. “Are you, um…do you have shorts on under it?”

You raised your brows. You always did, though the way he asked it suggested he preferred you didn’t.

“Well,” you started. “Sort of…” you lifted up the sweatshirt, showing off a pair of his own light blue boxers.

“Oh,” Luke swallowed, sitting on his bed. His eyes were dark as he took in the look of you in his clothes. You had never worn his underwear before. Still, seeing as you had hooked up more than a few times, you figured this was okay to try out.

“Do you not like it?” You asked, your tone almost innocent. “I can change if you want…wear something of mine…”

Luke had seen just about your entire underwear drawer, from your sexiest pieces to what you had to wear on laundry day (which you found really embarrassing, though Luke had assured you that he’d find you hot in a trash bag). Now, however, he seemed to really like seeing you in his boxers.

“Please don't,” Luke insisted, his cheeks flushed as he reached out, pulling you close by your thighs. His touch wandered up, rubbing the dip of your hips as he moved closer to you. He did this thing sometimes, ruminating in the feeling of you, inches from kissing you without actually doing so.

It was you who finally gave in, pulling Luke close by the nape of his neck to kiss him. He let out a soft, almost relieved breath against your lips. The sound turned into a whimper as you tangled your fingers into his curls and pulled.

"You're so pretty," you murmured, simultaneously loving and hating the way kissing him made your mind go blank. You could only think of how much you loved him, how much you wanted him.

"Can't believe you're the one sayin' that," Luke shook his head. "When I got to walk in on you looking like this..." he allowed the hand not holding your hip to wander down further, to the hem of your (his) boxers. "Gods, can I?" he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there.

You nodded, humming with clear approval and need. Luke moved his hand further down, between your legs, pulling away to fixate on you. He used two fingers to rub your clit, making your breath hitch as you pressed into his touch.

“Mm, finally,” you murmured against his lips between kisses. “Needed this for so long…”

“Yeah?” Luke hummed. “Beats doing it yourself, hm?” He pressed down a little harder, moving a little faster in a way that made you grasp his biceps. “Beats your toy?”

You let out a soft whine, burying your face in the crook of Luke’s neck. Your face flushed, your stomach writhing with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. Taking in his warmth, his scent, only pushed you further to the edge. “How—How’d you know about my toy?”

“You asked me to check your bedside drawer for an extra flashlight last week,” Luke replied smugly. “It was kinda hidden under a picture of us, and…I haven’t been able to stop thinking of it since…” he breathed the words near your ear, his voice warm and low. “Haven’t been able to stop thinking…of you…since…”

You moaned, grasping his shirt as your hips involuntarily pressed further into his touch. “Fuck…” you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment. “Please don’t stop…”

“‘Course not, sweetheart,” Luke murmured. He snaked a hand up your (his) sweatshirt, cupping one of your breasts in his large, warm hand. He squeezed, teasing the nipple before moving over to the other. “Wanna see your pretty face when you come for me, yeah?” He asked breathily.

You nodded. Gods, it had been such a long time. When was the last time you had come from only this? Part of you wanted his mouth (his tongue could work wonders), though you also couldn’t deprive yourself of your high a moment longer.

Your face scrunched up as an orgasm ran through you, so surprisingly tense that your stomach almost hurt. You whimpered, holding onto Luke, pressing desperately into his touch.

”Gods,” you caught your breath. “That was so good…”

Luke grinned as he pulled his hand away, always humble when it came to getting his work complimented. “Glad to be of service. Now, what do you say, beautiful…?”

You frowned, rolling your eyes at his smartass ways before you stopped short. You lit up with an idea.

“Flip us around,” you said. “I want you in my lap.”

Luke raised his brows, though he complied. “You have something in mind, or…?”

In a haze of desire, you ran your hands up Luke’s thighs, gazing up at him thoughtfully. He was situated so he was straddling one of your thighs, and you could feel how hard he was through his shorts.

“For being such a smartass,” you said decidedly. “You can put in the work to get yourself off. Just…like…this.”

“You’re kidding,” Luke whispered. He flushed bright red, licking his lips. “Isn’t there some way I can get outta this? This isn’t fair…”

You shrugged. “Life’s not fair, sweetheart. I mean, you could always use your own hand, but…” you laughed softly. He would never get himself off if he could have you, no matter what ‘having you’ meant. “I’d get to work, though. Tick-tock…”

Luke murmured a curse in Ancient Greek, beginning to roll his hips down against the warm, soft flesh of your thigh. His eyes were half lidded, his lips parted to let out soft pants and moans. Without the haze of your own aching need, you could see how good Luke looked so clearly.

Luke grasped your sweatshirt, hands moving back up it to cup your breasts again. He kissed you again, his tongue pressing ever so slightly to yours, gentle and inviting. You gripped his hips, guiding him along, watching as desperation coiled within his dark eyes.

"Gods," Luke whispered against your lips, his gaze lustful and hazy. "Seein' you in my boxers is just making me think of—mm, fuck—havin' a place with you. I wanna wake up to you wearing those, and...making us breakfast, maybe..."

"Yeah?" You mused, running your hands up Luke's shirt, exploring the panes of his chest. "Only if you'd get dolled up and return the favor, handsome..."

You could feel Luke's cock twitch against your thigh at that, and you grinned. No matter how far along you were in this, praise always got to him. You grasped his face roughly, your thumb pressing against his bottom lip.

"Aw, you gonna come for me, beautiful?" You teased. "I made such a pretty mess out of you..."

Luke's cheeks flushed, grinding down on your thigh with the desperation of a man depraved. His hips finally faltered, and he came with a whimpering moan. The sound alone made your stomach coil with another wave of arousal, pondering round two.

"There you go," You murmured, running your fingers through his messy curls as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. "Good boy...now, what do you say...?"

Luke pressed open-mouthed kisses to your neck, trembling slightly against you in the aftershocks. "Thank...thank you..."

"You're welcome," you replied smugly. You were sure that next time, provided he wasn't such a smartass, you would give him a lot more to thank you for.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Cause it’s you

a/n what the hell is it with Kazzle Dazzle that always makes me write a full ass story inside of a simple little blurb… chokehold.

request: kaz brekker x reader one bed trope on a heist 🙏🙏

warning: blood, injuries, touch aversion, one bed.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Kaz was tired. Bone deep tired. That kind of tired that made you drag your legs through the pavement. His cane was taking most of his weight tonight, and truthfully, Kaz was ready for the day to end. And end as soon as possible. “So… Who’s going in to buy the rooms?” Jesper let out a painful breath. His ribs had to be black and blue by now. He did cover for most of the team during the job, and the way he was leaning on Wylan clearly showed that the adrenaline was wearing off.

“I would, but if I moved even the slightest, they would see blood all over my dress," Nina’s sugary, venomous voice shouted as she glared at Kaz, clearly still annoyed that her perfect dress, not to mention that Kaz bought the said dress, was ruined because of the job gone slightly wrong. Inej didn’t even move from her shadows. She and Kaz had a falling out while the pack trotted through the damp streets, and neither wanted to let go of their grudges.

“I’ve got it, guys," you said softly, catching everyone’s attention. “We all need a hot bath and a good night's sleep." You rested your hand on Nina’s shoulder as you peeked out of the alley. “Flirt your way through it," Jesper whispered. “Get us extra perks, please." The rest of the team snickered quietly.

You were about to respond when Kaz’s cane blocked your way. “No one is flirting, and you’re not going alone." His voice was way sharper than he usually used when he was talking to you. “I can handle myself, boss," you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Yeah, but a lady alone in the shithole like this... Would be too suspicious," Kaz breathed, stepping out and looking back at you.

A couple of hours later, you were finally drying your hands after patching everyone up. Girls had jumped into sharing a room and had walked you out while wiggling eyebrows that you greeted with a middle finger. Wylan was, of course, sharing with Jasper, who had been complaining about the single beds ever since he stepped foot into the room, so you had helped Wylan push them against one another.

It’s not like you hadn’t shared rooms with Kaz. You two grew up together in the slums. You were the one to pull him out of the water when he finally floated to the shore. He had his ever-going addenda of pushing you away ever since, but you had always stuck around. You had always tried to be his voice of reason. "Shit," you muttered once you flicked the light on. “No, no, no," you breathed out, rushing forward. This had to be a joke. What were the odds of getting three rooms and one of them having a double bed? Maybe you could pull them apart; maybe there were two. You yanked the duvet covers off. Fingers searching for a split in the mattress.

“What did that poor bed do to you?" A voice from behind you startled you, making you lose your footing and go face-first into the covers. “Great now, street grime is all over the sheets," he grumbled. “Well, if you weren’t sneaking behind my back, this wouldn’t have happened," you huffed, climbing off the plush sheets. “It’s my room," Kaz breathed out. Your gaze found him as you narrowed your eyes, “Our room, you mean?”.

He held your gaze. Strong. Unmoving. “I’ll take the chair," he muttered under his breath, stepping deeper into the room and starting to undo his jacket. “Like hell you will, your legs will be killing you tomorrow," you huffed, bending to undo your shoes. “And your shoulder won’t?”, Kaz huffed. “Speaking of which," his movements halted as he turned to face you. “Stand up and undo your shirt," he motioned with his hand. You raised an eyebrow at him. “Kaz Brekker, you’re trying to get me naked?”, you teased. Kaz simply tilted his head to the side, his face emotionless. Before he stepped closer, “You have two choices," he said quietly. “Enlighten me," you muttered under your breath. “You take it off willingly, or I will cut it off your body." You could feel his breath on your skin, making a shiver run down your back. “It’s nothing," you breathed. “Prove it," he dared you.

You held his gaze in silence. You knew that it was probably more than bad. You could barely lift your hand, and your shoulder blade was throbbing. It was almost funny how not the fact that you had to strip in front of him made you anxious but the fact that he would see you weak. You hated being vulnerable. When you finally clawed out of the street, you had sworn to never be vulnerable again. And Kaz hated weak investments. He didn’t do deals that weren’t beneficial to him. And now you...

You felt the cold metal tip of his cane slip between the two buttons right in between your breasts. "Hey," you jerked back, turning away from him. “Show me that fucking shoulder, YN," Kaz practically growled. “Or, I’ll...”. But he didn’t get to finish as your hands clumsily moved to undo the handful of buttons until you were practically panting from the panic cursing through your veins. Turning back to him, you yanked the dirty fabric from your body. "Happy," you hissed.

Kaz clenched his jaw. He didn’t even allow himself to blink as he looked at the crusted, angrily red cut and a handful of bruises littering your skin. He forced himself to put them all into his memory. Because this was all his doing. All his games had gotten you hurt. “Wipe those fucking tears off your cheeks," he huffed harshly. Too harshly, and he hated himself for it. But he couldn’t. Physically couldn’t watch you cry. It felt as if someone was carving out his chest. Your shaky hands clumsily wiped the damp patches beneath your eyes.

“You got out. We both did," Kaz muttered because he knew the demons that were clouding your brain now. He had met them too. You nodded. Wrapping your hands around your torso, it only just now hit him that you were standing in front of him topless. Kaz turned around so quickly that he nearly gave himself a whiplash before muttering, “Go, take a bath.”.

Your fingers were crinkling from the time you had spent laying in that hot water. You had hurried off the moment Kaz dismissed you. You knew he would never take advantage of you. And that bodies in general made him uncomfortable, but the way he had turned away from you. As if you were the most ugly creature that he had seen. Now your only salvation was that he might just be asleep by the time you stepped out of the bathroom.

Kaz, however, was far from sleeping. He had lost count of how many times he had walked up to the bathroom door to listen that you were still rustling around. He had lost his jacket and gloves. His hair was messy from all the pulling he has done. The slow turning of the key made him look up. Your hair was done up and still damp. Feet bare. You looked so small, like this. And that deep desire to keep you safe shifted gears without him even realizing it.

“You’re not asleep," you muttered, barely meeting his eyes. “It looks like I’m not," Kaz said quietly. There was no one else whom Kaz trusted the way he trusted you, yet here you two were as if you hadn’t spent the majority of your lives together. “Did you fix your shoulder?” Kaz asked, clearly stalling. You nodded, and he followed suit. “Then get into bed," "Kaz," you huffed. “I didn’t ask," he said, narrowing his eyes at you. You wanted to fight him, but you simply didn’t have enough energy to do so, “And you?”.

You saw something glistening in his eyes for a heartbeat before he swallowed, “I..." and let out a labored breath. “You can also lay down," you muttered. “I will keep to my side; we can put pillows in between." There was a note of hopefulness in your voice. One that held Kaz in a chokehold. “Lay down, woman," he said through gritted teeth. But you caught it. There was that part of him that he hid. So you wasted no time, doing right as he said.

He watched your every move. Watched your frame disappear between the sheets. Only then did Kaz step closer, his breathing hitching in his chest. The tide was rising. threatening to swallow him whole. “Kaz...”, and here it was with that same velvety voice. One that always pulled him right out. Chasing away all of his fears. He blinked a couple of times only to meet your beautiful eyes looking right at him.

“Close your eyes," he breathed, making you frown. “I didn’t know that you getting into bed was such a big secret," you teased. Kaz felt the corners of his lips turning upwards. "Smartass," he whispered under his breath as he swung his legs over the mattress. And for some reason, this didn’t feel too bad. It didn’t seem all that scary now that he was in bed. With you. You. It was because of you. Kaz turned his head to the side, watching you watch him. And for the first time, he let himself look. Not only look, actually see you. And fuck if you weren’t the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“You’re okay?”, you muttered, your fingers slowly moving toward the center of the bed. Kaz watched them getting closer, but he didn’t feel like stopping you. “When am I not okay when I’m with you?" A light gasp left your lips at his words, your lips disappearing between your teeth. “Don’t do that," he grumbled, his fingers only lifting and grazing yours, and you instantly pulled them away. Not wanting to cross his boundaries. "Sorry," you shook your head. “Not your fingers," Kaz protested. “Your lip," he pointed out, making you frown. “What about it?” You brushed your fingers over it, trying to see if you had bitten too hard and drawn blood. “Because if you’ll continue to do it, I’ll...", Kaz swallowed. “I might lose my restraint in holding back." And then he reached out, his shaky fingers brushing over your plump lips. It took all the self-control you had to not whimper at the touch. Savoring the way his fingers felt, you only let your eyes close for a second, and then there was nothing. As if you had imagined it. You had barely caught Kaz practically jumping out of bed. Reaching for his jacket and cane. "Kaz," you breathed, pushing the covers off your body. But your plea was met with a slam of the door.

[apomaro-mellow]

Corroded Coffin ransoms Steve 3

Part 2

They left Steve alone again, this time making sure he was tied up to the chair tight before leaving him in the basement. They conferenced in the living room again. By now, the sky was beginning to get dark. Winter in Hawkins could be such a bummer.

"So his parents won't be back in town a while. They'd still call to check on him, though, right?", Doug asked.

"He's right", Jeff said. "We can sneak back into his house, change the voicemail to our demands. The moment they call, they'll get it and we get our money."

Eddie rubbed his face. "Somethin' tells me it won't be that easy, gents."

"One of your famous 'feelings'?", Gareth rolled his eyes.

"Who leaves their golden child during the holidays? And when was the last time you actually saw either of his parents?", Eddie asked.

Living in a small town, you saw everybody at least once a week. Either at the grocery store, the gas station, at Benny's. It was hard to avoid people in this town unless they were a literal shut in.

"My mom had some things to say about her from that lady's luncheon the church threw", Jeff said.

"Dude, that was back in April", Gareth said, suddenly shooting to his feet. "Shit! What if he's really worthless?! We just kidnapped Harrington for nothing!"

"We let him go?", Doug suggested.

"So he can go and tell his jock friends what we did? They'll literally murder us!", Gareth shouted.

Eddie stood up and began pacing about as the others argued, all making valid points. They couldn't just let Steve go. Not only were they still penniless, Steve would probably go straight to the cops, or worse the basketball team. Getting arrested was a hundred times better than murdered by mob. It felt like they had nowhere to go.

"Shut up! Just shut the hell up!", Eddie shouted, bringing them all to silence. He took a deep breath. "Harrington said he can get us the money. I say we let him try."

"The moment we let him go, he's gonna make a run for it!", Gareth threw his hands up.

"Then we put a leash on him!", Eddie's hands also went into the air.

"If we don't do this right, we're all going to jail. Or worse", Jeff said.

Eddie opened his mouth only to freeze when he had an epiphany. Yes....yeah a way to kill two birds with one stone. He started mumbling to himself, pacing about the living room again before clapping his hands together.

"I got it!"

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

Steve could hear them shouting above, but couldn't make out every word. Not like he needed to anyway, he could figure out what they were talking about. It had to be him. Maybe it finally sunk in that they couldn't get a ransom from his parents and they were brainstorming a new plan. He hoped in involved letting him go.

His stomach growled.

Or letting him eat. God, it must've been hours since they grabbed him.

He heard it get quiet upstairs and that made the gurgling in his stomach even louder. Then there were footsteps coming down the stairs. This time it was just Munson. He pulled up a chair and turned it backwards before sitting across from Steve, crossing his arms over the back of it.

"You said you can get us five Gs."

"Yeah? Yeah, I can do that", Steve said.

"Elaborate, Harrington."

"My folks keep a lot of expensive stuff. And believe it or not, they let me have a key to the house", Steve grinned cheekily.

"And you'd let us just, what? Ransack your house?"

Steve shrugged. "It's not my stuff. Why should I care?"

Eddie snorted. "And you wouldn't even think of calling the police and telling them exactly who took all that valuable stuff."

"You don't trust me?"

"I don't KNOW you. But I got a way you can win some points with us."

"...What?"

"You've got all the leverage right now, Harrington. But if you commit a crime, then we'd have something on you. And, we'd know you could pull off this little heist."

Steve opened his mouth only to be interrupted by his stomach again. Eddie raised a brow. "Coach got you on a diet or something?"

"You guys kidnapped me hours ago, asshole. You don't expect me to rob a bank on an empty stomach, right?"

"Not a bank, Stevie", Eddie smirked.

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

"Were the dumbbells really necessary?", Steve asked.

"We could always get you a collar and leash", Eddie said.

Before untying him completely, they had used rope to tie two fifty pound weights to his ankles. Getting up the basement stairs had been a trial. He'd been tossed a box of cereal as Eddie explained the plan, the others glaring at him the whole time.

Steve knew why they disliked him. It didn't make it any better though. After he agreed to the plan, Steve was corralled into the van, still tied to the weights. The five of them drove through town until they got to the convenience store. It was just past five pm, but with the cold and darkness, most people were holed up in their houses by now.

"You ready for this, Harrington?", Jeff asked.

"As soon as you get these weights off, yeah."

"Are we really sure about this?", Gareth asked. He hadn't stopped giving Steve the stink eye this whole time.

"Don't got much of a choice", Eddie sighed from behind the wheel. He got out and released Steve from the weights. "If my boys get any inkling about you running, Jeff'll hit you with the van again."

Steve didn't need a reminder for how that felt, but played it off, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, let's just do this already."

Part 4

Taglist

@tinyplanet95 @dammitjim02 @chaotic-waffle @missarte-beltane @im-sam-fucking-winchester @persnicketysquares @estrellami-1 @spookycollectorcandies @chocolateraccoonlights @exasperatedsighohmy

[amyzworldds]

Part two: Silent Scream - Great Cake Heist

Masterlist

Yn stashes a precious chocolate cake slice in the dorm fridge as her emergency snack. While she’s out with her parents, Hoshi, the group’s snack scavenger, spots it during a late-night fridge raid—ignoring the members warning. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Humor

It had been a peaceful few weeks since yn’s dramatic “Offline YN” era ended, and the seventeen's dorm was back to its usual state of controlled chaos. Yn was once again flooding tiktok with DK collabs, spamming weverse with rants like “Seungkwan-oppa stole my hoodie and now it smells like his fancy cologne—send help,” and ordering random junk online (the latest arrival: a pair of slippers shaped like tiger paws). Her life-sized cardboard cutout still stood by the dorm’s front door, a silent sentinel reminding the members of her “greatness”—or so she claimed. Life was good. That is, until the infamous cake incident.

It all started innocently enough. Yn had a habit of stashing snacks around the dorm for “emergencies,” as she called them. One such emergency stash was a slice of chocolate cake she’d shoved into the back of the fridge about a week ago, claiming it was her “hunger savior” for when practice ran late or Mingyu ate all the good stuff (which happened often). Truth be told, she’d forgotten about it—letting it sit there, growing slightly questionable, while she munched on ramen and chips instead. But to yn, that cake was sacred… in theory.

Enter Hoshi, the human vacuum cleaner of seventeen. While yn was away visiting her parents for a weekend, Hoshi, in one of his late-night snack raids, spotted the lonely slice in the fridge. “Ooh, cake!” he’d exclaimed, eyes lighting up like a kid on christmas. The members, sprawled across the living room playing video games, immediately tried to intervene.

“Uh, Hoshi, that’s yn’s,” Jeonghan warned, not even looking up from his phone. “She’ll notice it’s gone. You know how she is about her stuff.”

“Yeah,” Seungkwan piped up, pausing his game. “Remember when I borrowed her earbuds for, like, five minutes and she posted a whole weverse essay about ‘Seungkwan oppa’s betrayal’? Don’t risk it.”

“It’s been in there forever,” Hoshi argued, already pulling the plate out. “She’s not gonna eat it. It’s practically fossilized. I’m doing her a favor!”

“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” Joshua sighed, shaking his head as Hoshi gleefully shoved a forkful into his mouth. The cake was a little dry, sure, but chocolate was chocolate, and Hoshi wasn’t about to let it go to waste. He polished it off in three bites, licked the plate clean, and tossed it in the sink, grinning like he’d just pulled off a heist. The members exchanged looks but said nothing. They knew the storm was coming—they just didn’t know when.

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

Fast forward to a week later. Yn was back from her parents’ house, none the wiser about her missing cake. She’d been too busy terrorizing the dorm with her usual antics—blasting audios at 3 a.m., dragging members into yet another dance challenge, and propping her cardboard cutout in random places to “surprise” the members (Woozi nearly had a heart attack when he found it in the bathroom). The cake remained a distant memory… until movie night.

Vernon had recommended some artsy thriller that half the members pretended to understand while the other half (Hoshi included) zoned out. They were all piled into the living room, blankets and popcorn everywhere, with yn snuggled up next to Hoshi on the couch. She had her arm looped through his, clinging to him like a koala as she whispered commentary about how the main character “totally deserved to get caught, look at his dumb hat.” Hoshi, still riding the high of his cake crime going unnoticed, just laughed and patted her head. It was a rare moment of peace between the two—until YN’s stomach growled.

“Ugh, I’m hungry,” she whined, loud enough to make Dino shush her from across the room. “Ooh, I know! I’ll just grab my cake from the fridge. Been saving it for a night like this!” She untangled herself from Hoshi, oblivious to the way every single member’s head snapped toward him in unison.

