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buckyseternaldoll · 1 month ago

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Every Inch, Every Corner

—based on this ask by @iamthatonefangirl ❤️‍��

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: New apartment. Three bedrooms. One goal: christen every inch of it. You thought Bucky bought this place for comfort. He had other intentions.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, masturbation, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, edging, creampie, exhibitionism/voyeuristic risk, soft dom!Bucky, praise kink, mild dirty talk, domestic setting, emotional sex, Alpine the cat, idk what else?

Author's Note: I hope I did justice with what Bri requested. Comments, likes, reblogs are always much appreciated! 💜

It was nearly noon by the time the last of the movers left, their heavy boots thudding down the hallway and fading into silence. You stood in the middle of your new apartment—three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a real kitchen you could twirl in, and a living room so spacious you could finally host friends without having someone sit on your laundry basket.

The entire place was a mess of half-labeled boxes, suitcases with open zippers, a rolled-up rug leaning against the hallway wall, and a fresh pile of discarded tape and bubble wrap. But it was yours. Yours and Bucky’s.

“I’m thinking… sofa right here,” you said, stepping toward the living room, bare feet brushing over the cool hardwood floor. “With that emerald velvet cover I showed you—remember? And maybe a gold standing lamp in the corner to match the kitchen handles. Not too shiny, but enough to make it pop.”

Bucky leaned against the wall just a few steps behind you, arms crossed, tight blue shirt stretched deliciously over his chest. He wasn’t really listening—not to your decor ideas, anyway. Not when you were wearing that little pink tank top that clung to your chest with no bra underneath, the softest curve of your nipples visible through the fabric. And those black biker shorts? They hugged your ass like a second skin. He had a hard time deciding if you were giving him a tour or a tease.

“You’re really into gold accents lately,” he murmured, eyes trained shamelessly on your backside as you bent slightly to peek inside an open box labeled BOOKS & IDK STUFFS??

You straightened with a proud smile. “Classy but warm,” you replied, oblivious to the tension building behind you. “And I was thinking of calling the big bedroom ours, the medium one the library-slash-guest room, and the small one can be Alpine’s.”

As if summoned, the little white cat padded out from behind a stack of flattened cardboard, hopping gracefully onto the only unboxed chair you’d brought from the old apartment. She blinked slowly at Bucky like she knew exactly what was about to happen and wanted no part in it.

You turned again, all smiles, hands on your hips. “I can’t wait to christen the place.”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know, get everything set up. Little finishing touches. Candle holders. Floating shelves. Just need a few trips to IKEA, and—why are you smiling like that?”

He didn’t answer right away. That cheeky grin spread wider across his face—the same one he wore when you caught him stashing Oreos under the bed or trying to convince Alpine to wear a tiny shield-shaped collar tag.

You followed his gaze… down.

Oh.

There was a very obvious tent in his jeans.

Your lips parted in a half-laugh, half-gasp. “Bucky.”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “When you said ‘christen the place,’ that’s not exactly what I thought you meant.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love it,” he smirked, pushing off the wall. He closed the distance between you in just a few steps, hands ghosting over your hips before settling firmly on your waist. “Doll, you walk around here in this outfit, looking all glowy and excited like this is Christmas morning, and expect me not to pop a boner?”

You opened your mouth to respond but were interrupted when his fingers dipped down, teasing the waistband of your shorts. He didn’t pull—yet. Just teased. Just tested the way your breath hitched and your lips twitched like you were trying not to grin.

“I was gonna wait,” he whispered, his voice a little lower now, right at the shell of your ear. “But you’re making it real hard.”

“Bucky, we haven’t even unpacked.”

“You want me to wait until the couch is in place? That’s cruel,” he grinned.

You tried to stay strong, but the way his warm hands slipped around to cup your ass… the way he kissed the side of your neck so tenderly, then pulled back with a half-growl when your body arched into him?

Yeah, you were already melting.

“Fine,” you whispered, breath shaky. “But only a quick one. We have a whole apartment to—oh.”

His fingers slid beneath the waistband now, down past the stretch of your shorts, past the soft pink lace of your panties. He found your folds instantly, already slick with anticipation.

“Already soaked, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “So much for a quick one.”

You gasped as he rubbed slow, deliberate circles over your clit, the wet sounds obscene in the open space of the bare apartment. Alpine jumped off the chair with a soft mrrp, tail flicking as she trotted out of the room like she couldn’t deal with her humans being horny again.

Your hands flew to Bucky’s shoulders, gripping the thick muscle through his shirt for support. “God, your fingers—Bucky…”

He groaned at the way you whispered his name like a prayer. His metal hand held you steady at the hip while the other worked you open, one finger sliding in, then another, curling just right.

The heat built too fast. You buried your face in his neck, whining into his skin, hips rocking forward against his palm.

He pulled back just a little. “Wanna make you come with my fingers,” he rasped. “Right here. First thing we do in this place.”

You did. And you did—trembling, clutching him, jaw slack as your body tightened and released in wave after wave of sharp, burning pleasure.

Before you even came down from it, he gently pulled his fingers from you, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean. “Fuck, doll. That taste might be my new favorite part of the house.”

You dropped to your knees before he could even finish his sentence.

His eyes darkened instantly. “Oh, you’re gonna—fuck—”

You didn’t give him time to talk. You reached for his belt, made quick work of his fly, and tugged his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free. Already flushed, hard, leaking at the tip.

“Jesus,” he hissed as you licked a stripe up his length. “You’re killing me.”

“Good,” you muttered, then took him into your mouth—slow at first, then deeper, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock. His hand fisted in your hair, not pushing, just grounding himself. His breath stuttered, hips barely moving, eyes locked on yours as you looked up and moaned around him.

“Fuck—shit, sweetheart, I’m—” He tried to warn you, but you didn’t stop. You wanted it. Every twitch, every ragged breath, every drop.

He came with a groan, head falling back, his hand tightening just enough in your hair to anchor himself as he pulsed on your tongue.

When you finally pulled back, lips glistening and panting softly, he stared at you like you’d just performed a miracle.

“Okay,” you grinned breathlessly, tucking him back into his jeans. “Now that’s a proper christening.”

—

Your legs were still shaking slightly when you peeled yourself off the floor, using the edge of a nearby box to steady yourself. You hadn’t even made it an hour into moving day and already Bucky had you wrecked—with nothing but his fingers and that damn smirk.

You tried to recover. Really, you did. Tugging your tank top back down, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand like it would hide the fact you just sucked your boyfriend off in the living room of your new apartment. Alpine was nowhere in sight—probably off in a box somewhere judging you silently.

