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sixeyesonathiel · 15 days ago

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bad ideas in bikini – day three.

pairing — tech bro satoru x lawyer reader

synopsis : gojo satoru was supposed to be taking a break, not obsessing over the woman across the hall who slammed her door in his face and lives in his head rent-free ever since. he's not the type to fall easy-too smart for that, date-to-marry only-but you? you show up in bikinis and arguments, and suddenly he's one bad decision away from wanting everything.

tags -> f!reader, cruise ship au, summer situationship, romantic comedy, fluff, humor, eventual smut, porn with plot, sexual tension, banter, satoru is a workaholic, bad decisions in luxury settings, more tags to be added.

wc — 6.3k | prev | series masterlist | next

fun fact: in my outline, there are only three days left in this entire fic without smut (not in a row dw 😌). everything else? yeah, they’re not making it out unscrewed. enjoy 😋

some people get crushes. satoru gets full-blown identity crises.

he didn’t mean to dress like this. not really. it’s not a statement, it’s not a calculated charm offensive. it’s just that his other dress shirt had a wrinkle he couldn’t ignore, and ironing felt like a level of despair he wasn’t ready to confront on vacation. he picked the tux because it required the least amount of thought, not because he wanted to look like the love interest in a high-budget drama.

so now he’s here. dining hall. evening air humming with clinking cutlery and violin covers of rihanna, which feel wrong and right at the same time. wearing a tux that fits too well and trying very hard not to look like he’s trying at all. he feels like the ghost of someone successful. someone polished. someone who doesn’t check his email compulsively while brushing his teeth.

no tie. top buttons undone. hair still a little damp from the shower because he misjudged the time—strands of it catch the chandelier light like spun frost, unruly at the ends where water still clings. and yes, the navy is intentional, but only because black felt too obvious. not because he thought anyone would be paying attention. definitely not because he thought you would be. god, if he knew you’d be here, he would’ve at least lint-rolled the jacket.

he’s not even supposed to be here. he’s avoided most of the curated activities like they were laced with arsenic. cooking demos. salsa classes. the dating game night they tried to rope him into with a wink and a free drink coupon. it’s all too glittery, too curated, too much. and yet, the room service menus were starting to blur into each other and his bed was beginning to feel like exile. his suite, luxurious as it is, feels increasingly like a gilded isolation chamber. he didn’t want to admit it, but he missed people. or at least the idea of them. something vaguely human.

so he came. walked in alone. gave his name. got escorted to a table tucked beneath a chandelier that looks like it costs more than his first car. pretended not to feel like a misplaced extra in someone else’s romance montage.

just food, he told himself. maybe awkward small talk. maybe some mediocre dessert and a new reason to feel lonely in public. nothing risky. nothing noteworthy. definitely not a reminder of what it feels like to be startled by beauty.

he didn’t expect you.

you walk in like the room owes you something. late. alone. eyes steady. dress a shade of citrus so soft it should be harmless, but it glows under the dim lights like a quiet warning. strapless. architectural folds. a slit that doesn’t try too hard but still ruins him a little. your skin is lit like it’s been painted. nails dusted lilac. gold at your ears and throat—thin hoops that catch light, a delicate chain that follows the hollow of your collarbone. everything about you is curated in a way that feels casual and terrifying at the same time. it’s not showy. it’s not loud. it’s precise. like you calculated the exact level of indifference needed to be devastating.

you don’t float. you glide like you’re used to being looked at and never once asked for it. like you know how to weaponize silence better than most people know how to wield a conversation. your expression doesn’t shift. not even a flicker. no recognition. no irritation. no smugness. and that alone feels like the cruelest kind of power.

satoru doesn’t breathe for a second.

because you’re heading his way. and when you sit down—next to him, obviously—he thinks maybe he pissed off a god in a past life. or maybe he is being punished. or maybe this is just how attraction works when your brain has decided to fixate on someone clearly built to destroy you.

you’ve got to be kidding him. who wears citrus and makes it look like a warning sign?

his body is trying very hard to stay still. to not fidget. to not look directly at you and burn his retinas on the sight. but you sit. legs crossed. posture straight. gaze forward. like the last two days never happened. like he didn’t slam into a pool wall thinking about your thighs. like he didn’t listen to your heartbreak through a crack in the door.

he adjusts his sleeve. the fabric catches on his cufflink—simple silver, nothing flashy—and he fumbles with it for a beat too long. his fingers are longer than they should be, pale against the navy. he notices his own hands like he’s seeing them for the first time. graceful, maybe, if they weren’t shaking slightly.

“okay,” he tells himself. “okay. play it cool. don’t say anything dumb. don’t say anything smart either. just… fork. just focus on the fork.”

he picks it up. too fast. sets it back down like it betrayed him. suddenly the entire place setting feels like a minefield. how many forks does one human need, exactly? why is the salad fork smaller but still so sharp?

tries to smile. it wobbles. he glances at you just once, quick, like he’s checking a traffic light. his eyes—winter pale, the kind of blue that looks almost colorless under certain lights—dart away before you can catch him staring.

you don’t even glance his way.

and somehow, that’s worse. because at least if you glared, it would mean you remembered him. but this? this quiet dismissal? this emotional airbrushing? he doesn’t know how to walk away from that without leaving pieces behind.

he adjusts his cuff. drinks water he doesn’t want. makes eye contact with the waiter too soon and regrets it. satoru has always been good at conversation. not flirting, necessarily, but talking. bridging silences. softening sharp edges with a joke, a grin, a throwaway comment that makes people feel seen but not threatened. it’s his gift. his armor. his lifeline.

none of it is working tonight.

you sit beside him like a mirage, answering the waiter’s questions with clean efficiency, nodding at the menu without flourish, sipping your water like it owes you nothing. you check your phone once—screen reflecting briefly in your bracelet, thin gold links catching the light—tap out a message. put it face-down again. maybe it’s to a friend. maybe it’s just to look busy. maybe it’s because you knew he’d be watching, hoping.

the first course arrives—oysters on ice, artfully arranged like tiny pearls. satoru eyes them with the sort of skepticism usually reserved for cryptocurrency explanations. his jaw works slightly, like he’s already chewing on words he can’t quite swallow.

he tries. god, he tries. starts light.

“so,” he says, voice pitched just loud enough to bridge the space between you. his spoon hovers over the bisque like he’s afraid it might judge him too. “have you ever actually eaten caviar that wasn’t part of a cruise package?”

you hum. a noncommittal sound. polite, distant. your eyes remain fixed ahead. the line of your jaw is sharp in profile, and he traces it without meaning to, the way your earring catches light when you turn your head just slightly.

“no judgment,” he adds quickly, “i just realized halfway through chewing that i don’t know if i’m enjoying it or pretending to be someone who would.”

he watches your fingers as you break bread—precise, controlled movements that somehow make even tearing apart a dinner roll look elegant. each gesture economical, nothing wasted.

still nothing. you bring the spoon to your lips with practiced precision. the motion is fluid, unbothered. like his words are background noise.

his chest tightens. he runs a hand through his hair—still damp at the roots, the motion leaving a few strands sticking up awkwardly. they catch the chandelier light like scattered glass.

“i mean, it’s supposed to be a delicacy, right?” he continues, unable to stop himself. “but it just tastes like expensive salt to me. which maybe says more about my palate than the caviar.”

you pause, spoon halfway to your mouth. for a second he thinks he’s broken through, but you just continue eating with the same measured rhythm.

the waiter refills their water glasses. ice clinks softly. satoru focuses on the sound like it might save him.

by the time the lamb is served, he’s resorted to mildly self-deprecating quips. his shoulders have loosened slightly—not from comfort, but from the exhaustion of maintaining perfect posture while being systematically ignored.

“fun fact: i once tried to sous vide something and ended up poaching my laptop. apparently steam and circuit boards don’t mix.” he cuts his lamb with surgical precision, as if perfect technique might somehow redeem his conversational failures.

the corners of your mouth twitch. he thinks. he can’t be sure. maybe it was a shadow. maybe it was the way the candle flame shifted. but something in your expression softens, just barely. microscopic.

“no one should trust me with kitchen appliances,” he mumbles, then immediately regrets the admission. he sounds pathetic. like a man who can’t boil water without adult supervision.

you don’t respond. just the quiet click of your knife against porcelain. the sound is crisp, controlled. he wonders if you do everything with that same measured confidence. if you ever fumble. if you ever doubt.

he considers faking a coughing fit just to break the tension. or setting the tablecloth on fire. surely that would get at least a glance.

he’s not even aiming for laughter anymore. just acknowledgment. a flicker. a grunt. hell, an eye roll. at this point, he’d take being told to shut up if it meant you registered he existed.

the dining room hums around them. soft conversations at neighboring tables, the gentle clink of silverware, someone laughing at something genuinely funny three tables over. it all feels distant, muffled, like he’s experiencing it from underwater.

he finds himself studying the way you eat—small, deliberate bites, never hurrying, never messy. even when you reach for your wine glass, the movement is fluid, graceful. your fingers wrap around the stem with the same precision you probably bring to cross-examinations.

“you know,” he says, voice softer now, “i’m usually better at this. conversation, i mean. not that this is conversation. this is more like… performance art. very avant-garde. the theme is existential loneliness.”

that gets a reaction. the smallest exhale through your nose. not quite a laugh, but definitely amusement. your lips curve slightly—barely perceptible, but he catches it. files it away like treasure.

encouraged, he leans back in his chair slightly, some of his natural confidence creeping back. “i should warn you, though—i’m about to ask if you want to split dessert, and your answer will determine whether this evening ends in triumph or tragedy.”

you set down your wine glass and look at him directly for the first time since you sat down. really look at him. your gaze is steady, assessing, like you’re seeing him clearly for the first time all night.

“what makes you think i want dessert?”

“everyone wants dessert. it’s the only honest part of the meal. everything else is just elaborate foreplay.”

your eyebrows raise slightly. “foreplay?”

“for dessert,” he clarifies quickly, then feels heat creep up his neck. “i meant—dessert is the main event. the rest is just… setup.”

“uh-huh.” your tone is dry, but there’s something almost playful in it now. “and here i thought you were just bad at small talk.”

“i am bad at small talk. but i’m excellent at dessert commentary.”

then dessert arrives.

and something in him snaps. not in a dramatic way. just in a tired, surrender-to-the-void sort of way. he stares at the glossy pages of the menu like they hold ancient secrets. his fingers drum against the table—a nervous habit he thought he’d outgrown—and he can feel the weight of his own restlessness.

“i was going to ask if you wanted to split something,” he says, more to the sugar-dusted menu than to you, voice softer now, like he’s talking to himself, “but you don’t seem like the type who shares dessert with strangers.”

that gets your attention.

your eyes cut to him. unreadable. not quite surprised. definitely not amused. but alert. locked on. and for the first time all night, he feels the full force of your gaze. it’s sharper than he expected. more direct. like being pinned by a spotlight.

“let me guess,” you say, voice cool as winter air. “you’re one of those corporate types who thinks buying a girl a drink means she owes you conversation?”

he blinks. his lashes are pale at the tips, nearly translucent. they flutter once, twice, as he processes your words. then he shrugs, too honest to play defense.

“actually, i was going to ask if you wanted to split the dessert menu because i have a sweet tooth and commitment issues.”

a pause.

just long enough for him to think he fucked it. again. his hands still on the table. his breathing shallow.

then you exhale through your nose. not a laugh. but close. your posture shifts, just barely. the rigid line of your shoulders softens by degrees.

you don’t reply. but you don’t look away either. your gaze lingers, sharp and assessing. he can feel you taking inventory—the nervous energy in his fingers, the way his shirt collar sits just slightly crooked, the genuine confusion in his expression.

he lets the silence breathe. doesn’t fill it with more words, more apologies, more desperate attempts at charm. just waits. his eyes—pale and steady despite the chaos in his chest—meet yours without flinching.

“i’m not usually this annoying,” he says after a beat, voice quieter now. more careful. “it’s just… you’re really hard to read. and that’s saying something, because i work with algorithms.”

that earns him a sidelong glance. a raised brow. your lips twitch. not a smile. just… movement. barely perceptible, but he catches it. files it away like treasure.

“you work in tech?”

“yeah. back-end systems. infrastructure. start-up stuff.” he gestures vaguely with his water glass, and a few drops catch the light as they settle back into place. “the deeply unsexy plumbing of the internet. basically, i make sure things don’t break when people click buttons.”

you make a face. almost playful. almost. your nose wrinkles slightly, and the expression transforms your entire countenance. makes you look younger. less armored.

“tech bros. even worse than i thought.”

he gasps. clutches his chest like you’ve stabbed him with a cocktail fork. the motion is theatrical but somehow genuine—his eyes wide with mock horror, his mouth falling open in exaggerated offense. “ouch. what did tech bros ever do to you?”

“exist.”

your tone is still dry, but lighter now. a little less armored. there’s a flicker in your posture, something open at the edges. the steel in your voice is still there, but now it glints. you look at him, and this time you don’t immediately look away.

he laughs. a real laugh, surprised out of him. his head tilts back slightly, exposing the line of his throat, and his hair catches the light again—moonshot pale, unruly at the crown where it refuses to cooperate.