Hoshi froze, mid-popcorn-chew, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. Seungcheol coughed into his fist. Jeonghan smirked like he was about to watch a live comedy show. DK whispered, “Oh no,” under his breath. Even Vernon, usually chill as a cucumber, paused the movie and muttered, “This is gonna be bad.”

“What?” yn asked, hopping up and heading for the kitchen. “Why’re you all looking at Hoshi oppa like that? Did he fart or something?” She cackled at her own joke, oblivious to the tension, and opened the fridge. “Okay, where’s my cake…?”

Silence. She rummaged around, shoving aside a carton of milk and some leftover protein shakes. “Huh. That’s weird. It was right here…” She straightened up, hands on her hips, and turned back to the living room. Thirteen pairs of eyes were locked on her—twelve of them guilty by association, and one (Hoshi’s) practically screaming for mercy. Then, like a synchronized betrayal, every member slowly pointed at Hoshi.

“HE ATE IT!” Mingyu blurted, throwing Hoshi under the bus without hesitation.

“Last week!” Seungkwan added, grinning wickedly. “We told him not to!”

“Traitors!” Hoshi yelped, flailing his arms. “You guys are the worst!”

Yn’s jaw dropped. She stormed back into the living room, glaring daggers at Hoshi, who shrank into the couch like a scolded puppy. “YOU ATE MY CAKE?!”

“It was old!” he protested, voice cracking. “It’d been in there for, like, a week! I thought you forgot about it!”

“FORGOT?!” yn screeched, throwing her hands up. “That was my emergency cake! My ‘I’m-hungry-at-2-a.m.’ cake! And you just… ate it?! Oh, that’s why you’ve been so nice to me lately—cuddling up during movie night, calling me ‘cute maknae’ yesterday! You were covering your guilty little tiger paws!”

“I’m sorry!” Hoshi wailed, clasping his hands together. “I didn’t think you’d care! It was practically a science experiment!”

“Didn’t think I’d care?!” yn gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been stabbed. “That’s it. We’re done. You’re dead to me, oppa.” She spun on her heel and stomped off, leaving the members snickering behind her. Hoshi buried his face in a pillow and groaned, “Why didn’t you guys stop me harder?!”

“We tried,” Jeonghan said, sipping his tea with a smug grin. “You’re just a cake-greedy idiot.”

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

The next morning, the silent treatment began. Yn refused to look at Hoshi, let alone speak to him. He’d shuffle up to her at breakfast with those big, sad eyes, mumbling, “Yn-ah, I’m really sorry… I’ll buy you a new cake, I swear!” She’d just huff, flip her hair, and walk away. By day three, Hoshi was a mess—trailing after her like a lost kitten, holding out snacks as peace offerings (she took the chips but still ignored him), and whining to the others, “She hates me! I’m the least favorite member now—I used to be number one!”

“You were never number one,” Wonwoo deadpanned, not looking up from his book. “Maybe top ten on a good day.”

“NOT HELPING!” Hoshi wailed, collapsing onto the couch dramatically.

Then yn upped the ante. She dragged her life-sized cardboard cutout from its usual spot by the front door and plopped it right in front of Hoshi. “You wanna talk to me?” she snapped, arms crossed. “Talk to her. She’s the only yn you’re getting right now.” Hoshi stared at the cutout—its blank smile mocking him—and whimpered, “This is worse than the silent treatment.”

By day five, yn had turned it into a full-blown campaign. Every morning, Hoshi would wake up to find the cardboard yn propped against his bedroom door, staring him down. Sometimes she’d tape a note to it, like “Day 4 of you being a cake thief” or “Say hi to your new best friend, traitor.” Once, she even drew angry eyebrows on it with a marker, making it look extra mad. The members couldn’t stop laughing—Seungcheol nearly choked on his coffee when he saw it, and DK filmed Hoshi’s pitiful attempts to apologize to the cutout for future content.

“Please, yn-ah!” Hoshi begged on day six, dropping to his knees in the living room while she scrolled her phone, pretending he didn’t exist. “I’ll buy you a whole bakery! I’ll never touch your food again! I miss you yelling at me!”

She peeked over her phone, smirking. “Oh, now you miss me? Should’ve thought of that before you ate my cake, oppa. Say it to Cardboard yn—she’s still mad too.” She pointed at the cutout, now sporting a tiny paper sign that read “Hoshi = Yn Enemy #1.”

The members lost it. Mingyu wheezed, “She’s pettier than Jeonghan hyung, and that’s saying something!” Jeonghan just nodded approvingly, muttering, “I’ve taught her well.”

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

The dorm had been a warzone for nearly a week, all thanks to the Great Cake Debacle. Yn, was still icing Hoshi out—literally and figuratively—still stationing her life-sized cardboard cutout outside his door every morning with notes like “Day 5, Still a Cake Criminal” or “Tiger Oppa = Traitor Oppa.” Hoshi, meanwhile, was a walking disaster—moping around like a kicked puppy, whining to anyone who’d listen.

But Hoshi wasn’t one to give up easily, especially when it came to his chaotic little sister-figure. While out on a solo schedule—a dance workshop in the city—he hatched a plan. On his way back, he stopped at a fancy bakery, the kind with glass cases full of desserts so pretty they looked fake. He stood there, tapping his chin like a general strategizing a battle, then pointed dramatically at the counter. “Two cakes,” he declared. “One chocolate—her favorite—and one strawberry, just in case she’s feeling extra picky today.” The baker raised an eyebrow but complied, boxing up the treats with little bows on top.

Hoshi didn’t stop there. He swung by a convenience store and loaded up a bag with all of yn’s go-to snacks: sour gummy worms, a giant bag of spicy chips, and that weird mango-flavored soda she’d once ranted about on weverse for ten minutes “It’s like summer in a can, oppas don’t get it!”. By the time he got back to the dorm, he was lugging two cake boxes and a plastic bag practically bursting at the seams, looking like a man on a mission.

The living room was quiet when he walked in—too quiet. Most of the members were out or napping, leaving only yn sprawled on the couch, scrolling tiktok with her headphones on. Her cardboard cutout stood nearby, still sporting its angry marker-drawn eyebrows and a new sign that read “Hoshi’s Apology Rejected.” Hoshi took a deep breath, dumped his haul on the coffee table, and plopped down right in front of the cutout, ignoring the real YN entirely.

“Hey, cardboard yn,” he said loudly, unpacking the goods with exaggerated flair. “Look what I got! Two whole cakes—chocolate and strawberry. Plus gummies, chips, and that mango soda the real yn’s obsessed with. I was gonna share it with her, but since she’s still ignoring me…” He popped open the soda can with a dramatic fizz, took a loud sip, and smirked at the cutout. “Guess I’ll just eat it all myself. Too bad, huh?”

Yn’s head snapped up from her phone so fast her headphones nearly flew off. “What?!” she squawked, yanking one earbud out. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, I would,” he shot back, grinning like a cheshire cat. He opened the chocolate cake box, grabbed a plastic fork, and scooped up a massive bite, hovering it inches from his mouth. “Mmm, smells so good. Shame the real yn’s too mad to have some. Cardboard yn doesn’t eat, right? More for me!”

“STOP!” yn screeched, launching herself off the couch and tackling him. The fork clattered to the floor as she wrestled the cake box out of his hands, her voice a mix of outrage and laughter. “You can’t just bribe me with cake and snacks, you thief! I’m still mad!”

“Am I a thief if I replaced it?” Hoshi countered, dodging her flailing arms with a cackle. “Two cakes are better than one old, crusty slice! And look—gummies! Soda! I even got the spicy chips you like! I’m the best oppa again, admit it!”

“You’re a sneaky oppa,” she huffed, but her resolve was crumbling. She eyed the chocolate cake, then the gummies, then the soda, her stomach growling loud enough for both of them to hear. “Ugh, fine! But only because I’m hungry, not because I forgive you!”

“Sure, sure,” Hoshi teased, handing her a fork. “Whatever you say, maknae. Dig in before I change my mind and eat it all.”

Within minutes, they were sprawled on the floor, surrounded by open cake boxes and snack wrappers, laughing like nothing had happened. Yn shoved a gummy worm in Hoshi’s face, demanding, “Say ‘Yn is the best maknae ever’ or I’m starting the silent treatment again!” He complied, mumbling through a mouthful of cake, “Yn is the best maknae ever,” only for her to cackle and smear chocolate frosting on his cheek.

The other members trickled in, drawn by the noise, and stopped dead at the sight. “Are they… okay now?” Dino asked, blinking at the sugar-coated chaos.

“Looks like it,” Seungcheol said, shaking his head. “Hoshi finally found the key to her heart: food.”

“Should’ve known,” Jeonghan muttered, smirking. “She’s pettier than me, but cake fixes everything.”

“Hey!” yn shouted, pointing her fork at him. “I heard that, Jeonghan oppa! You’re next on my hit list!”

“Better hide your snacks,” Hoshi stage-whispered, earning a playful shove from yn.

By the end of the night, the cakes were half-eaten, the snacks were demolished, and YN’s cardboard cutout had a new sign taped to it: “Hoshi = Forgiven (For Now).” Hoshi beamed, slinging an arm around yn’s shoulders. “Back to number one status, right?”

“Don’t push it,” she retorted, but she didn’t pull away, already plotting her next tiktok with him. The dorm was noisy again, the cake war was over, and yn's reign of chaos continued—with Hoshi firmly back in her good graces, at least until the next disaster.

[ckret2]

So I heard y'all are really eager to see Bill shipped with an old man. This is what you wanted, right??

(Sorry, it's still gonna be a while yet before we get to the old man y'all are looking for.)

Chapter 80 of that fic with human Bill as the Mystery Shack's increasingly casual prisoner: the government comes snooping around the shack again, scaring the crap out of everybody—including Bill, who's too nervous about getting arrested to realize he's being flirted with.

####

Bill woke late in the morning to the smell of dead fish and a subtle but insistent full-body itch. It was one of the most pleasant mornings he'd had since he died.

Sunburn, he thought. No surprise there. He dragged the false nails that had survived since the girls' sleepover across his shoulder and reveled in the way the pain was momentarily relieved and then flared back up twice as strong as before. Sunburns had always been one of his favorite human sensations, that constant pleasant background burn prickling across his skin and blazing higher any time he was touched; he hadn't realized just how much he'd been missing them while he was locked inside. He wasn't built to be out of the sunlight.

While most of him just vaguely itched, the bands of skin around his waist and upper thighs where he'd applied the anti-sunscreen were on fire. When he tossed aside his bedsheet to inspect, he was satisfied to see the difference the anti-sunscreen had made—the skin was only slightly darker and ruddier, but it was visibly leathery with tiny bumps. It was a good start. Still—they might have been more visible if the rest of him were less sunburned.

He pushed that thought from his mind. He'd sooner die again than admit that sunscreen might have been a good idea for any reason. If the lines weren't visible enough after the sunburn healed, next time he could strengthen the anti-sunscreen recipe and shoot for blisters, that might leave scars.

He dug his nails into one of the more deeply burned lines and was hit with a dizzying rush of euphoria as the burned skin screamed in pain. Oh, he could happily do that all morning. But first maybe he should get some breakfast.

He rolled off the sofa, landed on all fours on the floor, and grabbed Journal 4 from under the sofa—he'd left it there with the pages spread out so the watery fish brains he'd finger painted on each page didn't glue the book shut. He documented last night's "dream"—he'd haunted the halls like a ghost, collecting what tools he could access to start repairing the portal—then hid the journal behind the sofa in the window seat's cushion where it belonged. He still needed to find a better hiding place for it. Maybe after breakfast. 

There hadn't been a grocery run since he'd acquired his new fridge, so all he had upstairs were half a dozen condiments, a bag of tortilla chips, and enough cider to kill a horse. If he could get somebody to open the kitchen fridge, maybe he could steal the eggs, that was probably the single most nutrient-dense ingredient currently in the house; that'd keep him going between meals until grocery day...

Where were his clothes.

The t-shirt and bikini he'd worn to the beach yesterday were still flung across the sofa; but the box he'd stuffed all his other clothing in had vanished. He stared at the shelf it was supposed to be on. His hoodie. Who'd stolen his skin?

He scowled.

He folded his Pony Heist bedsheet lengthwise, folded it around his waist and rolled it down like a sarong, pulled on the t-shirt and his eyepatch, and stalked from his room.

The kids' bedroom door had been left open. No sign of Bill's clothes in there, but he found an important clue: Dipper's ever-present mountain of dirty clothing was gone. Laundry day. Soos must have mistaken Bill's box of perfectly clean clothes for dirty laundry and stolen the whole thing. Great.

While he was momentarily unsupervised in the kids' room, he flipped through Dipper's journal, annotated some of the recent pages with helpful info and added an embarrassing anecdote about Ford's research years (all in code, of course), and stole Mabel's glass pyramid and a pair of pink sunglasses that were shaped like the words "RAD DUDE" from her bedside table. He stashed the pyramid in his room on the window seat.

And then he headed downstairs, trying to mentally calculate the most impactful way to whine about his clothes having been stolen in order to make Soos feel as guilty as possible without making himself look pathetic.

"Hey Bill!" Mabel called from the living room. She held up a couple of headbands; she'd wrapped two pipe cleaners around each that stuck up like antennae. Foam stars were glued to the ends of one headband's pipe cleaners and pompom bees to the other. "I'm making deely boppers! Do you want one?"

"More than anything!" Bill claimed the one with bees and shoved it down over his tangled hair. Mabel was in here doing crafts, Dipper was watching crappy local TV—Bill couldn't get into the gift shop with them in here as witnesses. "Hey, here's something crazy: did you kids ever notice the stairs to the attic have 32 steps going up and 28 steps going down?"

Mabel and Dipper looked at each other; and then ran for the stairs. "No way!" "How's that possible?"

That would keep them occupied for a few minutes. Bill backed through the gift shop door.

Wendy looked up from her phone. "What up, dude."

"Hey, cool girl!" He spun around on his heel and trotted over to lean against her counter. "If anyone asks, you let me into the shop."

"Got it." She glanced at Bill's sarong. "Is this the return of Toga Guy?"

"Nope; laundry day."

"Oh, yeah. Washing machine's been going all morning," Wendy said. "Soos says Ford's been running around in a coat that smells like nasty lake water, so he stole it."

"And stole my box of perfectly clean clothes." Bill refused to entertain the possibility that this might be partially his own fault for making his room smell like dead fish. The smell would air out! "So I'm gonna humiliate him for it in front of his tour group."

Wendy laughed. "Don't do that, man. You know what he's like, sometimes he makes goofy mistakes." She gave him a quizzical look. "You keep your clothes in a box?"

Right, he'd been keeping Wendy teetering on the edge of thinking Bill was in an unsafe situation here. Was there any benefit to her knowing how inhumane his living conditions were? Not at the moment, when things were finally improving. "Shack's run out of guest rooms and I didn't need new clothes in the mindscape! We just shoved my clothes in a crate until we can get a spare dresser or something." Topic change! "Hey—I saw your brother beating up a fish at the lake yesterday."

"Oh yeah, you mean dinner? Marcus was so proud of his catch. He did the worst job deboning it, though. I almost got a surprise lip piercing." Wendy stuck out her tongue. "What about you guys? Soos says you fought Bigfoot or something?"

"They did. Ask the Stans for the details; while they were catching fish, I was catching rays," Bill said. "And I think I was more successful than them."

"Suntanning?" Wendy took in his blatantly sunburned appearance.

"Unless you're about to say 'oh wow, you look great!' say something different," Bill said. "Anyway, I'm a wilting houseplant! I have a sunlight deficit I'm trying to catch up on." He glanced wistfully toward the window in the door and the bright beautiful day outside. "If I didn't have to ask someone to let me in and out, I'd be out there right now."

He'd been angling for Wendy to graciously offer to help escort him outside. Instead, she said, "Oh, dude, we leave the door unlatched during the day. You can just walk through it backwards like you do from the living room."

"Wait—really?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

He gave her a skeptical look; but when he glanced through the door's window, he could see himself standing out on the porch just a few seconds in the future. All right, he wasn't complaining. "Then I'll see you later." He sauntered over and backed through the doorway.

It worked. He was outside. He stepped off the porch and spread his arms, soaking in the sunlight. Look at that—escape was really that easy the whole time. He could have just backed through a couple of doorways. A little frustrating that he was learning this after he'd found a complicated workaround that required climbing on the roof, but this would make his life easier in the future. He walked back into the doorway again.

It didn't budge. He kept trying to walk for a couple of seconds before his brain forced him to accept that there was, in fact, a door there, and it wasn't getting out of his way. Did the doorway trick only work in one direction?! How did that make sense! The doorway to the living room handled two-way traffic just fine!

"Hey!" He spun around and gave Wendy a death glare. She laughed silently. He knocked furiously. "Hey, I'll get you for this, see if I don't!" When Bill had his power back, maybe he'd make her into a gargoyle on the outside of the Fearamid while the rest of the town was nice and cozy in his throne. See how she liked being locked outside. Pyramids didn't even need gargoyles.

She just waved at him, oblivious to the danger she was courting.

He muttered, "Oh, Icy, if you weren't Raina's kid..." She was Raina's kid, though.

All right, fine, no big deal. He wasn't letting anyone think this bothered him. Eventually a tourist would come along and let him in. If the Pines caught him and got mad, he could tell them that Wendy had tricked him into getting stuck outside, and it wouldn't even be a lie. (Would they believe him, though? Mabel would. Ford definitely wouldn't. Bill thought he at least ought to earn points for nicely sitting on the porch like the obedient dog they wished he was...)

A dented beige car rolled into the parking lot; Bill perked up as three out-of-place-looking men in black suits stepped out. Well, look who was back. "Hey, nice car! Much subtler than the fedmobile you were driving yesterday."

Agent Powers almost stumbled mid-step when he noticed Bill. "Er—yes. I appreciate the recommendation."

Bill got to his feet and leaned with one hand on a post. "I see you at the beach, I see you at this tourist trap... I'm starting to think you're on vacation, agents!"

Solemnly, Powers said, "I can assure you we're not."

"Definitely not," Agent Trigger agreed.

Bill glanced past them. Agent Dale was grinning broadly and snapping photos of the Mystery Shack with a camera hanging around his neck. "Wow, this place is so much fun." He tilted his head back to get a picture of the totem pole.

Bill raised his brows.

Trigger said, "Those are investigation photos."

"Sure," Bill said.

"We're looking for the owner of the Mystery Shack," Powers said. "I don't suppose you've seen him, ma'am?"

"Not yet. I think 'Mr. Mystery' is giving a tour right now."

"I see. Thank you for your help, ma'am." He almost moved to head inside, then hesitated.

He'd been doing that a lot around Bill the last couple of days. "Something else I can help you with, agent?"

"Uh—" Powers cleared his throat and flushed faintly red high on his cheeks. "I—feel that I ought to inform you that you're... looking even more exquisite today." Trigger stared at Powers.

Bill—slouched; sunburned; barefoot; fingernails and toenails painted in four different sloppy styles; and wearing a child's bedsheet with cartoon ponies on it, a purple puma t-shirt so large the neck hole slipped down his shoulder, an eyepatch with hot pink "RAD DUDE" sunglasses on top (and faint tan lines showing where he'd been wearing his eyepatch on the other side yesterday), and bumblebee deely boppers—said, "Tell me something I don't already know!" He laughed. "Kidding—that's impossible."

Powers nodded sharply and turned away, wearing an odd look somewhere between disappointed and relieved. "Dale, you stay out here and take some readings."

Dale flashed Powers a thumbs-up and pulled out a tablet.

Powers opened the door; Bill quickly pushed off the post. "Hey! Aren't you gonna hold the door for me?" He had something that looked like a skirt on, he could exploit that social norm today.

"Er—" Powers stopped in his tracks. "Yes, of course, ma'am."

"Aren't you a gentleman!" Bill swept back inside.

Wendy laughed at his grand reentrance—but petered out as she noticed the overdressed new visitors. Bill split off from the agents to circle the shop and try to look like a normal tourist, but he mouthed toward Wendy, "Feds." Her eyes widened.

"Excuse me, miss," Powers said to Wendy. "We're looking for the proprietor. Do you know when he'll be available?"

"Uhh..." All knowledge she previously had of the shack's tour schedule fled her mind in the face of a legit government agent. She circled around the counter. "I'll... tell Soos you're here."

Powers frowned. "'Soos'?"

"Yeah, um—Jesús Ramirez? The owner?"

Trigger muttered to Powers, "I think that's the handyman."

Wendy said, "He took over the business last year."

"Apparently our intel is out of date," Powers said. "Very well. We'll wait here."

Wendy veered toward Bill on her way to the museum and hissed, "Take the register—"

"Hell no," Bill hissed back. He wasn't letting the government know he worked here if the shack was under investigation. "Where's Melody?"

"Out. She slept bad."

Hmm. Strange. "I'll distract the suits." He wanted to snoop, anyway. "Go."

Wendy gave him an exasperated look, but ducked into the museum.

Bill sidled up to the agents, who were inspecting the display of alien-in-a-tube keychains. Trigger picked one up and murmured, "Are they suspended in jello?"

"That has to be a health hazard."

"Good likeness of the real thing, though."

Bill stopped in his tracks. There weren't a lot of places in the US where a government agent could have a personal meet-and-greet with an alien corpse in a glass tank. They must have been assigned to one or two investigations in Hangar 618. Strange; he would have thought there was more than enough going on in Gravity Falls to keep their schedules filled.

He shook off his misgivings, leaned on a display cabinet near the agents, and said loudly, "So!" He tried not to grin too widely when both agents jumped. "Looks like it's just us until the next tour."

Powers' cheeks turned pink again. "It looks like it." He cleared his throat and tried to surreptitiously adjust his tie. "I... suppose I'm overdue to ask you your name?"

"Call me Goldie!" Before Powers had an opportunity to dig deeper into Bill's identity, he asked, "So what brings you by the shack, agents? I don't think you ever explained what you're investigating!"

"Yes, that would be because it's classified. That information is shared strictly on a need-to-know basis," Powers said. "But we're here to check on last week's gravitational anomalies and an odd power surge that was witnessed over the weekend." (Bill loved this chatterbox, funniest secret agent ever.)

"Oh wow. Sounds exciting," Bill said, voice just a little too flat to sound convincing but a little too forceful to sound like he didn't mean it. (Always keep 'em guessing.) "Any leads?" He doubted it.

"Not yet," Powers admitted. "We've tracked similar power surges in Gravity Falls for decades, and last year several occurred concurrently with other gravitational anomalies; but our investigation last year..." Powers exchanged a glance with Trigger. Trigger just grimaced in irritation. Powers finished, "didn't find anything conclusive. So." His voice took on an edge of frustration. "Here we are. Looking around town."

"Again," Trigger grumbled.