“I was saying before you got all handsy,” you muttered, voice still hoarse, “I think we can keep the island clean, but maybe hang some open shelves overhead. Keep the kitchen looking open. You can reach high stuff—tall freak.”

Bucky’s footsteps padded slowly behind you as you stepped into the kitchen. The place was bright, spacious, with pale wood floors and a long marble island in the center. You ran your hand over the smooth surface, picturing where the bar stools would go.

“Still thinking about shelving, huh?” he murmured behind you.

You didn’t even have time to turn. His hands wrapped around your waist, then slid lower, over your hips, his front pressing against your back.

“I just sucked you off,” you laughed, playfully exasperated. “Shouldn’t you be in a coma or something?”

“You’re in that little pink tank, no panties now, talking about where to put gold accents while strutting around like that—and you think I’m the problem?”

You tried to twist out of his grip, half-giggling. “Let me finish my sentence for once—”

But he cut you off with a sharp tug at your hips, bending you over the kitchen island with such ease you gasped. Your bare thighs hit the cool stone surface, and you shivered. He stepped behind you again, hands firm as he spread your legs wider.

“Bucky—”

“You said you wanted to christen the place,” he said, voice gravelly now, deep and hungry. “I’m just getting to the kitchen.”

You tried to turn, but then his hand slid between your legs—again. You were still soaked from earlier. Maybe even wetter now.

“Fuck,” he hissed, running two fingers through your slick folds. “You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

“God—just fuck me already,” you whined.

“Oh? Bossy all of a sudden.”

He didn’t need more convincing. His jeans were halfway down in seconds, boxers shoved just low enough to free his cock. He grabbed your ass with both hands, kneading, spreading, teasing you with the head of his cock—sliding it through your folds but not giving you what you needed yet.

“Bucky.”

That one-word plea did it.

He pushed in slow, and you cried out, hands scrambling for purchase on the cold marble, back arching. He was big, thick, and filled you just right—especially from this angle, deep and perfect.

“Fuck—feels so fucking good,” he groaned, already starting to move, one hand pressing down between your shoulder blades to keep you bent, the other gripping your waist tight.

Your moans bounced off the bare walls, echoing in the empty space. The slap of skin meeting skin filled the air. Bucky pounded into you hard, rougher than earlier, like he couldn’t get enough. You weren’t sure if he was trying to break the kitchen in or break you.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he grunted. “Dripping all over our brand new kitchen.”

You whimpered into your arm, half-embarrassed, half turned on beyond reason.

He leaned down, chest pressed against your back, whispering into your ear as he thrust deep. “You’re gonna think of this every time you come in here. Every time you cook something, stand right here—gonna remember how I bent you over and made you scream.”

You were already close. He knew it. He felt the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your moans climbed higher with every thrust.

Then he reached down and rubbed your clit with his vibranium fingers, just the right pressure.

That was it.

You came with a sharp cry, gripping the countertop, knees threatening to buckle. He groaned behind you, pushed in deep one final time, and came with you—filling you while muttering your name like it was the only word he knew.

—

You stayed like that for a few seconds, both of you panting, still joined, sticky and ruined against the counter. Then—

Ding-dong.

Your eyes snapped open. “Shit.”

Bucky laughed softly, pulling out with a quiet hiss, already tucking himself away. “You order lunch?”

“Maybe…” You wobbled as you tried to stand, legs still trembling. “You were busy. I got hungry.”

“Hungry, huh?” he teased, helping you straighten. “Not just for me?”

You shoved him lightly, making your way toward the door while trying to fix your hair. “Shut up and go get the food.”

By the time you’d grabbed napkins and water bottles, Bucky returned with a brown paper bag and a smug grin. “Chicken pesto sandwiches. And cookies.”

You grinned, reaching for the sandwich. “See? I knew you were good for something.”

You perched on one of the stools by the island, now finally used for its actual purpose. You’d thrown your panties back on, too lazy to reach for your shorts, but the tank still hung loose on your sticky skin. Bucky sat beside you, still in his tight shirt, hair slightly mussed.

You took one bite and groaned in delight. “God, food after sex? Everything tastes ten times better.”

Bucky hummed. “Yeah. Tastes even better when you’re sitting there all cute with my cum still inside you.”

You nearly choked on your sandwich. “James!”

He only smirked. “Just saying. You look good.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you knew that tone. Mischief.

You caught the gleam in his eye just a second too late—his vibranium hand slid over your thigh, fingers brushing between your legs. You tensed.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” He traced over the damp lace of your panties. “You’re already wet again, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched. “We’re eating.”

“And I’m multitasking,” he whispered, leaning closer to nibble at your earlobe.

His fingers circled slowly, deliberately. You clenched your thighs around his hand, but he was relentless—teasing your folds through the fabric, the cold metal making your whole body twitch.

“I swear to God, if I drop this sandwich—”

“You’ll still be satisfied.”

—

You couldn’t focus after lunch. Not really.

Your legs still felt a little unsteady, thighs sore in the best way, and every time you tried to sit still, you felt the soft pulse of oversensitivity between your legs—courtesy of your boyfriend’s vibranium fingers and very distracting cock.

So you wandered. You peeked into the second bedroom while Bucky cleaned up the wrappers. This one already had a bed frame dragged in, your slightly worn daybed from the old apartment sitting in the middle of the room under the window. The room was bare, boxes scattered around labeled LINENS and GUEST STUFFS, but the late afternoon sun made it glow.

You sat down with a soft huff, fingers tracing the stitching of the mattress. “Maybe this could be the reading room. Get one of those old-school lamps. A rug. Big bookshelf right here.”

Bucky leaned against the doorframe behind you, drying his hands with a paper towel. “Mm. Reading room, huh?”

You nodded. “Or an office.”

He tilted his head. “Or…”

You arched a brow.

He stepped closer, slow and calm, like a man on a mission. “Could be the place I sit down and watch you ride me for a while.”

You tried to fight your smile. Failed. “Oh, so now you’re christening the guest room too?”

“I said I’d break in every inch of this place,” he murmured, voice softer now as he came to stand between your legs. “Not my fault you brought in a perfectly good excuse to sit down.”

His hands found your waist again, warm and steady. You let your own drift down to his hips, fingers brushing over the hem of his shirt.

“Okay,” you breathed. “Then sit.”

He obeyed.

He sat back against the armrest of the daybed, legs spread just enough to invite you in—half lounging like it was a couch, but the mattress beneath him creaked faintly like it knew what was coming.

You climbed into his lap, facing him. His hands immediately went to your thighs, dragging them apart so you could straddle him fully, knees braced on either side of his legs. His gaze never left yours as you reached for the hem of your tank top and slowly pulled it off over your head.