“you?” he asks, leaning forward just slightly, elbows on the table. “what do you do?”

“law,” you say simply. your fingers toy with the stem of your wine glass—just a brush of movement, but he notices. files it away.

he exhales like that explains everything. his shoulders relax for the first time all evening. “oh. that explains the cross-examination.”

“you wouldn’t survive ten minutes in deposition.” your tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s something almost fond in the way you say it. like you’re genuinely assessing his ability to withstand legal scrutiny.

“i barely survived the soup.”

you smile. small. sharp. real. it stuns him more than a slap would have. transforms your face completely—softens the edges, lights up your eyes, makes you look approachable instead of untouchable.

he feels it like sunlight after a storm. like the first warm day of spring. like winning something he didn’t know he was competing for.

and for the first time all night, he thinks maybe he hasn’t completely lost.

so he pushes, just a little. gently. his voice is warmer now, more relaxed.

“okay, since i’m apparently on trial tonight, can i at least know what the charges are?”

you sip your water. set the glass down with deliberate precision. then tilt your head, mock thoughtful. the gesture is graceful, calculated. like you’re performing consideration.

“mansplaining, tech bro tendencies, possible delusions of charm.”

“delusions? that’s harsh.” he presses a hand to his heart again, but this time the gesture is softer. less theatrical. “i have actual charm. documented. i have references.”

“you rehearsed that line, didn’t you.” it’s not quite a question. more like an accusation delivered with the hint of a smile.

“not at all. completely spontaneous. and incredibly charming, according to my mother.” his grin is lopsided now, genuine. boyish in a way that catches you off guard.

that earns another almost-laugh. not sound, but breath. you shake your head, and your hair moves like water, catching the light. your gaze drops to your dessert menu, but he can see the smile you’re trying to hide.

“you really want to try all of these?”

he nods eagerly. too eagerly. like a kid in a candy store. “every last overpriced calorie. i’m on vacation. sue me.”

you snort. it’s soft, but unmistakably amused. unguarded. the sound surprises you more than it surprises him.

“you do know i’m actually a lawyer, right?”

“even better.” his eyes light up—winter blue warming to something brighter. “i trust you to destroy me in court and then buy me tiramisu.”

finally, finally, you smile. for real. teeth and everything. brief, but it lands like a win. like scoring the impossible goal.

satoru feels his chest loosen. like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to get the hang of your rhythm. not breaking through, but brushing the edge of something that might, someday, let him in.

you signal the waiter. order three desserts without asking his opinion. the crème brûlée, the chocolate tart, the seasonal fruit selection. your voice is crisp, confident. you’re used to being in charge.

“so we’re sharing now?” he asks, trying not to sound too pleased.

“you said you had commitment issues. i’m making the commitment for you.”

he grins. “see? this is why i need a lawyer.”

“you can’t afford me.”

“probably not. but i make excellent coffee and i never leave dishes in the sink.”

“tempting. but my rates are still higher than your rent.”

the desserts arrive like small works of art. you divide them methodically, but not stingily. push the larger portion of the chocolate tart toward him without comment. he notices. of course he notices. every gesture, every micro-expression. he’s cataloging them like a man studying scripture.

when you steal a bite of his crème brûlée without asking, he thinks he might actually die of happiness.

the conversation flows easier now. not smooth—nothing about this feels practiced or rehearsed. but easier. like you’ve both found a frequency that works. he tells you about the time he accidentally deleted half his company’s database during a routine update. you tell him about the opposing counsel who showed up to court in flip-flops. he admits he’s never actually been on a cruise before. you admit you booked this one during a particularly dramatic breakdown involving too much wine and your ex’s engagement announcement.

“ah,” he says, understanding clicking into place. “revenge vacation.”

“strategic life recalibration,” you correct.

“is that what we’re calling it?”

“it’s what i’m calling it. you can call it whatever you want.”

“i think i’ll call it the best dinner i’ve had in months.”

you look at him then, really look at him. your expression is softer than it’s been all evening. still guarded, but curious now. like you’re trying to figure him out.

“you’re not what i expected,” you say.

“what did you expect?”

“honestly? an entitled asshole with too much money and no sense of boundaries.”

he winces. “ouch. accurate, but ouch.”

“i said that’s what i expected. not what you are.”

“so what am i?”

you consider this, head tilted. the candlelight catches in your hair, turns it molten. “jury’s still out.”

he laughs. “well, that’s progress. yesterday you wanted to murder me.”

“yesterday you were making noise at eleven pm.”

“today i’m making noise at eight pm. evolution.”

“glacial evolution.”

“hey, it’s still evolution.”

you shake your head, but you’re smiling. and when you laugh—really laugh, not the careful almost-sounds from earlier—he thinks maybe the universe isn’t actively trying to destroy him after all.

maybe it’s just trying to teach him something.

the thing about seven-course dinners is that they’re designed to impress, not satisfy. small bites, artfully plated, meant to linger on the tongue and in memory, not in the stomach.

but satoru is full. completely. physically, emotionally, cosmically full. he doesn’t know if it’s the food or the conversation or the fact that he made you laugh—sort of—but there’s something warm and drowsy curling in his chest now, like the kind of glow you only get after surviving something delicate. it settles in his shoulders, loosens something tight in his spine. a small, quiet victory: she let me in. just a little. enough to taste hope.

he tells himself he’s not walking beside you. you just happen to be heading in the same direction. two people, post-dinner, post-flirtation, gravitating toward the open air of the deck because the night is too pretty to waste indoors. the sky is velvet blue shot through with silver. the stars look fake but feel real. even the wind has the audacity to be cinematic.

but he feels you. in his peripheral. every step. every breath. your heels against the deck—soft gold leather that catches the moonlight, low enough to be practical but high enough to make your legs look endless. your dress sways with the breeze like it has a heartbeat. and when you stop to lean against the railing, when the moonlight finds your profile and traces the lines of your cheekbone, he thinks maybe the dessert wasn’t the best part of the evening after all. he thinks you belong in a perfume ad. he thinks he’s going to remember this posture, this light, for longer than he should.

he stops a beat behind you. gives space. doesn’t crowd. just stands there with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. the air is salt-sweet and quieter here, the laughter and music from the dining hall fading into something distant and unimportant. it feels like being outside of time. like standing in a painting that hasn’t dried yet.

the ocean stretches endlessly dark, broken only by the ship’s wake—a trail of silver foam that disappears into the distance. you’re quiet, but it’s not the hostile quiet from dinner. it’s contemplative. peaceful, almost. you’ve slipped off your heels, and they dangle from your fingers as you lean against the rail. your toes—painted the same lilac as your nails—press against the deck.

“it’s kind of surreal,” you say suddenly. your voice is softer out here, without walls to contain it. “being in the middle of nothing.”

“yeah.” he moves closer, but not too close. close enough to smell your perfume—something clean and expensive that makes him think of summer rain. “makes you feel small. but in a good way, you know? like your problems are small too.”

you glance at him. sideways. assessing. “do you have problems?”

“everyone has problems.”

“that’s not an answer.”

he considers this. runs a hand through his hair—still unruly from the earlier dampness, still catching light like spun glass. “i work too much. sleep too little. my friends had to literally threaten me to take this vacation.”

“threaten how?”

“they said they’d chain me to the ship if i refused. which, knowing them, wasn’t entirely a joke.” he grins, but it’s rueful. “they’re worried i’m turning into one of those guys who dies at his desk at forty.”

“are you?”

the question hangs in the air. heavier than he expected. he looks out at the water, considers deflecting. making another joke. but something about the night, about you, makes honesty feel safer than usual.

“maybe. probably. i don’t know how to do anything halfway.” he shrugs, and the gesture looks surprisingly vulnerable. “work, hobbies, feelings. when i’m in, i’m all in. it’s not always healthy.”

you’re quiet for a moment. your fingers tap against the railing—a soft, rhythmic sound that matches the waves below.

“i get that,” you say eventually. “the all-in thing.”

“yeah? is that a lawyer thing?”

“it’s an everything thing.” your voice is quieter now. more careful. “at least for me.”

he wants to ask more. wants to understand what put that cautious note in your voice. but he senses the fragility of the moment, the way it could shatter if he pushes too hard.

instead, he watches the way the wind lifts your hair. soft, fine strands that dance around your face like they’re reaching for something. some of it tangles, slightly, over your shoulder, skimming your cheek. his chest stirs. not lust, not quite. something more annoying. more dangerous. reverence, maybe.

the urge to touch is almost overwhelming. not sexual—just human. the kind of instinct that makes you want to smooth a wrinkled shirt or straighten a crooked picture. your hair moves like liquid silk, and his fingers itch with the memory of imagined texture.

you’re talking about something—work, maybe, or the ship’s route—but he’s lost in the details. the way your earrings catch the light when you turn your head. the delicate hollow at the base of your throat. the precise way you gesture when you’re making a point.

his body moves before his brain does.

just a gesture. small. gentle. he reaches to brush the tangled strands back behind your ear, not thinking, not calculating, just—something instinctive. something human. something stupid. the kind of thing you do when you’re full of warm air and moonlight and a girl who makes the world feel a little less sharp.

his fingers are close enough to feel the warmth of your skin. close enough to catch the faint scent of your shampoo.

but you flinch.

step back.

fast. sharp. like the motion itself burned you.

eyes wide. body tense. like the moment itself betrayed you.

“don’t.”

the word cuts through the night air like glass.

his hand freezes. then drops. like it never existed. like it was never meant to reach for softness.

“i wasn’t going to—” he starts, but the words feel wrong the moment they leave his mouth.

“sure you weren’t.”

your voice isn’t loud. doesn’t need to be. it carries the weight of experience. of disappointment. of walls built from necessity, not choice.

and god, it’s not just the words. it’s the way you look at him like you’ve already seen this movie before. like you’re just waiting for him to show his true colors. like you’re tired of men with kind eyes and ulterior motives. like your heart is barricaded under seven layers of past disappointments and his fingers just brushed the lock.

the wind quiets. the world shrinks. everything stills.

“she flinched,” he thinks. not recoiled, not dodged. flinched. like she expected it to hurt. like she’s been hurt before. and maybe not that long ago.

and suddenly nothing feels casual anymore.

he wants to apologize. properly. not out of guilt, but out of something deeper. the gut-twisting realization that he may have stumbled into someone else’s scar. and even if he didn’t cause it, he touched it. he made it wince.

but his mouth won’t cooperate. and even if it did, he knows anything he says right now would sound like damage control. like another man trying to tidy away discomfort before it stains his shirt.

so he says nothing. watches your jaw tighten. watches the way your arms cross—defensive, practiced. watches you slip your heels back on with sharp, efficient movements. armor going back up.

his hands hang at his sides like dead weight. useless. dangerous.

you adjust your bracelet—thin gold links that catch the moonlight—and the gesture is so small, so unconsciously elegant, that it makes his chest ache. makes him think about all the ways he’ll never understand you. all the stories written in your reflexes.

a laugh erupts somewhere behind you—a couple, drunk on wine and warm air—and it shatters whatever fragile thing had been forming in the silence between you. like a snow globe dropped from height.

you turn.

walk away.

your heels hit the deck like punctuation. sharp. final. each step deliberate, measured. the echo follows you down the wood panels like a warning sign. like a door closing.

he doesn’t follow.

he just stands there, hand still half-curled, like it doesn’t know it’s not allowed to touch softness anymore. his hair moves in the wind—pale strands catching starlight—and he pushes them back with the same hand that reached for you. contaminated now. clumsy.

and in the hollow space you leave behind, something starts to ache. slow and dull. the kind of ache that knows it has no place to go.

the ocean continues its endless motion. indifferent. eternal. like it’s seen this scene a thousand times before and knows how it ends.

maybe dessert was the second-best part of the night after all.

satoru has never wanted to be the kind of guy who overthinks. it seems exhausting. embarrassing. tragic, even. like a symptom of someone who watches old romance films unironically and believes in timing. but tonight, he’s that guy—freshly showered, hair still damp and unruly at the crown, robe askew on his shoulders, sitting stiff-backed on the edge of a king-sized bed in a suite that smells like overpriced linen and guilt.

it’s not even midnight. just shy of it. the kind of hour where the world presses a finger to its lips and dares you to say what you really mean. he should be doing anything else. watching a movie. doomscrolling. falling asleep mid-text with his phone on his chest. instead, he’s staring at the pattern on the carpet like it’s a rorschach test. looking for meaning where there’s only fabric.

his thoughts replay the night in gritty, slow-motion fragments. not the dinner part—that, somehow, had gone fine. more than fine. you were sharp, unapologetic, radiant in a citrus dress that made his brain lag. he’d managed a few decent jokes. made you crack a smile. maybe. it could’ve been muscle memory. but there was… something. he felt it. he wants to believe he felt it. he has to believe he didn’t hallucinate it.

but it wasn’t dinner that clawed at his ribs. it was the deck. the quiet. the wind and your hair and that fucking moment. the way you flinched when he reached out. the way you stepped back like he was heat. danger. something you knew how to brace for.

his tux hits the floor with a rustle. navy fabric pooling like spilled ink. he bends to pick it up, hesitates, then dumps it into the laundry bag with an absent-minded, muttered, “fuck it.” ties the knot too tight. hangs it on the hook by the door with more force than necessary. his movements are sharp, frustrated. like he’s punishing the clothes for witnessing his failure.

the suite remains pristine. sterile. too quiet. even his suitcase in the corner looks disapproving, like it knows he’s only pretending to be someone who’s fine.

he cracks the balcony door, not to go out—just to bleed some of the tension into the sea air. it rolls in, soft and briny, brushing over his skin like it knows he’s trying to exorcise something. he crosses his arms and leans in the frame, but nothing about his posture feels casual. he’s all knots. his shoulders are rigid, his jaw tight. even his hair looks agitated—damp strands sticking up at odd angles where his fingers have been running through it.

and then it happens. the soft, unmistakable sound of a door clicking shut across the hall. he doesn’t mean to look. he just—he does. automatic. your suite. your laundry bag already hanging on the handle. same style. same shape. same perfect timing.

of course.

he exhales, almost smiling despite himself. “she’s efficient. lawyer brain.”

his thoughts betray him immediately. imagines your hands moving through silk and cotton, folding with precision, fluid and methodical. he thinks about how clean your lines are. how your lipstick didn’t smudge during dinner. how your heels never once caught on the deck. everything about you is controlled, curated, intentional.