Bill was surprised they could even remember last summer's gravitational anomalies. He'd expected Ford had completely erased their memories of the case; but he hadn't seen exactly what term Ford had plugged into the memory gun. "D'ya expect to find anything conclusive this time? Or is this just a routine follow-up on an old case."

"More of a routine follow-up," Powers said.

"Standard procedure," Trigger added.

"Except," Powers said, "that two days ago, we also received an anonymous tip that a dangerous individual may be hiding in this very building—and that they pose an immense risk to national security."

Trigger said, "Possibly global security."

Bill learned what it felt like for a human's blood to run cold. "Huh," he said. "Interesting."

"Witnesses claim the power surge appeared to originate in this part of the woods. We think this individual might have been involved," Powers said. "But it's probably nothing you need to worry about, ma'am." (Bill must have looked more alarmed than he'd meant to.) "We receive tips like this all the time. I doubt we'll find anything interesting here. All the same—"

The gift shop door popped open and Agent Dale poked his head in. "Sirs!" He held up a beeping tablet. "I'm picking up a signal from one of our flash drives."

Powers and Trigger turned their full attention to Dale. "Which one?" Trigger asked.

"The one we lost last summer."

The agents exchanged a look.

Soos hurried through the curtain to the museum, Wendy following close behind. "Hey, dudes! Welcome to the Mystery Shack! What can I get for you, a tour? Souvenirs? Um, bribes...?"

Bill grimaced. As Wendy passed, he muttered to her, "He does not have the grace at this Stanley does."

Powers's eyes darted between Dale and Soos; and then settled on Soos. "Mr. Ramirez. I'd like to have a word with you about your business. Privately."

"O-of course! I hope you don't think we're up to anything or anything." Soos pulled aside the museum's curtain. "Just step this way. Through my magic portal to a world of wonder and whimsy!"

"If I have to," Powers said tiredly. "Trigger, Dale—you two follow that signal. I want that flash drive back."

"Yessir." They hurried out of the gift shop.

Before Powers followed Soos into the museum, he turned to Bill. "My apologies for disrupting your trip, ma'am, but I'm afraid the next tour may be... delayed." A look of panic flashed across Soos's face.

"I can come back tomorrow!" Bill waved off the apology. "Watching a small-town business owner get investigated by the feds is way more exciting! You oughta check his financial records, I bet there's all kinds of tax evasion going on here!" Soos's panic escalated to sheer terror.

To Bill's surprise, something akin to fear flashed across Powers's face as well. "You think we're—? That is—we're not that sort of federal..." He cleared his throat loudly, mumbled, "Very kind of you," and hastily retreated after Soos, cheeks red.

What the hell was that? Powers had been paying way too much attention to Bill the last couple of days. Was it possible he was playing dumb? Did he already know that Bill was the "dangerous individual" in the Mystery Shack? Was he just trying to figure out the best way to bring Bill down and drag him in—

"Man." Wendy laughed, keeping her voice low. "You really distracted him. What'd you do to the poor guy?"

Bill leaned on the counter by the cash register. "What?"

"He's head over heels for you." At Bill's blank look, Wendy said, "Wait, did you not notice?"

Bill opened his mouth. Nothing came out while he tried to reconcile Wendy's claim with the idea of his body ending up suspended in a glass tube in a secret military base. "What?"

"Did you see him?" Wendy asked. "He can't stop staring at you, every time you glance at him he gets redder, you said one nice thing to him and he completely fell apart..."

Bill mentally ran through the last two days. Ohhh. In retrospect, that did explain why Powers had offered to rub sunscreen on him. "I barely even noticed! I'm used to everyone treating me like that! At least four people fall in love with me daily," Bill said. "I turn heads and drop jaws everywhere I go. I've got a whole collection of lower jaws preserved in formaldehyde." Admittedly, not all of them had dropped naturally. A few had been coaxed.

"Most people just steal their partners' shirts, but alright. I can respect a good murder trophy collection."

"There's a fine line between a lady-killer and a serial killer," Bill said cheerfully, "and I'd know! But enough about my love life!" As much of a relief as it was to realize Powers wasn't plotting Bill's arrest, that didn't mean it couldn't change. "What did you guys do with the flash drive with the agents' secret mission?"

Wendy shrugged. "Dunno, I wasn't here."

And Bill hadn't been either. While the Stan twins had been recounting their tragic life history, Bill had been fully occupied at the Quadrangle of Qonfusion, repairing the damage Ford had done before the portal opened and trying to get his Henchmaniacs to chill out about those guys who'd died. (Seriously, none of the dead guys had even been among the Henchmaniacs' A-listers, who cared?) By the time he'd realized something interesting was happening, the agents' memories were already erased and they were heading out of town.

"Okay. Great." He backed into the living room. "If you see 'em again, slow them down."

####

Bill pounded on the guest room door and waited.

"Just a second!" Ford answered the door, his freshly laundered coat in one hand and a Bigfoot fur-covered lint roller in the other. "What is—? Bill." His expression immediately closed off. His gaze flicked up to Bill's bumblebee deely-boppers. "What are you wearing."

"High fashion, not important. What did you humans do with the flash drive you got from the eagles?"

"The what from the what?"

"Last year. Right after you got home. Government agents. Little black plastic stick full of knowledge."

"Oh, that. Fed it to the goat," Ford said. "Why."

"Because the agents put a tracking device in it, and they're tracking it right now."

Ford's brows shot up. He hurried to the guest room window; Bill peeked around him.

Agent Trigger and Agent Dale were wandering around outside, Trigger in the lead while Dale trailed behind him looking at a tablet screen and saying, "Warmer... warmer... colder... okay, now warmer again..."

"Damn." Ford rushed to the back door.

Bill grabbed him by the sweater before he could get outside. "Whoa there, cowboy. If they see you, do you have a story prepared for why the 'superior officer' who sent them packing last year is still here?"

Ford raised a finger. "I... do not." He rushed to the stairs. "Kids!"

"Grunkle Ford!" Dipper stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, sweating and breathing heavily. "Hey—" Mabel ran into him from behind, nearly knocking them both down. They grabbed the banister for support as they panted. Dipper tried again, "Hey... did you know... the number of steps on the stairs..."

"Yes yes, the half of the staircase hidden by the turn in the landing changes when you can't see it," Ford said. "Dipper, Mabel, we have an emergency. I need you to catch the goat! Now!"

####

Gompers gnawed placidly on a paper towel hanging out of the trash can. He detected the subtle bouquet of rotting bell peppers. And was that spilled orange juice? Truly delectable. He took another bite.

The back door burst open. Gompers turned to stare as Dipper and Mabel charged outside.

He bleated indignantly as they scooped him up between them. Dipper hissed, "Go, go, go!"

They hauled him inside and slammed the door.

Trigger and Dale circled around the corner of the shack. Dale said, "It should be right... huh. That's weird."

"What is it?"

"The signal from the flash drive just moved."

"Moved? Where?"

Dale walked in a small circle, trying to get the tablet to re-triangulate the flash drive's location. "Inside the shack."

Trigger frowned at the door.

####

"C'mon, Gompers," Mabel hissed, trying to drag him down the hallway with Dipper. "We've gotta get you somewhere the government guys can't see you through the window!"

Gompers bleated again. Dipper smacked a hand over his mouth.

All three froze as someone knocked on the door. Voice low, Dipper said, "We're not home. Nobody's home right now." Mabel nodded.

####

Bill lurked next to the living room door, listening to the conversation in the gift shop as Powers said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ramirez. Oh, and by the way—you wouldn't happen to have seen any top secret government flash drives around the place, would you?"

There was a long pause. "Why, no," Soos said carefully. "I have not."

"Then do you have an explanation for why my agents detected one in this vicinity... and it's moving?"

There was an even longer pause. "Perhaps it was... eaten. Without our knowledge," Soos said. "Mayhaps by some variety of creature."

"Hmm," Powers said. "Perhaps. Would you mind if we look around for it."

"Uhh... yes. I would mind," Soos said. "Please don't."

Powers sighed deeply. "Fine. We'll be back." The floorboards creaked as he walked toward the exit. "Trigger, Dale—let's move out."

The household didn't heave a collective sigh of relief until the gift shop door had shut.

####

(A lot of y'all have been waiting for the Bill Seduce A Government Agent plot for like a year and a half. We're finally here! Yay!

Back in April when I was starting to write this plot in earnest, I was trying to figure out a reason why the agents would turn their attention on the shack (and the Pines family) again that was more threatening than just "yeah there are more gravity anomalies, again. whatever." And @quartz-the-moth-cat solved it with one word: "Gompers." Genuinely that one suggestion pulled the whole plot together. So thank you again for that.

In the months since TBOB came out, a lotta folks have incorrectly assumed I've made changes to my plot due to TBOB or that eerily TBOB-compliant things I wrote before the book were actually written after. So I think I'm gonna start documenting what I'd already planned/written, because I'm petty and I don't want TBOB to get credit for my own ideas:

The entire Agent Powers plot arc was written before TBOB came out. Adding fish brains to J4 was a post-TBOB addition (since we now know that's how he controls books), as was the bit with the agents discussing aliens and the aside about Hanger 618. And the chatter about stealing people's lower jaws, because in the wake of TBOB I think I need Bill to crack more jokes about gore & body horror. Nothing else in this chapter was changed due to TBOB.

I'm looking forward to hearing y'all's comments!!)

[cottonlemonade]

Epitome Of Stealth

word count: 867 || avg. reading time: 4 mins.

pairing: University AU!Tendou x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff, friends to lovers

warnings: like one mildly suggestive line if you squint

request: fluffy, skipping lectures with crush Tendou

“You are a terrible influence.” Your supposed scolding lost considerably in weight when it was accompanied by barely suppressed giggling as Tendou pulled you through the corridor past many closed doors, behind one of which you should have been absorbing a whole bunch of knowledge right now.

But your friend seemed completely unbothered, even waved it off like it was the biggest compliment someone had paid him all week.

“You’re just saying that!”

It hadn’t taken a whole lot of persuasion to get you to skip the lecture. In fact, none at all as soon as the word pizza became involved.

“Maybe we should go back.”, you said, becoming suddenly unsure of your plans.

Tendou stopped, not letting go of your hand though, “But the pizza.”

“The pizza will still be there after the lecture.”

Thinking about this for a moment he then leaned in, his face only a pepperoni’s width from yours.

“Come on, the professor is always late. He won’t even notice we’re not there because he never has time to call for attendance. Plus-“, lowering his voice he said, rather seductively, “think about how much better it will taste with the spice of knowing you’re doing something you’re not supposed to. Imagine the long strings of hot cheese and the crust, crispy on the outside, fluffy and stuffed full of even more cheese on the inside.”

You started to blush but more so from the look in his eyes than anything else.

You gulped, then took the lead and he followed suit, obviously having the time of his life.

In the second long hallway, chattering voices could be heard up ahead and with the stealth and finesse of a seagull on a French fry heist, he pulled you behind a large pillar, raising a long slender finger to his lips. When you stifled a laugh he regarded you with a frown as if you really didn‘t take this situation as seriously as you should and moved his finger from his lips to yours. The touch sent tingles through your body and you became very aware of his cologne. You hoped he would be too wrapped up in his make-belief to notice the flush of your cheeks.

The small group of students walked passed, seemingly questioning the sanity of the very obvious, very visible couple.

Only when they rounded the corner did he let you go, leaving the warm print of his touch behind.

“I think we‘re safe.“, he said after pulling out his phone to use the camera to spy around the pillar if the coast was clear.

“You know, I think they didn‘t care. Or knew that we were supposed to be in a lecture right now.“

“You never know, little plum.“, he gave you a look of lofty confidence, “You never know where the foe has their eyes.“

“Oh, of course. You’re so right.“ Shaking your head, you followed him further down the corridor.

The front door came finally into view and you were just mentally crossing your fingers that he wouldn‘t let go of your hand once you made it outside. Then he stopped in his tracks and you bumped into him.

“What?“

You looked ahead to find whatever he spotted, then saw the professor whose lecture you were just skipping walking your way, head lowered to his phone.

With your heart pounding in your chest you yanked Tendou out of the way towards a door in an alcove that you thought would lead to a bathroom but it was a utility closet - and it was locked. For a split second, you debated whether to just stand still and hope he wouldn‘t notice you or create a diversion. And so you grabbed Tendou‘s collar and in one swift move pulled him down for a kiss.

Catching on quickly, his hands immediately came up to hold your waist. But they didn‘t stay there. Apparently not knowing where to keep them, his palms roamed over your back and up to your neck to hold you as close as he could. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, letting you take the lead in the kiss but gently squeezing your soft and squishy body all over as if he had to make sure you were really there. The preoccupied professor had hurried past long ago but you were still kissing. When you finally broke apart, Tendou leaned back into the corner you had him pushed up against, panting slightly. His eyes searched yours as he ran the tip of his tongue experimentally over his reddened lips.

“You think he saw us?“, you asked unnecessarily. You didn‘t know what else to say. The kiss had muddled your mind.

He shook his head.

“You okay?“

He nodded.

“So… uhm… pizza?“

He nodded again, his eyes flicking from yours down to your lips and up again, swallowing hard and trying to redirect his very determined blood flow back to his brain with thoughts of all the communal showers in high school.

Feeling silly if you wouldn‘t, you took his hand again to make your way out the building. He didn’t let go of you until he had to when the food arrived at your table.

a/n: request for @haikyu-mp4

I think this is the fastest I’ve ever written a request for you xD thank you for the prompt! hope you enjoy 🌟

[ncis-nerd]

Natasha winking at you in a meeting

grey november au

-You were new to the building. Steve hired you to listen in on their meetings and take notes.

-After one of many arguments of who said what, Steve finally caved. He agreed to get someone who they vetted well to keep track.

-Now it was quite obvious you were younger than the old agents but it didn't stop the Russian spy from stealing glances at you.

-You'd be in the kitchen making coffee and turn around to the red-head inches away from you.

-Startled, you jump, nearly clashing into her. "Sorry dear, didn't mean to scare ya" she hummed, catching you in her arms.

-"O-oh, it's okay Miss Romanov, I really should be getting back to my work." You rush out of the room. Why was she everywhere you went? You could swear she was following you. But she won't do that...Would she?

-Later that day, Steve called an emergency meeting. Something about their enemies plotting a heist and they needed to stop that.

-You took your usual spot next to Steve, across from Natasha. You put your computer down on the table.

-"Alright, now that we have everyone.." Steve babbled on. You were just focused on typing. Documenting everything that was said.

-Steve stops talking for a second. You look up, Steve says "We will have Nat go in, she is the best lookin and our only chance at distracting the guard."

-You looked at Nat with doe eyes. Could Steve really do this? Why was Nat always the one who had to do their dirty work? Seducing the gross older men.

-Nat met your eyes and gave you a wink. Upon seeing your frown, she gives you a comforting smile. But you go back to your duty of typing.

-After the meeting is over, everyone has left. Well, except you and Nat. You were still typing but you're about done now. As you're getting up to leave, Nat grabs your arm.

-"Wait." She said, looking at you. You turn around, confused because Miss Romanov never makes you stay back. Did you do something wrong?

-Nat could sense your anxiety and sees you fidgeting nervously with your hoodie string. "Don't worry. You're not in trouble hun. Just wanted to make sure you're okay. You seemed upset in the meeting?" Nat question.

-You sighed "Miss Roman-" "Call me Natasha" the spy cut you off. "Natasha, it's wrong for them to treat you like this. Like- like you're just a pretty woman they can use to distract creepy men who can't keep it in their pants." You pouted, holding her hand.

-"Pretty? You think I'm pretty hm?" She teased. You were still frowning. She sighed, realizing this is what was bothering you before.

- "Okay, detka. I'll be honest with you. In this field of work, unfortunately most people will want you on missions just because youre a woman. I do lose a bunch of opportunities because of my gender but if I can help the planet then I think it's worth it." she says in a more serious tone.

-Softening her gaze when you ask her why she doesn't just quit. "It's not that simple, love." She sighed, wiping a stray tear that escaped your eye.

-You don't register you're crying until the older woman pulls you in. Embracing her warmth, she holds you close and strokes your hair. She closes her eyes, trying to remember this moment.

-That you are real and you care about her.

A/N: new possible au?? what we thinking? want more of this storyline?

taglist: @ssa-shaylam @madamevirgo @radcherryblossompainter @midastouch013 @dumbasslesbi @krystallevine @ellieromanov @midastouch013

[meazalykov]

tis the season

lea schuller x nwsl!reader

summary: surprises are apart of the christmas holiday

for @katelynnwrites

it’s two weeks before christmas when you make the final arrangements to fly back to munich.  

the lie comes easily when you’re on the phone with lea, her voice soft and slightly tired after a long training day.

“i wish i could come,” you say, shifting on your couch as you stare at the tickets on your coffee table. 

“but the pride has me doing all this promotional stuff… media shoots, a kid’s camp, the whole thing. you know how the off-season is over here in america.”

lea hums on the other end, a pause where you can tell she’s disappointed but trying to understand. “it’s okay,” she replies, though her voice says otherwise. “i know you’re busy.”

“you’re mad,” you tease lightly, trying to keep things playful so she doesn’t linger on it too much.

“i’m not mad,” she sighs, but you can practically see the pout on her face through the phone. 

“i just miss you. christmas is better with you here.”

its time likes this when you regret leaving germany to pursue the more competitive league. yes, you weren't getting much play time at bayern (now being a starter for orlando and winning the league and championship) but at least you had your lea there with you.

“i miss you too, sonnenschein,” you reply softly, a pang of guilt settling in your chest. 

you’re lying to lea, but for a good reason—one she’ll never see coming.

getting obi on board with your plan was surprisingly easy.

“so you’re telling me you’re flying back to propose to lea,” she says when you call her later that evening. you can practically hear the grin on her face.

“yeah,” you laugh nervously. “she has no idea. i’m gonna need your help sneaking around though… like a lot of help. can i stay at yours when i get in? i just need her to not know i’m there until christmas eve.”

“obviously,” obi replies immediately. 

“this is gonna be so fun. she’s gonna kill me when she finds out i knew, but it’ll be worth it.”

“she’ll forgive you,” you grin.

obi laughs. “maybe. just don’t mess up the proposal, y/n.”

“not a chance,” you say confidently, though your heart starts pounding at the thought of the big moment.

when you arrive in munich two days before christmas eve, obi picks you up from the airport. the cold air hits you immediately, a stark contrast to florida’s weather, but it doesn’t bother you. 

the city feels like home, even though you left for the opportunities in the nwsl. your chest tightens a little as you pass familiar streets and shops on the way to obi’s apartment.

“she thinks you’re still in orlando, right?” obi asks as she pulls your suitcase into her building’s elevator.

“yep,” you confirm, stretching your arms after the long flight. 

“we talked last night. she said she’s just decorating and baking for her christmas party. apparently she invited half the bayern team.”

obi grins. “you’ll have quite the audience, then.”

“i’m not nervous about the crowd,” you lie, though your stomach flips just thinking about it.

“i’ll believe that when i see it,” obi teases, unlocking her apartment door. 

“just keep quiet while we’re here. she’ll come looking for me eventually, and i’m a terrible liar.”

“got it,” you reply, plopping onto her couch. “and thanks again for this.”

“anything for my bestfriend and her lover,” obi says dramatically, earning an eye roll from you. but you smile anyway.

it’s christmas eve, two hours into lea’s party, when you arrive at the building you once called home. obi’s beside you, grinning like an accomplice in a heist. you take a deep breath as you stare up at the lit windows of lea’s apartment. 

inside, you can hear music playing and faint bursts of laughter—probably giulia or sydney causing chaos.

“ready?” obi asks, handing you a santa hat to wear.

“ready,” you exhale.

obi opens the door, and the warmth hits you immediately as you step inside. for a moment, you’re frozen in place. the room is full of people—some of your old teammates, like tuva and giulia, as well as other familiar faces from bayern. 

sydney spots you first, her face lighting up in pure shock as she nudges giulia beside her.

“y/n?!” sydney shouts, grabbing everyone’s attention. all at once, heads turn your way, and chaos ensues.

“are you kidding me?” giulia shrieks, pulling you into a hug that nearly knocks you over.

“what are you doing here?!” sydney adds, squeezing your arm as she laughs.

“merry christmas?” you offer, grinning as tuva joins the dogpile of hugs. you’re swarmed by familiar faces, everyone excited and surprised to see you back in munich.

across the room, by the tv, you finally spot lea. she’s standing there frozen, eyes wide, her lips slightly parted in disbelief. you can’t help but laugh at her stunned expression.

“did you know about this?” lea asks obi, her voice loud enough to carry over the chatter.

obi raises her hands defensively. “maybe,” she replies with a smirk.

lea gives her a light punch on the shoulder, shaking her head with a small smile.

when you’re finally done greeting everyone, you turn your focus to her. the room seems to blur as you make your way over, her eyes never leaving yours.

“hi,” you say softly, pulling her into a hug. she holds you tightly, her face buried in your shoulder as she exhales shakily.

“you lied to me,” she murmurs into your ear, though her voice holds no anger—just relief.

“i did,” you admit, kissing her temple. 

“but it was for a good reason.”

she pulls back slightly to look at you, eyes narrowed playfully. 

“you’re lucky i love you.”

“i know,” you grin, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before leading her toward the couch.

the evening feels like stepping back into a life you still hold close to your heart. you sit beside lea, your legs tangled as the two of you share cookies from a festive tray. her hand rests lazily on your knee as sam and georgia argue over which holiday movie to put on. 

the room smells like cinnamon and pine, the soft hum of laughter filling the spaces between conversations.

it’s like you never left.

after a while, when the last of lea’s guests filter out just after midnight, you watch as she shuts the door, her movements slow as if the weight of the evening is finally catching up with her.

you finally got to say goodbye to obi, who gave you a hidden smirk before walking about the door. 

“i didn’t think i’d see you this christmas,” she says softly, turning to face you. her smile is small but filled with warmth.

“i didn’t want to miss it,” you reply, standing up to meet her in the center of the living room. the apartment feels quiet now, the twinkle lights casting a soft glow across the space.

she steps closer, her arms wrapping around your waist. 

“well, i’m glad you’re here.”

you take a deep breath, your heart pounding as you reach for her hands, gently pulling them away so you can hold them in yours. she frowns slightly, confused by the sudden seriousness in your expression.

“i need to talk to you about something,” you say quietly, meeting her gaze.

“go ahead,” lea swallows nervously.

“lea… ever since i met you back in 2020, i knew you’d be someone important to me,” you begin, your voice steady but soft. 

“at first, it was just your smile—you were so confident, so full of life when you came from essen while I came from freiburg. then i got to know you a bit more as the first season together went on, and i realized just how special you are. you’re strong, lea. not just on the pitch, but as a person. you always take care of everyone else, even when you don’t have to. you have the biggest heart, and you love so deeply… being with you has made me better in every way.”

you pause to take a breath, feeling the emotion swell in your chest. lea’s eyes are wide, her hands squeezing yours tightly. you can see the tears already gathering at the edges of her lashes, but she doesn’t say anything—she just lets you speak.