“Jesus, baby…” he whispered, eyes dragging down to your bare chest.

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him—slow and deep—while his hands moved to tug your panties down. They caught around one ankle before you kicked them off.

Then it was just you. Naked, flushed, and needy, sinking down onto him inch by inch, gasping into his mouth as he filled you.

It was slower this time. Softer. No frantic pounding or growled teasing—just the quiet rhythm of your bodies finding each other again. You rode him with long, rolling movements, arms draped over his shoulders, hips tilting just right to drag friction along your clit.

Bucky held you like you were fragile. Like he was scared he might break you if he moved too fast. His mouth was everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breasts. You lost track of how many times he whispered “so beautiful,” or how tight he held your waist when you clenched around him and moaned.

At one point, Alpine trotted in, hopped up onto a box, and stared. You caught her in your peripheral vision and burst out laughing—halfway through a slow grind, no less.

“Oh my God,” you giggled. “She’s judging us.”

Bucky laughed, breathless, still inside you. “She’s gonna need therapy.”

“She’s your cat.”

“And she’ll be traumatized by you,” he smirked, tilting up to kiss you again.

You came like that. Laughing, gasping, forehead pressed to his, walls fluttering around him as his hands gripped your hips tighter. He followed with a quiet, guttural moan, holding you close as he spilled into you again, hips twitching beneath yours.

You slumped against him afterward, sweaty and blissed out, your heart pounding against his chest.

“Library room, huh?” he murmured into your hair.

“Still calling it that,” you mumbled. “We’ll just… clean the daybed later.”

—

You’d meant to take a break after that one. You really did.

But then you passed the smallest room—the one you’d casually declared “Alpine’s room”—and paused in the doorway. There was nothing inside but a few scattered boxes and that massive window. The glass stretched wide, overlooking the apartment complex across the park. From here, you could clearly see rows of other windows. Some had blinds. Some didn’t.

The thrill hit first. The subtle spike of adrenaline, the heat curling low in your belly.

And Bucky… Bucky noticed your pause.

“You’re thinking something dirty again,” he murmured behind you.

“Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

You stepped inside, hands skimming the windowsill. “If someone were watching, they’d see everything.”

He came up behind you—now shirtless, jeans undone. “Curtains drawn across,” he noted. “But not fully.”

Your heart pounded.

“Bucky—”

He spun you gently, kissed you fast and hungry, then turned you again, guiding you to lean forward until your bare chest pressed to the cool glass.

“This what you want?” he whispered, voice darker now. “Want someone to see what I do to you?”

You whimpered. “They might. Anyone could be—”

“Exactly.”

He stripped what little you had left—your panties had already been tossed, and now his jeans and boxers hit the floor. You were both fully naked. Vulnerable. Lit by daylight and nothing else.

You braced your hands against the window frame, legs parted, heart pounding. Bucky lined up behind you, hands firm on your waist—and slid into you from behind in one smooth, delicious thrust.

You gasped—partly from the stretch, partly from the rush.

He was deeper than before like this. Every push of his hips rocked you forward against the glass, your nipples dragged across the cold surface, breath fogging up your little corner.

“Oh my God—” you whined. “Bucky—”

“Tell me what they’d see,” he growled into your ear. “If they looked up right now.”

“Y-you—fucking me—”

“Harder.”

You choked on a moan. “Fucking me like—like I’m yours.”

“You are mine,” he gritted out, hand tangling in your hair to keep you still as he thrust harder, faster. “Let them fucking watch.”

Your eyes rolled back. He felt wild behind you—possessive, untamed, feral in the best way. You were dizzy with pleasure, heat building fast, moans bouncing off the windows.

You came with a broken cry, pressed against the glass like a framed piece of art—frozen in that perfect moment of filthy bliss.

Bucky wasn’t far behind, groaning deep as he emptied inside you again, teeth grazing the back of your shoulder as he shuddered through his release.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then you felt it—Alpine brushing past your leg.

You both looked down, wide-eyed. She sat in the doorway, blinking innocently.

“I think she’s following the tour,” you mumbled breathlessly.

Bucky wheezed a laugh, forehead resting on your shoulder. “We’re the worst parents.”

—

You were both sticky and sweat-slicked, bodies glowing under the golden haze of late afternoon. And you definitely smelled like sex.

“Okay,” you panted, still catching your breath as Bucky tugged his jeans back up with a grunt. “We need a reset. Like—soap. And hot water. And at least one clean towel.”

He snorted softly, brushing your hair from your face. “You’re trying to say I stink?”

“I’m saying we both do. Filthy, filthy people.”

You padded toward the bathroom, laughing, Bucky following close behind with Alpine trotting at your ankles. She let out a low mrrrp as if to agree and then parked herself outside the door when you closed it.

The bathroom was echoey and bright, still bare aside from the installed glass shower. You flicked it on and stepped in first, gasping slightly at the rush of heat. Bucky followed, sliding the door closed behind him.

Steam quickly filled the space, and water ran in soft rivulets down his strong chest, highlighting every ridge and scar. You reached for the soap, but his hands caught your waist before you could.

“I’ll do it,” he said, voice soft now—none of the earlier grit, just warmth. “Turn around.”

You obeyed, facing the tiled wall as his hands, slow and reverent, moved over your skin with the lather. He massaged your shoulders first, easing out tension he himself had put there, before moving down your spine, over the curve of your hips.

You let your head fall back against his shoulder, a quiet sigh escaping. “I like this side of you.”

“What side?”

“The one that spoils me rotten.”

He chuckled, kissing your damp temple. “That’s every side, baby.”

You turned in his arms, arms winding around his neck. He blinked down at you—wet hair hanging in his face, lashes dripping, lips pink and parted.

You kissed him.

It was different than earlier. No rush. No game. Just the slow press of mouths under steaming water, the soft pull of hands over bare skin. When your fingers drifted down and found him half-hard again, he groaned into your mouth.

“Still got more in you?” you whispered.

“I always do for you.”

His hand slid between your thighs again, but this time it wasn’t rough or teasing—it was patient. Worshipful. He touched you like he was memorizing how you liked it, mapping your body with wet palms and slow circles.

You reached down at the same time, wrapping your hand around him. You stroked him in time with the rhythm he gave you, both of you gasping quietly, breathing each other in.

It didn’t take much. You were already sensitive, raw from the earlier rounds, and the intimacy only made it worse—better.

You came quietly this time, biting his shoulder as your body trembled. He followed not long after, pulsing in your hand with a low groan against your neck.

Afterward, you stayed in the spray, holding onto each other like you didn’t quite want to move yet. The water washed you clean, but the warmth between you stayed.