“i bet she wears silk everything.”

a pause.

then: “do not think about what she’s laundering.”

he thinks about it. obviously. in full detail. worse than he meant to. his mind runs wild with it, pitching him into vivid, high-definition scenarios he has no business fabricating. silk slipping over skin. lace gathered in careful hands. the precise way you’d fold everything, even intimate things, with the same methodical grace you brought to dividing dessert.

he drags a hand down his face, jaw tight, expression somewhere between despair and desperate awe. his palm comes away slightly damp—whether from the shower or the stress sweat of prolonged mortification, he can’t tell.

he knocks his head lightly against the doorframe. once. twice. not hard enough to bruise—just enough to rattle something loose. or in. his hair messes further with each gentle impact, pale strands falling into his eyes.

his phone is on the nightstand. face-down. glowing slightly with a notification that he ignores. probably work emails. probably suguru asking if he’s “met any nice girls yet” with an excess of winky face emojis. probably shoko demanding photographic evidence of him actually relaxing.

he picks it up anyway, thumb hovering over the group chat. they’re always online. always nosy. always ready with advice he doesn’t want and jokes he definitely doesn’t need.

he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. just something like: hey. how do you talk to a woman without making it worse? or maybe: is it normal to still think about something she said three hours ago? or, god forbid: how do you know if you’re the problem?

they’d definitely tease him. call it his long-overdue romance arc. accuse him of finally catching feelings after all these years of rolling his eyes at their melodramatic dating lives. suguru would probably send a dissertation-length text about “emotional intelligence” and “reading social cues.” shoko would demand details and then mock him for all of them.

he deserves it. he’s earned every bit of it.

but this—this—feels different. he doesn’t want to talk about it in the group chat that usually holds sex jokes, memes, and drunk karaoke voice memos. not yet. not when he doesn’t understand it himself. not when the memory of your flinch is still so raw it makes his chest tight.

he locks the screen before he can embarrass himself. sets the phone down like it burns.

the silence rushes back in. oppressive. loaded. he can hear the ocean through the cracked door—waves against the hull in a rhythm that should be soothing but isn’t. he can hear the distant murmur of other passengers, other lives, other people who probably aren’t replaying every micro-expression from dinner like it might contain the secrets of the universe.

he climbs into bed. the sheets are too crisp. too tucked. too hotel. like they’ve never been slept in, never been rumpled by dreams or restlessness or the simple act of being human. he lies flat on his back like a corpse, staring at the ceiling as if it might lower and crush him with mercy. the hum of the air conditioner buzzes like tinnitus. and somewhere in the stillness, he swears he can hear the echo of your heels retreating, sharp and sure.

his hair spreads against the pillow—almost translucent in the dim light from the balcony, like frost against dark fabric. his eyes are open, unblinking, reflecting the faint glow from the door. he looks younger like this. stripped of his usual confidence, his easy charm. just a man trying to figure out how he managed to fuck up something that felt so close to beautiful.

he tells himself he’ll stop thinking about you in five minutes.

five minutes pass.

then ten.

then thirty.

somewhere around the forty-minute mark, he gives up pretending and just lets himself drown in it. in the memory of your smile over dessert. the way you divided the crème brûlée without asking, but made sure he got the larger piece. the soft surprise in your voice when you said you understood the all-in thing.

and then, inevitably, the moment it all went wrong. the flinch. the step back. the way your whole body seemed to recoil from the possibility of his touch.

he still doesn’t understand it. not fully. but he’s starting to suspect it wasn’t really about him. not entirely. there was something in your reaction that spoke of history. of damage. of reasons he’ll probably never know and definitely has no right to ask about.

he won’t stop thinking about you tonight.

he knows that now.

he won’t.

a/n: satoru is about to go through it next chapter. like, emotionally compromised and spiritually tested by cotton blend kind of “through it.” i hope you enjoyed him trying to act normal for one evening because starting tomorrow… god takes his hands off the wheel. and he puts both of them somewhere else.

next chapter is just one man. one bikini. one very bad decision. 🫡 see u there :>

passenger list : @miffyliebe @heh123321 @jijijihanji @chuiisi @etsuniiru @hails-trom @ravenbc @yukiyaaaa @juststrawbs @strawberrychita @endedlove @arabellasolstice @starlight5cat @fisusaurus @ayumilk @sofi4dsam @vynn30 @kkataleena @anthastudios @satorusprites @camy-yh @woosaniesworld @raendarkfaerie @onixsky @k0z3me @pomegranatepip @satotorulove @ffaeriee @ieathairs @jihyosdrider @satoruxsc @j311yb34nz @candyluvsboba @ethereal-moonlit @1r2u3b4y5 @surgikull @tofumiao @deffenferofjustice @thenonweeknd @fluerful @kamuihz

if interested, please drop a comment to the itinerary aka the series masterlist to get on the passenger list.

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prettieinpink · 9 months ago

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BUDGETING + SAVING MONEY FOR TEENS 𐙚

For many of us, we are entering an age when we can work casual jobs such as retail or fast food. It’s not a lot of money that we receive, depending on how often you get paid, but it can go a long way in the long term.

In this post, I’ll be discussing how to budget for your needs/wants and save money for future goals.

CREATING GOALS, you may want to save a certain amount of money in a time frame, want to make a big purchase (like a car) or buy everything off your wishlist. It is entirely up to you what your goals are, so I can’t say too much. However, the more specific it is, the better.

HOW MUCH? Determine how much money you need to save to achieve your goal. In total, and monthly.

There are three types of saving goals that may apply to you;

Short-term goals >1 year (outings, latest gadget, buying your cart)

Medium-term goals 1-2 years (road trips, shopping spree)

Long-term goals 2-4 years (higher education, car)

It’s very important to set a realistic time frame, as teens we don’t get paid much and we also don’t work as much. You don’t want to overwhelm yourself as well, as it takes patience and self-control to achieve these goals.

NO LOOONG-TERM GOALS! This may sound aggressive, but any money that just sits in your account for years on end is dead money. Even though the amount of money is increasing, its value is slowly decreasing. Keep your goals achievable within a time frame of less than four years. It's much more useful if this money is put into some type of investment instead.

CREATING A BUDGET

Calculate how much money you receive every month, and how much money you spend every month.

You have two types of expenses. Fixed and variable. Fixed are any expenses required in your day-to-day life or it’s an amount of money that doesn’t change e.g. subscriptions or transportation costs. Variable costs are expenses that may fluctuate, like food, or any other recreational activities.

Record the average you’re spending monthly with these two categories.

There are many ways people choose to budget, but you have to choose a system that works for you.

Work out how much money you need to save each month to achieve your goal.

However, for anyone who’s starting in budgeting, I would say to allocate your costs using a percentage system. Your percentages for each category are going to differ from mine; e.g. 60% = savings, 20% = wants, 20% needs. Make sure it reflects the end goal.

Track your progress. This is the major part of budgeting, you want to be recording and regularly reviewing how much money you’re spending and comparing it to how much you’re earning. It allows for space to reflect on the flow of your money like if some purchases are worth it, if you’re impulsively spending, or if you’re frequently withdrawing money from your savings.

Adjust if needed. Maybe you want to put more money in savings and less into wants, or you want to put more into wants and less into needs.

SAVING TIPS

SAY NO! This is probably my biggest struggle at the moment, but say no to things that will cause you to go off track. Whether its outings, getting fast-food or anything similar, say no. You have to be firm with your financial boundaries, as these opportunities will always arise again.

RESTRICT IMPULSIVE SPENDING. We all have our moments when we see a product and we instantly think ‘I’ve got to have this’. Giving in once or twice is okay, but it shouldn’t become a habit at all. Its unnecessary spending (most of the time!) and leads to buyers remorse.

IS IT WORTH IT? Always remember to work out which products you’re getting the most value out of.

PAYING FOR THE NAME, a lot of brands will cut down on quality to save a few dollars, so essentially the customer is only paying for the name of that brand. Just because a store is more expensive, doesn’t mean its better.

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please-destroy · 6 months ago

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Pieces Into Place

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count 5k

Sophomore year of college was not going to plan and it hadn’t even started yet.

You’d made the choice not to apply for dorms. Instead, you’d made plans with your two best friends from freshman year. The three of you had been inseparable for two semesters, and it made perfect sense to rent an off campus house together.

As the summer went on, it started to feel like you were the only one in the group still excited for the experience of living together. You found yourself sending links for potential houses into the group chat, only to be left on read.

You should have seen it coming. You started to stress as the start of the semester loomed closer. Your anxious messages were still being left on read by both friends. Worry started to flood you on a daily basis, houses were being rented at a rapid pace and any good options were running out.

There were barely two weeks left until the start of the semester, when you finally received a message. Both of your friends were going to move in with their boyfriends instead. They’d met the boys in the last few weeks of your freshman year, and somehow the relationships had lasted through the summer. The four of them could split the rent of a two bed house close to campus.

They were overly apologetic, promising that you could visit whenever you wanted.

Anxiety spiked immediately and you found yourself crying in your car as you read over the message. You were already late for the last shift of your summer job. You felt profoundly stupid like you should have seen it coming. You also felt lonely, you were only really close to those two girls.

You realised how different the next year was going to be. You tried to think clearly as you calculated how much money you’d managed to save across the summer. You’d only budgeted for one third of a house’s rent. There was no way you could afford a place on your own.

You spent your lunch break scrolling through Craigslist ads. Your friends messaged you again and their apologies were more heartfelt. You knew they were feeling bad about your lack of response. You didn’t have time to care.

You tried to filter through the housemate requests. You decided quickly that you didn’t want to share with couples, still feeling bitter about your friends’ decision. Boldly, you decided against sharing with multiple other people in general. You were feeling sick already of being the third in a friendship. You didn’t think you could stomach living with two best friends and feeling even more alone.

There was only one advert that met all your criteria. It was a little far from campus, but the rent was more than reasonable. The offered room was small, but there were trees outside the window and you decided it looked peaceful.

The listing itself was short and to the point. Female sophomore looking for a friendly housemate to help out with the rent.

You sent them an email. You kept it formal, not quite sure how to phrase yourself. By the time you’d finished your final day of work for the summer, you had a reply.

They replied with two words, an address and a name.

Visit Saturday?

Natasha.

You tried not to feel nervous about the girl’s blunt response. You replied and agreed to meet her, heart beating loudly as you typed. You spent the next two nights stressed about the potential serial killer you were likely going to meet on Saturday morning.

You considered asking one of your friends if they would come with you to the meeting. Then, you saw their joint posts on social media about their beautiful newly-rented house and decided you’d rather be murdered.

You pulled up outside the house early on Saturday. Something in your heart settled as you examined the outside from the driver's seat. It was smaller than the house that your friends were renting, but it also looked prettier. There were red leaves falling from the tree in the front yard. The roof looked new, but it matched the older style of the house.

The front door was painted a dark blue and the paint looked fresh. It didn’t look like a student house, it looked like someone’s home. You wanted to live here. Absent-mindedly, you wondered at how authoritative your potential housemate might be to keep a house looking so neat.

You imagined being pulled into a rigorous cleaning rota and decided it might still be worth it. There was a cute bench swing on the porch.

You walked up the path to the front door and knocked hesitantly. It opened only a few seconds later.

The redhead stood there with awkward expectancy and you knew that she’d seen your arrival in the car and had been waiting for you to knock.

Two things struck you immediately.

Firstly, this sophomore was in her thirties. Secondly, this sophomore was an Avenger.

Natasha Romanoff shifted slightly from foot to foot as you stared a little too intensely back at her.

‘Hi.’ She addressed you and her hand moved up to give you an uncertain wave.

‘Hi.’ You replied in a nervous exhale.

‘I’m Natasha.’ The woman introduced herself. You bit your lip to stop yourself from explaining that you recognised her. It felt strange to acknowledge it. This woman couldn’t have looked less like a professional superhero.