“even after i left for orlando, even with the distance, we’ve stayed strong. you’ve been my home, no matter where i am. and i want to make that official. i want to spend the rest of my life with you, lea.”

you release one of her hands to reach behind you, pulling the small velvet box from your pocket. your heart pounds as you slowly drop to one knee, your gaze never leaving hers.

lea gasps softly, her hands covering her mouth. you smile up at her, your typical confident smirk softening into something far more tender.

“so,” you say, voice light but full of emotion, “will you marry me, sonnenschein?”

“you’re… you’re insane,” she breathes, reaching into her jogger pocket. your eyes widen as she pulls out her own velvet box, and suddenly she’s dropping to one knee as well.

you freeze, blinking at her in disbelief. 

“lea, what…?”

she laughs softly, tears brimming in her eyes as she mirrors your position. 

“you think you’re the only one who plans things, liebe?” her voice is shaky, her smile trembling as she opens the box in her hands, revealing a ring that catches the warm glow of the twinkle lights.

“i’ve been carrying this for weeks,” she admits, her cheeks flushed. 

“i thought about waiting until you came back to munich for the next international break… but now you’re here. and i don’t want to wait anymore.”

there’s a moment where neither of you say anything, both of you kneeling on the living room floor, tears streaming down your faces as you stare at each other. your heart is pounding so hard you think she can hear it.

“so,” she continues, her voice soft, steady despite her shaking hands, 

“if you’ll marry me… then yes, y/n, i’ll marry you.”

“you’re proposing to me while i’m proposing to you?” you choke out, a watery laugh escaping as you wipe at your face.

“looks like it,” she grins through her tears.

you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both laughing and crying, holding each other as the rings sit forgotten between you. you pull back just enough to look at her, cupping her face as you whisper, “yes, sonnenschein. a thousand times yes.”

“and yes to you, liebe,” she replies, leaning in to press her forehead against yours.

your hands are trembling as you both reach for the rings, and you can’t help but laugh when neither of you can slide them on properly at first. “stop shaking!” you tease, though you’re no better, fumbling with her finger as you finally slide the ring into place.

“you’re shaking too,” she fires back, laughing as she slips the band onto your hand with care. for a moment, you both just stare at each other’s hands, the weight of the moment settling in.

“we’re really doing this,” you whisper.

“we are,” she murmurs, smiling softly.

you don’t know who leans in first, but the kiss that follows is deep, filled with every unspoken word, every long mile you’ve spent apart, and every promise of the future you’re now building together. 

when you finally pull away, your cheeks are wet, her eyes shining as she looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

“merry christmas, y/n,” she whispers.

“merry christmas, lea,” you reply, your voice soft, steady, and full of love.

masterlist

[brunchable]

POV: You're sucked into your Fanfic - Part Two

《 The plot goes off the rails. 》

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Writer!fReader

Themes: Comedy - Chaotic Duo (mainly y/n), breaking 4th wall. Fanfic Bucky meets his writer.

Summary: Y/N, now fully aware she’s in her fanfic, tries to navigate the villain’s role but is terrible at it. Y/N tries to sabotage one of the villain’s main plans but accidentally makes things worse.

A/N: Y/N is just a clown at this point LMAO.

tags: @winterslove1917 @zeeader @iamdedsthingz @hzdhrtss @almosttoopizza

@yiiiikesmish

You’ve come to terms with the fact that you’re in your own fanfic, but now comes the hard part: pretending to be the villain you wrote, a role you’re quickly realizing you’re terrible at.

“I can do this,” you mutter to yourself as you pace around your lair—or, well, the lair you wrote. “I wrote the villain. I know how to be evil... right?”

The words sound hollow even to your own ears, but you try to psych yourself up. After all, you can’t be that bad at playing the character you created... right?

Wrong.

You freeze at a loud thud echoing through the room. Oh no. That’s probably Bucky—or maybe the rest of the Avengers—coming to crash this part of the story. You know what comes next: an epic confrontation, full of dramatic one-liners and battle-ready glares. A perfect opportunity for your villain character to show off her menacing charm.

Only problem? You’re about as menacing as a kitten wearing a cape.

You glance toward the entrance, heart racing. Okay, play it cool, you can pull this off.

But deep down, you’re still reeling from the last time you faced Bucky. You were supposed to be locked in a super high-tech Avengers prison, right? Yeah. That lasted a grand total of two hours, mostly because your minions—and you use the term very loosely—broke you out.

To be fair, you didn’t even know you had minions. You didn’t exactly plan for that when you wrote the story. But, apparently, your villain character does. And when they broke you out, it was less like a well-executed heist and more like a disorganized clown car unloading directly into a high-security facility.

Imagine the worst rescue you can think of. Now multiply it by ten, add three explosions that were definitely not supposed to happen, and you have a vague idea of how badly it went. There were henchmen tripping over each other, one of them got stuck in the ventilation shaft, and another one kept calling you "Supreme Evil Leader," which felt flattering but... also very awkward.

To make matters worse, Bucky—looking all intense and broody, because of course he does—caught up with you right as you were awkwardly sliding into the escape vehicle, and the confrontation? Oh, it was a mess. 

You tried to give him a villainous speech about how “this isn’t over,” but it came out more like, “I’m... uh... not done here! Watch out!”

Then one of your minions set off a smoke bomb before anyone was ready, and you tripped over your own feet trying to make a dramatic exit. Classic villain move? Not quite. You barely made it out without face-planting.

So yeah. That’s where you’re at. This is round two, and you’re really hoping to do better this time.

Another thud echoes through the room. You swallow hard.

Okay, no more bumbling. This time, I’m going to deliver the villainous performance of a lifetime. 

You scramble to the center of the room and try to remember what your villainous character would say. You did write this scene, after all. It’s just... harder to do it when you’re living it. Especially when you know Bucky is about to walk in, all brooding and muscle-y.

Maybe if I just stand here and look mysterious? That’s evil, right? Just stare into the distance like I’m plotting something dark.

As the door bursts open and Bucky strides in, guns blazing (literally, because of course he’s carrying), you raise a hand, attempting to look menacing. “Aha! Bucky Barnes... we meet again!”

He pauses mid-step, raising an eyebrow. “You’re... dramatic.”

Damn it! Why did I write such terrible dialogue?

You cringe internally, but you push on. “Yes, well... I’m a villain. That’s what we do, right? Be dramatic?”

He’s not buying it. “Is this supposed to scare me?” His tone is flat, his expression unreadable.

You fumble for a comeback. “I—I mean, of course! You should be terrified of my... evil...ness.” You gesture vaguely around the lair, hoping it looks more intimidating than it feels.

Bucky takes another step forward, his metal arm gleaming under the dim lighting. “You don’t seem very sure of yourself.”

Great.

“I’m very sure!” you snap, but even you don’t believe yourself. You can feel your composure slipping. This is not how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to deliver a chilling monologue and strike fear into the heart of your enemies.

Instead, all you can think about is how Bucky’s muscles look even better in person.

Focus! You’re supposed to be evil! Stop mentally cataloging his biceps!

Bucky crosses his arms, clearly waiting for you to say something intimidating, but your brain is short-circuiting. 

“Look,” you start, hoping to salvage the situation, “maybe we could just... skip the whole fighting thing? We’re all tired, right? How about we just, I don’t know, chat?”

He blinks, clearly confused. “Chat?”

“Yeah!” you nod enthusiastically, jumping on this new plan. “You know, talk it out. No need for violence. I’m sure we can... negotiate.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You’re stalling again.”

“Stalling? Me? No way!” You laugh nervously. “Okay, fine, maybe a little. But in my defense, I wasn’t expecting you to look this... uh, intense.”

He steps closer, clearly not amused. “You’re the worst villain I’ve ever met.”

“How many times are you going to say that?,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “I didn’t ask for this! Well, technically I did because I wrote it, but now that I’m living it, it’s way harder than it seemed when I was typing it up, okay?”

Bucky stares at you, utterly confused, as you ramble. “You wrote what?”

“Never mind,” you mutter, waving him off. “The point is, being evil is exhausting, and I’m not cut out for it.”

Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind—which, honestly, you probably have at this point. You’re clearly not doing a great job of selling the “evil mastermind” role.

“Okay,” you say, standing up straighter, trying one last time to get back into character. “You know what? Let’s forget all that. Let’s just get back on track, okay?”

You strike a dramatic pose, trying to regain some villainous dignity. “Behold, Bucky Barnes, for you will never escape my clutches! Mwahaha—”

Before you can even finish your half-hearted evil laugh, the ground beneath you starts shaking. You freeze.

“Oh no,” you whisper, realizing that you’ve accidentally triggered the next phase of your villain’s grand plan—which you totally forgot about.

The lair begins transforming around you, mechanical arms lowering from the ceiling, hidden weapons emerging from the walls. 

What did I even write here? You try to remember, but it’s been too long, and you wrote so many twists and turns into this plot.

Bucky raises an eyebrow as the chaos unfolds. “This part of the plan?”

You wince. “Uh... yes? I mean, obviously.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know what’s happening, do you?”

“Not... exactly,” you admit sheepishly. “It’s been a while since I wrote this, okay? But look, I’m sure it’ll all work out in my favor.”

Just then, a panel on the wall opens up, revealing a countdown timer with large, glowing red numbers. Your heart sinks. Oh no. Not the countdown!

Bucky notices the timer and shoots you a look. “What happens when that hits zero?”

You scratch the back of your neck. “Um, you’re not gonna like this, but... I think it triggers some sort of self-destruct sequence? Maybe. I’m not entirely sure.”

Bucky glares at you. “You think?”

“Look, I was going for high stakes when I wrote it, okay? I didn’t expect to actually be here!” you blurt out, throwing your hands up.

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re a disaster.”

“I know! But it’s not my fault! Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep your villain persona together when you’re staring at all this?” You gesture to him dramatically, feeling flustered. “You’re like... ripped.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by your sudden compliment. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said!” you huff. “You’re ripped, and it’s distracting, okay?”

He shakes his head, still looking at you like you’re crazy. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told that before,” you reply with a grin, trying to distract him while you figure out what to do next. “But seriously, can we stop the countdown? Because I really don’t want to blow up right now.”

Bucky takes a step forward, eyes narrowing. “Then stop playing around and fix this.”

You fumble for the control panel, desperately pressing buttons at random. The countdown speeds up, and you wince. 

“Oh no, I think I made it worse.”

Bucky grabs your wrist, yanking you away from the panel. “Stop touching things if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“YOU TOLD ME TO FIX THIS!” you protest, but Bucky’s death glare shuts you up immediately. You shrink back, feeling the weight of his grip on your wrist as he pulls you away from the panel.

“You’re making it worse,” he growls, letting go of you. “Just… stand there and do nothing.”

You cross your arms, pouting. “Not my fault this whole thing’s a dumpster fire. I wrote it, but I didn’t think I’d have to live it.”

Bucky ignores your muttering as he works on the control panel, trying to figure out how to disable the countdown. You watch him for a moment, eyes trailing over his arms as they flex with every movement.

Focus, Y/N. Now’s not the time for ogling. Well… maybe just a little ogling.

"How are you so calm during all this?” you ask, hoping to break the tension—and maybe sneak in a little more flirting. “I mean, you’re literally disarming a self-destruct sequence with those gorgeous, dangerous hands of yours. It’s honestly distracting.”

Bucky doesn’t even look up, but you swear you see a flicker of a smirk. “You’re the one who set this off in the first place. Shouldn’t you be handling it?”

“Look, if you weren’t here being all Captain Broody and Muscles McGee, maybe I could think straight,” you snap back. “I can’t be held responsible for the chaos you create just by standing there.”

He finally glances at you, eyebrow raised. “You’re blaming me?”

“Well, yeah!” you say, gesturing wildly. “I was trying to be a villain, but have you seen yourself? How am I supposed to be evil when you look like you just stepped out of a superhero calendar?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, turning back to the control panel, but you catch a flicker of amusement in his expression. You might be bad at villainy, but at least you’re good at throwing him off.

You lean back against the wall, pretending to be casual as your heart pounds in your chest. “So... once we stop the countdown and we’re not blown to smithereens, what do you say we grab a drink? You know, to celebrate not dying.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Bucky mutters, still focused on the panel.

“I’ll stop talking when you stop being hot,” you fire back without missing a beat.

Bucky finally stops what he’s doing and looks at you, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Are you flirting with me right now? While we’re about to blow up?”

You give him a sheepish grin. “Hey, if we’re going down, might as well go out swinging. Or... flirting.”

“Unbelievable,” Bucky mutters under his breath before turning back to the countdown. With one final movement, he manages to disable the timer, and the red numbers blink out.

You let out a long breath, slumping in relief. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t entirely screw things up.”

Bucky stands up straight, glaring at you with his arms crossed. “You almost killed us.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t,” you say, flashing him a grin. “So technically, I saved us. You’re welcome.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘charmingly chaotic,’” you reply with a wink. “But sure, impossible works too.”

Bucky shakes his head, clearly exasperated. “You’re lucky you didn’t blow up your own lair.”

“See? Lucky. I’m like a walking good luck charm,” you say, giving him a playful nudge. “So, about that drink—”

“Not happening,” he interrupts, cutting you off.

You sigh dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

Bucky steps closer, leaning in so his face is just inches from yours. For a split second, you think he might actually be considering it. But then he says, “You still owe me for almost killing us. Get moving before I change my mind.”

You blink up at him, trying to ignore how flustered you feel. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a hero, you’re awfully grumpy.”

“And for someone who’s supposed to be a villain, you’re terrible at it,” he shoots back.

You can’t help but grin. “Fair point. But hey, I never said I was good at being bad. I’m more of a... chaotic neutral.”

Bucky shakes his head again and walks toward the door, clearly done with the conversation. “Let’s go. And try not to trigger another self-destruct sequence.”

Before you can even muster a comeback—probably something sarcastic about how it’s hard to be a villain when you’re distracted by muscles—you suddenly feel a strange tug, like someone’s yanking you backward by an invisible rope.

Your eyes widen. “Wait, what—”

The room starts spinning. One second, you’re staring at Bucky’s very serious, very grumpy face, and the next, it feels like the entire lair is collapsing around you. Everything blurs together in a whirl of colors and lights.

“OH MY GOD, AM I DYING?!” you scream, arms flailing as you try to hold onto something, anything. But there’s nothing. Not even Bucky’s annoyed expression to anchor you.

For a brief, panicked moment, you’re convinced this is it. This is how you go out. Flung into the void for writing bad fanfiction. What a way to go.

Then, with a pop, you land face-first into... your bed.

You blink, completely disoriented. “Wait... what just happened?”

Your laptop sits open beside you, the fanfic document staring you in the face like it’s mocking you. Your head is spinning, your heart racing, and you slowly sit up, still convinced you might be hallucinating.

“No way...” you mutter, glancing around your bedroom, taking in the very non-evil surroundings. The smell of laundry detergent. The sound of traffic outside. Your cat, Felix, staring at you from the corner with a look that clearly says, What the hell was that?

“I’m... back?” You pat yourself down, making sure you’re all in one piece. No villain outfit, no lair, no brooding super-soldiers demanding you fix things. Just... reality.

It hits you like a ton of bricks. “Oh my God, I got kicked out of my own fanfic.”

You collapse backward onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I didn’t even get to redeem myself! Or finish flirting with Bucky! Not that I was doing a good job, but still!”

Felix hops onto the bed and meows at you, completely unimpressed with your current existential crisis.

You groan, pulling the laptop onto your lap and staring at the screen. “Well... I guess this is better than being trapped in my own chaotic, terrible story. But man, I was so close to redeeming myself. Kinda.”

Felix bats at your laptop as if to remind you of your priorities.

“Fine, fine,” you mutter, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I guess I’ll just... write the rest of the story like a normal person.”

You pause, glancing at Felix. “Do you think Bucky misses me?”

Felix’s blank stare is the only response you get.

“Yeah, you’re right,” you sigh dramatically. “He probably doesn’t even remember me. I didn’t even get to finish my evil monologue.”

You sit up on your bed, still reeling from your sudden ejection from the fanfic world. Your brain is buzzing with one thought: I need to go back.

Sure, your villainous arc had gone off the rails, but you were so close to turning things around. And, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want to try a redemption arc when it means more time with Bucky?

You rub your temples, staring at your laptop like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Okay, okay... maybe if I just... concentrate hard enough, I can get back in. That’s how it works, right?”

Felix watches you with his usual disapproving stare as you gather all the determination you can muster and lean in toward the laptop screen.

“Come on, just suck me back into the fanfic,” you mutter, inching closer to the screen, squinting at it as if somehow willing yourself back into the story would do the trick. “Please?”

Nothing.

You frown. “Alright, time for desperate measures.”

With a deep breath, you slam your forehead into the laptop screen.

Thud.

“Ow!” you yelp, clutching your head as Felix meows at you like, What is wrong with you?

“That didn’t work,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “Okay, let’s try something else.”

You get up, pacing back and forth. “What did I do last time? Maybe if I type something... yeah, that’s it! I’ll just type myself back in!”

You sit back down, hands flying over the keyboard as you try to rewrite yourself back into the fanfic.

“Y/N is sucked back into the story... um... gracefully and... with a cool villain pose!” you type, nodding to yourself. “Yeah, perfect.”

You press enter with a dramatic flourish and then wait.

...

Nothing happens.

You stare at the screen, blinking. “Okay, rude.”

Felix hops up onto the desk, flicking his tail in annoyance as if to say, Even I know this is a terrible plan.

“Oh, shut up,” you grumble at the cat, shaking your head. “Maybe it needs more drama.”

You jump up from your chair and dramatically yell, “I SUMMON THEE, FANFICTION WORLD! BRING ME BACK TO BUCKY!”

Felix stares at you, completely unimpressed.

Still nothing.

“Why is this so hard?” you groan, leaning over your laptop like you’re trying to psychically connect with it. “Come on, take me back! Just throw me back into the chaos! I’ll do better this time, I swear!”

In a fit of frustration, you try slapping the screen. Then gently caressing it. Then hugging the laptop like it’s some magical portal that just needs a little love.

Felix meows again, this time louder, as if to say, Seriously, stop embarrassing yourself.

“Fine!” you huff, letting go of the laptop. “Maybe I need to... I don’t know, meditate my way back in. Channel my inner villain.”

You sit cross-legged on the bed, closing your eyes and breathing deeply. “I am a powerful, misunderstood villainess. Bucky Barnes cannot resist my charm. Take me baaaaack...”

Silence.

Your eyes pop open and you look around. Still in your bedroom. Felix gives you an unimpressed side-eye.

“Ugh!” you groan, throwing yourself backward onto the bed in defeat. “I’m stuck here. Forever.”

Then, out of nowhere, your phone buzzes. You lazily grab it, fully prepared to ignore the world, when you see the time.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no... I’m late for work!”

You leap off the bed, tossing Felix an apologetic look. “Sorry, gotta go! Villainy will have to wait! Please don’t tell anyone how badly this went!”

In your panic, you nearly trip over your slippers as you rush to grab your bag and dash for the door, realizing that while you might have been kicked out of your fanfic, real life is waiting—and it doesn’t care how close you were to a redemption arc.

As you race to get ready, you can’t help but mumble to yourself, “I swear, next time I get sucked into a fanfic, I’m writing myself as the hero... and with a better wake-up plan.”

[peachbubbless]

How are we feeling about the SBR anime announcement? I am so excited and I hope you all enjoy SBR fanfic week to celebrate this momentous occasion 🤠

Comfort – Diego Brando x Reader

Word count - 2.2k | Day 1 SBR Fanfic Week

The desert was quieter after dusk.

No hoofbeats. No shouting. Just wind carving lazy arcs through the dust and brush. You’d let the rest of the pack ride ahead earlier in the day intentionally, giving yourself the rare privilege of silence. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe not. Either way, the canyon had swallowed the road behind you and left nothing but red walls and shadow.

That was fine. You needed the space.

You were rounding a bend when you heard it. Not footsteps, not talking-

A curse.

Low, hoarse, bitten off halfway through like it hurt to say. You stopped, holding your breath. It came again. Faint, but close.

You followed it.

Just off the path, tucked between two slabs of rock, was a crouched figure. Blue coat. Blonde hair darkened with sweat. One knee braced against the earth, the other splayed out ungracefully. He was trying to wrap gauze around his side, one arm shaking from the effort.

And failing. Badly.

Diego Brando. Of course.

His head snapped up the second he sensed you - animal-sharp and defensive, but not surprised.

“You,” he growled. “Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

You blinked. “I’ll take that as a hello.”

He didn’t answer. Just hissed as the gauze slipped from his fingers again.

There was blood on his shirt. A lot of it. Dark, wet, and spreading.

You moved closer.

He bared his teeth. “Don’t.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I noticed.”

“Let me- ”

“I said, don’t.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, begrudgingly, like every word was dragged up from a place he didn’t want you to see:

“Fine. Don’t just stand there. You wanna stare or make yourself useful?” 

You heisted for a moment before crouching down beside him, not asking again.

And for once, Diego didn’t protest.

Not out loud, anyway.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just reached for the bandages he’d dropped and began rewrapping them, steady as your hands could manage. The wound was ugly - a jagged cut along his side, too clean for a scrape, too messy for precision. Something sharp got him. Or someone.

He watched you. Like a hawk might watch a storm - annoyed, curious, but unwilling to fly off just yet.

“You do this one blind?” you muttered, gesturing to the half-twisted gauze still clinging to his ribs. 

Diego huffed. “I wasn’t expecting company.” 

“You weren’t expecting to be bleeding out either, I take it?” 

A sharp glare.

“And do you always get this mouthy when someone tries to help you?”

“I don’t need help,” he snapped.

You roll your eyes dramatically. 

He flinched - not from you, but from his own movement - like the words cost him more energy than he had to spend. You ignored the bite in his tone, gently easing his coat off his shoulder to get a better look. Underneath, the wound was even angrier.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t stop looking at you either.

“I’m not doing this out of pity,” you said after a moment. “So relax.”

“Sure,” he muttered. “You just have a thing for rescuing wild animals, is that it?”

“I said relax, not get cocky.”

He scoffed under his breath.

Still, he leaned back just enough for you to work - his breathing ragged, muscles twitching under your fingers. The proximity was unavoidable now, the two of you pressed close under the shallow overhang of rock. His coat was tossed aside, his shirt pulled up, his pride hanging on by a thread.

You worked in silence for a while.

Then:

“You’re not gonna ask how it happened?” he said suddenly.

You glanced at him. “You’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

Another pause. A twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t,” he said.

You nodded.

Finished tying off the bandage, not too tight.

