#sharps cleanup

[houseofaegon]

Don't Let Go ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. rough sex, emotional sex, public sex, mental health themes (trauma, guilt, PTSD), depictions of breakdowns, emotional, angst, praise kink, possessiveness, aftermath of violence, unprotected p in v, guilt, self-loathing, established trauma bond.

Summary: The mission was supposed to be clean. Routine. But nothing is simple when the Sentry is involved, when Bob loses control, and the Void takes over. And when he does, you're the only one who can pull him back.

Word Count: 4658

Author's Note: don't even ask me if I'm okay cause the answer is no. I'm destroyed. completely destroyed and emotionally wrecked. i am ruined. bob reynolds ruins me. if you finished this and also felt like your heart's been pulled out and kissed back to life, welcome to the club. my inbox is open if you want to send me your therapy bill—just know I’m probably gonna have to come with you cause what the fuck. i love you bobby you're everything to me!!! if you want to be added to my taglist just comment below!! <333 feel free to cry with me in the comments and scream in the reblogs. i need to go outside and touch some grass, reconnect with nature and breathe cause my heart is destroyed after this one. i literally can't stop writing for bob what the hell!! bucky is jealous cause bob's taking up space in my mind that used to belong to bucky. lewis pullman you babygirlllllllllllll

masterlist.

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The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Detain the targets, secure the entire facility, and minimize civilian casualties. Standard Thunderbolts cleanup. You'd done this dance before—storm in, assert dominance, extract data and bodies. Easy.

But you knew the moment Bucky said, "Bob's on this one," everything in your chest went cold.

The tower was quiet, too quiet, until it wasn't. Until the entire place was filled with hurried footsteps, shouts bouncing off the walls, and orders being thrown like grenades, gear bags being slammed open, weapons loaded with sharp clicks, and comms lighting up with rapid-fire intel. The whole floor shifted into emergency mode.

You'd barely finished gearing up when Yelena grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the elevator, her expression tight, mouth set in that grim, no-bullshit line that only ever meant bad news.

"Valentina wants all of us on-site," she muttered, pressing the call button with enough force to crack the panel. "Right now. Facility breach. Something about biotech. Hostages."

"Since when do we scramble before briefing?" you asked, yanking the zipper of your new tactical suit closed, holster strap still half-loose dangling on your hip. "Do we even have a plan?"

Yelena didn't answer. She didn't have to.

When the elevator doors opened, Bucky was already inside, pacing back and forth. His jaw clenched, comms piece buzzing with chatter. He looked up when he saw you—but he didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Jeez, so much for a good morning.

"Let me guess," you said, stepping into the elevator next to him. "Valentina's stunt?"

"She pulled Bob in last minute," Bucky said, his voice laced with frustration. "Didn't even care to fucking tell me. I found out when I saw his name on the team feed. Walker's there with him, Ava too."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you froze. "She put him first? With Walker?"

“She wants to see if he's still 'field-capable.'" Bucky's voice dripped sarcasm. "Her exact words. She thinks this is some kind of game. Like we're testing out a new drone, not a man who nearly blacked out half of a city six months ago."

“Is she out of her fucking mind?” you hissed. “Bob’s not—he’s not ready. He shouldn't be anywhere near this.”

“No shit,” Yelena muttered from the other side, crossing her arms. “And we’re the ones who’ll have to clean up if he loses it again.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to damp down the rolling anger in your chest. Not at Bob—of course not, this wasn't his fault. You were mad at Valentina and her fucking need to push him to the edge. "Great," you muttered, rubbing your face with a hand. "Let's all just hold hands and pray he doesn't crack."

The VTOL sliced through the clouds like a blade, engines humming low and tense. Rain battered the sides in sharp bursts.

You sat strapped between Yelena and Alexei, your harness tight across your chest, heart beating even tighter beneath it. Across from you, Bucky was locked in, jaw clenched, staring out the side window with a look that could shatter the glass any moment. When he finally looked away from the window, he fixed his gaze directly on you.

"I need you to be ready," he said, voice low and rasped. "In case Void—" He paused, breathing raggedly. "In case Bob snaps."

You blinked. "Bucky—"

"If it happens," he cut you off, "if he breaks... don't wait for an order. Do not hesitate. You hit him with everything you've got."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because you hesitated.

Not because you didn't understand the danger. Not because you didn't know what Bob was capable of when the Void took hold. You'd seen it. Firsthand. The devastation. The aftermath. The look in his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—when he realized what he’d done.

But you'd also seen something else. You'd also seen the other side of him. The guilt

You'd been there the last time. When the Void clawed its way up his throat like poison, he dropped to his knees, shaking, burning with power, guilt, and fear. You were the only one who could get through to him. The only one who could touch him without him recoiling like he might shatter.

You'd whispered his name and watched his fist unclench slowly. You'd put your hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat slow. You'd seen how the black storm slowly evaporated, leaving a broken man sobbing against your chest.

That night was the worst for Bob.

You remember it vividly—his body trembling against yours, eyes wide and hollow after the Void had finally disappeared. He hadn't said a word. Just sank to the ground, hands fisting in his hair, like he was trying to hold his skull together.

You’d dropped down beside him, pulled him close, felt the heat radiating off his skin like a fever breaking. And when he finally clung to you—arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your shoulder—it wasn’t just desperation. It was terror. Like if he let go, he’d fall into some pit that never ended.

He cried.

God, he cried so hard.