Her hair was loose and hung down past her shoulders. It was braided at the top and the style framed her face with a particular kind of softness. Her grey hoodie was oversized and her black leggings made her look unassumingly normal.

Your eyes glanced down at her fluffy socks disbelievingly. You tried not to be too obvious.

‘I’m (Y/N), I’m here to see the room.’ You informed her unnecessarily and your hand moved automatically for a handshake. Natasha shook it readily, an amused smirk flickered over her face.

‘Would you like a tour?’ She asked you warmly and you nodded, feeling shy.

You started to take your shoes off at the door and Natasha glanced at you in surprise.

‘There’s not a rule or anything.’ She assured you.

You shrugged.

‘This place is so nice.’ You answered simply, looking over her shoulder at the clean hardwood floors. Natasha’s smile was small, but it seemed proud.

‘I always travelled around a lot.’ She told you suddenly. ‘I bought this place last year, and I ended up staying through the summer. It's the first place that’s really felt like home.’

You smiled back automatically at her words.

‘So, you’re the landlord?’ You confirmed teasingly, following her through to the kitchen/dining area. The lighting was soft and golden and it made the room feel warmer.

Natasha rubbed the back of her neck unsurely.

‘I don’t really need a housemate.’ She admitted as you wandered over to the oak dining table accompanied with two matching benches that stood in the centre of the room.

‘It’s just a quiet house.’ Natasha added softly. You looked up from the table and met her gaze. Natasha’s eyes flitted away from you with embarrassment and she gave a small shrug. You wondered how lonely an Avenger could get. Abruptly, you realised it was likely lonelier than most.

‘Are you a sophomore?’ You asked her suddenly, wanting to confirm what you’d read in her advert. Natasha moved through to the living room area, opening a door for you to walk through.

She nodded briefly. Your eyes caught immediately on the rows of bookshelves that lined the far wall. There was a laptop sitting open on one armrest of the sofa and a grey blanket folded on the other.

This didn’t look like a typical student house. You didn’t care, this was so much better.

‘I realised that I’ve only ever learned things for my job.’ Natasha explained from the doorway. ‘But I’ve never learned about anything just because I wanted to. I know I’m a bit older.’ Natasha paused again and she smiled carefully at you.

‘It’s okay if that bothers you.’ She added. ‘I won’t be offended.’

You caught the briefest shadow of loneliness cross her face. You felt sympathetic, Natasha seemed lovely and already you wanted to know her more. Still, you weren’t surprised that it had been hard to make friends on campus.

You grinned back at Natasha, trying to make her brighter with your own smile.

‘Doesn’t bother me at all.’ You assured her. You’d had an action figure of Natasha as a kid. It was too embarrassing to mention.

Natasha started asking you some questions then. You found yourself explaining the highlights of your own first year. She asked you follow ups and soon you were telling her about the shock of your friends ditching you unexpectedly.

Natasha’s focus was flattering as she listened carefully. You tried to hide another wave of shyness as you realised that you’d been explaining your problems to an Avenger. You realised how different your problems probably were.

Natasha showed you the bathroom and gave you a brief look into her spacious and tidy bedroom. Then, she opened the door across from it, revealing your own.

You were right that it was a little small, but it was clear that Natasha had recently renovated it. The paint seemed fresh and the IKEA desk facing the window still had a protective plastic cover wrapped around it.

‘Perfect.’ You said aloud, because it was. Natasha beamed now, leaning against the doorframe, her hands rested easily in the pockets of her hoodie.

As you descended the stairs, Natasha told you about her degree choice. She’d picked an English major and her cheeks flushed slightly when she told you that she’d started the year’s reading list early.

You started asking her about the ones that she’d read so far.

Natasha’s conversation felt hesitant to begin with, but you could sense her desire to talk. You wondered how long the summer alone here without classes must have felt. Natasha’s explanations were detailed in a way that told you she paid attention in class far more than you did. You fought a grin as you realised Natasha Romanoff might be a huge nerd.

When you arrived back at the front door, there was an abrupt pause as Natasha cut herself off. You lingered in the hallway awkwardly for a second before you realised that she was awaiting your verdict on the house.

‘I’d love to live here.’ You told Natasha upfront, feeling suddenly much younger as you stood in front of her.

It felt bizarre when some tension seemed to lift from Natasha’s shoulders at your words. It was inconceivable to have her seek your approval. Natasha Romanoff had stopped aliens from invading New York.

Natasha’s answering smile seemed more relieved than anything else.

‘When do you want to move in?’ She asked easily.

The next time you pulled up at the house, car filled with cardboard boxes and assorted items, the weather was perfect.

Natasha opened the front door while you were walking up the porch steps.

‘Let me help?’ She offered immediately and her eyes shone with something that made you feel like friends already.

You spent the next hour together, bringing heavy boxes up the staircase. Even Natasha had started to sweat with exertion. She seemed excited though, and you shared slightly giddy smiles when you passed each other in the hallway.

When the last box was in your room, Natasha hovered awkwardly by the foot of your bed. Before she could turn to leave, you gave her a reassuring smile.

‘You wanna sit?’ You offered casually, though your heart was pounding in your chest. You’d been crushing on Natasha Romanoff, the superhero, for years. Meeting her in real life had only made that feeling stronger, but you tried to push through it. More than anything, you wanted to be friends with your housemate. ‘You can give me decorating advice?’

Natasha’s eyes widened slightly in surprise at your suggestion and she moved obediently to sit on the end of your mattress. Her hands rested in her lap and she looked around your room unsurely. You could tell she was trying to think of something to say.

You started up a conversation about her upcoming classes. Natasha told you about a professor she’d been hoping to avoid but had ended up having for the second semester in a row. Any hesitancy left her voice as she found her rhythm. One story led to another and Natasha stood up to help you move clothes into your wardrobe as she told you all about an assignment she’d handed in to that professor before.

You tried not to smile at the realisation that the Black Widow was talking to you like you were friends. It was endearing to hear anyone talk so interestedly about a subject.

There was something fresh in the way she told her stories and answered your questions. You could tell Natasha had formed opinions about her classes that she’d never shared with anyone before. It made you feel special.

After you’d moved most of your things into the right places, you decided to take a shower. The bathroom was shared and it gave you the opportunity to unpack your items for showering.

You wandered downstairs an hour later, hair still wet. Natasha was sitting on one end of the sofa, legs curled under her as she stared at her laptop screen. When Natasha saw you, she straightened up. You waited for her to speak. Irrationally, you worried that she was going to tell you a list of house rules that included not showering in the afternoon.

‘I’m making lasagna’.’ Natasha told you suddenly. You nodded, realising now why your mouth was watering. ‘There’ll be extra?’

You felt like you were in a different reality, sitting at the dining table as Natasha presented you with a plate of food. You asked if you could play some music, trying to diffuse the tension. The first song that played was embarrassing and much louder than you’d planned. You hurried to skip it on your phone. Natasha huffed out a soft laugh. You glanced up from your phone and saw the amusement in her eyes. Somehow, you found yourself laughing too.

Soon, you fell into light conversation. Natasha wasn’t like anyone you’d ever met before. You knew already that you were in love with her voice. You tried to focus on the lasagna. You were so glad that you’d answered that Craigslist ad, but you could already feel the sting in your heart. Unreciprocated crushes always ended badly.

You insisted on cleaning up the kitchen but Natasha hovered close. She was curious about the music you were playing and started asking you questions about your other interests.

The soft lighting made her eyes sparkle and you tried to focus on loading the dishwasher.

Natasha’s hand brushed your back as she moved past to start the coffee machine. You startled at her touch, feeling warmth rush to your cheeks.

There were three more days until classes began. You’d been worried that Natasha might get sick of you just in those first few days. Instead, the pair of you gravitated towards each other with an unexpected familiarity.

The first morning, Natasha offered to walk with you to the nearest convenience store, so you would know the route. You felt shy at her thoughtfulness. The morning had been perfect, wrapped in scarves, shoulders brushing as the cool wind blew the falling leaves in spirals around you.

You bought the ingredients there to bake cookies, feeling weirdly festive as you embraced the last few days of vacation.

Natasha looked flattered when you offered her one of the cookies. She smiled carefully and told you how much she liked cinnamon. You were pretty sure that you’d fallen in love with her.

The next few days kept their festive theme. You felt like you were sharing a holiday with someone you already knew. Every once in a while, Natasha would take a phone call and leave the room.

She’d glance back at you as if conscious about how strange her behaviour must be. You barely reacted. It was easy to forget that Natasha was an Avenger on hiatus, but it didn’t bother you at all. You did wish that you’d acknowledged it from the start. It felt too late to explain that you knew her other identity, but it was painfully awkward when Natasha was elusive about details from her past.

Your first class was not as bad as you’d been expecting. You’d resigned yourself to trying to find a new place to sit in the lecture theatre. You softened slightly when you entered the room and saw your two friends waving eagerly from the back row. The situation stung less now that you’d ended up sharing a house with Natasha.

You sat next to them and soon you were talking in hushed voices about your summer vacations. Your friends gushed about their boyfriends and you tried to look mildly interested. It was clear also that they’d spent a lot of time together during the summer break without inviting you.

When they asked about your new living situation, their voices turned sombre, as if they were giving you condolences. They were surprised to hear about a sophomore that they hadn’t met before at any party. When you explained that Natasha was older, their looks became even more sympathetic.

You stopped talking, allowing them to move onto other topics. You felt annoyed that they’d made a snap judgement about Natasha. You tried to focus on the professor, speaking at the front of the class. Your friends were talking about a party they were throwing that night. They invited you enthusiastically and you couldn’t help but wonder if they’d only done so because you were sitting with them.

You agreed quietly, deciding that if nothing else, at least there would be other classmates there too. You had a feeling that you needed to expand your college social circle.

It was lunch right after the class and one friend invited you to sit with them and their boyfriends. The other, shot her a resentful look when she made the suggestion and suddenly you saw just how false they both were. You declined politely, realising with certainty that these people were not your friends.

There were several places to eat on a street just off campus, and you wandered there without much of a plan.

Natasha was sitting in the back corner of one café, your eyes caught on her red hair, tied back in a loose ponytail. She was wearing an oversized sweater and her focus was entirely on the book in front of her. You tried to catch her eye but she didn’t look up.

Without thinking, you entered the café. It was slightly more expensive than the chain coffee shop next door and so there were hardly any customers sitting inside. Natasha glanced up at the sound of the door opening and her eyes widened at the sight of you. You waved awkwardly, heading over to the counter to place an order.

Natasha gave you a surprised smile and you prayed that you weren’t being weird and overstepping by coming in here. The waitress told you to sit down and she’d bring your order over to you. You moved awkwardly over to Natasha’s table, feeling like a school kid as you tried to fight the nervous lump in your throat. You just had to ask to sit with her.

Natasha glanced up from her book again and looked at you quizzically. She smiled politely, evidently a little confused. You wanted to sink into the floor. You glanced down at the chair sitting opposite her and something clicked in her head. Natasha scrambled to move her items over to her side of the table.

You sat down, wishing that every social interaction you started wasn’t always this mortifying. Then, Natasha gave you a shy smile.

‘I didn’t think you wanted to sit here.’ She told you embarrassedly. ‘I thought maybe you were leaving to meet friends.’

You rolled your eyes automatically at the word friends and Natasha laughed easily, shutting her book and instead picking up the sandwich that had been lying forgotten on the table. You explained briefly about your interaction with your friends. Before you’d finished, your own sandwich had arrived. You felt almost dizzy with your change of mood. Suddenly, you felt lighter than air.

Between bites, Natasha told you too about her first class. Her memory seemed eidetic as she recalled the contents of the lecture. You marvelled silently at how skilled she must be as a secret agent.

You mumbled about how impressive her memory was, and Natasha tucked her hair back with a hint of self consciousness. You gave her a reassuring smile.

‘I’m really glad I answered that ad.’ You told her randomly and Natasha’s features relaxed as she nodded in silent agreement.

You both had an hour to kill before your next class. Slowly, Natasha returned to her book, jotting down careful notes as she went.

You listened to music as you tried to neaten up the notes you’d made in your last class. You groaned quietly when you saw the address scribbled in the margin.

Natasha looked up immediately, head tilted.

‘I promised I’d go to this party.’ You explained, head in your hands at the prospect of your plans for this evening.

Natasha looked surprised.

‘Why don’t you want to go?’ She asked curiously and you explained who was hosting.

‘You can always ditch.’ Natasha suggested hesitantly after a moment. ‘I was only going to watch movies tonight but you’re welcome to join.’

You’d never felt so ready to abandon a social plan. You imagined how perfect the night could be. Then your mind caught on something and you hesitated.

‘I can’t keep relying on these two friends.’ You muttered, feeling embarrassed about your social failings.

‘Three.’ Natasha corrected quietly, taking a drink from her glass of water. ‘You have three friends.’

You felt a rush of gratitude suddenly and your smile was uncontrollably wide. You glanced down at the table trying not to look too silly.

‘Would you come with me to the party?’ You asked suddenly, picking at the side salad on your plate.