His eyes lingered on your hands. He hadn’t moved since you started - hadn’t even insulted your technique. That was suspicious in itself.

“You’ve done this before,” he said.

You shrugged. “People bleed.”

“I meant for enemies.”

“Are we enemies?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes drifted back to the canyon mouth, shadowed in the fading light. For a second, he looked like he might bolt. But he didn’t. Just exhaled slowly and leaned his head against the rock behind him.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

When he spoke again, it was quieter.

“You shouldn’t be nice to me.”

You paused. “Why?”

“Because it won’t end the way you want it to.”

Your hands stilled, still resting lightly on his ribs. The bandage was done. You could’ve pulled away. You didn’t.

“Who said I wanted anything?”

He didn’t reply.

Didn’t look at you.

But the air shifted.

The sarcasm had drained out of him - not gone, but buried under something heavier. He was still Diego Brando, sharp-tongued and prickly to the end. But the edges had dulled. Just a little.

You let your voice drop.

“It’s not just the race for you, is it?” He blinked. “You run like there’s something chasing you. Or something you’re trying to outrun.”

The way he looked at you then - like he didn’t expect the question, like it scraped something raw inside him - told you everything you needed to know.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

And when the answer came, it didn’t sound like bravado.

It sounded like truth, hoarse and splintering.

For a while, you thought he might not answer.

Then:

“She worked on a farm.”

The words were flat. Disconnected.

You looked at him - Diego’s profile caught in the low red spill of sunset over the rock. He wasn’t looking at you. Just staring into the distance, as if seeing something you couldn’t.

“My mother,” he added, voice still tight. “She did whatever work she could find. Cleaning stables, feeding horses. We lived in the barn.”

He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement tugged at his bandaged side.

“She never complained. Always told me to hold my head high, no matter what.”

His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers curling slightly.

“There was a time when the landowner… he wanted more from her. When she refused, he made sure we suffered for it. Put holes in our bowls, so we couldn’t hold food or water.”

He took a slow breath, as if steadying himself.

“But my mother… she didn’t break. When mealtime came, she had the stew poured into her bare hands so I could eat.”

You felt your chest tighten.

“She stood there, hands burning, just so I wouldn’t go hungry.”

His voice grew quieter.

“She did this for weeks. The burns got worse. Infected.”

A pause.

“Tetanus,” he said bitterly. “That’s what took her. She was barely older than us now.”

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the weight of memories and regrets.

“I was six.”

You swallowed, the enormity of his loss settling over you.

“She told me to use my skill with horses. To rise above. To become someone.”

His eyes finally met yours, a storm of determination and lingering pain.

“So I did. I became a jockey. I clawed my way up. Worked harder than anyone. Smiled when I had to. Bit my tongue when I didn’t.”

His jaw tightened.

“And I won. Over and over. But no matter how many times I crossed the finish line first, it wasn’t enough. I’m going to take everything. Every title, every ounce of glory, until they have no choice but to see me.”

“And then?”

He didn’t answer.

Maybe he didn’t know.

Or maybe the striving was the point - the relentless pursuit, the hunger that kept him moving forward.

You let the silence hang, respecting the rawness of his revelation.

Finally, Diego sighed - a sound that didn’t belong to him. Too weary. Too human.

“I didn’t ask for pity,” he said. “So don’t give me any.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter:

“…Thanks for staying.”

You didn’t smile. Didn’t offer empty words.

You just nodded once.

And stayed.

The silence that followed his confession didn’t echo.

It settled. Low and slow, like ash after a fire.

Diego sat stiff beside you, arms bandaged, shoulders drawn tight. His jaw worked like he was chewing on regret, or pride, or maybe both. For once, he wasn’t speaking - and for Diego Brando, that said more than any monologue ever could.

You gave him a moment.

Then another.

Then: “You should lie down.”

He didn’t even look at you. “I’m fine.”

“Sure thing. You’re shaking.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your second bandage, and your face is paler than your ego is big.” You tilted your head. “Which, frankly, is impressive.”

He gave you a flat look. “Are you always this irritating?”

“Only when someone’s too stubborn to lie down before they faceplant into the fire.”

He exhaled through his nose. Sharp. But not angry. And he didn’t argue again.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And you’re exhausting.”

He didn’t deny it.

You grabbed the saddle blanket, shook it out, and laid it down by the fire - not close enough to coddle, but not far enough to ignore. No words. Just the firm press of fabric against dirt.

Then you looked over your shoulder. “Well?”

Diego stared at the blanket like it had personally offended him.

But then - with all the grace of a wounded predator - he moved. Each shift was stiff, deliberate, like he was pretending his muscles didn’t scream with every motion. He lowered himself onto the blanket with a grunt, clenched jaw, breath hissing between his teeth. Still proud. Still Diego.

You followed a second later, slow and measured, easing down beside him. Not touching. Just near.

He didn’t speak. Just lay there, eyes locked on the stars above, expression unreadable.

Then, voice rough: “Don’t make this something it’s not.”

You turned your head. “What exactly do you think this is?”

“This,” he snapped. “This Florence Nightingale bullshit. Like if I bleed loud enough someone’s gonna sing Kumbaya.”

“I’m not lighting a campfire or handing out marshmallows,” you said dryly. “You’re not that charming.”

He huffed. “Liar.”

You smiled, just a little. “Fine. Maybe a little charming.”

That got something. Not a laugh - too much effort - but a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Close enough.

“I’m not fussing,” you added. “I’m just ensuring you don’t die before I have the satisfaction of watching you lose.”

That got a snort. “And here I thought you cared.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

The fire snapped softly. Somewhere in the dark, a bird called once and then went silent again. You let yourself sink back a little, resting on your elbow, letting your coat sleeve brush his. Casual. Gentle.

He didn’t flinch.

He let out a long breath. Not tired. Not relaxed. Just… quiet.

You thought maybe he was about to drift off when he said, low and abrupt, “You’re warm.”

You blinked. “Come again?”

He didn’t look at you. “I said don’t be an idiot.”

You turned your head slowly. “That is not what you said.”

He closed his eyes, jaw twitching. “Must’ve been the blood loss.”

“Oh, so now you admit it.”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

But his voice didn’t have bite anymore. Just frayed edges. A little raw.

You let yourself lie back fully, spine against the blanket, shoulder against his. You didn’t press. But you didn’t shift away either. Close enough now that you could feel the heat between you - two stubborn bodies, bruised and warmed by the fire, pretending this wasn’t what it was.

His hand moved slightly. Rested near yours. Not touching. But closer than it had to be.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, “I will kill you.”

You smirked. “Naturally.”

“And I’m still going to win.”

You snorted. “Sure, Brando.”

“I’ll be the richest man in the world.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, at least you’re dreaming small.”

He didn’t answer. Just exhaled again, a little softer this time. And when you shifted your weight just enough to let your knee brush his under the blanket, he didn’t move.

Didn’t curse you out.

Didn’t push you away.

He just stayed.

And maybe, after a minute, he leaned a little closer - shoulder to shoulder, weight shared, warmth pooled between you like a secret neither of you would admit come morning.

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to.

He didn’t answer. Just exhaled - not tired, not sharp, just… softer than before.

And almost imperceptibly, he leaned back, just a fraction. Enough to let your shoulders line up again. To let the space between you hold something still and steady and unspoken.

You didn’t call it comfort.

He wouldn’t let you.

But in the silence, in the shared heat and aching bones and guarded breath, it settled there anyway.

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 1: Oh Lights Go Down, In The Moment We're Lost And Found

Summary: After multiple failed attempts at retirement, you keep getting pulled back into action by Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant bickering and teasing, there’s an undeniable tension between you and Bucky—something everyone else sees except the two of you.

When a new threat involving stolen Inhuman tech emerges, you reluctantly join Bucky and Sam for one more mission. As the stakes rise, your playful banter with Bucky deepens into something more, and the emotional walls you’ve both built finally begin to crumble.

Warnings: Swearing, Violence, Smut.

It was one of those perfect days—the kind where the sun streamed in through the open kitchen window, warm and golden, making everything feel just a little bit softer. The faint hum of the city was distant but present, a reminder of the world outside your quiet little corner. The breeze carried in the scent of blooming jasmine, and you were happily chopping vegetables, pretending—for just a moment—that you were just an ordinary person, living an ordinary life.

But, of course, that illusion was shattered by the two men currently sitting at your kitchen table.

“You’ve been retired what? Three times now? Or is it four?” Sam Wilson asked, his voice full of teasing amusement.

“I think it’s three,” Bucky Barnes replied, deadpan, not even bothering to look up from where he was unceremoniously slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips as you turned from the counter. Sam was lounging back in his chair, arms behind his head, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Bucky—ever the grump—was giving you that familiar raised eyebrow, though there was a glint of something in his blue eyes that suggested he was enjoying this more than he let on.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, you cocked a hip and pointed your knife at them. “I’d still be happily retired after the first time if a certain bird brain and tin man would stop knocking on my door and learn how to handle their issues without me holding their hand every time.”

“Oof.” Sam put a hand to his chest and gave you a mock wounded look. “That’s cold.”

Bucky, unbothered, just smirked. “You’re not wrong.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned back to the cutting board, the rhythmic chop, chop, chop of the knife filling the brief silence. “It’s true though, isn’t it?” you called over your shoulder, not letting them off the hook just yet. “Let’s review, shall we?"

You held up a finger, turning slightly to glance at them. “The Flag Smashers. You two could’ve handled that without me. No problem.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. And who was it who saved your ass when you got blown off that truck?”

“I had it under control!” you shot back, but the grin on your face gave you away.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Looked real ‘under control’ when you were flying face-first into traffic.”

You snorted but continued your list, holding up a second finger. “Then there was that terrorism thing in Cairo. Again, easy pickings. You didn’t really need me for that.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I dunno, I seem to remember you saying something about ‘missing the thrill’ when you punched that guy through a brick wall.”

You paused, remembering the satisfying crunch of stone under your knuckles. “Okay, maybe I missed it a little,” you admitted with a shrug, “but that’s not the point.”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but he stayed silent, watching you with that same unreadable expression he always wore when you got into these conversations—half annoyed, half amused, and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“And then,” you continued, holding up a third finger, “there was that mutant with the glowy cards and the cool accent who was doing all those heists in New Orleans.” You paused for dramatic effect, stabbing the knife into the cutting board. “Now, I’ll admit, that one was a bit... sticky.”

Bucky snorted softly. “A bit?”

Sam gave you a pointed look. ”He blew your ass to hell.”

You gave Sam a grin. “And I still managed to get his number afterwards,” you turned to look at both of them “But the point still stands—you two are perfectly capable without me.”

Sam shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, maybe. But things are more fun with you around.” He winked, leaning back in his chair again.

You rolled your eyes, scoffing as you turned back to the vegetables. “I’m not here for your entertainment, Sam. I’m retired. Retired,” you emphasized, as if you hadn’t had this exact argument before.

Bucky finally chimed in, his voice dry as ever. “You keep saying that, but here you are. Again. Inviting us inside.”

You threw him a look over your shoulder. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t feel obliged to if you two weren’t so damn persistent.”

Sam folded his arms across his chest with a smirk. “Persistent? Is that what we’re calling it now? I thought you liked the action.”

You pointed the knife at him, eyes narrowing. “I like peace and quiet, Wilson. Two things I seem to get a lot less of whenever you two show up at my door.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sam quipped, grinning. “You light up every time we drag you back in.”

Before you could fire back, Bucky gave a small snort and muttered under his breath, “You love doing this.” Your eyes flicked to Bucky in surprise. There was something in his tone—something so confident, like he knew you better than you knew yourself. The bastard probably wasn’t wrong, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Instead, you shot him a mock glare, trying to keep your voice as dry as possible.

“I love retirement, Barnes. You should try it sometime,” you retorted, pointing your knife at him for emphasis. “I even have an actual job now. You know, normal people stuff.”

Bucky’s lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile—one of those rare, fleeting things you only caught when he wasn’t trying so hard to be the world’s grumpiest super-soldier. “Not my style,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath, “Clearly.”

Sam, who had been watching the two of you with an amused smirk, cleared his throat loudly, cutting through the banter. “Anyway, we didn’t come here to talk about your third failed retirement,” he said, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye, “Anyway, I’m still waiting for my invitation to come over for dinner one night now that you have all this time on your hands.”

“You’re not getting one,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “And besides since when do you two just casually drop by my house on a perfectly good Saturday?” Sam leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he gave you a pointed look. “Fury called me,” he said, his tone casual but carrying that undercurrent of ‘you know where this is going.’

You arched an eyebrow, glancing over your shoulder as you continued slicing vegetables. “Oh yeah?” you said, clearly unimpressed. “And what does  Ex- Director Fury want this time?”

Sam’s smirk widened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Apparently, you’re not picking up the phone. He’s been trying to get ahold of you.”

You scoffed, not even bothering to look at him as you tossed the chopped peppers into a bowl. “Yeah, because, again, I’m retired, Sam. Retired as in ‘not doing whatever he wants me to.’” You punctuated the sentence by slicing into a tomato with a little more force than necessary.

Sam chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “You might wanna reconsider picking up the phone this time.”

You paused, glancing at him with a skeptical look. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Sam exchanged a brief glance with Bucky before turning back to you. “Someone’s been stealing Inhuman tech—experimental stuff.” His usual lighthearted tone was gone, replaced by something serious. “It’s not just some minor operation either. Whoever’s behind this is organized. Big time.”

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, as if the weight of what Sam was saying wasn’t already sitting heavy in the pit of your stomach. “And what does that have to do with me?” you asked, your voice steady, though your mind was racing.

Bucky, who had been leaning back with his arms crossed, quietly watching the conversation unfold with his usual stoic expression, finally raised an eyebrow. That subtle shift in his demeanor said more than words ever could. He’d always been the silent type, but after everything you’d been through together, you could read his moods with almost unnerving precision. “You’re really gonna make me spell it out, huh?” His voice was low, carrying that familiar gravelly edge, but there was something else there too. A challenge.

You turned to him, already fighting the grin that was pulling at the corners of your mouth. There was always this tension between you two, a strange mix of camaraderie, banter, and something deeper that neither of you ever fully addressed. You leaned casually against the counter, crossing your arms, meeting his gaze with a wide-eyed, innocent look that you knew would get under his skin. “Uh huh,” you nodded slowly, clearly enjoying the moment. “Because you know what I’m going to say.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and for a fleeting second, you thought he might actually smile—one of those rare, almost disarming smiles that made your stomach clench and your heart stutter. “You’re going to say you’re retired,” Bucky deadpanned, though you could hear the faintest edge of frustration in his voice. He knew you too well by now, knew the games you liked to play when you didn’t want to be dragged into something.

You pointed at him with the knife you’d been using, your grin widening in triumph. “Exactly,” you said, savoring the moment.

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “Alright, we get it. You’re retired. But this isn’t just some random mess we’re asking you to clean up. This is big. And it’s gonna get worse if no one steps in.”

You tilted your head, still playing coy, the edge of mischievousness in your voice. “And you two can’t handle it? I mean, you’re Captain America and the Winter Soldier,” you said, gesturing lazily toward them with the knife, before going back to slicing. “Seems like you’ve got things under control.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, and you could feel the shift in the air between you. His tone dropped, that low, no-nonsense voice he used when he wasn’t in the mood for games. “It’s not about whether we can handle it. It’s about what’s coming, and the fact that you’re in the crosshairs whether you like it or not.”

You paused, your hand hovering over the apple for a split second, the playful façade slipping just a little. The truth in his words hit harder than you wanted to admit. You’d been out of the game for a while, sure, but that didn’t mean the game was done with you. And if Bucky was worried—really worried—then you knew this was serious. He didn’t show fear, not easily.

Your eyes met his again, and there it was—that unspoken connection. You trusted him with your life, had done so countless times before, from that first chaotic fight in Bucharest to every mission since. He’d saved you more times than you could count, and you’d done the same for him. But it was more than that. After every battle, every moment where it felt like the world might crumble, it was Bucky who sat beside you in the quiet, his presence a steady reminder that you weren’t alone in this “Crosshairs?” you repeated, your voice softening just a fraction, though the tension in the room seemed to coil tighter.

Sam nodded, his tone quieter now, but still sharp with purpose. “If they’re stealing Inhuman tech, it’s only a matter of time before they come for the source. People like you.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in slowly, wrapping around you like an uncomfortable blanket. You wanted to roll your eyes, to laugh it off, to tell them both you weren’t interested. But deep down, you already knew where this was headed. You always did. It was the same old tune, the same pull of inevitability. They came to you when things got bad, and this time, it sounded worse than usual.

Still, old habits died hard, and you weren’t about to make it easy for them. You never did.

“So, let me get this straight,” you said, raising a hand as if to clarify, the sarcasm dripping from your voice. “You two are here because someone’s stealing tech, and now you think I’m some kind of target?”

As you spoke, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Bucky leaned forward slightly, the intensity in his gaze pinning you in place before you could look away. His eyes—usually so guarded, so stoic—held a flicker of something different. Something raw. Fear. The sight of it made your chest tighten.

“We don’t think,” Bucky said, his voice low, almost strained. “We know.”

For a second, the air seemed to shift as the room narrowed around just the two of you. That flicker of fear in Bucky’s eyes, so out of place on someone like him—someone who had seen more war, more blood, more death than you could ever imagine—hit you harder than you expected. You could handle your own fear, push it down, bury it deep where it couldn’t reach you. But seeing it in him? That was something else entirely.

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to shake off the weight of his words. “Of course you do,” you muttered, dropping your hand and crossing your arms again, leaning back against the counter. You could feel the tension rolling off Bucky in waves, but you weren’t ready to let them drag you into this. Not yet. “And let me guess, Fury wants me to do something about it?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, giving you a look that was a mix of apology and expectation. The kind of look that told you everything you needed to know, with just a hint of regret. “It’s not just Fury,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You know we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t need you.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped you, shaking your head in disbelief. “You two realize how ridiculous this is, right? I’ve been out of the game for how long now? And suddenly I’m supposed to jump back in because Fury says so?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening as he leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest in that familiar, defensive posture. You knew that look. The one he used when things were getting serious—when he was drawing a line in the sand. “It’s not about Fury,” he said, his voice edged with a quiet intensity. “It’s about protecting people. And you know that.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, the kitchen felt smaller, quieter. The intensity in his eyes was enough to make your stomach twist, the weight of his gaze settling over you like a storm cloud. Bucky wasn’t one to dance around the truth, and you knew that. He was right, of course. He always was when it came to this kind of thing, and it irritated you to no end. But that didn’t mean you had to like it.

You wanted to argue, to push back, but the words caught in your throat. Because deep down, you knew what he was saying was true. You always did.

Sam stood up from the table, walking over to where you were standing. His expression softened as he spoke, his voice low and sincere. “Look, we’re not asking you to suit up and start playing hero again,” he said, his gaze locking onto yours with that maddening calm that always made him seem so reasonable. “But this is bigger than just a couple of stolen gadgets. If they’re after Inhumans, you’re not gonna be able to sit this one out.”

You held his gaze for a long moment, the familiar pull of responsibility growing heavier with every word, pressing down on your shoulders like it always did. Sam had this infuriating way of making things sound so logical, so reasonable, and yet utterly impossible to refuse. It was like he knew exactly which buttons to push, how to make you see the bigger picture.

Bucky didn’t even need to say a word. The fear you’d seen in his eyes earlier still lingered, a shadow that hadn’t quite gone away. It wasn’t something you were used to seeing from him—Bucky, who had stared down gods and monsters without flinching. But if he was worried, *really* worried, then this was far worse than they were letting on. You could feel it in the air, the way neither he nor Sam had cracked a joke, hadn’t tried to lighten the mood even once. This was serious. And if they were here, asking for your help, it meant they were out of options.

You let out a long, resigned breath, feeling the weight of their silent expectations pressing down on you. “I’m not un-retiring,” you finally said, holding up a hand in warning, preemptively stopping any celebrations before they even started. “This is just a favor.”

Bucky stood, his expression softening just a fraction. You could see it—how hard he was trying to hide the flicker of relief that crossed his face. But you caught it. He was too easy to read, at least for you. “Right,” he said, his voice quieter but steady. “Just a favor.”

You shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. “Exactly. A favor,” you repeated, making sure he knew where you stood on this.

Sam, clearly feeling the shift in the room, clapped you on the shoulder, a wide, triumphant grin spreading across his face. “See? We knew you couldn’t resist,” he said, his tone smug, as if he’d just won a bet.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you turned back to the counter, picking up your knife to finish chopping the vegetables you’d abandoned earlier. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. After this, I’m going back to my actual job. You know, the one that doesn’t involve me getting shot at.”

Sam snorted, leaning casually against the kitchen island, arms crossed, that damn smirk still plastered on his face. “Yeah, sure. You keep telling yourself that. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, one that said, I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, but Sam just grinned wider. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to retire, and he damn well knew it. He also knew how impossible it was for you to stay away whenever things went south.

Bucky, now standing with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, leaned back against the wall, giving you a sidelong glance. His voice was low, teasing, though there was an undercurrent of truth in it. “You won’t stay gone for too long. You never do.”

You paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board for a second longer than necessary, letting his words hang in the air. He wasn’t wrong, and you both knew it. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to step away from the chaos, and it wouldn’t be the first time you got pulled back in. But that didn’t mean you had to admit it aloud.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered under your breath, not looking up as you resumed chopping. “Don’t get ahead of yourselves.”

Sam chuckled, pushing off the counter to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Oh, we’re ahead of ourselves? You were ‘retired’ for what, two years before you got involved with S.W.O.R.D.?” He took a bite of the apple, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

You shot him a dry look, not stopping your chopping. “Oh, that was a mistake and a half. Ever been mindfucked by a grieving woman who can rewrite reality on a whim? Not exactly on my Top Ten list of fun experiences,” you grumbled, the memory still a sore spot. “Definitely not a fan.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, still chewing, clearly enjoying the banter. “And how long did you swear off helping people after that? Because if I remember right, you said you were done—and then, what happened? I asked you to help with the Flag Smashers, and next thing I know, you’re right back in it. Then someone else came knocking, and BAM, there you go again.”

You glared at him, pointing the knife in his direction, the sharp edge glinting under the kitchen light. “All you’re proving to me,” you said, deadpan, “is that I’m a pushover who can’t set boundaries.”

Sam nearly choked on his apple as he laughed. “Pushover? Nah. You’re just bad at saying no when it counts.” You opened your mouth to argue, but Bucky cut in before you had the chance. His voice was calm, though you could hear the teasing edge in it. “Come on, Sam. Give her some credit. She lasted a whole eight months this time.”