—

The mattress had no frame yet, but you didn’t care. It was huge, soft, and familiar—and right now, it looked like heaven.

You stepped out of the bathroom in just his old, oversized black shirt and a fresh pair of panties. Bucky was already on the bed, sprawled in nothing but a clean pair of black boxers, arms behind his head, hair damp and messy. He looked so relaxed, so at ease, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.

Alpine was curled up at the edge of the bed, paws tucked under her body, dozing peacefully.

You crawled in beside him, sighing as the mattress dipped beneath you.

“Y’know,” you murmured, resting your chin on his bare chest, “this might actually feel like home.”

His hand slid up your back, fingers splayed between your shoulder blades. “It already is.”

You smiled. “Still have one more place to christen, though.”

He raised a brow. “Didn’t we already—”

“I meant,” you interrupted, swinging a leg over to straddle his hips, “the master bedroom.”

His grin returned slowly, sleepily. “Can’t argue with tradition.”

This time, he let you lead. You tugged his boxers down, letting him spring free beneath you. You rolled your hips slowly, teasing him along your folds before finally sinking down, eyes locked on his.

It was quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—but full. Full of love. Full of promises. Full of things left unspoken but understood between every slow thrust.

His hands cupped your waist gently, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts as you rode him with soft moans, letting your body melt into his.

“Fuck, you feel so good like this,” he whispered. “So warm. So close.”

You leaned down, foreheads brushing. “I love you.”

He pulled you down fully, wrapping his arms around you, whispering the words back into your skin again and again as you both moved together.

You came together that time—his name whispered into his mouth, your nails curling into his shoulders. He held you tight, keeping you wrapped in his warmth as your body trembled, riding out the waves.

You slumped against him afterward, breathing unevenly, your body boneless, skin damp with afterglow.

Bucky smoothed his palm along your spine, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You okay, baby?”

You hummed, half-asleep already. “Fine. Just… can’t move.”

He chuckled, low and smug. “I could go again.”

You groaned softly against his chest. “Of course you could.”

“Super soldier, sweetheart,” he said with a lazy grin. “Stamina for days.”

He paused, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“But I’ll stop. ’Cause I know you need rest. You’re my priority, not my toy.”

Your chest tightened at that. That softness in his voice. The gentle weight of his arm holding you close.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because if you didn’t stop, I’d have to start planning your funeral.”

He laughed, kissed your hair again. “You’d miss me too much.”

You both lay there in the warmth of your new bed, the quiet settling around you like a blanket. Alpine stayed curled in her corner, purring faintly.

“You tired?” he asked, voice lower now.

“Mmm. Just resting.”

“You know we’ve got sunrise in a few hours.”

You smiled into his chest. “We’ve got one more spot left, huh?”

He grinned, voice dropping an octave. “The balcony?”

“Mmhm.”

“Doll,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along your jaw, “I can’t wait.”

—

The sky was just starting to blush pink by the time you stirred again—warm, tangled in sheets, sore in places you didn’t even know could get sore.

The clock read 5:27am.

Bucky was already awake.

He laid beside you, one arm curled under your body, watching the morning light creep across your skin. He was calm, quiet, but his fingers were gently tracing along the bare curve of your hip beneath his shirt. His shirt. The one you were still wearing. The only thing you were wearing.

“You awake, doll?”

You hummed, nuzzling into his chest. “Barely.”

He kissed your hairline, voice low and coaxing. “Sun’s coming up.”

You blinked lazily. “And?”

“And we’ve got a balcony with our name on it.”

Your breath caught—half from excitement, half from the memory of what he said yesterday. One more place to christen.

“You serious?” you mumbled.

“I brought a blanket,” he grinned.

You laughed under your breath. “God, you really are a menace.”

But you followed him anyway. Alpine blinked up at you from her perch by the window as if saying, Again? Really? before tucking her head back down.

You stepped out onto the balcony barefoot, the morning air sharp against your skin. It was quiet—too early for traffic, too late for late-night stragglers. The park below was still asleep, mist curling along the grass.

The breeze lifted the hem of Bucky’s blanket just as he dropped it onto the cushioned bench against the far wall. He turned to face you, fully naked, his metal hand catching the edge of your shirt and tugging it up and over your head in one smooth pull.

You stood there in nothing, nipples pebbling from the cold, your body on full display under the soft blue light of early morning.

Bucky looked at you like you were the only thing on earth that mattered.

“No one’s watching,” you whispered, just to test him.

“They could,” he murmured, stepping close. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You didn’t argue.

You kissed him, and that was it—hands flying, mouths desperate. He spun you, pressed your back to the railing, the metal cold on your spine. Your legs parted instinctively as he lifted you onto the edge, steadying you with both hands.

He slid into you with one smooth, deep thrust.

Your gasp was sharp, loud in the stillness of dawn. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he rocked into you, the angle perfect like this—your hips tilted back, legs wrapped around his waist, exposed to the world.

“Bucky—”

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he breathed. “Wide open, moaning my name—anyone looking out their window right now could see you. See how well I fuck you. How much you love it.”

You could barely speak. You gripped the rail behind you, trying to ground yourself as he thrust into you harder, deeper. His pace was steady but rough, claiming.

When he started to twitch inside you, you pushed gently on his chest. “Wait—wanna try something.”

He blinked, dazed and breathless. “Yeah?”

You dropped to your knees.

Right there. On your balcony. Naked. Dawn breaking behind you.

He hissed as you licked him clean of your arousal, sucking him back into your mouth slow, tongue swirling, moaning low in your throat just to watch him shudder.

His hands cradled your head. “Fuck, baby—fuck, you’re killing me—”

When he was close, you stood again—he caught you by the waist and bent you over the balcony railing.

Raw. Exposed. Anyone with binoculars would see your ass in the air and Bucky railing you from behind like he had a point to prove.

You moaned his name as he slammed into you, your voice echoing faintly off the buildings nearby.

You came with a cry, legs buckling, Bucky gritting out your name as he spilled inside you one last time.

He held you against him for a moment, chest to your back, both of you trembling.

The sun had fully broken over the horizon now, painting everything gold.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Okay,” you whispered, still panting, “now it’s christened.”

He smiled, kissed your shoulder, and wrapped the blanket around both of you. “Home sweet home.”