Natasha hesitated and immediately you felt mortified with your question. You opened your mouth to try and backtrack.

Natasha spoke before you had the chance.

‘If you’re sure that you want me there. I’ll go.’ She promised quietly and her voice rasped with her assurance.

‘I do.’ You mumbled shyly, trying to process that Natasha, the beautiful Avenger, was going to a party with you. ‘I really do.’

Your classes flew by and, before you knew it, you were back at your house. For the first time, Natasha’s bedroom door was shut during the daytime. You hovered outside it for a moment, too nervous to knock.

You worried that she’d changed her mind about going to the party with you and she didn’t know how to tell you.

You ate dinner by yourself and started getting ready soon after. You tried not to make any assumptions about Natasha coming with you. You told yourself to get a grip in the mirror as you fixed your hair.

There was something rhythmic to getting ready. You tried to focus all your stress into the various tasks. Twenty minutes before you were planning on leaving, there was a knock on your door. You smoothed your outfit nervously, sure that Natasha was going to cancel officially, but still wanting to make a good impression.

Your jaw dropped as you opened the door.

Natasha was the hottest person that you’d ever seen, let alone stood a few feet away from. Her green dress hugged her curves. Her hair was intricately braided and your eyes ran over the beautiful patterns of her plaits, before catching on her exposed ear piercings.

Natasha looked tense, balancing in her heels.

‘I haven’t done this in ages.’ She murmured. ‘Do I look okay?’

You huffed out a quiet laugh.

‘Natasha.’ You said, reaching out to take her hand. ‘You were already next level beautiful. But, right now you might cause heart attacks on campus.’

Natasha rolled her eyes and you watched as a rush of confidence buoyed her slightly in her heels. Her mouth stretched into your favourite easy grin.

‘You’re looking pretty fucking hot yourself.’ She told you simply. The genuineness in her voice was unexpectedly attractive and you felt a rush of heat run through you.

You squeezed her hand suddenly.

‘Thanks for doing this.’ You mumbled. Natasha squeezed your hand back.

‘Thanks for asking.’ She replied and you felt the undeniable want to kiss her.

Unrequited crushes were the worst and you forced yourself to stand still. Natasha was far more of an adult than you could ever imagine being. You couldn’t fathom how many lives she’d saved. You felt stupid for hoping for more luck than you already had.

‘You’re the best landlord.’ You joked lightly, trying to remind yourself of the boundaries between you. Natasha laughed loudly and her fingers interlaced with yours.

You were still holding Natasha’s hand when you knocked on the door of your friends’ house. You’d expected a wave of jealousy or bitterness when you saw it in person, instead you found yourself even more grateful for where you’d ended up living.

One of the boyfriends opened the door. Awkwardly, you introduced yourself again and Natasha for the first time. His eyes widened as he took in Natasha’s outfit.

He hurried to welcome you inside. He offered you both a bottle of beer which you accepted, before leading you into the living room. There were various seats arranged in a loose circle around the room. Most of them were already full, you’d arrived purposefully later so that there’d be plenty of other people.

You watched as a sea of faces turned to stare at Natasha. Natasha’s own expression was careful and a little guarded. You recognised the uncertainty in it and squeezed her hand. You knew that for everyone else, her expression could only be adding to her intimidating beauty.

You caught sight of your two friends in the corner. They looked shocked at your arrival and at the appearance of your housemate. You ignored their pointed stares, instead squeezing onto an old sofa, next to Natasha. Her bare leg was pressed against yours and you felt a strange electricity in the air between you.

Natasha was only here for you. The awareness of that made you feel even warmer in the crowded room. Your hand touched her thigh. Conversation started up again and the room devolved into smaller social circles.

You found yourself taking steady sips of your beer. Different conversations started to spark up around you. You realised that, despite the presence of many people from your classes, Natasha was the only person you wanted to speak to.

You bumped your knee against hers familiarly and she bumped your shoulder in response. You shared a secret smile. A few people tried to catch Natasha in a conversation. She answered politely, always staying pressed close to you. You watched as their brows furrowed as they tried to decide if she really was the Black Widow at a college party.

Each time they seemed close to asking directly, Natasha would turn back to you, purposefully cutting them out of the conversation. She offered you her half drunk beer when you finished yours and you sat together in quiet conversation as the party grew more boisterous around you. The house had been filling up rapidly, and soon there was barely any space to move.

Finally, the chairs and sofas were cleared to the walls and you found yourselves stood together in the corner of the room as the speakers began to blast loud dance music.

Natasha’s shoulders tensed and you saw her blink in discomfort at the sound.

She turned to you, her lips next to your ear when she asked if you wanted to dance.

You shook your head wordlessly, you didn’t know how to express what Natasha’s attentiveness made you feel.

You could sense how much of an effort this whole night had been for her. You remembered the hours she’d taken getting ready and you felt a sudden certainty in your chest.

Your arm slid around her waist as you led her quietly from the room. Natasha acquiesced immediately.

You stood together on the cold front porch. Natasha watched the other dancers through the window, the party seemed strangely magical from a distance. You could still feel the thump of the speakers through your feet.

You didn’t move your hand from Natasha’s waist. Instead, you turned to face her, moving both your hands to rest on her hips.

‘I do want to dance with you.’ You admitted shyly. ‘But, just with you.’

Natasha looked at you carefully. You saw her take a deep breath as her hand moved to your face. Her thumb brushed your cheek and you couldn’t look away from her green eyes.

‘You don’t know everything about me.’ Natasha told you seriously. ‘There’s a lot I haven’t told you.’

‘I know who you are.’ You interrupted softly. You tried to memorise the way her body felt under your touch in case this was the only time you would be allowed to hold her. Natasha’s mouth opened in surprise.

‘I know that it’s not as simple as being a superhero.’ You said quietly. ‘I know you’re not just one thing. There are so many pieces that make you up. But, I like you with all of those pieces.’

Natasha’s eyes softened, her brow relaxed as she considered your words.

‘You’re beautiful.’ She told you simply. ‘I want to dance with you too.’

You couldn’t hear the music properly, only feel the beat of it under your feet. Still, you started swaying together. Natasha brought her body closer to yours and her hands rested on your shoulders.

With every sway, you found yourselves drifting closer together. Natasha’s lips made you think of fall.

You leaned closer.

Your first kiss was perfect. The night air was cold, but Natasha’s arms were around you. She tasted like cinnamon. You felt like you were flying.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov x reader

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rafeslvbug · 3 months ago

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introducing..lovebug!reader

lovebug!reader…who scrolls pinterest nightly, looking for the right hairstyle to wear the next morning, living by the concept that a bad hair day equals a bad day, and a bad day for lovebug is a bad day for everyone.

lovebug!reader…who can be the sweetest girl in kildare, until something goes wrong and she has the snarkiest comebacks and sarcasm-filled attitude no one knew could ever come from her burgundy glossed lips.

lovebug!reader…who had expensive taste and cute outfits. she saved her money wisely, and spent it wisely too, or so she said. matching outfits in every colour, with cute accessories and shoes. she was an addict.

lovebug!reader…who cherished her family. she had two older brothers, and was a daddy’s girl through and through, but she wasn’t spoilt due to her mother’s rules, which she lived by.

lovebug!reader…who definitely has her father’s intelligence. every now and again she drops the answer to a maths equation inbetween bites of her pastry and sips of her latte, noticing the gaping mouths of the men who had been trying to solve it for the past hour. but she doesn’t even spare them a smug smile. she knows she’s clever.

lovebug!reader…who arranges cute parties and meetings. she likes to budget and scrapbook, putting her mind to use in the most creative way possible, satiating her housewife mother and lawyer father.

lovebug!reader…who adored everything cute. trinkets. calico critters. little cute stitches in her clothes. decorating her car.

best paired with…military!rafe

lovebug!reader…who is stubbornly independent, but when military!rafe comes into her life, all gruff-voiced and low patience for her lonesome nature, she learns to be taken care of.

lovebug!reader…who likes to sit cross-legged in military!rafe’s desk chair, pen inbetween her teeth as she calculates numbers that rafe would rather not do.

lovebug!reader…who hated when military!rafe was deployed, but lived through it with phone calls and daily texts, little polaroids of her man littered everywhere across their house and in her car.

in the future..

lovebug!reader…who loved her family and was overjoyed to expand it after her and military!rafe got married. she had two twin sons, with their father’s short blonde hair but her eyes. one was rough like his dad, the other a smart sweetheart like her.

lovebug!reader…who was the cutest little housewife, helping the boys with their homework, rafe with the maths he hated and still doing everything she loved.

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clementineinn · 3 months ago

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and in the early quiet, i have you

abstract: in a rain-slick town at the end of a long case, two BAU agents are left with one motel room and a quiet kind of exhaustion that settles deep in the bones. the night is ordinary in every outward way — a flickering lamp, a single bed, the distant hush of passing cars — but something unspoken lingers in the stillness. as dawn draws gold across thin curtains and coffee steams quietly between their hands, a fragile shift begins. nothing is said aloud. nothing needs to be. in the soft hours between storm and morning, the space between them becomes something else entirely — not confessed, not defined, but felt.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff fluff fluff!!

word count: 6.3k

note: surprise, surprise, another story because even tho i should be studying for upcoming finals, the thought of spencer reid makes me want to write & write until my laptop dies!! and it’s a typical “share a hotel bed” story… i honestly can’t help my delusional self. but enough blabbering, enjoy! :)

BAU, rural Virginia, 2008

The motel carried the scent of mildew steeped in old rain and burnt coffee left too long on a warmer, the kind that hissed faintly but hadn’t worked properly since sometime in the early ’90s. It was the smell of something forgotten, of days that blurred together beneath buzzing light and laminate countertops. The wallpaper clung to the walls in surrender, peeling at the corners in tired curls, like it had once tried to escape but had been pressed flat again — stapled into compliance by years of humid summers and slow neglect. Its pattern, once floral, now looked more like a memory of one.

Above the front desk, a single fluorescent light buzzed — not a hum, but a dying flicker, like a firefly trapped behind plastic. It blinked unevenly, throwing off color in jaundiced bursts that made even the clean parts of the room look sour-edged, touched by something unspoken.

The air itself felt too still, like it had been exhaled long ago and never pulled back in.

It was past midnight — closer to one, maybe later. The team had rolled in after closing the file on a grisly double homicide, two days of chasing false leads through rain-soaked woods and narrow country roads. Everyone was running on fumes and caffeine, jackets damp, boots muddy, eyes sunken.

Garcia’s chipper voice cut through the speaker on Hotch’s phone like a bell through fog. “And I swear, I triple-checked, but the town's got, like, four working hotel rooms and someone at the front desk must’ve botched the count. Reid and Y/N, you’re sharing. Don’t kill each other.”

There was a beat of total silence.

Spencer blinked slowly, as if trying to calculate a response that wouldn’t get him laughed at or smacked. His mouth opened—then closed. His brow creased faintly. He stood perfectly still, trying not to blink too fast.

Sharing a hotel room. With her.

The words echoed louder than Garcia’s voice had, louder than the buzz of the front desk printer, louder than the weight of exhaustion humming beneath his ribs.

He swallowed. Tried to think of something reasonable to say — something statistical, maybe, or logistical — but all he could manage was a quick calculation of how many square feet were typically allotted to double-occupancy rooms in mid-budget motels. The number didn’t help.

Y/N, close enough that he could feel the ghost of her body heat through the fabric of his sleeve. Her hair was damp from rain or sweat — or both — and clung slightly to her cheek in a way that made him want, wildly, to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, which he didn’t, just arched a brow.

Her expression didn’t say thrilled—but it didn’t say bothered, either. Maybe just too tired to care.

He had imagined being this close before. Not like this. But close. He'd imagined her in a room that wasn't a crime scene. In light that wasn't overhead fluorescents. Not touching — just near. Her jacket draped over the chair. Her toothbrush next to his. Her voice cutting through the quiet of an evening like it belonged there.

And now this. One room. One bed, maybe. Or two. He didn’t know which was worse.

“Fine by me,” she muttered, her voice rough around the edges. She turned toward the clerk behind the counter, lifting her badge lazily, and he turned towards his own pulse and tried to steady it with science. “As long as he doesn’t snore.”

Spencer startled slightly. “I don’t. Statistically, most adults don’t snore unless they suffer from—uh—obstructive sleep apnea or elevated BMI, and I—”

She threw him a look over her shoulder that somehow managed to be fond and sarcastic all at once, softened by the corners of a smile.

“Never mind,” he finished under his breath.

From behind them, Morgan let out a low, delighted whistle as he dropped his duffel bag with a thud. “Oof. I give it five minutes before Reid starts talking about REM cycles and pillow ergonomics.”

“Three,” Prentiss said, yawning so hard she nearly folded in half. “If Y/N’s lucky.”

“Make sure there’s a fire extinguisher nearby,” Rossi added dryly. “In case the sexual tension burns the place down.”

Spencer choked audibly. “Wh-what?”

Y/N just sighed, accepting the motel keycard from the clerk with a tired smile. “You’re all hilarious. Should’ve gone into stand-up instead of profiling.”

Hotch, who looked like he’d aged a year just today, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Everyone, just get some sleep. Wheels up at eight.”