You narrowed your eyes at Bucky, but he wasn’t looking at you. His attention was on Sam, the corner of his mouth twitching in that almost-smile he tried to hide. He was joking—he always did when things got tense—but there was something else in his eyes. That glint of worry he couldn’t quite mask, even behind the banter. It was subtle, but you’d learned how to read him, how to see the way his shoulders tightened when he was anxious, the way his brow furrowed when he was thinking too hard. And despite his attempt to keep things light, you could tell this mission wasn’t sitting right with him. He was worried—about you.

“Eight months is impressive,” Sam chimed in, nodding sagely, as if you weren’t standing right there. “I mean, that’s gotta be some kind of record, right? For someone who’s addicted to saving the world?”

You groaned, setting the knife down with a little more force than necessary. “You two are the worst,” you muttered, but the faint smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. You couldn’t stay mad at them, not really. “I should never have let you in.”

Bucky gave you a knowing look, his voice soft but still teasing. “You didn’t really have a choice. We would’ve just broken in.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something about the way he said it, the way his voice softened around the edges when he was talking to you. It made your heart skip, just for a moment, a flicker of something more beneath the surface. You’d known Bucky for a long time now—long enough to understand the walls he kept up, the distance he tried to maintain. But lately, there had been cracks in those walls. Little moments where the tension between you wasn’t just about the mission, or the danger, or even the banter. It was something deeper, something you hadn’t quite figured out how to deal with.

“Exactly,” Sam said, grinning as he leaned casually against the counter. “You can’t get rid of us that easily.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to focus on anything but the way Bucky’s presence seemed to fill the room. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Bucky’s expression softened, just enough for you to notice. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you both ever so slightly. His voice dropped a little lower, and there was a quiet sincerity in his words that made your heart do that annoying little flip again. “It is a good thing. Because you know we’d do the same for you.”

The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, yet layered with meaning, made warmth spread through your chest. You knew he would. You didn’t doubt it for a second. Bucky wasn’t the type to say things he didn’t mean, and when it came to you, he always seemed to mean more than he actually said. You’d felt it in the way he looked at you after missions, the way his hand lingered on your arm just a little too long when he was checking to see if you were okay. The way his gaze would soften, as if he was seeing something in you that even you hadn’t fully grasped.

“Yeah, well,” you said, tearing your eyes away from his intense gaze and looking back down at the cutting board. You needed a distraction, something to ground you before you lost yourself in whatever was simmering between you and Bucky. “Just don’t expect me to make a habit of this.”

Sam chuckled from his spot by the counter. “Don’t worry. We’ll send you a postcard when we’re out saving the world.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into that almost-smile again, and for a brief second, the tension that had been weighing down the room seemed to lift. His eyes lingered on you, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze even with your back turned. It was like he was saying something without saying anything at all. And it made you wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like if you just stopped pretending there wasn’t something more between you.

“Sure,” you said, the sarcasm thick in your voice. “I’ll frame it.”

Sam grinned, tossing the apple core into the trash with a smirk. “Even better. You can hang it next to your retirement papers.”

You groaned, turning back to the vegetables, the familiar banter easing some of the tension in your chest. “I hate you both.”

But as you went back to chopping, the knife moving rhythmically over the cutting board, you couldn’t stop your mind from drifting back to Bucky. The way he’d looked at you just a moment ago, his expression soft, his voice low and full of unspoken promises. It was ridiculous, really. You were supposed to be retired, supposed to be out of this life. Yet here you were, roped back in by the same people who always pulled you under—and by the man who, despite all your best efforts, had found a way into your heart.

Because the truth was, you didn’t really hate them. Not even close.

And when it came to Bucky, you weren’t sure you could ever stay away. No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself this was just another mission, another favor, something about him always pulled you back in. It was frustrating—but also undeniable.

You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the warm, fuzzy feelings creeping into your chest. The last thing you needed was to get all sentimental in front of them. “Alright, enough with the bromance,” you said, your voice cutting through the air, aiming to bring things back to the task at hand. “What’s the plan?”

Sam straightened up immediately, slipping back into his familiar role with ease. He was all business again, though the grin from your little exchange hadn’t quite left his face. “We’ll brief you on the way. Fury’s got intel, and we’ve already got a lead on where they’re keeping the stolen tech.”

You raised an eyebrow, gesturing between the two of them as if the absurdity of the situation had just dawned on you. “Oh, you’re ready to go right now?” There was a playful incredulity in your voice, as if the sheer audacity of them showing up at your doorstep and expecting you to drop everything hadn’t fully hit you until this moment.

Bucky shrugged, utterly unfazed, his tone casual. “No better time than the present.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, pointing to the food on the counter as you turned back toward the stove. “I’m cooking, Barnes. I’m not wasting this. Saving the world can wait until I’ve finished dinner.” You waved a hand dismissively, like the fate of the world was no bigger than an afternoon errand. “Pull up a chair,” you added, turning back to the chopping board, resuming your task as if you hadn’t just agreed to help them thwart a major global threat.

Behind you, Sam and Bucky exchanged a look. Sam’s eyebrows raised slightly, and he passed Bucky a knowing grin—the kind that said, See? Told you she’d come around. Bucky, for his part, gave Sam a small, soft smile in return, one of those rare, almost imperceptible expressions that only those really close to him would ever notice.

They missed you. And now that they were here, in your kitchen, it was more apparent than ever.

“Well, you heard the lady,” Sam said, pulling out a chair and plopping down at your kitchen table, clearly amused by the sudden shift in pace. “Guess saving the world can wait for dinner.”

Bucky, after a moment’s hesitation, followed suit, settling into the chair beside Sam. His eyes lingered on you for a second longer than usual, something unspoken passing between the three of you as the earlier tension faded into something warmer—something more familiar. “You always did have your priorities straight,” he muttered, his voice teasing, but with a hint of genuine admiration.

“Damn right,” you replied without missing a beat, not looking up from your task as you tossed some vegetables into the pan. The sizzle filled the quiet as you added, “I’m not about to burn a perfectly good meal just because Fury’s got his knickers in a twist.”

You could hear Sam chuckling behind you, and you imagined the way he was probably shaking his head—half-amused, half-impressed by your ability to turn life-threatening situations into something routine.

“So, what are we having?” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair, clearly settling in for the long haul now that dinner was on the agenda.

You shrugged as you stirred the pan. “Stir-fry. Something simple.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You’ve gone soft. I seem to remember you used to cook meals that could feed an army.”

You threw a look over your shoulder at him, your eyes narrowing playfully. “That was back when I was an army. Now I’m just a humble civilian, remember?”

Sam snorted, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, right. ‘Humble civilian’ my ass.”

You smiled, shaking your head as you turned back to the stove. “Believe what you want, Wilson. I’m retired. This is me living the quiet life. I even mowed my lawn the other week.”

Bucky leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms, giving you a long, considering look. His gaze was steady, unblinking, as if he were trying to read between the lines of your words. “You’re really gonna stick with that story, huh?”

You waved the spatula at him, eyes narrowing again, but this time there was a playful edge to it. “I told you already: this is just a favor. One time only.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into that almost-smile again, this one more visible than the last. He leaned forward slightly, casting a quick glance at Sam before turning back to you. “You know we don’t believe that for a second.”

Your eyes flicked up from the pan, meeting Bucky’s for a brief, charged moment. There was something about the way he looked at you—something that made your heart beat just a little faster. You hated how easily he could do that to you, how effortlessly he could make you feel like the world outside didn’t matter as much as the small, quiet moments like this.

But you couldn’t let him know that. Not yet.

“Believe what you want,” you said, turning back to the stove with a shrug that you hoped looked more nonchalant than you felt. “I’m not getting dragged back into this mess for good.”

Sam, ever the opportunist, jumped in with a grin. “Sure, sure. And next week, when one of your buddies call, I’m sure you’ll be… what? Mowing the lawn again?”

You shot him a look. “I’m serious, Sam.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly not convinced. “Just like you were serious when you said you were done after getting shot in Madripoor.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Bucky beat you to it, his voice cutting in with that same calm, steady reassurance. “Just a favor. We get it.” His tone was teasing, but there was something behind it—something softer, like he was trying to meet you halfway.

Your eyes met his again, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, more intimate. There was a warmth in his gaze that made you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for. It was the kind of look that made you want to say more than you should, the kind of look that made you wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was something more than friendship between you two. Something you’d both been dancing around for far too long.

But before you could say anything, Sam’s voice broke the moment. “So, what’s for dessert?”

You blinked, the spell broken, and turned back to the stove with a sigh of exaggerated exasperation. “Dessert? I’m already feeding you dinner, Wilson. What more do you want?”

Sam grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Just checking. You know, in case we need to carbo-load for the world-saving we’re doing after this.”

Bucky chuckled, his eyes still lingering on you for just a second longer before he leaned back in his chair as well, arms crossed. “If she’s making dessert, we’ll be here all night.”

You shot them both a look. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you both out yet.”

But the truth was, you liked having them here. You liked the way Sam’s laugh filled the room, bringing with it a familiar sense of ease, and the way Bucky’s quiet, steady presence grounded you, even when he wasn’t saying much. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, but comforting—a reminder that some bonds didn’t need words. You liked the way this felt—like home. And maybe that was the real reason you could never stay away.

Because when it came to Bucky—and Sam, too, if you were being honest—it wasn’t just about the missions, or the thrill of saving the world. They weren’t just your team. They were your family.

Even if you’d never admit that out loud.

The three of you fell into a comfortable silence after that, the only sound the soft sizzle of the food cooking and the rhythmic clinking of utensils against plates. The smell of stir-fry filled the kitchen, warm and inviting, and for a few minutes, it almost felt like the old days—back before everything got so complicated. Before you’d decided to walk away. The banter, the easy camaraderie, the way you fit together like puzzle pieces—it was all still there, just buried under layers of time and distance, waiting for moments like this to resurface.

As you plated the food and set it down in front of them, you couldn’t help but glance between Sam and Bucky, feeling that familiar, strange warmth again. There was something about seeing them here, sitting at your table, that stirred something deep inside you.

And maybe—just maybe—you’d missed the thrill, too. The adrenaline, the missions, the way the world always seemed like it was on the brink of something big, and you were the one who could tip the scales. You had walked away from it all, but now, standing here with them, it didn’t seem quite as distant as it once had. It felt close, tangible, like it was pulling you back in before you even realized it.

Sam took a bite, nodding in approval. “Not bad. Definitely better than MREs.”

Bucky grunted his agreement, though he was already halfway through his plate, eating with the quiet efficiency of a man who’d spent too many years not knowing where his next meal would come from. You watched the two of them for a moment, leaning against the counter with your arms crossed, suddenly feeling like an outsider in your own kitchen. But it wasn’t a bad feeling—it was one of contentment, of seeing the people you care about in a rare moment of peace.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “are you two gonna brief me, or are you just here for the free food?”

Sam wiped his mouth, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Oh, we’ll brief you. But first…” He paused, his expression shifting slightly, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something more genuine. “Thanks for this. For helping. We know it’s not easy being dragged back in.”

Bucky, who had been quiet as usual, nodded, his gaze meeting yours. His expression was softer than it usually was—unguarded, almost vulnerable, in that way he sometimes got when he was trying to say something he wasn’t quite sure how to put into words. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low but sincere. “We appreciate it.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off like it was no big deal, though the warmth in your chest told a different story. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not un-retired, remember? This is just a one-time thing.”

Bucky caught your eye, and for a moment, something passed between you—something unspoken, something you weren’t ready to acknowledge just yet. His expression was unreadable, but there was a challenge in his gaze, a quiet understanding that made your heart skip a beat. “Sure,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “Whatever you say.”

There it was again—that invisible pull between the two of you, the one that had been there for as long as you could remember. It was subtle, but undeniable, like the gravity that kept you orbiting around each other, no matter how hard you tried to break free. You could tell yourself this was just a favor, just one mission, but deep down, you knew better. You knew that Bucky’s presence in your life was something you could never fully walk away from.

Sam chuckled, pushing his empty plate aside. “Alright, let’s get to it. Here’s what we know…”

As they began to lay out the details of the mission—Fury’s intel, the stolen tech, the possible locations—you listened intently, your brain shifting into tactical mode almost immediately. It was like slipping into an old, well-worn jacket. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this—the strategizing, the planning, the feeling that you were part of something bigger than yourself.

But even as you focused on the details, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t going to be as ‘one-time only’ as you’d planned.

Because the truth was, you liked this. You liked the way Sam’s voice filled the space, the way Bucky’s quiet presence anchored you. You liked the sense of purpose that came with being part of something this important, and the way you felt like you belonged when you were with them.

Maybe you were exactly where you needed to be.

And as Bucky’s eyes flicked over to you again, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer than necessary, you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same. <><><><><><> The night air was crisp, the kind of cold that settled in your bones, made worse by the biting wind that whispered through the trees. The cabin where Nick Fury was staying loomed ahead, isolated and quiet, nestled deep in the woods. It was larger than you expected—more of a lodge than a cabin really—with dark wooden beams and wide windows that reflected the sliver of moonlight hanging overhead. The gravel driveway crunched beneath your feet as you stepped out of the car, the sound jarring in the otherwise still night.

“Four and a half hours I’ve just spent in that car with the two of you,” Bucky began, pulling your duffle bag out of the trunk with more force than necessary. His breath came out in misty puffs, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched as he spoke. “I keep forgetting how much of a nightmare it is.”

You climbed out of the passenger seat, stretching your legs as the cold air hit your face. “What? You saying my singing’s bad?” There was a feigned offense in your voice, but Bucky’s expression didn’t soften.

“I’m saying in the kindest way possible to not quit your day job,” Bucky replied, slamming the trunk shut with a thud that echoed into the night.

Sam, ever the mediator, moved around to stand beside you, his boots crunching on the gravel as he grinned. “Hey, I think it was great.”

You smiled, grateful for the support. “Thank you.”

“Talent recognizes talent,” Sam continued, with a smugness that made you laugh out loud.

Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he slung your bag over his shoulder. “If you two are done patting each other on the back, Fury’s waiting.”

The three of you made your way toward the cabin, the soft glow of a light from inside spilling onto the porch. The door was solid, old wood, and the cabin itself had a rugged charm to it, like something out of a survivalist’s dream. It was the kind of place that felt cut off from the rest of the world—a perfect hideaway for someone like Fury. Away from prying eyes, away from the chaos of the world he spent so much time trying to control.

You hadn’t seen Nick Fury since Tony Stark’s funeral. That day had been a blur of pain, loss, and finality—a day that felt like the end of an era. The memory of it was still heavy in your chest, the weight of it never fully lifting. You’d slipped away after the service, disappearing into the background, telling yourself you were done. Done with the missions, the wars, the endless fighting. You deserved peace, you told yourself. You deserved to walk away.

But now, standing outside Fury’s door, that certainty felt like a distant memory.

You paused on the porch, your hand hovering just above the railing as you glanced back at Sam and Bucky. The two of them were already making their way up the steps, their shoulders brushing as they moved in sync, like they had done this a thousand times before. You, on the other hand, felt a strange tightness in your chest. This wasn’t just another mission. This was Fury. The man who always seemed to have a plan, who always saw the world through a lens of strategy and sacrifice. You respected him, sure, but you weren’t blind to the way he moved people like chess pieces, manipulating the board without ever asking for permission.

He hadn’t reached out after the funeral—not really. Maybe he’d respected your decision to step away, or maybe he’d just been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to pull you back in. That was how Fury worked. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries or emotional goodbyes; he played the long game. And now, after all the time you’d spent trying to convince yourself you were done, here you were, standing outside his door. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

As you stood there, the cold night air biting at your skin, you felt an old, familiar mix of emotions bubbling up inside you. Frustration, mostly. Guilt, too. You’d walked away from this life, from the constant chaos and danger, but now you were right back in it, like no time had passed at all. Part of you resented Fury for it—for always knowing exactly when to reel you back in. And maybe, in a way, you resented yourself for being so easy to pull.

“You good?” Sam’s voice broke the silence, pulling you out of your thoughts. He was looking at you with that easy, reassuring smile of his, but there was something softer in his eyes, something that told you he understood exactly what you were feeling.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself. “Yeah,” you said, your voice a little quieter than you’d intended. “I’m good.”

Bucky, already at the door, glanced back at you, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of concern, maybe. He wasn’t one for words, especially when it came to feelings, but you could tell he was watching you closely, waiting to see how you’d handle this. He understood the weight of what you were walking into, even if he wouldn’t say it.

Without hesitation, you followed him inside, choosing not to knock. The cabin’s wooden floors groaned beneath your boots, announcing your arrival in the otherwise still night. The air inside was heavy with the scent of aged wood, leather, and old books. It was familiar—too familiar. The smell brought you back to hours spent in briefing rooms, late-night strategy sessions, and the endless weight of responsibilities you’d once carried on your shoulders. This cabin—it wasn’t just a place; it was a reminder of the past you’d tried to leave behind, a past that seemed to have found you once again.

Fury was in the main room, hunched over a holographic display, the blue light of the projection casting eerie shadows across the room. The information was streaming in front of him, lines of text and maps flickering as he scanned them. You didn’t bother trying to make sense of it just yet. He hadn’t changed much—still the same black trench coat, same eyepatch, same imposing presence that seemed to fill the room without effort. His back was to you, but you knew from experience that he’d already clocked your presence the second you stepped over the threshold.

Without turning, Fury’s voice cut through the silence like a knife. “What? Did you lose your phone? I called.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you pulled up a chair across from him and dropped into it, feigning a casualness you didn’t feel. “Didn’t you get the memo?” you shot back, leaning against the table, arms crossed.

Fury finally straightened, turning just enough to fix you with his one good eye, the intensity of his gaze sharp enough to cut steel. “What—retired, huh?” he scoffed, waving a hand as if to dismiss the very notion. “I threw that memo out. You know why? Because it’s bullshit.”

You couldn’t help the slight roll of your eyes, leaning back in the chair, crossing your arms. The knot in your stomach tightened, but you kept your voice steady, controlled. “You can’t just ignore something because you don’t like it, Fury.”

His eyebrow raised slightly, his expression as unyielding as ever. “Have you met me?”

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. It was such a classic Fury response—blunt, relentless, and entirely too good at getting under your skin. No matter how much time passed, he had a way of cutting through the noise, making everything seem simpler, even when it wasn’t. And despite the frustration bubbling inside you, you couldn’t deny the truth in his words. Fury didn’t care about your so-called ‘retirement.’ He cared about results, and he always got them.

“I told you, Fury,” you said, your voice sharpening like a blade. “I’m done. I’ve been doing this my entire adult life—hell, some of my teenage years, too. I’m tired of being dragged back in every time the world decides it’s falling apart.”

Fury didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his one good eye never leaving yours. His voice, calm but edged with steel, cut through the room, each word deliberate. “You think you’re the only one who’s tired?” he asked, his tone measured, calculated. “We’ve all been fighting for as long as we can remember. You don’t get to walk away just because you’re tired. The world doesn’t stop spinning because you want a break.”

Your jaw clenched, frustration bubbling up dangerously close to the surface. You glared at him, feeling the weight of every battle you’d fought, every sacrifice you’d made. “I’m not asking for a break, Fury! I’m asking to live my life without having to look over my shoulder every damn second. I’ve given enough—more than enough. I don’t owe this anymore.”

From the corner of your eye, you could see Sam and Bucky hovering by the door. They’d clearly caught the tail end of your argument, their expressions a mix of understanding and resignation. Sam raised an eyebrow at Bucky, who gave a small, resigned shrug, as if to say, Told you this would happen. You felt their eyes on you, but you didn’t turn to face them. This wasn’t their fight. Not this time.

Fury leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his intense gaze never wavering. His voice dropped lower, but it was no less firm. “You think you’re done just because you said so? You’ve been out of the game, sure. But that doesn’t mean the game’s done with you.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “People like us don’t get to retire, and you know it.”

You let out a harsh laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Is that it then? The rest of my life, I’m just some puppet you get to pull the strings on whenever it suits you?”

Fury’s expression darkened, his voice low but firm. “I never said you were a puppet. But you were a damn good Avenger. And you know better than anyone that once you’re in, you’re never really out.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. You hated that he was right. You hated that deep down, you’d always known this was the truth. But that didn’t make it any easier to accept. You’d spent years trying to convince yourself that you could walk away, that you could live a normal life. And yet, here you were, sitting across from Nick Fury, the man who had always been able to see through your excuses and drag you back into the fight. You felt a flicker of guilt at Fury’s words, but you swallowed it down, refusing to let him sway you. “I didn’t choose this, Nick. None of us did. We were thrown into it, and we did what we had to do. But that doesn’t mean I have to keep doing it forever.”

Fury’s gaze was as sharp as ever, unwavering and unrelenting. “There’s always a choice,” he said quietly. “You just don’t like the options.”

His words hit harder than you wanted to admit. You let out a long, weary breath, your gaze dropping to the floor as you tried to find something steady in this storm of uncertainty. The weight of what he said pressed down on you like a suffocating blanket, thick and heavy, the truth of it undeniable. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and your mind raced with conflicting thoughts. You were tired. So damn tired. The kind of exhaustion that sleep could never fix. Tired of the never-ending battles, of the responsibility that clung to you like a shadow, never fully letting you out of its grasp. Tired of the world always needing saving, and you being one of the few people left standing to do something about it.

But maybe that was the point, wasn’t it? Maybe there was no running from this life. Not really. No matter how far you tried to go, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself you were done, every time the world started to fall apart, it found you. Dragged you back in. And deep down, you knew Fury was right. There was no staying out of it forever. People like you didn’t get to walk away. You could pretend, sure, but the game never stopped. It was always waiting in the wings, just out of sight, ready to pull you back when it needed you most.

The silence stretched between you all like an unspoken truth, thick with the weight of everything you weren’t saying. You could feel the eyes of Sam and Bucky on you, waiting for your response, for some kind of decision. But still, you stayed quiet, your mind spinning as you tried to piece together the right words—if there even were any. The air seemed to hum with tension, the quiet creak of the old cabin settling the only sound.

Fury’s one good eye locked onto yours, his expression hardening just slightly as he raised an eyebrow. He was waiting for something—a word, a nod, a sign that you were still in this, even though you didn’t want to admit it yet. The silence stretched uncomfortably, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. When you stayed quiet, lost in your thoughts, he let out a quiet, almost imperceptible huff of impatience. His patience, never his strongest quality, was wearing thin.

"Alright then," Fury said, his voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. "If you're done with the brooding, can I get on with the reason I dragged your dumb ass out here?"

The bluntness of his words snapped you out of your internal spiral, and you couldn’t help the way your lips twisted into a mock frown. You leaned back in your chair, the wood creaking under your weight. “You know, I miss when Hill was around. You have zero tact.”

Fury’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—the closest thing to a smile you ever got from him. If anyone else had said that, they’d probably be on the receiving end of a death glare, but you? You could get away with it. You always had.

"Hill had tact," Fury replied dryly, "and you still didn’t listen to her either."