#by elle.ᐟ #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #requested fic by elle #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky #domestic smut #smut with feels

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blondechariot · 25 days ago

Note

Hi! Could you write a wonwoo fic with a female reader in an university nonidol au? I would love it if it would be a slow burn where both leads are really shy. Up to you how much fluff, angst or smut there is. Just a uni girl struggling with socialisation and finding friends asking to break free from reality 🫠 THANK YOU 💜💜💜💜

~Quiet Hours~ (NonIdol!Wonwoo)

pairing: reader x Wonwoo

warning: none really, very shy reader and awkward Wonwoo

disclaimer: not my pic

i hope you like it!💋

🕓 4:07 PM — Tuesday, October 8

It’s always the same corner.

Back left of the third floor library, under the squeaky ceiling fan that never quite spins all the way. You’ve unofficially claimed this seat as yours since the first week of classes. It’s quiet. Hidden. Safe. The perfect place for someone like you—someone who isn’t good with... people.

That’s when he starts showing up.

🕠 5:30 PM

You don’t notice him at first, not really. Just a tall silhouette across the aisle with noise-canceling headphones and a perfectly organized desk setup. He types fast. Drinks black coffee. Always wears black or dark gray. And he never looks up. You name him Library Boy in your head, because you don’t know his name. You’re too shy to ask. Even though you’ve shared the same space every Tuesday and Thursday for three weeks now.

Today, he glances up. For half a second.

And your whole chest tightens.

🕖 7:01 PM

You’re stuffing your laptop into your bag when you hear it. A low voice, slightly hoarse from disuse. Like it doesn’t get much practice.

“Are you working on something for Lit 204?”

You freeze. Literally freeze, like someone hit pause on your existence. Then, very slowly, you turn.

He’s looking at you now—Library Boy. Close up, he’s... well, dangerous for someone with a weak heart. Dark-framed glasses. Clean, sharp jawline. Softly messy black hair that he keeps pushing back without realizing.

“Sorry,” he adds, “I just saw the Hemingway book. We’re reading that too.”

You blink. Then nod too fast. “Y-Yeah. Um. Fitzgerald next week.”

“Right. Professor Langford assigns way too much.” He gives a quiet smile. It’s barely there, but it makes you forget your own name.

“I’m Wonwoo.”

You clutch your bag tighter and try not to faint. “Y/N.”

You think you might have imagined the way his mouth twitches into something warmer.

🕚 11:12 AM — Friday, October 11

You find a note tucked inside your Hemingway book.

“If you want a better seat, there’s one near the window on the second floor. Less drafty. But I get it if you’re loyal to your corner. - Wonwoo”

You re-read it six times. Then you place it gently between pages 147 and 148, like a pressed flower.

🕕 6:03 PM — Thursday, October 17

You both sit in silence. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... quiet.

Once in a while, he pushes his glasses up and glances at you.

Once in a while, you pretend you don’t notice.

He doesn’t talk. Neither do you. But he slides a small coffee toward you when yours runs out. No words.

And your fingers tremble just a little when they brush his.

🕒 3:36 PM — Tuesday, October 22

“You always wear that hoodie.” Wonwoo says it like an observation, not a tease.

You tug the sleeves instinctively. “It’s... it’s comfy.”

“Looks warm.”

Pause. Then— “It suits you.”

You don’t remember how to breathe.

🕗 8:42 PM — Tuesday, October 29

You knew the weather was iffy. It said “20% chance of rain.” You took that gamble. You lost.

The downpour starts just as you step out of the library.

No warning.

Just cold, needle-like raindrops smacking your face and soaking through your hoodie within seconds. You squeak—a literal squeak—and turn to run back inside, but someone is already holding the door open behind you.

Wonwoo.

Of course it’s him.

He’s got one hand on the door and the other holding a black umbrella—not open yet. His hair is damp. His glasses fog slightly from the sudden cold.

“Hey,” he says calmly, like this isn’t a movie moment, like you’re not seconds away from dissolving into puddle form.

You mumble, “I... didn’t bring a jacket.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I figured. Come on.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll walk you.” He lifts the umbrella between you. “You live in the dorms, right?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a confused goldfish. He takes your silence as a yes.

“I’m parked by the west lot. It’s on the way.”

You’re already moving before your brain catches up.

🕘 9:04 PM — West Path, Behind the Language Building

The rain sounds soft on the umbrella fabric—almost rhythmic. You’re walking too close to him, but you don’t know where else to go. He’s tall, so you’re partially under his arm, and your hands are shoved deep into your hoodie pockets, trying not to focus on the fact that you can feel the warmth of his side through his coat.

Neither of you speak for a long time.

Then, out of nowhere:

“You don’t like talking much, huh?”

You nearly trip.

“I—no—I mean, I do. I just... I’m not very good at it.”

He lets out a quiet breath. It’s not a laugh, but it’s close.

“You’re better than most people I know.”

You look up at him, surprised. He’s staring forward, raindrops flicking off his glasses, expression unreadable.

You swallow. “You don’t talk much either.”

“That’s true.” A pause. “But I like sitting near you. It’s not... noisy.”

You nearly choke on your own heartbeat.

🕤 9:17 PM — Dorm Entrance

He stops when you reach the side entrance of your building.

“You made it,” he says softly, half-smile curling on his lips. “Still dry?”

You look down. Your jeans are soaked. Your hoodie is a lost cause. You nod anyway.

“Thanks for the umbrella,” you murmur, shivering slightly.

He glances at you, and then—

“Here.” He peels off his jacket—his actual jacket, warm and heavy and lined with that fleece material that smells like laundry and maybe coffee.

You blink up at him. “I’m—I'm fine—”

“You’re shaking.”

You don’t argue again.

He settles it on your shoulders with the most careful touch, like you’ll flinch if he moves too fast. (You might.)

It covers your hands.

“Bring it back next week?”

You nod so fast you almost fall over.

He smiles again—just a flicker of it this time—and walks back into the rain, umbrella still up, leaving you standing on the steps like someone dropped a blanket of thunder over your head.

You pull the jacket closer.

It’s way too big.

And you’ve never felt safer.

🕓 4:52 PM — Thursday, November 7

You’ve been thinking about his jacket for days.

It’s still folded neatly at the end of your bed. You tried washing it but stopped halfway, worried it wouldn’t smell the same afterward. It still does—fresh, warm, faintly like peppermint and old paper.

And now you’re standing in the library entrance with your fingers curled tight around the sleeves, heart thudding loud enough to echo.

You spot him instantly.

Same desk. Same headphones around his neck. Same dark hoodie. He’s flipping through a battered copy of The Bell Jar. His brow furrows every so often like he’s in deep disagreement with Sylvia Plath.

You could leave the jacket on his desk and run.

You could.

But you walk toward him instead.

🕔 5:06 PM

You don’t sit in your usual seat across the aisle. You sit next to him.