“Sleep,” JJ said under her breath. “He says that like it’s a real thing.”

The team dispersed, murmuring goodnights and dragging their feet across the worn carpet. Reid hesitated, still half-frozen in front of the check-in counter, until Y/N nudged him with her elbow.

“Come on, Doctor,” she said, voice low but not unkind. “We’ll flip for the side of the bed that doesn’t sag.”

He followed, clutching his satchel a little too tightly, brain already spiraling through a hundred questions about motel hygiene, boundary etiquette, and whether she’d mind if he kept the lamp on to read.

Behind them, Morgan called out one last time.

“Hey, Reid—try not to quote Freud in your sleep.”

Spencer turned slightly. “That was one time.”

“That we know of,” Prentiss teased.

Y/N just shook her head and smiled faintly, muttering under her breath as they reached their door, “...God help me.”

And despite everything — the smell, the exhaustion, the unexpected closeness — Spencer smiled too.

The room wasn’t bad, exactly. It was worse than that.

A single queen bed sat pressed awkwardly against the far wall, its frame tilted just slightly as if it had been shuffled one too many times without care. The mattress sagged visibly at its center — a weary slump, the shape of too many bodies and not enough sleep. It looked like it had given up decades ago, resigned to its mediocrity, still standing only because it hadn’t yet been asked to collapse.

The nightstand beside it wobbled when Y/N rested her hand on it — the kind of wobble that hinted at secrets in its joints. Its surface was tacky, scattered with water rings like fading constellations, remnants of vending-machine coffee and fast food sodas left behind by a hundred forgotten guests. The drawer stuck slightly when she tugged it open, revealing a frayed motel Bible with dog-eared pages and a spine that had long since lost its will to stand upright. It looked like it had witnessed more sins than salvations — a silent witness to nights more desperate than divine.

The lampshade beside it sat askew, casting bent shadows across the walls that made the peeling wallpaper seem to shiver under its own history. The bulb flickered once as she passed her hand near it, as if offended by movement.

Across the room, the curtains hung limp and unbothered, a tired beige that seemed incapable of remembering it was once a color. They draped unevenly in front of the window, which the rattling A/C unit sat beneath like a wheezy dog, exhaling with shallow sighs and occasional groans. It tried, poor thing — tried to hum, to breathe, to cool — but even its best effort sounded like the last verse of a long-forgotten lullaby.

The carpet was worse. Stiff beneath her socks, the kind of synthetic weave that clung to old stains and dead air. Its original pattern was impossible to guess — maybe something floral once, or geometric, now worn down to nothing but the ghosts of intention — stained in ways that made Y/N instinctively keep her shoes on.

She dropped her duffel bag near a sagging vinyl chair that looked like it had lost its will to hold weight some years ago. The bag landed with a dull thud, and Y/N followed it with a groan, rolling her neck until it popped, the sound unusually loud in the thin stillness of the room.

“Well,” she said, glancing around the room with a tired smirk. “At least it’s not haunted.”

Spencer lingered in the doorway like stepping inside might set off a trap. His eyes scanned the bed, the single pillow, the questionable linens. He adjusted the strap of his bag across his chest and cleared his throat.

“I can take the floor,” he said quickly. “Or the chair, actually. It’s probably—well, ergonomically speaking, the floor might actually be better. Less spinal compression.”

Y/N turned to face him, lifting a brow. “Reid.”

He paused. “Yes?”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor. Or that chair. You’ll wake up paralyzed.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“We’re adults,” she cut in gently, but firmly. “It’s one night. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. No one's dignity gets hurt.”

Spencer opened his mouth, probably to protest again, but closed it when she walked past him toward the dresser. He nodded — a quick, jerky motion — and finally stepped inside. He placed his bag neatly against the wall, as if afraid to take up too much space.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was careful — like they were both stepping across a narrow ledge between professionalism and this is very not a normal work night.

They moved around each other in a quiet, nearly wordless ballet, the kind that came not from familiarity, but from exhaustion — two people orbiting the same small space, too tired to stumble, too careful not to touch. Each step was an offering: Here. I'll shift. You go ahead.

Y/N flipped aimlessly through the channels on the motel’s ancient television, each image flickering into static or oversaturated local ads, their voices too loud for the dimness of the room. After a few half-hearted presses of the remote, she sighed and let the screen fall dark again. The silence that followed was somehow louder.

Across the room, Spencer unzipped his go-bag with a soft, familiar rasp. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times — book in one hand, travel toothbrush in the other, motions neat and practiced. The ritual of winding down — mechanical, necessary, almost sacred.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence between them had a weight to it, not heavy in a painful way, but dense with what they’d just endured. It draped over their shoulders like a blanket that no one had chosen, stitched from crime scene photographs and long hallways and too many unanswered questions.

Spencer slipped into the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a softness more deliberate than soundproofing required. She heard the click of the light switch, the rush of the faucet, and then nothing — like he’d disappeared behind a veil.

Alone in the room, Y/N changed quickly, mechanically, peeling herself out of her work clothes with fingers still stiff from adrenaline. She dressed behind the edge of the warped wardrobe door, slipping into an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft, worn cotton sweats that clung to no shape in particular. She caught her reflection in the mirror once or twice — pale, tired, a little out of focus — catching herself looking almost like someone else in the low light. Softer. Warmer.

Later, when she emerged from her time in the bathroom, brushing her hair back with one hand, she found him already sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward slightly, a book open on his lap. His posture was tense — not like he was reading for comfort, but like he was using it to hold himself together. His shoulders were taut, as if bracing for aftershocks. The curve of his spine, the set of his jaw — all of it familiar to her now. That subtle tremble of someone trying to make the day shrink down to something survivable.

She hesitated. Then crossed the room, slow.

“Hey,” she said softly. Her voice barely reached him over the gentle rumble of the AC. “You okay?”

He didn’t look up. Just nodded faintly, eyes on the page like it was safer than facing her. “Yeah. Just… decompressing.”

The words were low, a little frayed around the edges.

She knew that tone. She’d heard it in hotel rooms before — in herself, in others. The sound of trying not to dream about things you couldn’t unsee.

Y/N nodded and reached for the light switch, flicking the main lamp off. The crooked bedside light stayed on — its bulb humming faintly, casting the room in patches of slanted gold and soft shadow, warm on his cheekbone, sharp across his collar. She could still see the faint furrow in his brow, the slight tremor in his fingers as he turned another page he wasn’t really absorbing.

She climbed into the bed and pulled the thin motel blanket up over herself. The sheets were crisp, cool, and stung faintly of bleach — that particular brand of clean that never felt quite clean enough. It smelled like anonymity, like every night that had come before.

Spencer didn’t move.

Not away. Not toward her.

Just stayed where he was, perched on the edge like he wasn’t sure the bed would let him stay.

The room creaked once — its bones shifting with the settling of old wood and weather.

Outside, a dog barked, once, then fell quiet. Somewhere, a car passed on wet pavement, its tires hissing softly.

Then, finally — Spencer reached up and closed the book, slipping a folded motel notepad between the pages like it mattered. He turned, slow and cautious, and reached for the switch on the lamp.

The light clicked off.

And the darkness that followed was not empty — it was stitched with quiet, pulsing things. The gentle whirr of the AC. The distant blink of headlights crawling across the ceiling. The shared silence of two people who had almost said something but hadn’t.

They lay there, backs turned, a careful margin of space between them, deliberate and yet uncertain. Not touching. Not speaking.

But very, very awake.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more.

Neither of them moved.

The room had settled into a hushed kind of stillness, the kind that only existed between two people who weren’t speaking but knew the silence was saying everything for them. The almost touch of bodies on a shared mattress. The sharp awareness of every breath. The unsaid things hanging in the air like dust motes in sunlight — except there was no sun here. Just the low sigh of the air unit and the occasional car passing on wet pavement outside.

Spencer broke the silence first, his voice so quiet she almost missed it.

“I don’t usually sleep well in unfamiliar places.”

Y/N blinked at the ceiling — or what she imagined was the ceiling — and turned toward the sound of his voice in the dark. His tone was tentative, like the words had been balancing on the edge of his tongue for too long.

“You and me both,” she murmured back.

There was a pause — then the soft puff of an exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“You ever get the feeling your brain’s just… replaying things on a loop? Like it’s doing it on purpose. Just to mess with you.”

“All the time,” she whispered, meaning it more than he probably realized.

Outside, rain began to fall, tapping gently against the windowpane like a reminder that the world was still turning, that morning would come eventually whether they were ready for it or not.

There was something about the sound — soft, persistent — that made the room feel even smaller. Like the two of them were trapped inside a snow globe that had finally started to settle after being violently shaken.

Spencer's voice came again, slower this time. Carefully.

“I was ten the first time I stayed in a motel like this. My mom… she had an episode. One of the bad ones. I didn’t want to call anyone. I thought I could fix it if I just… waited long enough.”

He paused, and she could almost feel the weight of the memory pressing down on the mattress between them.

“I stayed up all night reading medical textbooks,” he continued. “I thought if I could just understand it, if I knew enough… maybe she’d be okay.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She didn’t say anything — not because she didn’t want to, but because anything she could say would feel too small.

But something shifted between them — not the distance, not physically, but the space. It changed. Warmer. More honest. Less guarded.

“Sometimes I still do that,” Spencer admitted, so softly she almost thought she imagined it. “Recite facts. Formulas. Statistics. It’s like... it makes the noise in my head line up.”

“I count ceiling tiles,” she offered after a moment, voice equally hushed.

There was a pause. Then: the faintest smile. She could hear it in the way he answered.

“How many are there in this room?”

“Nineteen,” she said. “And a half.”

“…You counted?”

“Of course.”

Another beat. She could almost feel him smiling for real now — not the kind he gave colleagues or strangers, but something softer. Private. Meant only for the dark. She wished she could see it, wished she could press a hand to the shape of it, hold it still for a moment longer.

Then came his voice again — low, sudden, unguarded.

“I like your voice.”

The words slipped out like a secret, not rushed, but surrendered — a thought he hadn’t planned to say, but didn’t regret once it left him — and they hung between them in the dark, raw and real and startling.

“It’s… calming,” he added, after a second passed in which her heart flipped entirely over.

Y/N felt heat rise in her chest, blooming out in every direction. She was grateful for the night, for the veil it wrapped around them. “You know, for a guy who doesn’t talk much, you say a lot of really surprising things.”

“I overthink everything except what I probably should overthink,” he said, and there was that note again — embarrassment laced with endearment. His voice curling around the edges of uncertainty.

She smiled softly, staring up into blackness. “Like this?”

A pause.

Then, with disarming honesty: “Yes.”

The air changed — imperceptibly at first, like the shift in pressure before a storm. The silence between them stopped being still. It became something charged, alive. She could feel it in her fingertips. The kind of awareness that makes your skin feel like a wire for static. Her hand, unnoticed until now, had drifted toward the center of the bed — not quite reaching for him, but almost. Her fingers rested on the mattress, no more than an inch away from his.

She hadn’t even realized she’d done it.

But he noticed. Spencer always noticed when it came to her.

And then he moved. Just slightly.

The mattress shifted, weight leaning closer.

Not all the way. Not enough to blur anything that still needed to stay defined. But enough to close the distance.

She felt it — his warmth, his breath. He didn’t speak.

Instead, his fingers brushed lightly across hers again, then higher — a gentle, hesitant trail up her arm, to her shoulder, until he stopped. Waited.

And then — he touched her cheek.

Just with the backs of his fingers. A careful, reverent motion. Nothing seeking, nothing demanding. Like he wasn’t sure if she’d let him — but had needed, just once, to know what it felt like.

She turned her face into his touch without thinking.

That was the moment. That was the shift.

He exhaled — slow, shaky, a sound like surrender.

Their foreheads nearly met, just breathing each other in, close but not kissing, something held in the space between them like a flame cupped between hands.

“I think…” she said softly, her voice laced with something raw, “if I let myself care too much, I’ll fall apart when someone gets hurt. Or leaves. Or—”

“Dies,” he finished gently, and there was no judgment in his tone. Only understanding.

Y/N swallowed, her throat tight. “Yeah.”

Silence gathered again — but this one was different. Full. Anchored. A kind of fragile closeness held together by breath and trembling restraint.

And then, softer: “But maybe… not caring means you miss something good before it even happens.”

He was close enough now that she could feel his breath against her skin. Close enough that his thumb swept once — barely — beneath her eye, as if tracing the shape of a thought.

When his fingers found hers again, they didn’t hesitate this time.

He didn’t hook just his pinky. He laced his hand with hers, slow and careful, palm to palm, as if testing how well they fit.

She let him.

Just that. No fanfare. No breathless declarations.

A simple tether.

Small.

Barely anything. But everything.

The rain had stopped sometime during the night.

Neither of them had noticed when. It must’ve softened slowly, like a lullaby losing its last few notes — fading into that rare, suspended quiet that only belongs to the hours between two and five in the morning. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room — it settles into your chest.

The motel’s heater had grumbled awake once or twice, but even that had fallen still now, leaving the air just shy of cold. Not unpleasant, just enough to remind them they were still awake, still sharing breath and space and something too new to name.