From his spot by the door, Sam let out a quiet, amused chuckle. He was clearly enjoying the exchange, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe. Bucky, on the other hand, shook his head, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He was watching the back-and-forth like it was a well-worn routine, a script he’d seen played out a hundred times before. He had, in a way.

You shrugged, trying to suppress the small, satisfied smirk tugging at your lips. “Yeah, but she didn’t drag me into things by insulting me first. She’d at least give me a coffee or something before dropping the bomb.”

Fury shot you a sharp look, the kind that would make most people shrink back, but you just smiled wider. It was a familiar dance by now—a rhythm you and Fury had fallen into over the years. You pushed. He pushed back. But there was always an understanding beneath the surface. You respected him, even when he drove you insane, and he… well, he tolerated you. Maybe even liked you, though he'd never admit it.

"Coffee?" Fury deadpanned. "Really? I didn’t know you needed a latte with your world-saving."

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, locking eyes with him. “Just saying, if you want me to save the planet again, maybe don’t start with ‘dumb ass.’ It’s bad for morale.”

Fury’s lips pressed into a thin line, but you could see that glint in his eye—the one that meant he was enjoying this more than he’d ever let on. “You need morale? You’re worse than I thought. Maybe I should’ve called Parker instead. At least he didn’t need a pep talk before doing his damn job.”

That earned him a real eye roll from you. “Oh, don’t play that card. You know damn well you’d miss me.” You leaned back again, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Who else is gonna keep you from going completely gray?”

Fury’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “You think you’re doing me a favor by sticking around? You’ve been a pain in my ass since day one.”

“Yeah, but I’m your pain in the ass,” you shot back, a grin breaking through your faux-serious expression. “Admit it, you’d be bored without me.”

There was a pause. For a second, you thought maybe you’d gone too far, but then Fury let out a short, almost reluctant exhale that was dangerously close to a laugh. “Bored?” He shook his head slowly, his voice dropping into that familiar gravelly tone. “With you around? I’d have better luck finding peace in a war zone.”

Sam was clearly holding back laughter now, his hand covering his mouth, while Bucky just sighed, looking away like he’d seen enough of this pissing contest for one lifetime.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Fury didn’t reply, but the look he shot you said enough. He didn’t need to admit anything out loud. The truth was, beneath the gruff exterior and the constant scowling, there was a mutual respect that had been forged from years of fighting side by side, from making impossible choices and surviving the consequences. He knew you’d always show up, no matter how much you complained, and you knew he’d always have your back, even if he was a hard-ass about it.

But as quickly as the moment of banter had come, Fury’s expression shifted again, the brief levity evaporating as he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. His voice grew serious, more measured now. “Look, I didn’t drag you out here for a trip down memory lane,” he said, gesturing toward the holographic display in front of him. The soft blue light illuminated his face, casting shadows across his features. “There’s something you need to see.”

Fury’s hand cut through the soft blue light of the holographic display, casting eerie shadows across his face as he adjusted the projection. "Something big’s brewing," he said, his voice low and sharp. "And it’s not gonna wait for you to decide whether you’re ‘in’ or not."

You exhaled slowly, your eyes flicking toward the hologram, but resisting the urge to really see it. You already knew what was coming. You’d been down this road too many times before. Another crisis, another fire to put out, another reason you couldn’t just walk away. But you weren’t ready to admit it—not to him, not to yourself. Still, deep down, you knew there was no avoiding it. You couldn’t pretend this wasn’t your problem. Because, like it or not, it always ended up being your problem.

Letting out a final breath, you turned back to Fury, your shoulders tense, but your mind a little clearer. You could already feel the pull—the same pull that had dragged you into this life years ago, the same one that never really let you go, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

"Alright," you muttered, your voice steadier than before. "Let’s hear it. What’s so important that you couldn’t just leave me in peace?"

Fury didn’t hesitate. He turned fully toward the holographic display, swiping his hand through the air. The image shifted, revealing a global map with dozens of red markers scattered across it—clusters in major cities, others in more remote locations. It was a spread that sent a chill crawling up your spine before you even knew what it meant.

"This," Fury said, his voice like steel, "is what’s coming. And it’s not just some small-scale operation. We’re talking global destabilization. Coordinated attacks, high-level targets, and resources being pulled in ways we haven’t seen before. This isn’t a one-off threat—it’s the start of something bigger. Something we’ve been tracking for months. But it’s moving faster than we can keep up with."

You stared at the map, the red markers like pinpricks of danger scattered across the globe. Your stomach twisted, that familiar pit of dread settling in your chest. You didn’t need Fury to spell it out. You’d been here before. You knew how this worked. One crisis would bleed into another, spiraling until the whole world was on fire.

Fury’s eye gleamed with that familiar mix of determination and something harder to place—maybe it was relief, maybe calculation. Either way, he knew he was getting through to you. His fingers danced across the holographic display, and the image shifted once more, zooming in on clusters of red dots. They were centered around key locations—research labs, containment facilities, even old SHIELD outposts.

“These,” Fury began, his tone deliberate, “are the sites of a string of coordinated attacks. Small for now, but escalating. And trust me, they’re not random. Someone’s pulling the strings, and they’ve got their sights set on something big.”

You leaned forward, frowning as you studied the map more closely. The red dots were spread too far apart to be coincidence, but there was a pattern here. The more you stared, the more it started to emerge, like muscle memory kicking back in. You hated how quickly you could fall into this mindset—the one that was already calculating moves, analyzing angles. The part of you that had sworn you’d leave all this behind was screaming to turn away. But the other part—the part that had been doing this for so long—refused to let go.

Fury, ever the observer, watched you closely, his eye flickering with something like satisfaction. He could see the shift in your expression. He knew you too well. “I’m not asking you to pick up right where you left off,” he said, his voice softer now, almost like he was offering you an out. “But we need you on this. Hell, we all do.”

You bit your lip, still staring at the map. “The boys said Inhuman technology is getting stolen?”

Fury nodded, tapping the display again. The map zoomed in on specific locations—research labs, containment sites, all with ties to Inhuman tech. “It’s not just the tech,” he said, his voice growing more grim. “Weapons, artifacts, data—anything connected to Inhumans or their enhancements. And whatever they’re taking, they’re not leaving a trace behind. Whoever’s doing this knows exactly what they’re after.”

You exhaled slowly, your mind spinning through the endless possibilities. “So what? They’re building something? Or selling it off to the highest bidder?”

Fury’s gaze never wavered. “Maybe both,” he replied. “But we’re not gonna wait around to find out.”

You shook your head, still staring at the map. “Any idea who’s behind this?” You weren’t sure if you really wanted an answer. Part of you hoped this was small-time, something that could be handled by other agents. But the other part—the part that could already see the storm brewing—knew better.

Fury’s lips pressed into a thin line, and you could already tell he was about to drop the other shoe. "It’s not just tech and data that’s going missing," he said, his voice lower now, more serious. "Inhumans are disappearing too."

That got your attention. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, ‘disappearing’? How many?"

Sam, who had been standing by the door, stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Why the hell wasn’t this mentioned earlier?”

Fury turned to face you all, his expression grim, his voice steady. “At first, it wasn’t noticeable. A few here, a few there. We chalked it up to people going off the grid, fleeing persecution, whatever. But now..." He swiped his hand across the display, and the map zoomed out, revealing a shocking number of red dots scattered around the globe. “On a global scale, almost two thousand Inhumans have gone missing in the last four months."

Your stomach dropped. Two thousand? You pulled a face, confusion and disbelief crossing it. “How did no one pick up on that?”

Fury’s eye locked onto yours, and for a moment, you saw the strain there—this wasn’t something he wanted to admit. “On a global scale, it’s a blip,” he said. “Individual cases get lost in the noise. But I’ve got someone helping me now. Someone off the radar. They noticed the pattern.”

Sam crossed his arms, his expression darkening. “So, what? Someone’s hunting Inhumans?”

Fury didn’t answer immediately, his silence more telling than any word he could’ve spoken. “We don’t have all the pieces yet,” he said finally, his voice thick with tension. “But whoever’s behind this, they’re not just hunting. They’re stockpiling. And we need to find out why.”

You stared at the map, the weight of what Fury was saying settling over you like a lead blanket. Two thousand Inhumans. Missing. Taken. And whoever was behind it wasn’t stopping anytime soon.

The room went quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. You felt the familiar stirrings of dread in your chest, the kind you’d spent years trying to suppress. This wasn’t just another mission. This was something bigger, something darker. And as much as you wanted to walk away, you knew there was no turning back now. “Who are we thinking?” you asked, still staring hard at the map. Almost two thousand Inhumans. Almost two thousand people whose only crime was having abilities. You swallowed, the weight of that number settling in your chest. Almost two thousand people like you.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. The world had always been on edge about people like you—people with powers. Some feared you, some wanted to control you, and others… well, they just wanted you gone. But the idea that nearly two thousand people had been taken, snatched from their lives, their families, because of something they couldn’t help—it hit too close to home. You could feel the anger bubbling beneath your skin, an old, familiar fire that you thought you’d managed to smother.

People like you had always been treated like a problem to be solved. The world never took kindly to those who didn’t fit neatly into the box of ‘normal.’ You’d learned that the hard way, time and time again. And now, those people were vanishing. No explanation. No trace. Just gone.

You shook your head, trying to focus, but the thought gnawed at you. How many of them fought back? How many didn’t even get the chance?

Fury’s voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back. He gave you a long, hard look before speaking. “We’ve got a couple of suspects. Old enemies crawling out of the woodwork. But nothing solid yet.”

Sam stepped forward, folding his arms across his chest as he studied the display. “Hydra’s always a safe bet,” he suggested, his tone almost casual, though his eyes were sharp. “They seem to have a habit of not staying dead.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh from across the room, shaking his head. “Yeah, they never really get the memo, do they?”

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples. “Hydra’s a possibility. But this feels too… surgical for them. They’re more of a ‘sledgehammer’ type of operation. They’d march in loud, make a mess, and leave their logo plastered all over the place for good measure. Whoever’s doing this? They’re moving in silence.”

Fury nodded, his mouth pulling into a thin line. “Exactly. Whoever it is, they’ve got resources and intel we haven’t seen in a long time. And they’re staying ahead of us at every turn.”

You looked up at him, eyes narrowing. “So, what? You’re telling me we’ve got nothing? No leads?”

Fury’s jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, you could see the frustration flicker across his face. It wasn’t often you saw cracks in his armor, but when you did, it usually meant the situation was worse than he was letting on. “We’ve got whispers. Names bouncing around the black market. But nothing concrete. Yet.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair again. “Whispers? You dragged me out here for whispers?”

Sam chimed in, his tone light, but pointed. “You know Fury doesn’t call unless it’s serious. He’s all about the mystery and the drama. Gotta keep us on our toes.”

Fury shot Sam a look, the kind that could make most people rethink their life choices, but Sam just shrugged it off with a grin, clearly unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying. A little more info up front would be helpful.”

Bucky, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, smirked. “Yeah, maybe next time you send out an actual briefing, Fury. You know, like the good old days.”

Fury didn’t miss a beat. “If you two clowns would spend less time cracking wise and more time reading the briefings I do send, maybe we’d be a little further ahead.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, shaking your head. “I missed this. Really, I did.” Your voice was dripping with sarcasm, but your smirk betrayed just a hint of genuine amusement. “It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion.”

Fury’s face remained unreadable, but you could tell he was holding back a comment. Instead, he pulled the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Look, this isn’t just about the Inhuman tech. It’s about what they plan to do with it. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not interested in waiting to find out.”

You leaned forward again, resting your elbows on your knees, eyes tracing the red dots on the map. Each one a potential target. Each one a potential victim. The weight of the situation was settling over you, heavier with every breath. “So, what’s the play?”

Fury’s eye glinted, and you could almost see the gears turning behind that steely gaze. The familiar spark of strategy came alive as he laid out the plan. “You, Wilson, and Barnes will hit one of the key locations we’ve flagged. Covert op. No noise, no trace. We need eyes on the ground to figure out who’s pulling the strings.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he glanced between you and Fury. “And you’re just sending the three of us? No backup?”

Fury didn’t miss a beat. “You’re the backup.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle, shaking his head, his tone dry. “Of course we are.”

You exhaled sharply, feeling that all-too-familiar sense of dread creeping in. “What happened to the people you originally sent if we’re the backup?” you asked, not sure you really wanted to hear the answer.

Fury’s gaze didn’t falter, his voice steady but grim. “We lost communication.”

That was Fury’s way of saying, They’re probably dead. No need for sugarcoating, no false hope. It was a reality you’d gotten used to hearing over the years, but it never really got easier.

You popped your lips a few times, letting the weight of it settle over you, before muttering under your breath, “Well, this is gonna be a fucking blast, isn’t it?”

Sam snorted, shaking his head with a wry grin. “Always the optimist.”

Fury ignored the commentary, his expression tightening as he leaned in a bit closer, his tone more intense now. “Listen, I know you’re all used to dealing with heavy stuff, but this isn’t just another smash-and-grab. Whoever’s behind this has been stealing weapons designed specifically to take down Inhumans. If they’re stockpiling that kind of tech, it means they’re expecting to fight people like you—and they’re ready.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you kept your face neutral. “Weapons designed to take down Inhumans?” you echoed, your voice carefully calm. That wasn’t news you wanted to hear. You’d faced enough threats over the years, but the idea of someone deliberately targeting your kind, with tools made to dismantle everything that made you who you were? That hit too close to home.

Fury nodded. “Yeah. So you especially need to be careful out there. This isn’t just some random group of thugs. These guys know what they’re doing, and they’ve got the means to take you down if you’re not careful.”

You couldn’t help but grin, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms, adopting your most nonchalant look. “I’m always careful.”

The room went silent for just a beat—long enough for you to register the exaggerated snorts coming from Sam and Bucky behind you. You barely had time to process it before you heard the unmistakable sound of Sam trying—and failing—to stifle a laugh. You glanced over your shoulder and caught him biting his lip, his shoulders shaking with amusement. Bucky, on the other hand, was giving you that look—the one he reserved for moments when he was about to roast you alive and savor every second of it.

You groaned, rolling your eyes in exaggerated frustration. “Oh, come on.”

Sam was already chuckling, holding up his hands in mock surrender, his grin wide and unapologetic. “Hey, sorry, sorry. It’s just—you? Careful? You’ve got a reputation, you know.”

Bucky smirked, shaking his head slowly, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Yeah, careful… What about that little dance you had with Walker?”

You turned toward him, pointing a finger in his direction, your face scrunched up in mock indignation, but there wasn’t any real heat behind it. “Okay, fine, I’ll own that one. But, to be fair, Walker was mouthy. And he pissed me off.”

Sam snorted, clearly enjoying himself now. He leaned against the table, arms crossed, shaking his head as the memory came flooding back. “Pissed you off? You threw him through a damn window.”

You threw your hands up defensively, leaning back in your chair once more, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. “He was lucky I didn’t go outside and throw him back through the window with that attitude.”

Bucky let out a low, amused chuckle, his smirk widening. “That would’ve been a sight.”

Sam, still grinning, chimed in, “Man, if you’re ‘careful,’ I don’t even want to know what reckless looks like.”

You shot Sam a playful glare, though you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “That was me being careful. If I’d really gone off, there wouldn’t have been a window left for anyone to throw anyone through.”

Bucky shook his head, his voice filled with mock disbelief. “I mean I guess he wasn’t hurt too badly.”

You leaned back further in your chair, arms still crossed, your grin widening. “Look, Walker was asking for it. And let’s be honest—after everything he pulled, I was doing the world a favor.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, his expression amused, clearly enjoying the banter far too much to let it go. “You know, you’ve got a real funny definition of ‘doing the world a favor.’”

You shrugged, putting on your best innocent face. “Honestly, he should be thanking me. I could’ve done worse, and I didn’t. I restrained myself.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. “Yeah, ‘restraint,’ sure. You call throwing a grown man through a window ‘restrained’? I’d hate to see what happens when you don’t hold back.”

Before you could fire back with a witty retort, Fury cleared his throat, cutting through the banter like a knife. The room fell silent almost instantly, the lingering laughter evaporating as all eyes turned toward him. He stood at the head of the table, arms folded, his expression unreadable but carrying that familiar weight of authority that demanded attention.

Fury stepped forward, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade—sharp, no-nonsense, and to the point. “Alright,” he said, deadpan, “as much as I enjoy watching you three play ‘who’s the biggest pain in my ass,’ we’ve got work to do.”

The playful atmosphere between you, Sam, and Bucky deflated as quickly as it had started. You straightened your posture almost instinctively, the weight of Fury’s words settling in. He wasn’t one for idle chit-chat, and when he said it was time to focus, you knew things were about to get serious.

Fury took a few steps closer to the table, his lone eye sweeping over the three of you, assessing, calculating. That look he gave when he was lining up all the pieces on the chessboard. “You’re heading to Eastern Europe—remote location, off the grid. It’s a small facility buried in the mountains, not on any map you’ll find.”

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “What kind of facility?”

Fury’s gaze remained steady. “One that’s been under the radar for too long. Intel says it’s being used to build weapons—specifically designed to neutralize Inhumans. Think of it as an experimental lab with a military-grade twist.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Neutralize how? Are we talking suppression, or...?”

“Termination,” Fury finished, not missing a beat. “These weapons are built to stop them dead in their tracks—literally. We’re talking tech that can disable powers and take down the ones who wield them. And it’s not just the weapons we’re worried about. The people behind this? They’re not amateurs. They’re smart, well-funded, and ruthless.”

Bucky glanced at you, then back to Fury. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “So, what’s the plan?”

Fury’s lips tightened. “You go in, retrieve the data on these weapons, and destroy anything that can’t be moved. We don’t leave any trace of this operation behind.”

You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “And we’re doing this alone?”

Fury shook his head, a shadow of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “No. You’ll have help. Someone’s already on the ground, gathering intel.”

You raised an eyebrow, the curiosity deepening. “Who’s the help?”

Fury’s smirk widened just a fraction, his eye gleaming with an almost amused glint. “I’ve got a feeling you and her will get along pretty well.”

That caught your attention. “Her?”

Fury just stared at you, the smirk never quite leaving his face. He didn’t answer directly, letting the mystery hang in the air like a challenge. “Let’s just say she’s more than capable of holding her own. You’ll meet her when you land.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he shot you a look. “You know, I’m starting to think he enjoys keeping us in the dark.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at that. “Oh, he definitely does.”

Fury ignored the side comments, his tone shifting back to business. “She’s been embedded in that facility for weeks. Knows the layout, the personnel, and the security protocols. She’s the reason you’re going to walk in and out without setting off a single alarm.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he asked, “And we can trust her?”

Fury’s smirk faded, his expression becoming stone-cold serious. “If I didn’t trust her, she wouldn’t be on this op. That’s all you need to know.”

You exchanged a glance with Sam and Bucky, the tension between the three of you palpable. Whoever this mystery woman was, Fury had a lot of confidence in her. And if Fury trusted her, that meant she was no ordinary asset. But still, something about walking into an unknown situation with a stranger didn’t sit right.

You leaned forward, crossing your arms on the table. “Alright, Fury. We’ll play along. But if this goes sideways—”

Fury cut you off, his voice firm. “It won’t. She’s good at what she does. All you need to worry about is getting in, getting the data, and getting out.”

Sam gave you a sidelong glance, grinning slightly. “You hear that? Worry about getting in and out. No ‘improvising.’”

You snorted, shooting him a smirk. “I don’t improvise without good reason.”

Bucky’s eyebrows lifted, clearly not buying it. “Sure you don’t.”

Fury sighed, shaking his head. “I swear, if you three don’t get this done clean, I’m leaving you in Eastern Europe.”

You grinned wider, leaning back in your chair. “Relax, Fury. We’ll be in and out before they even know we’re there.”

Fury’s eye flicked between the three of you, clearly unconvinced but resigned to the fact that this was his team. “I know you have contacts. Make some calls." His gaze landed on you, his tone growing more pointed. "Get some rest. You leave in the morning.”

You nodded, standing up from your seat. As you gathered your things, Sam shot you a look, still grinning. “I’m curious who this mystery woman is. Fury’s got that look like he knows something we don’t.”

You shrugged, slinging your jacket over your shoulder. “Whoever she is, she’s gotta be something if Fury’s that confident. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Bucky stood as well, adjusting his jacket. “Let’s just hope she’s not another wildcard.”

You smirked, throwing Bucky a glance over your shoulder as you strode toward the door. “One wildcard’s enough for this team, don’t you think?”

Bucky snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, and that wildcard is you.”

Sam chuckled in agreement, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “No argument here.”

You mock-pouted, shifting your gaze between Sam and Bucky, your tone exaggerated for effect. “Yeah, I feel like I’m being bullied here. You two beg me to come back, and all you do is roast me the whole time.”

Sam broke into a wide grin, clearly unbothered by the accusation. “Hey, we roast because we care.”

Bucky gave a half-shrug, his smirk barely hidden. “It’s a sign of affection. You should be flattered.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Sure, that’s what it is.”

Flashing them both a quick grin, you turned and stepped out of the room. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the playful banter like a curtain falling between acts. The cheerful, easy atmosphere evaporated as you found yourself alone in the dimly lit hallway, the quiet settling in around you.

Her.

Fury’s cryptic comment about the mystery woman still echoed in your mind. Whoever she was, he seemed confident you two would hit it off. But that could mean anything coming from Fury. He wasn’t exactly known for his straightforwardness, and when he said you’d get along, it could be his way of saying you’d end up liking her—or that you’d butt heads until sparks flew. Either way, if she was half as good as Fury hinted, maybe this mission would go smoother than usual.

Maybe.

You pushed open the door leading outside, stepping into the cool evening air. The sky was a deep shade of blue, the stars just beginning to peek through the fading light. You reached into your back pocket, pulling out your phone as you leaned against the porch railing. You knew exactly who you could call—someone with the kind of connections that could keep an ear out for intel.

But did you want to call him? Absolutely not.

The last time you saw him… well, you’d made it perfectly clear that it was a one-time thing. No strings, no complications. Once you walked out of his hotel room, that was it. The only thing you’d heard about him since was the message telling you he made it to Charles Xavier’s school, which had been a relief. You never wanted him to think you cared too much, but a part of you was glad he had found his place—somewhere far away from you.

You scrolled through your contacts, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten as your finger hovered over his name: Remy LeBeau. You stared at the screen for a long moment, debating whether or not this was a good idea.

It’s just a phone call…

You muttered under your breath, “Alright then,” as you pressed the call button and switched the phone to speaker mode, setting it on your knee while you sat on the porch steps. The cool evening air brushed against your skin, a small reprieve from the pressure building in your chest. The phone rang once. Twice.

Then his voice—smooth, honeyed, and unmistakably Cajun—came through the line.

“Well, well, well… look who’s callin’ ol’ Remy. Thought you’d forgotten ‘bout me, chère.”