His head turns slowly, a little surprised—but not in a bad way. There’s something soft in his eyes when he sees the jacket in your arms.

“Hey,” he says. Simple.

You nod and offer the folded jacket. “Thanks again... for that night. I didn’t get sick, so... mission accomplished.”

“You sure?” “You looked like a drowned squirrel.”

Your mouth drops open.

And then, to both of your shock, you laugh.

It’s a small sound. Shaky. But real.

“That’s cruel,” you whisper, covering your smile with your hand.

“It’s a little true.”

You look away before he sees the pink blooming in your cheeks.

🕠 5:44 PM

You both end up reading separately, but this time, your legs are crossed under the same table. His elbow is close. Closer than usual.

You notice something this time: He always turns the page with the same rhythm—tap, pause, flip. His handwriting is narrow and slanted. He chews the inside of his cheek when he’s deep in thought.

And he keeps looking over at you when he thinks you won’t notice.

So you say it. Quiet, but clear:

“I’m not always this quiet. I just... don’t know how to talk to people I like yet.”

He freezes mid-note.

Looks at you like you just broke the sound barrier.

“You like me, huh?”

Your whole body lights up like faulty Christmas lights. “I—uh—I meant—I like being around—”

“No,” he cuts in gently. “That’s... that’s good to know.”

You look up.

He’s smiling again. No flicker this time. Just soft and steady.

And then—

“Do you want to meet for coffee sometime?” “Not just library hours?”

It’s so unexpected you almost forget how breathing works.

But then you nod.

And this time, you’re the one who smiles first.

🕘 9:13 AM — Saturday, November 9

You’ve never been more aware of your outfit in your life.

It’s casual. You swear it’s casual. Just jeans, a simple knit sweater, and your hair pulled back the way you usually do when studying. But for some reason, it feels like every thread of fabric is holding its breath with you.

You arrive three minutes early. Not on purpose, of course. You just… like being punctual. Definitely not because you couldn’t sleep and ended up getting ready way too soon.

The café is small, tucked between a laundromat and a florist, with foggy windows and the faint smell of cinnamon drifting through the air. There’s a table by the window. He’s already there.

Wonwoo wears black again, but softer this time — a hoodie and a grey beanie pulled slightly down over his forehead. He looks up when you enter, and there’s that smile again — the one that’s only for you.

“You came,” he says like he was still half-expecting you wouldn’t.

You nod, heart jittering. “I almost didn’t. My nerves filed for early retirement.”

“Mine got stuck in traffic,” he replies dryly, and it makes you laugh.

You slide into the seat across from him.

🕤 9:38 AM

You sip your drink slowly. He likes americanos. You went for chai because it smells like safety.

The conversation starts clumsy, like shoes on the wrong feet.

But you both find rhythm again — just like the library. You talk about books. Classes. Favorite types of weather.

He surprises you by admitting he writes poetry sometimes. You surprise him by blurting out that you used to have a plant named Moby (as in Moby Dick) that you accidentally killed via overwatering.

He actually laughs. Like, full smile, head-tilted laugh.

You think you could listen to that sound for the rest of your life.

🕙 10:01 AM

You both watch the rain start outside the window.

Wonwoo leans forward on his elbows. “Do you come here often?”

You shake your head. “Never.”

“Then why here?”

You hesitate. Then, quietly: “Because you said you liked the window seat last week.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“You remembered that?”

You nod. “I remember… most things you say.”

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Me too.”

🕥 10:31 AM

You’re walking side by side now, both of you heading nowhere in particular. It’s still drizzling, but neither of you care.

And then it happens.

A split second. A breath of courage.

You reach out and hook your pinky with his. Not his whole hand. Just the smallest touch. Barely there.

He stiffens for half a second—like he wasn’t expecting it—but then?

He curls his pinky around yours.

Neither of you say a word.

But your heart says plenty.

🕑 2:17 PM — Sunday, November 17

It’s the first time he’s been in your room.

You spent the entire morning cleaning it even though it’s always tidy. You lit a candle. Then panicked and blew it out because it felt too much. Now your hands smell like vanilla smoke and your brain hasn’t stopped buzzing since he texted “On my way :)” forty minutes ago.

Wonwoo sits cross-legged on your floor, laptop on his thighs, back against your bed. You’re on the other side, curled in your desk chair, trying to look like you’re reading—but you haven’t absorbed a single word in the last fifteen minutes.

You can see the veins on his forearms from here.

The way his sleeves are pushed up. The way his eyes narrow a little when he’s thinking. The way his hair falls over his temple and you want so badly to brush it back but your hands are glued to your highlighter like it’s a lifeline.

You’re not concentrating.

You’re surviving.

“This project’s gonna kill me,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

You hum in agreement, then nearly fall out of your chair when he looks at you suddenly.

“You okay?”

You nod—too fast, too small. “Just… tired.”

Not a lie. Just not the truth either.

🕝 2:32 PM

He stretches with a groan and shifts, leaning back on one hand, the other adjusting his glasses.

“Why are dorm floors so damn uncomfortable?”

“You could sit on the bed,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Silence.

He looks at you. Slow blink. Like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You panic.

“I mean—only if you want! It’s not a big deal. You’d have more space, and—”

“You sure?”

You nod. Pretend to go back to reading. Your heart is not pretending. It’s slamming against your ribs like a prisoner with a spoon.

He stands, crosses the space in two slow steps, and sits next to you.

Not far.

Not touching.

But close enough that you feel the warmth of his thigh near yours through two layers of fabric.

🕞 2:46 PM

You don’t know how to act normal anymore.

You’ve read the same sentence six times. You’re hyper-aware of everything: your breath, your posture, the fact that your sweater is slightly askew and your bra strap might be peeking out and oh god what if he notices and—

“You’re really quiet today,” he says softly.

You glance at him. He’s not teasing. He looks... thoughtful.

“I’m just... distracted,” you admit, voice small.

“Anything I can help with?”

Yes. But not in a way either of us is ready for.

You give a tiny smile and shake your head. “It’s fine.”

He watches you a moment longer. Then:

“You know you don’t have to say ‘I’m fine’ all the time, right?”

That one hits harder than you expect.

You swallow. “I know.”

Another silence. Not awkward.

Just heavy.

🕒 3:02 PM

His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts slightly.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

You stiffen, then force yourself to stay still. You want to lean into it. You want to tilt your head and rest it there. You want—

But you don’t.

Because you’re still shy. Still afraid. And he’s still Wonwoo.

Perfect, patient, unreadable Wonwoo.

You grip your pen tighter.

And then, softly—so softly—you whisper:

“Do you ever feel like something’s... just about to happen?”