They didn’t speak again.

No questions. No clarifications. Just the nearness of another body and the echo of what almost was.

They lay there. Still. Tired down to the bone. The kind of tired that sinks into the muscles, that reaches behind the eyes, that quiets even the thoughts that usually hum too loud to sleep.

Sleep didn’t come like a curtain falling. It came like a tide reaching the shore, slow and hesitant, lapping at their edges until neither of them remembered where the waking ended and the resting began.

At some point, they shifted — not together, not intentionally — but they drifted into it anyway. Her knee brushing his calf. The blanket pulled slightly more his way. Her wrist resting beside his, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

He moved once, only slightly — perhaps chasing warmth in his sleep, or perhaps chasing her. His forehead dipped just near the crown of her head. Not quite nestled, not quite distant. A breath’s space.

The world outside the motel walls kept turning, indifferent — the road still slick from earlier rain, the clouds beginning to part in thin ribbons above the dark rooftops.

But in the room, time did something stranger. It stretched. Softened. Folded inward.

Here, there was no BAU briefing. No file folders. No bloodied timeline etched across the mind. There was only this moment: two people on the same mattress, sharing a silence that had stopped being empty hours ago.

And somewhere in the dark, the weight of the day finally let go of them.

Morning didn’t arrive all at once.

It came like breath — slow and warm, seeping through the cracks in the curtains with the gentlest insistence. Gold filtered in threads, catching the floating dust in the air like suspended stars. The first light slipped through the narrow gap in the motel curtains, low and gold, spilling in slow stripes across the worn carpet and the rumpled edge of the bed. It stretched carefully, casting a halo of amber around the room’s quieter corners — catching the curve of a duffel bag, glinting off the silver zipper of a half-buttoned jacket left slung over the chair.

It moved in silence across the motel walls, brushing the bedside table, stretching long across the rumpled edge of the bed, and settling — at last — over them. The light touched her first.

It slid along her jaw, softened the line of her shoulder beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. It kissed the crown of her head where it rested just inches from him, and then reached him, too — lighting the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheek, the small, slack part in his lips as he breathed, deeply and evenly.

It painted the sheets in soft yellows and warmed the motel wallpaper just enough to make it look less gray, less tired. The dust in the air floated lazily through the glow, each mote drifting like it had all the time in the world. The room felt suspended — not quite awake, but no longer asleep. The kind of light that didn’t demand anything. It just arrived, quietly, like a friend who knew when not to speak.

They had shifted during the night.

Her body had curved toward his, instinct more than intention. One leg rested near his, barely brushing at the knee. Her arm lay loosely across the space between them, not touching, not reaching — but open. His chest rose with the kind of sleep that’s earned, not granted — and his hand, somewhere between dreaming and waking, rested on the mattress just beside hers.

For a long moment, neither moved. The room glowed like it had remembered how to hold warmth again.

Then Spencer stirred — slowly, like something waking not just from sleep but from stillness. His brows twitched faintly before his eyes opened — soft golden, brown, unfocused at first, then sharpening in the dim morning gold.

He didn’t lift his head.

Just turned it — slightly — and saw her there beside him, not yet awake. Her lashes dusted her cheek, her lips parted just slightly. She looked less like the woman who interrogated killers and more like something caught in a moment between sleep and awake.

His gaze lingered.

Not out of longing, not out of possession — but out of uncertainty, quiet and hovering, like the moment before a page turns in a book you’ve read a hundred times and still aren’t ready for.

Spencer’s body registered the closeness before his brain did — the gentle weight of her against his side, the faint dip in the mattress where she’d curled inward sometime during the night. The softness of her — warmth through cotton, hair brushing his shoulder, the ghost of breath on his collarbone.

It wasn’t intentional. Just the natural way two people drift together in sleep, seeking comfort without meaning to. Without realizing they needed it.

She breathed evenly beside him, still deep in it — a slow, steady rhythm that sounded more like peace than anything they’d touched in days. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her hip brushing his, and her arm settling more loosely across his middle. Not deliberate. Just instinct, gravity, and something unspoken.

He didn’t move.

He should have, maybe. A part of him whispered it — the one still ruled by rules, by etiquette, by the ever-present line they were never supposed to toe.

But another part — the quieter one, the one that hadn’t rested in years — just stayed still. And let her be close.

He memorized the moment like he might forget it in the next breath. The hush of her sleep. The way her body curved, in that subtle way that suggested trust before it had a name. Her presence was quiet, but it settled in his chest like warmth held too long in the hands.

He closed his eyes again, letting the gold of morning light fan softly across his face. His pulse evened out.

Just for a minute longer.

Just until the alarm went off.

Y/N blinked awake to the faint murmur of traffic, blurred and distant, like a city remembered through a dream. Somewhere beyond the thin motel walls, tires slid over wet asphalt, and the world began to stir — slow, reluctant, half-hearted.

The room smelled like cheap coffee and rain-damp carpet, with a trace of something warmer — something human — fading from the air. Her senses stirred before her thoughts did, tracing the edges of the morning like fingers brushing across fabric.

The bed beside her was empty now, but still creased with his shape, still warm where he’d been. That warmth lingered — not just in the sheets, but in her ribs, her throat, the base of her spine — like a body memory, like heat from a fire long gone out but not forgotten.

She sat up slowly, her limbs heavy with sleep, and ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back in a motion more instinct than intention. The blanket slipped down her shoulder. The motel room came into focus in pieces.

There he was.

Across the room, half in shadow, Spencer stood at the tiny motel sink, fully dressed, his back to her. The collar of his shirt was slightly rumpled. His sleeves were rolled with absent-minded precision to his elbows, and his shoulders were drawn in — not tense, just inward, like a man still half-lost in thought.

The light from the window pooled at his feet, pale and gold, catching in the steam rising from the carafe. He moved with quiet care, pouring the coffee into two paper cups — the kind with peeling labels and limp lids that never stayed on.

The scene struck her as oddly cinematic — the soft clink of ceramic against Formica, the halo of morning light turning steam into gold thread, the way he paused to watch the liquid settle, like there was something sacred in the stillness.

There was no rush in his movements. No expectation. Just a kind of calm intimacy, like he’d been doing this for years — rising quietly before the person he’d let stay asleep.

He hadn’t noticed she was awake yet. And something about that — his unselfconscious gentleness, the quiet offering he was building out of caffeine and quiet hands — made her chest ache, soft and slow.

She didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

She just watched him there, in the hush between sleep and day, and felt something shift in her.

Something that wouldn’t quite let her look away.

She didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him in the soft reverence of morning, the way he moved like someone trying not to disturb the air around him. The kind of care that wasn’t performative — just part of him. Built in. Automatic.

Her voice, when it finally came, was low from sleep and too-soft dreams. “You’re up early.”

Spencer turned at the sound — not startled, exactly, but like he hadn’t expected the world to speak back yet. His eyes found hers, a little wide at first, then softening. There was something different in the way he looked at her now. Not unreadable, but carefully read. Like he’d spent the whole night making sense of her from inches away and wasn’t quite done yet.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “You looked like you needed it.”

She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and leaned slightly against the bedframe, blinking the morning into focus. “Thanks.”

He walked over and handed her a cup. “Two creamers, no sugar.”

She blinked at the cup in her hands — warm, imperfect, full of gesture.

Then, looked up at him. “You’re serious?”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t joke about coffee.”

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, curving just slightly — a bare flicker of mischief, barely awake. It caught her off guard in the best way.

She smiled, small but genuine, and took the cup. Their fingers touched — more charged than casual, and not unnoticed. The brush was brief, but something hung there, invisible and unmistakable, like the shift in temperature just before spring.

“Thanks,” she said softly, and she meant more than just the coffee.

He nodded once — that subtle, contained nod of his — and settled into the chair near the window. He brought his own cup to his lips and sipped, then grimaced.

“It’s terrible,” he said, and it came out with a breath of a laugh, the kind you let go of when you’re too tired to pretend otherwise.

She took a sip of hers and winced with a chuckle. “Oh, absolutely. But I’ve had worse.”

He looked over the rim of his cup at her, eyes bright in the morning light, still soft with sleep. There was a quiet honesty in his expression — a flicker of understanding, like they'd both just confessed to something bigger than coffee.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

Silence settled between them — but not the kind that fills a room. This silence felt like a shared blanket, light and unspoken, something they could both tuck into without fear. It was the kind that lingered between people who had survived something, and who had, just briefly, let themselves rest.

Neither of them mentioned the way they’d woken up — the faint impression of warmth where bodies had drifted close, the accidental tangle of limbs, the peace of it. It didn’t need to be narrated. The moment existed outside of language, a quiet seam in time they both instinctively protected.

Y/N leaned back against the headboard, pulling her legs up beneath her, letting her head tilt slightly toward the sun-warmed wall. “I think this might be the worst coffee I’ve ever had in a cup this small.”

Spencer gave a dry, contemplative nod. “A study in disproportionate suffering.”

She laughed — not a full one, just that little under-the-breath kind that slips out when you don’t expect it to. And when she looked over, he was already watching her — not staring, not intrusive, just taking her in, like he was cataloging the sound for later.

And maybe he was.

The light moved slowly across the carpet. Dust floated in golden threads through the air.

Neither of them rushed.

Eventually, they moved.

Not because they wanted to, but because time, in its quiet way, kept ticking forward. The room had begun to exhale, the spell loosening stitch by stitch as the morning continued to unfurl itself through the gaps in the curtains. The motel clock, dusty and stubborn on the wall, blinked an unforgiving 7:14.

Spencer stood first, rinsing out his empty coffee cup with a quick flick of the wrist, like it would somehow undo the taste. Y/N followed, folding her sweatshirt over one arm and smoothing her hair in the warped mirror near the door. The room was back to what it had been the night before — neutral, anonymous, temporary. But it didn’t feel the same. The air held the shape of something that had happened there. Something small, but real.

Outside, the light had bloomed into something richer — a pale-gold hush spilling across the pavement, catching in puddles and the curves of windshield glass. It shimmered in patches, like the sun itself hadn’t fully woken yet, still rubbing its eyes after the rain.

Spencer opened the motel room door, and a breath of cool air swept in, lifting the edge of the curtain, brushing against her cheek like a hand passing over still water.

It was brighter outside than it had any right to be after the storm — the kind of soft, post-rain light that made everything look washed and half-forgiven. Puddles glimmered across the parking lot. The motel sign buzzed faintly overhead.

Y/N stepped out beside him, coffee still in hand, the steam drifting in thin ribbons, and blinked into the light. Her footsteps felt quieter than usual, as though even the earth was still blinking itself awake. The air smelled like wet pavement, warm leaves, and cheap coffee — all strangely beautiful when carried on sunlight.

The rest of the team was spread across the parking lot in small, languid motions — the day hadn’t fully found them yet. Morgan leaned back against the SUV like he belonged to the morning, coffee in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. Prentiss swung her boots idly from the edge of the hood, and JJ laughed at something Rossi muttered beneath his breath.

And then they saw her.

Well, them.

His grin arrived before his words did.

“Well, well,” he called, pushing off the side of the car with his shoulder. “Look who finally emerged from the love nest.”

Y/N didn’t even flinch. “The what?”

“You heard me,” he said, smug as ever. “One bed, weird weather, unresolved tension. I’ve seen this episode before.”

Prentiss gave an exaggerated gasp from where she sat on the hood of the SUV. “Wait. Was this the part where they’re forced to confront their deeply buried feelings under fluorescent lighting and questionable linens?”

“Don’t forget the horror of shared toothpaste,” JJ added, hiding a smirk behind her to-go cup.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but amused. “For the record, I used my own toothpaste. And we survived. Barely.”

Spencer stayed quiet beside her, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, posture loose but unmistakably aware of the attention.

Morgan narrowed his eyes, mock-serious. “What about you, Reid? You holding up? Or did Y/N’s snoring ruin the fragile ecosystem of your dreams?”

Spencer didn’t blink. “Actually, the white noise was surprisingly helpful.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Prentiss and a full-on choked noise from JJ.

Y/N turned to him, incredulous. “Was that a joke?”

He shrugged, eyes barely concealing his amusement. “Interpret it however you want.”

She stared at him for a beat, then laughed — quiet, genuine, the kind that cracked through sleep and silence like sunlight hitting glass.

And just like that, the group shifted back into motion — lifting bags, tossing cups, stretching limbs. The day was reclaiming them, gently but insistently.

Hotch stepped into view with clipboard in hand and his usual no-nonsense tone. “Jet’s ready. Wheels up in twenty.”

The team began to drift toward the SUVs.

Spencer opened the back door for her. Y/N slid in beside him without a word, and he followed — their shoulders close, movements quiet.

He didn’t pull out a book. She didn’t reach for her phone. Their silence was companionable, like something still echoing from the night before. Outside, the world sharpened by degrees — sunlight glinting, engines starting, radios muttering through cracked windows, the puddles sparkled in the sun.

And inside the SUV, the world went on, unaware that something had shifted — not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly, in a way that would be remembered later.