You rolled your eyes, despite the small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Trust me, it’s not for lack of trying. I was just scrolling through my contacts and thought, ‘Hmm, who annoys me the most?’ And wouldn’t you know it? Your name popped up.”

There was a pause on the other end, but you could practically hear the grin spreading across his face. “Ahhh, so dat’s how it is, huh? Not even a ‘How you doin’, Remy? Missed ya, Remy?’”

Before you could answer, the door behind you creaked open, and you glanced back to see Bucky stepping out. He gave you a curious look before plopping down on the porch beside you. You cleared your throat, giving him a playful wag of your eyebrows.

“Alright, fine,” you said into the phone, your tone dry. “How are you, Remy? Last time we met, you blasted me to the other side of the state with a fucking Uno card.”

A rich chuckle echoed through the speaker, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Chère, you punched me through a brick wall first. I’d say dat makes us even.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah, well, I’d say you deserved it.” You shot a glance at Bucky, who was shaking his head, smiling at your banter. It was clear he was enjoying the show.

Remy’s voice dropped a little, teasing, “Depends on what you think I deserved, ma belle. ‘Cause I remember a night where you thought I deserved a whole lot more.” The night with Remy had been a collision of chaos and inevitability—two forces that had been circling each other for far too long, finally crashing together in a moment of reckless abandon.

You hadn’t planned it. Hell, you hadn’t even wanted it, at least not consciously. Everything leading up to that moment was supposed to be purely professional—a job, a mission, a means to an end. But somewhere between chasing him through the narrow, twisting streets of New Orleans and that final standoff in the abandoned warehouse, something shifted. Something in the way he looked at you, the way he moved, the way he knew exactly how to push your buttons and get under your skin.

You were angry. Furious, actually. He’d always had this ability to infuriate you more than anyone else, to make your blood boil with a single smirk or a well-placed quip. He knew exactly how to play the game, and worse, he knew how to play you.

When you punched him through that wall, it was supposed to be the end of it. It was supposed to be over. But instead, when he came back at you, pinning you against the crumbling brick, there was something different in his eyes—something dangerous, yes, but also something raw and unspoken.

You could still feel the heat of his breath on your skin as he leaned in close, his voice low and teasing. “You sure you want me to stop, chère?”

You should have said yes. You should have shoved him off, thrown another punch, done anything but what you’d actually done.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you’d felt that pull—the same pull that had been simmering beneath the surface for years. That electric tension, that unspoken something that you’d both been ignoring, pretending didn’t exist. And in that moment, you’d let it take over. You’d let it win.

When his lips finally met yours, it was fire. It was reckless and impulsive and everything you knew you shouldn’t be doing, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. Your hands were in his hair, his hands were on your waist, and it wasn’t long before the fight between you turned into something else entirely—something far more dangerous.

The room blurred after that. The world outside ceased to matter. It was just the two of you—two people who had been dancing around each other for too long, finally giving in.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. There was only the heat, the way his body pressed against yours, the way he somehow knew exactly where to touch, how to make you gasp, how to make you want more. It was messy and unrestrained, a rush of adrenaline and pent-up frustration that spilled out in ways neither of you had planned.

You groaned, running a hand over your face. “Oh, for the love of—Remy, can we not do this right now?”

“You brought it up, chère. Just followin’ your lead.”

Clearing your throat, you turned your attention back to the phone. “Anyway, as much as I love walking down memory lane with you, I actually need something.”

“Ahh, business, den?” Remy’s tone shifted slightly, though the playful undercurrent remained. “Alright, chérie, what you need?”

You sat up a little straighter, glancing at Bucky before speaking. “I need you to keep an ear out. You and the rest of your team. Inhumans are going missing.”

There was a long pause on the other end, and then you heard some muffled voices, like Remy was talking to someone else. You raised your eyebrows at Bucky, who gave you a nonchalant shrug, clearly waiting for the conversation to unfold.

Remy came back on the line. “Hold up. Got de team here. Can you explain it to dem?”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sure, why the hell not?” You shifted the phone slightly, making sure it was positioned right on your knee. “Here’s the situation: Inhumans are disappearing, and someone’s stealing weapons specifically designed to terminate them. These aren’t just suppression devices. We’re talking about tech built to kill.”

There was a low whistle from Remy on the other end of the line. “Damn, sounds like you got yourself a real mess, ma belle, You wouldn’t happen to be plannin’ somethin’, would ya?”

You exchanged a glance with Bucky, who raised his eyebrows in silent amusement. “What makes you think that?” you asked, your tone innocent but laced with sarcasm.

“Chère, I know you. You don’t get involved unless you got a plan to blow somethin’ up.”

Bucky snorted next to you, leaning back on his elbows. “She’s not blowing anything up,” he interjected, his voice dry.

You gave him a playful shrug. “You never know.” Then, turning your attention back to the phone, you added, “We’re going on an adventure. Heading to Europe tomorrow to… well, shake things up.”

Remy chuckled softly. “Ahhh, Europe, huh? Sounds like a real vacation. Y’ got your SPF packed?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not that kind of trip, Remy.”

“I figured. But don’t pretend you ain’t plannin’ on stirrin’ up some trouble. You always do.”

“Look,” you said, “just keep your ears open. Let me know if you hear anything about these weapons or the people behind them.”

There was a pause, and you heard Remy step away from what sounded like a crowd, his voice growing quieter, more serious. “These weapons… they can really kill Inhumans?”

You exhaled, the weight of his question pressing down on you. “Yeah, they can.”

The line was silent for a moment, the tension hanging in the air. When Remy spoke again, his voice was low, but the sincerity in it was unmistakable. “You be careful out there, chère. You hear me? Don’t go gettin’ yourself hurt, ‘specially not for somethin’ like dis. Call me if you need backup.”

You laughed softly, though there was a tightness in your chest. “I’m the backup, apparently.”

Remy chuckled darkly. “Yeah, well, even de backup can need help sometimes.”

You glanced at Bucky, who was watching you closely, his arms crossed over his chest. You gave him a small smile, but your mind was still on the mission ahead.

“Thanks, Remy,” you said, your voice softening just a touch. “I mean it.”

“Anytime, ma belle. You know where to find me.”

With that, the line went dead, leaving you staring at your phone for a moment longer. The echo of Remy’s voice lingered in your head, the way his concern had slipped through, buried beneath all his usual teasing. Part of you hated that he still cared, that he could still get to you after all this time. But if you were being honest—really honest with yourself—another part of you was relieved. Relieved that, despite all the chaos, someone out there still had your back.

Bucky shifted beside you, drawing your attention. He had that look on his face—the one where he was trying to pretend he wasn’t curious but failed miserably at hiding it.

“So... who’s this Remy?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with interest.

You pocketed your phone, not quite meeting his eyes. “Remember that mission in New Orleans a few years ago?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed for a second before recognition dawned. “Mmhmm. The, uh, heists? Stolen artifacts?”

“Yeah, that guy,” you said, your voice deliberately casual as you scrolled through your phone, doing your best to ignore the way Bucky was now openly staring at you, his curiosity ramping up with each passing second.

Bucky nodded slowly, his expression shifting as he pieced it together. “Wait… you’re telling me you slept with the guy we were supposed to apprehend?”

You paused, your thumb hovering over the screen of your phone. There was no point in denying it. You knew Bucky well enough to know when he had you pegged. So, with a small shrug, you replied, “To be fair, if you ever met Remy, you’d probably also sleep with him. He’s just that type of guy.”

Bucky blinked, then shook his head, letting out a surprised laugh. “That type of guy, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk, “the type that can charm the pants off anyone.” You tilted your head, shooting him a playful look. “Literally.”

Bucky held his hands up in mock surrender. “No offense taken. Just... didn’t peg you as the ‘sleep with the target’ type back then.”

You chuckled, leaning back against the porch railing. “Trust me, neither did I. But Remy... he’s complicated. Always was.”

Bucky let out another laugh, but there was something softer in his expression now, something more understanding. “I get it. Sometimes things happen in the field that you can’t plan for.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow. “Just didn’t expect you to be so... enthusiastic about it.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. “It was a long time ago, Buck.”

“Doesn’t seem like that  long ago,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. You sighed, already knowing where this conversation was headed. Bucky always had a way of cutting through the banter when it mattered, of seeing past your sharp words and deflection, straight to the heart of things. He could sense the weight you were carrying, the edge in your voice you didn’t want to acknowledge. And sure enough, his next words weren’t teasing. They were deadly serious.

“Look,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “Remy’s right. You need to be careful.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. You weren’t used to seeing Bucky like this—so openly worried, so raw. “I’m always careful,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended, a reflexive defense.

But Bucky wasn’t buying it. He gave you that look—the one that could cut through any bullshit you threw his way. His brow furrowed, his jaw tightening just slightly, the tension radiating off him in waves. His eyes, usually calm and steady, were now shadowed with something deeper, something that tugged at the pit of your stomach.

“Really?” he asked, raising one eyebrow in that way that made you feel like you were missing something obvious. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you’re about to throw yourself into the middle of something dangerous. And I know you—when you get deep into this stuff, especially when it’s something like this, you don’t always think about yourself.”

You opened your mouth, ready to protest, to brush off his concern with the usual quip, but Bucky cut you off before you could say a word.

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice dropping low enough that it sent a shiver up your spine. He leaned in closer, his hand resting on his knee, fingers clenching into a tight fist. “These weapons you’re talking about? They’re not just a threat to the mission—they’re a threat to you.”

There was something in the way he said it, the way his voice faltered slightly at the end, that made you stop. Made you really look at him. His eyes were filled with a worry you hadn’t seen in a long time—not just the kind of concern you’d expect from a teammate headed into a dangerous mission, but something more. Something almost vulnerable. He wasn’t just worried about the mission going sideways. He was worried about you—about losing you.

You swallowed hard, feeling the tension between you both thickening, the air growing heavy with what was left unsaid. Bucky wasn’t someone who wore his emotions on his sleeve, not like this. He kept things close to the chest, locked up tight behind walls he’d built over decades of pain and loss. But right now, sitting next to you, his gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that made your heart twist, he wasn’t hiding anything.

He was scared.

“Bucky,” you started, trying to find the right words, the right way to ease the worry in his eyes. “It’s just like any other mission. I’m not invincible. I know that. Anything can kill me.”

He let out a long, frustrated sigh, his head tipping back slightly as if trying to gather his thoughts. When he looked at you again, there was a flicker of something else in his gaze—something sharper, more personal.

“But it’s not like every other mission, is it?” he asked, his tone softer now, but no less urgent. “This isn’t just some random op. This is personal for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t—that you were fine, that you had it under control—but the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, you knew he was right.

This mission was different.

You had been on dangerous assignments before, faced down threats that would have sent anyone else running in the opposite direction. You had dealt with mercenaries, terrorists, assassins, and gods. You’d been shot, stabbed, thrown through walls, and walked away each time with little more than bruises and scars, each one a testament to your survival. You had faced down death more times than you cared to count, and somehow, you’d always pulled through.

But this? This was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just the danger of the mission. It wasn’t just the weapons designed to kill people like you, to strip away every advantage you’d ever had in a fight. It was the weight of it—the personal stakes, the way the faces of the missing haunted you, how it felt like the world was closing in, and the people you cared about were at the center of it. And now, as you stood on the edge of another mission, the fear wasn’t just about whether or not you’d make it out alive. It was about whether you’d come back the same.

Bucky shifted beside you, the two of you sitting in the quiet aftermath of his words. The worry in his eyes was still there, but now it was mixed with something heavier, something deeper that you hadn’t fully comprehended until now. He let out a small sigh, his gaze drifting away from you for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly on his knee like he was working through what he wanted to say next. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his brow furrowing just slightly as if trying to find the right words.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence between you stretched, thick and palpable, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air like a storm cloud about to break. You watched him, the way his eyes flickered with unspoken thoughts, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. You could sense it before he even said anything—this wasn’t just another conversation about the mission. This was something deeper, something raw.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough around the edges, as if the words were scraping against his throat. He still wasn’t looking at you, his eyes focused on something far off in the distance, something only he could see.

“I’ve been to war,” he began, his tone calm but tinged with an exhaustion that ran deeper than just physical tiredness. It was the kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too many burdens for too long. “I’ve seen things... done things... that I don’t talk about. Things I’m not proud of.”

His hand tightened into a fist, his knuckles going white as he clenched it against his thigh, like he was trying to hold something back. “I’ve been brainwashed, manipulated, used as a weapon. I’ve had my mind taken from me, my choices ripped away. I’ve been forced to do things—terrible things. And I’ve lost... God, I’ve lost more than you can even think about.”

His voice cracked slightly on the word *lost*, and for the first time, you saw a vulnerability in him that he rarely ever let anyone see. His gaze shifted downward, like he couldn’t bear to look at you in that moment, like the weight of everything he’d been through was too much to hold your gaze.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but he wasn’t finished. Not yet.

“I got through it,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost as if he was talking more to himself than to you. His eyes finally met yours, and they were filled with a kind of haunted resignation. “I survived. I kept going because... well, because I had to. I didn’t have a choice. I had to keep moving forward, even when I didn’t want to.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening again as he fought to keep his emotions in check. But the cracks were showing now, the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself starting to crumble in front of you.

“But,” he said, and the word hung in the air, heavy and final. He hesitated, his throat working as he swallowed again, this time more slowly, like he was trying to gather the strength to say what came next. His eyes softened, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the stillness like a knife.

“I think if I lost you...”

He trailed off, and for a moment, you thought he wasn’t going to finish the sentence. His hand, the one that wasn’t made of vibranium, unclenched and hovered in the air for a second before he let it drop back to his side. His eyes searched yours, raw and open in a way you’d never seen before. A way that made your heart ache.

“I don’t think I could cope,” he finally admitted, his voice cracking again, this time with an emotion so deep it made your chest tighten. “I’ve lost so much already. More than anyone should. But you...”

He paused, his eyes flickering with something that looked like fear—real, unguarded fear. “You’re different. You’re...”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his words hung between you, unfinished but heavy with meaning. You were more than just a teammate to him, more than just someone he fought beside. You were a lifeline. A connection to the world, to something real and grounding. And the thought of losing you—of you not coming back from this mission—was a weight he didn’t know how to bear.

You felt your breath catch in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest as the full weight of what he was saying settled over you. Bucky Barnes, the man who had faced down gods and monsters, who had lived through a century of war and torment, was afraid of losing you. And not just afraid—terrified.

Suddenly, everything about this mission felt different. The stakes weren’t just about the people you were trying to save, or the weapons you were trying to stop. They were about the people you’d leave behind if you didn’t come back. The people who cared about you, who needed you just as much as you needed them.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight as a thousand possible responses raced through your mind. You wanted to reassure him, to tell him that you’d be fine, that you’d come back just like you always did. But the words felt hollow, empty, as if they would shatter the moment they left your mouth. Because deep down, you knew the truth—you couldn’t make that promise. Not this time. Not with what you were walking into. Not with these weapons.

“I...” You hesitated, the weight of his confession pressing down on you like a physical thing, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the raw emotion in the air between you, the unspoken fear and frustration. “Bucky, I—”

But before you could finish, Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his fingers digging in as if he could pull the frustration out of his scalp. He let out a sharp breath, a mix of a sigh and a growl, his eyes flashing with an intensity you didn’t see often. “I’m angry,” he said, his voice rough, “I’m angry at Fury, at Sam—hell, at everyone—for wanting to drag you into this. They’re putting you at risk,” he spat, his voice low but fierce, as if the mere thought of it set his blood boiling. “And for what? Because they think you’re the best shot at stopping this? Because they think you can handle it? They’re willing to gamble with your life, and I’m supposed to just sit here and be okay with it?”

You clenched your jaw, feeling your own frustration start to build in response to his. “I can handle it, Bucky,” you shot back, your voice sharper than you intended. “It’s why Fury asked you to bring me in. I’ve done this before. I’ve faced worse.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening , his presence looming larger now, as if the raw emotion he was feeling was physically radiating off him. “Worse? Worse than weapons designed to kill people like you? To neutralize everything that makes you who you are?”

His words cut through you, sharp and unrelenting. And the way he said it—like the very idea of you being vulnerable, of you losing—was something he couldn’t even bear to think about.

“This isn’t just another mission, and you know that,” Bucky continued, his voice rising as the anger he’d been holding onto finally broke free. “This isn’t some mercenary with a gun, or a terrorist group with a bomb. These are weapons designed to end people like you. They’re not going to miss. They’re not going to give you a second chance. One wrong move, and you’re—”

“Dead?” you interrupted, your voice hardening as your own anger flared to life. “Yeah, I know that, Bucky. I’m not stupid. But you think I don’t know the risks? You think I haven’t considered what could happen?”

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, his expression twisting with frustration. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You know the risks, but you’re still willing to throw yourself into it. You always do this—you always think you have to be the one to save everyone, to take the hit so no one else has to. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s...”

His voice broke off, and for a moment, the anger in his eyes softened, replaced by something rawer, more vulnerable. “This time, it’s you. This time you’re the one that needs saving.”

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of Bucky’s words settling deep in your gut. He wasn’t just angry about the mission, not really. He was angry because it was you—because this time, the risk was almost too real, too close to home. This time, it wasn’t some faceless threat or a distant danger. It was something that could take you away from him, and that terrified him.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips despite the tightness in your throat. “You think I want to be in this position? You think I don’t know how dangerous this is?” Your voice cracked, your words sharper than you intended, but you didn’t pull back. You couldn’t. Not now. “Bucky, I was done with all this. I had walked away. Hell, I wasn’t exactly happy, but I was... I was content. I was safe.”

You saw a flicker in his eyes—was it pain? Understanding? Maybe both. But it didn’t matter. The words were spilling out of you before you could stop them. “But then you knocked on my door. And you know damn well I’d never say no. Not to you.”

The truth hung between you like a blade suspended in the air, sharp and unspoken, its weight pressing down, impossible to ignore. You felt it in your chest, heavy as a boulder neither of you knew how to move. You had been out. You had built something resembling a life, a fragile, quiet existence that wasn’t perfect but was safe. And yet, all it had taken was him—just Bucky—to pull you back into the chaos. And he knew that. He had to know that.

For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other, standing on the edge of something, but it was the silence between you that roared the loudest. It felt like standing at the precipice of something dark and uncertain, something you both knew was there but hadn’t allowed yourselves to fully face.

His eyes softened, just for a second, like he’d let his guard slip. You could feel the unspoken feelings swirling in the air between you, thick and tangible. This wasn’t just about the mission. It wasn’t even just about the danger. It was about you. About him. About the way your lives had become so entangled that even the thought of losing each other was too much to bear.

Bucky’s gaze held yours, and you could see it—feel it—just under the surface. The way his eyes lingered a beat too long, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when you said his name. He looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world, like losing you would destroy the last piece of himself he had left. And God, you felt the same way. You had for a long time.

This wasn’t just about the fights you’d been through together or the missions you’d survived. It was about the way he looked at you when he thought you didn’t notice. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile between you. It was the way your heart raced whenever he was too close, how you knew with absolute certainty that you’d follow him anywhere, no matter the cost.

You weren’t sure when it had happened—when that line had blurred. Maybe it had always been like this, simmering under the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free. But standing here now, with the ocean roaring beneath you and the future uncertain, you couldn’t deny it any longer.

Neither of you could.

The space between you felt like it was shrinking, the weight of all the things you hadn’t said pressing down on your chest like a physical weight. It was suffocating, the silence heavier than the wind whipping around you. You could see it in his eyes—the way they flickered with something raw and unguarded, something vulnerable that Bucky never let anyone see. But you saw it. You always saw it.

And for the first time, you realized just how much this wasn’t about the mission, or the danger, or the weapons. This wasn’t just about the threats you faced together every time you were called in to save the world. This was about you. Because you were more than just a partner to him. You were more than just someone who fought by his side.

“But why does it always have to be you?” Bucky’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper, like he was holding back something much bigger than words. “Why do you always have to be the one to throw yourself into the fire? Why the hell does everyone always go to you when they need something? When it’s dangerous, when it’s impossible, when it’s a goddamn suicide mission—why is it always you?”

You flinched at the rawness in his voice, at the way his words cut through the thin layer of composure you’d been clinging to. His eyes were locked on yours, and in them, you saw everything he wasn’t saying. He wasn’t just asking why the world seemed to throw its worst at you. He was asking why you always took it on. Why you couldn’t just stop. Why, even when you had the chance to walk away, to live a normal life, you let yourself be pulled back into the storm.

And deep down, you knew the answer. You knew why you kept doing this. But the answer wasn’t something you could explain—not to him. Not when you could barely explain it to yourself.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words stuck in your throat. You weren’t sure you had the strength to tell him the truth. That it wasn’t just about the mission. That it wasn’t just about saving the world or doing the right thing. It was about him. About being there for him, because the thought of him facing this without you, the thought of him being out there alone, was unbearable.

Before you could find your voice, the cabin door creaked open, and Sam stepped out onto the porch, his presence breaking the tension like a sudden gust of cold air.

“Everything okay out here?” Sam asked, his eyes flicking between you and Bucky, clearly sensing the heavy silence that had settled between you.

For a moment, you and Bucky just stared at each other, the unspoken words still hanging in the space between you, thick and suffocating. His gaze didn’t leave yours, and for a split second, you thought he might say something. Something real. Something that would shatter whatever fragile barrier had been holding the two of you apart. But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, that raw vulnerability in his eyes was gone, replaced by the familiar mask he wore so well.

Bucky’s gaze lazily shifted to Sam, his voice flat as he replied, “Everything’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach—the unfinished conversation, the things neither of you had said. The truth that lingered just beneath the surface, too dangerous to confront but impossible to ignore.

Bucky stood up from the porch, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was putting distance between you and whatever it was that had almost been said. His eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer, and you could see it—the fear, the anger, the love—all of it, buried beneath layers of walls he’d spent years building. But he didn’t say a word.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said simply, his voice devoid of the emotion that had been there just moments before. And then, without another glance, he moved past Sam and walked back into the cabin, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that felt far too final.

You sat there, staring after him, your heart pounding in your chest, everything you hadn’t said still lodged in your throat. You wanted to call after him, to stop him, to tell him the truth. That it wasn’t just about the mission. That it wasn’t just about saving the world. That you were doing this because you loved him. But the words wouldn’t come.

Sam stood there for a moment, his brow furrowed as he looked between you and the now-closed door. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence stretch on, as if he knew that whatever had just happened between you and Bucky was something too fragile, too complicated to pry into.

“You sure everything’s okay?” Sam asked again, his voice softer this time, like he already knew the answer.

You forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s fine.”

But as you sat there, staring at the empty space where Bucky had been, you knew that everything was far from fine. You had stood on the edge of something with him—something real, something terrifying—and you had both stepped back. For now.

But you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep stepping back. Because the truth was, you were already in too deep. And so was he.