He looks at you slowly. And for the first time today, something flickers in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low.

🕓 4:03 PM — Sunday, November 17

The room is silent.

Not the kind of silence filled with studying or shy small talk.

This silence is alive. Breathing. Trembling between you both like an unspoken question that neither of you dares to ask.

You’re still sitting side by side on your bed.

Wonwoo hasn’t moved away since his shoulder brushed yours. In fact, now your knees are almost touching. Almost. And you can feel it — the way his body is angled ever so slightly toward you, the way his hand rests near yours, palm open on the blanket like it’s waiting.

Your heart is a storm.

You should say something. You should breathe. You should—

“Y/N,” he says quietly. So quietly.

You glance at him, and this time... he’s already looking at you.

His gaze doesn’t waver. And it’s not unreadable this time. It’s warm. Intense. Like he’s finally letting you see something he’s been holding back for weeks.

“I keep thinking about what you said earlier. About something about to happen.”

You nod, throat dry. “Me too.”

There’s a pause. Then—he shifts closer. Just slightly. His knee brushes yours now. His hand, still open on the bed, inches toward yours until your pinkies are touching again.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t push.

But his voice drops lower, softer.

“I want to try something. But only if you’re okay with it.”

You know exactly what he means.

And you want it too.

You can’t speak, so you nod.

He leans in—slowly—eyes flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes.

You feel everything.

The heat.

The closeness.

The possibility.

Your heart stutters.

And then—

📱 BUZZZZZZZ

The sound shatters the moment like glass on tile.

Wonwoo curses under his breath—barely audible—but pulls back just enough to fumble for his phone.

“Sorry,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “It’s my roommate.”

He answers.

“Yeah?” A pause. Then: “Dude. Seriously?” Another pause. A sigh. “Fine. I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up slowly.

“He locked himself out. Again.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You nod, trying to keep your face neutral.

“That’s okay.”

But it’s not really. Not completely. Because you were so close.

He stands, reluctantly. Grabs his bag. Looks at you again—hesitating.

“I… I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

You shake your head fast. “You didn’t. It’s okay. Really.”

He looks down at you—eyes searching, unsure—then does something unexpected.

He leans forward and presses his forehead gently to yours. Just for a second. No kiss. No promises. Just warmth.

“I’ll call you later?”

You nod. Whisper, “Okay.”

And then he’s gone.

The room feels colder without him. But your fingers are still tingling from where his touched yours.

🕓 4:08 PM — Monday, November 18

The library feels... different today.

Not louder. Not busier. Just charged, like the air is made of static and someone’s holding their breath waiting for lightning to strike.

You’re in your usual seat. So ist er.

But neither of you has spoken yet.

You tap your pen against your notes, eyes locked on a page you haven’t actually read. Your mind keeps flickering back to yesterday—his voice, his nearness, the almost. And then that forehead touch. Like he wanted to say more but didn’t have the time.

Now he’s here. Right next to you again.

And it’s so much worse.

Because you know what his mouth almost tasted like.

And now you can’t stop wondering.

Wonwoo keeps shifting in his seat. His pen hasn’t moved in minutes. Once in a while, you catch him looking at you—but when you glance over, he looks away again. Fast. Too fast.

Neither of you knows how to start again.

🕠 5:02 PM

You close your book and mumble, “I’m gonna grab something else. Be right back.”

He stands, too. “I’ll come.”

You both move toward the back shelves in awkward silence, feet padding softly against the old carpet, surrounded by towering books and too many unspoken thoughts.

Your fingers trail along the spines. “It’s up there,” you say, pointing to the top shelf.

He follows your gaze. “One sec.”

He steps in front of you, reaching high above—his body stretching, hoodie riding up slightly at the back. His arm grazes yours. Then his chest.

Then—

He shifts, leaning just slightly over you to steady himself as he grabs the book.

His scent is close. So close.

You look up—

And there it is.

His jaw. The curve of his throat. The slight parting of his lips as he breathes.

You don’t think. You can’t think.

You just do.

You lift your face—

And press the lightest kiss to the edge of his jaw.

The second it happens, your brain catches up.

Your whole body seizes.

“Oh my god—” You pull back instantly, eyes wide in horror, your voice shaking. “I— I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I— I didn’t mean to—”

You step back, heart racing, heat flooding your face. You can’t even look at him.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat again, softer. “That was stupid—”

But he doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just sets the book down gently on the nearby shelf.

And then turns to face you.

And in one fluid, sure motion—

he steps forward, grabs your waist, and pulls you to him.

And kisses you.

Not gently. Not questioningly.

Like he’s been waiting.

His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His lips find yours like they already know the shape. There’s nothing hesitant about it—just warmth and need and finally.

You don’t move at first—frozen in disbelief.

But then your hands find his hoodie. And your body leans in. And you kiss him back.

And it feels like every unfinished sentence has finally been said.

🕠 5:09 PM

He pulls away just slightly. His forehead rests against yours again. Just like yesterday.

Only this time, you’re both smiling.

“So,” he whispers, breath still uneven. “That happened.”

You nod, stunned.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” you say softly. “It was... impulse.”

He lets out a short laugh.

“Good impulse.”

Then he kisses you again—quieter this time. Slower.

And nothing about it feels accidental anymore.

#fanfic #fanfiction #romance #fluff #kpop edits #seventeen #svt carat #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo x reader

55 notes · View notes

faroffsong · 3 months ago

Note

I love you, my dear. I love you I love you.

LOVE

YOU

TOO.

#💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙#💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜#Beloved Bri #Most Beloved

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brookediamonds · 3 months ago

Note

Could you do an Axel x Reader one-shot where they are on the field trip to the aquarium in Barcelona. Either their from different teams, or same team. And they find themselves walking the same way through the aquarium, slowly they begin to talk and its just cute? 😅 love your work btw 💜💜💜

don't worry baby | Axel Kovačević x Fem!Reader

Summary: Before the tournament, you and Axel have some time to yourselves in the Barcelona aquarium, walking and talking, enjoying each other's company before the competition tomorrow.

Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: None, fluff!

gif is not mine

The air in the aquarium is cool, filtered through the scent of saltwater and the murmur of soft, echoing voices. The tanks hum quietly all around you, filled with rippling schools of fish, jellyfish drifting like ghosts, and the occasional sea turtle gliding past like royalty.

But your focus isn't on the sea creatures. It's on the boy next to you, Axel. Axel who looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as the Sekai Taikai staff lines everyone up for a photo op. The captains are spaced shoulder to shoulder in front of a massive tank full of vibrant coral and fish that look like they were made in Photoshop.

The lighting is cool blue, camera flashes bouncing off the glass.