In the small, golden place between waking and forgetting.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer fic #reid fic #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction

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milkoomi · 7 months ago

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₊˚⊹ ᰔ a guide to maintaining financial wellness ᝰ.ᐟ

having good money habits can be insanely difficult. i know i personally struggle with impulsive spending, and i’m sure we’ve all fallen victim to the “i’m just treating myself” mindset. financial stress and even financial depression can feel so daunting and overwhelming, so i’m here to help you guys (and myself as well) manage your money better!

let’s begin !!

ᝰ.ᐟ set aside funds

it’s important that when every paycheck hits your bank account to immediately set aside some funds into your savings account. whether it’s 10-20% of your paycheck or even $20-$100, set aside some money into your savings!

it also might help to have that savings account be locked so that you can still put money in, but you can’t take money out. let that savings amount pile up and don’t touch it until you’re absolutely ready to make that big purchase!

ᝰ.ᐟ set aside any cash

get a piggybank or even one of those money organizing binders to set aside any cash that may come your way! keep that cash away from your wallet so you won’t be tempted to use it in any outside purchases. and, same as the first point, that cash will start to pile up!

ᝰ.ᐟ purchase needs rather than wants

let’s start getting out of that “i’m gonna treat myself” mindset!! while it’s nice to treat yourself, we really should only be doing it every once in a while. we can also find different ways of treating/rewarding ourselves that don’t require spending any money! (i can make a separate blog post on this if you guys would like!)

especially when you’re trying to save up for school, a new apartment, a new car, or whatever it may be, it’s really important to keep your purchases to only things that are absolutely necessary.

ᝰ.ᐟ keep track of automatic payments

especially if you have a subscription of any kind, keep track of when those automatic deductions from your account are happening. make note of when your next billing date is and how much you’re being charged for each month/year.

this would also be a good way to determine what subscriptions you really need/want to keep and which ones you can do without and unsubscribe to! i did a full cleanse of my subscriptions list and kept the ones i definitely wanted to keep. sometimes you never really realize how much money your losing when you’re subscribed to things that have no use to you anymore!

ᝰ.ᐟ plan accordingly

when your paycheck comes in and you have all these payments that are coming up yet you still need to buy groceries or get gas or whatever, make sure to plan your funds ahead of time! this way, it’ll help you budget for your groceries & any other necessities as well as help you determine how much money you can set aside into your savings and even calculate how much extra funds you might have to spend on for more personal things!

𝜗𝜚 final notes 𝜗𝜚

don’t let these tips make you feel like you can’t treat yourself to something! as i mentioned earlier, you can still treat yourself to nice things, but it might be best to do it once in a while! i know most of us associate success with money, and to reach success with money we have to learn to be more mindful about how we spend our money and how we manage it.

live and love, babe.

sincerely, juno ⭑.ᐟ

#milkoomis #girlblogger #girlblogging #it girl #that girl #girl blog aesthetic #it girl tips #becoming that girl #finance #money #money management #money manifestation #money saving #spending habits #personal growth #self improvement

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deliciousangelfestival · 2 months ago

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Senator Barnes - 2

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Summary : This is the story of how Bucky Barnes, a man who never imagined life outside the battlefield, met a bold woman from a well-known political family. One unexpected dinner later, he found himself on a path to becoming a senator.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , -

Character : senator!Bucky barnes × female! Readers

By the way, I published my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Please leave a comment and reblog. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

You and Bucky stepped out of the restaurant into a blinding wave of flashing cameras. The air snapped with the sound of shutters and shouted questions. With your practiced political smile—the kind that could cut glass without leaving a mark—you waved gracefully to the press, your posture serene, composed, untouchable.

“Smile, Bucky,” you murmured through your teeth, eyes still fixed on the reporters.

Bucky’s jaw tensed. He gave a stiff, reluctant half-smile, the kind that barely counted, and ducked into the black car waiting by the curb. He didn’t like being watched. Never had. Cameras weren’t just eyes—they were weapons.

Outside, a journalist called out, loud enough for the mic to catch it. “Is it true the Winter Soldier is considering a run for office?”

You paused mid-step, turning your head slightly. The smile didn’t falter.

“At this moment,” you said, voice smooth as velvet, “I want you to stop calling him the Winter Soldier. We just had a brief discussion. This isn’t just politics—Mr. Barnes cares deeply about this country’s safety and future prosperity.”

Inside the car, Bucky’s brow twitched. He let out a low scoff, barely audible. Damn, she’s good, he thought. Effortless. No hesitation. No stammer. You were born for this world of masks and maneuvers—political royalty through and through.

You slid into the seat beside him, calm as ever. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the world out.

“I never said yes to all this,” he muttered, his voice a quiet storm.

You glanced at him—not annoyed, not offended. Just calm. Calculating, maybe. But not cold. “Don’t you ever get tired of risking your life out there?”

He didn’t even blink. “No. I stopped being selfish when I joined the army.”

You inclined your head slightly. “And thank you for your service.”

A stretch of silence filled the space between you. The kind of silence that felt like a breath being held.

Then you leaned in, your tone shifting—low, careful, deliberate. “But what if I told you that working in an office—inside the system—could save more lives than fighting in the field?”

Bucky turned his head slightly toward you, eyes narrowing. Not suspicious, not angry—just... listening.

“Explain,” he said.

You did. With precision.

“This country loves war. It thrives on it. And it hides behind the illusion of diplomacy while funding conflict from the shadows. But if the right people get into office—people who’ve seen what war does, who’ve bled because of it—maybe it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

He looked away, jaw tight. Part of him wanted to stop listening. But the other part—the part that still woke up from nightmares—knew you were right.

And then you dropped the real bait.

“Especially with how human experimentation is trending again.”

His spine stiffened. Muscles coiled. You didn’t need to see his face to know you’d struck something deep.

“Being turned into a weapon,” you said, softer now, your words more personal, “must’ve been hell.”

He answered through clenched teeth. “Nightmare.”

You nodded once. Respectful. Not pitying. “And yet even now, after all the investigations, the hearings, the promises—those tests still exist. Hidden in contracts. Buried in black budgets. Shielded by the same private companies that built them in the first place.”

His metal hand curled into a slow, deliberate fist. The sound of the plates shifting against each other filled the quiet space.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in.

“If you run... and you win... you’re more than just a name on a ballot. You’re living proof. You become the man who took what they did to him—and rewrote the law to stop it from ever happening again.”

He stared straight ahead. The city passed by in a blur of lights and shadows outside the window.

Justice. That’s what you’d called it. He wasn’t sure he believed in it anymore. But maybe... maybe it was worth a second look.

Bucky shifted in his seat, still chewing on everything you'd just said, when your next words hit him like a curveball.

“You put a lot of faith in me,” he muttered, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Why?”

You didn’t sugar-coat it. “Being honest with you? I want revenge.” You looked straight at him, unflinching. “I want to humiliate my ungrateful ex-fiancé. The man who didn’t value me when I stood beside him, propped him up when no one else would.”

Bucky’s eyebrows twitched, his expression unreadable. A flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—passed through his eyes.

So it’s personal.

Of course it was.

He leaned back slightly, arms crossed, not in defiance but calculation. This woman across from him wasn’t just playing political chess—she was dragging ghosts into the game. And still, she was bold enough to say it out loud. Most people hid ambition behind pretty speeches. Not you.

Still, something about the way you said it tugged at him. Not pity—he didn’t do pity. But he knew what betrayal looked like. Felt like.

He’d trusted people too. And he’d been used as a weapon in return.

You gave a small, sharp smile, not cruel but purposeful. “I want to show him exactly what he gave up. This,” you gestured loosely between yourself and him, “is what he missed.”

Bucky blinked, caught off-guard for a second.

Was this just revenge to you? Or was it something more?

Was he a pawn, or a partner?

Part of him didn’t care. He’d been called worse than a pawn. Used for less.

But another part—the part that still ached when someone saw him as more than the sum of his past—couldn’t help but ask himself:

What am I really doing here?

*****

THE NEXT MORNING

A firm knock jolted Bucky awake, not that he’d truly been asleep. His mind never let him rest, not fully. He sat up instantly, still half-dressed in yesterday’s shirt, and stalked toward the door like a soldier on instinct.

He opened it.

Five people stood in a straight line, all wearing black turtlenecks, tailored pants, and the kind of silent confidence that made Bucky instantly uncomfortable. They looked like an Apple Store crew hired by the CIA.

He blinked. “Apple store isn’t here.”

The man in the center raised a pair of silver shears with a glint in his eye.

“Obviously. We’re here for you.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, instinctively defensive. “You planning to stab me or something?”

“No,” the man grinned. “You’re getting a makeover.”

Bucky squinted. “Was it her?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be here in an hour,” the man said with pride. “And after that, both of you are going to the tailor.”

“The what?”

“No time for questions.” The team marched past him like they owned the place.

Bucky turned slightly, baffled as they moved in. One was already unpacking products from a sleek leather kit. Another had laid out two jackets on the back of his couch. Someone was measuring the lighting near the mirror.

“This is a hostage situation,” Bucky muttered.

One hour later, you stepped into his apartment just as the hairstylist swept the final strands off his shoulder with a black cloth.

“Voila!” the stylist announced, stepping back dramatically.

You tilted your head and smirked. “Nice. He’s getting more handsome.”

Bucky, sitting upright in the chair, raised an eyebrow. “I’m handsome?”

You nodded immediately, like it was a scientific fact. “You are.”

He blinked, visibly flustered. His cheeks colored slightly, the compliment catching him off guard. He looked away, but the smile was creeping in.

“You’ll be hearing it a lot during the campaign,” you added. “Get used to it.”

You checked your watch. “Put on your outfit. We’re going to the tailor next.”

The way you said it—brisk, professional, like it was just another item on your to-do list—left him feeling unexpectedly... disappointed.

******

The boutique tailor shop was tucked into the corner of an upscale block in New York, its windows clear and minimal. No mannequins. Just soft lighting and the faint scent of cedar, wool, and clean leather. The moment you both stepped inside, it was obvious—this wasn’t just tailoring. This was legacy craftsmanship.

Every fabric swatch shimmered subtly under the light. The leather looked like it had been imported straight from the hills of Tuscany.

Bucky stood stiffly in front of a full-length mirror, arms out in a T-pose while an elderly tailor—elegant and precise—measured his shoulders with calm, clinical grace.

“You are... unusually broad, sir,” the tailor murmured, adjusting the tape.

“You should’ve seen him before the haircut,” you replied smoothly.

The tailor smiled politely. “And what sort of fit are we going for? Classic? Military cut? Modern silhouette?”

You stepped forward with your tablet, tapping swiftly. “Three-piece suit. Wool blend, navy base with subtle charcoal pinstripe. Tailored fit. Clean cuffs. Medium spread collar. Hidden buttons—no shine. And don’t forget the overcoat. Cashmere. Black.”

Bucky turned slightly, still holding the T-pose. “You’re good at this.”

“I grew up learning it.” You met his eyes, then turned the tablet toward him. “Campaign starts soon. Optics matter.”

He exhaled slowly. “Don’t expect much. I’m not exactly likable.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

He scoffed lightly. “I admire your optimism.”

You didn’t flinch. “You’re right about one thing—the older generation will resist you. You scare them. You’re unpredictable. Too raw.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“But,” you continued, stepping closer, “the younger generation? They’ll be your loudest voice. They don’t want perfect. They want real.”

You stood beside him now, both of you facing the mirror. The suit-in-progress draped across his frame with surprising elegance.

“You should’ve read the comments online, Bucky,” you said softly. “They like you because you fight. You didn’t just survive the mess—you walked straight into it, every time.”

He looked at his reflection. Still felt like someone else.

“Maybe I should keep using my fists instead of words,” he muttered. “At least I know how to win a fight.”

You smiled, but there was no softness in it—just certainty.

“No one’s afraid of a punch they see coming,” you said, voice low and unwavering. “But a man who’s survived being broken—reprogrammed, hunted, hated—and still stands tall in front of the world? That scares people. Because it forces them to confront what real strength looks like.”

You stepped closer, eyes locked on his.

“They’ll listen to you, Bucky. Not because you speak loud—but because you’ve lived through the kind of pain they can’t even imagine... and you didn’t let it make you cruel.”

“And I’m pretty sure the voters would rather choose a fighter over a cheater,” you said coolly—voice calm, but the edge in your tone made it clear who you meant.

Bucky let out a dry scoff, his arms crossed as he leaned slightly against the wall. “Yeah. Can’t argue with that.”

He didn’t press, but he caught the flicker in your eyes—the hurt behind the sharp words. You were still hurting from your ex. You still hadn’t cried. You hadn’t broken down.

“I’m grateful you have faith in me. But I’m afraid you’ll end up disappointed,” Bucky said, his voice low and cautious. He didn’t quite meet your eyes—his shoulders slightly hunched, like he was already bracing for the fallout.

You smirked, unfazed. “Oh, Bucky… I will prove you wrong.”

Bucky looked at you, studying your face. The confidence in your tone, the fire behind your eyes—it threw him off balance. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t flinch at his past or soften your voice around his guilt. You challenged him, like you already saw the man he could be, not just the one who had survived.

Maybe... just maybe, you would prove him wrong.