The organizer clicks their pen and waves impatiently at Axel. "You there, in the back. Show some emotion."

You see his jaw tick. Smile? Yeah, right. The boy barely smiles on a good day, let alone in front of a dozen other captains from rival dojos and a high-definition lens.

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes fixed ahead. Silent. Stone-faced.

So, you do what you always do when you see that look on him.

You reach down, subtle, fingers brushing against his knuckles before slipping your hand into his. It's a quiet gesture. No one else sees. But the effect is instant.

You feel the tension leave his shoulders, just a little. The edge in his breathing softens. And when you gently squeeze his hand once, he doesn't let go. He never does.

You lean in slightly, not enough to make it obvious, just enough for your voice to reach him.

"I'm here," you murmur. "You're not alone."

His eyes flick to yours for half a second, and there it is, that tiniest shift. Not quite a smile, but enough. A softening.

The camera clicks a few more times. Eventually, the organizers call it good and dismiss you all with some peppy comment about enjoying the exhibits. The moment the group starts to break up, Axel drops your hand, but not before giving it one last squeeze.

You let the others wander first, then fall into step beside him.

"Smile," you tease under your breath. "You're practically glowing."

Axel side-eyes you. "I was not glowing."

"You were!" you say with a grin, bumping into his side. "It was like… a sparkle. A moody sparkle."

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh as he shakes his head.

You spend the next half hour wandering together through the rest of the aquarium, the silence between you less awkward and more... peaceful. Comfortable.

You talk sometimes, Axel even laughs once when a penguin honks at you through the glass, and you yelp. He doesn't tease you too hard, just nudges you gently with his elbow as if to say you're fine, I've got you.

As you walk past a cylindrical tank of jellyfish, you stop to admire their bodies pulsing with eerie neon light. Axel slows beside you, staring at them like they hold all the secrets of the universe.

"They're so cool," you say, pressing your nose slightly to the glass. "Look at how they move. They're like… underwater marshmallows. With rhythm."

Axel glances at you, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, not enough for anyone else to call it a smile, but you know better.

"They're weird," he murmurs.

"You like weird," you respond immediately.

He doesn’t deny it. A few steps later, you stop in front of a tank full of tiny, darting fish—bright orange and electric blue, swimming around coral like they're late for something.

And through it all, Axel watches you watching them.

"You're kind of like them, you know," he spoke suddenly.

You blink, turning toward him. "What, fish?"

He nods, straight-faced. "Fast. Distracting. Loud colors. Chaotic energy."

You gasp, swatting his arm. "Rude! They're majestic."

"So are you," he shrugs. "Just… in a very noisy way."

You burst into laughter, and Axel finally, finally, smiles for real. That rare, barely-there curve that only shows up when he's with you and no one else. The one that makes your chest go all warm and fluttery.

"You're lucky I like you," you grin, giving him a look.

"I know," he says quietly, like it’s not even a question.

For the rest of the walk, your fingers brush occasionally, your shoulders bump now and then. The water glows around you, casting waves of light across the floor.

And somewhere between the sea turtles and the sharks, you realize you don’t really care about tomorrow’s tournament. Not when today feels like this.

You never let go of his hand as you drag him eagerly toward the next tank, and he doesn't let go either. Axel follows without complaint, quiet, steady, and hopelessly wrapped around your finger.

"Axel, look!" you smile, stopping in front of a tank with a stingray that glides along the glass like it's showing off. "He looks like a little pancake. Oh my god, I want to hug him."

"He has venom," your boyfriend points out to you, a single brow raised.

You wave your hand dismissively, continuing to stare at the flat fish swimming past you. "Whatever."

Axel lets out a low chuckle, and it makes your chest flutter. That sound is reserved just for you—soft, rare, and real.

You pull him from tank to tank, narrating your thoughts with unfiltered excitement. Jellyfish, sea horses, pufferfish, even an octopus tangled around a rock, everything is a marvel to you, and Axel watches all of it with quiet fascination.

Not the fish. You.

"They're like us in sparring," you point at a cluster of clownfish darting between anemones and laugh, saying, "me, zipping around all chaotic, and you just lurking behind me like a shark."

Axel stares at the group of fish unamused, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sharks don't lurk behind clownfish."

You grin looking over your shoulder. "Okay, fine. But you are kind of sharky."

"Sharky?"

"Broody. Mysterious. Could bite someone at any time," you describe his personality.

Axel narrows his eyes, deadpan. "You bite way more than I do."

You shrug, pleased. "Gotta keep up the reputation, baby."

He just shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. You bounce on your toes in front of another tank before turning around and facing him.

His hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, eyes glued to you like you’re the only thing worth watching in the whole place.

It’s quieter in this corner. A little darker. The soft blue glow of the water reflects off your face, and Axel feels it again, that warm, low ache in his chest that only ever shows up around you.

You step into his space, a small, cheeky smile pulling at your lips. "You keep staring."

"You keep giving me reasons to," he responds casually, boldly. You loved when he was confident.

You blink up at him. That line? From him?

"You little romantic you," you whisper, already smiling as your hands slide up his chest. He doesn't hesitate, just rests his hands on your waist and lets you tug him closer.

You rise onto your toes, and he leans down like it's instinct, like he couldn't stop himself if he tried.

Your lips meet in a slow, careful kiss, like you're both trying to memorize the moment, the taste of salt in the air, the steady beat of each other’s heart.

It deepens quickly, your hands threading into his hair, his mouth soft and warm and so him. It's not rushed, not desperate. Just grounding. Like a reminder that no matter what happens tomorrow, this is solid. This is unbreakable.

When you finally break apart, you're both slightly breathless, foreheads resting together as you catch your breath.

"I'm glad I get to do this with you," you murmur. You feel his hands softly caress your back, sending comfort through you.

Axel exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a second. "Me too."

"You nervous?" You nudge his nose with yours.

He gives a small nod, with a shrug. "A little. You?"

"Terrified," you whisper with a smile.

That earns a low laugh from him.

"But we've got this," you say, cupping his jaw. "You're the strongest fighter I know."

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the stars. "You're the heart of our team."

"That’s because I never shut up," you snort.

Axel smirks. "It works."

You stay like that for a moment longer, wrapped in blue light and quiet certainty, before he finally pulls back and threads your fingers together again.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's see the sharks. I want to show you what you really look like."

You gasp dramatically attempting to break free of his hold. "That's it. I'm breaking up with you."

He squeezes your hand even tighter, pulling you into his side. "No, you're not."

You smile up at him as he presses a firm kiss to your temple. No, you're not.

─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─

Masterlist

Taglist: @ggrgcribg

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