And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to soothe it away. You just held him. Let him shake. Let him break.

That night, you stayed with him.

He pulled you into bed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it—just moved toward your body like it was instinct, like your presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His fingers curled in your shirt, his face buried in your chest, breath hiccuping between exhausted sobs.

You thought he’d fall asleep eventually.

He didn’t. Not right away.

He kept whispering, voice barely audible: “Don’t leave. Please. Just… don’t leave.”

And how could you?

You didn’t.

So you stayed.

And when he finally passed out—curled around you like a second skin, little soft snores slipping past parted lips—you just watched him. His face was peaceful for once. Almost boyish. His lashes fluttered when he dreamed, but he didn’t cry out. Not with you there.

You tried to slip out once.

Just to stretch. To breathe. But the second your body shifted away, his arms tightened like a vice, dragging you back in, even in his sleep. Like his subconscious couldn’t bear the thought of you disappearing.

From that night on, it became… a thing.

Every time he had a nightmare. Every time the Void started to whisper again. Every time he needed quiet but didn’t know how to ask for it—he came to you.

He never knocked loud. Just a soft tap on your door, barely audible. You’d open it to find him standing there, shoulders hunched, hair messy, eyes big and guilty and so shy. Like he hated himself for needing you but couldn’t help it.

“Can I…?” he’d start to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And you’d always let him in.

Always.

God, you loved it. Loved being the one person he came to. The one place he felt safe. The way he melted into you the second the door shut. The way he’d sleep tangled in your arms, legs hooked with yours like he needed as many points of contact as possible to stay grounded.

You never told anyone.

You never wanted to ruin it.

It was quiet. Sacred. Yours.

And now, strapped into this VTOL, Bucky’s words still echoing in your ears—“Don’t hesitate. Hit him with everything you’ve got”—all you could think about was how peaceful he looked in your bed. How tightly he held you. How terrified he was of being alone.

Because what if you could reach him again?

What if hitting him wasn’t the answer? What if all he needed was someone to see him before he disappeared completely?

Bucky must’ve seen the flicker in your expression, because his voice dropped lower.

“I know you’re close to him. I know he listens to you more than anyone else. But if that stops—if he doesn’t hear you this time... don’t let him take you down with him.”

He’ll hear me, you thought, jaw clenched.

He has to.

Yelena’s hand reached over, slow and steady, her fingers brushing against yours before curling around them. Her grip was warm, firm—anchoring. You turned slightly, meeting her eyes.

She gave you a small, quiet smile. The kind that didn’t promise everything would be okay, just that you wouldn’t be alone when it wasn’t.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered. "We'll be right behind you."

You squeezed her hand back, once.

"Visuals confirm contact inside the facility," the pilot’s voice crackled through the comms. "We’ve got movement near the lab sector. Hostiles engaged. Sentry’s already on-site."

You looked up sharply. "Already?"

He wasn’t supposed to engage alone.

Bucky swore under his breath, ripping the earpiece out and jamming it back in. "Why the fuck didn’t you wait for us—"

Ava spoke through the comms, her voice shivering. “He didn’t wait. I told him to stand down, and he just… went in.”

Then the ground came into view through the viewport—flames licking up from the roof of the biotech facility, smoke pluming into the sky, the perimeter in total disarray.

"Doors open in twenty seconds," the pilot called.

You shivered. You could feel it. That humming tension in your bones, the kind that only came right before everything went to hell.

He's already slipping.

"Get ready," Bucky barked, snapping his rifle into place as he stood. "Move fast, eyes sharp. We don't know how bad it is yet."

Yelena stood up, nodding once, checking her gear. You followed closely behind.

“Hostiles are still active inside,” came another voice—Walker’s, sharp and panicked over comms. “But it’s—fuck, it’s a massacre down here. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. I can't see him. He’s not fucking responding.”

Your heart clenched.

“Bob,” you whispered, barely audible.

Then: a boom.

A section of the lower level erupted in a plume of golden-white light, fire tearing up through the concrete as the building shook from the force of it. A pulse of energy rippled outward, flattening a chunk of the south wall like paper.

The VTOL lurched slightly from the shockwave.

“Doors opening!” the pilot shouted. “Deploy, deploy—go, go!”

The ramp dropped—and the storm hit you in the face.

Rain. Smoke. Sirens. And somewhere beneath it all, a familiar hum.

You ran.

Boots pounding against the rooftop, leaping the last few feet to the access hatch. Bucky and Yelena flanked you, weapons drawn, slicing through the chaos with practiced precision.

You barely had time to adjust before Bucky grabbed your arm, spinning you toward him. His face was grim, soaked, eyes blazing.

“Go!” he shouted over the roar. “You need to find him!”

“What about—?”

“We’ll handle the rest!” he cut in, already moving, already aiming down the chaos below. “If anyone can reach him before he turns this whole goddamn place to ash—it’s you. Yelena will be right behind you. Walker and Ava are already inside. Go!”

Your breath hitched.

Then you nodded, once, sharp and sure.

And you ran—straight into the smoke, straight into the fire.

Straight toward him.

The inside of the facility was a warzone. Emergency lights flickered through thick smoke. Sparks rained from broken ceiling panels. The walls were scorched, the tile beneath your boots cracked and slick with blood and water. You passed fallen bodies—some hostiles, some just gone, disintegrated into scorched outlines and ash.

He’d been here.

You ran faster. Your breath became shorter. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

And then you saw him.

Floating.

Just inches off the ground, his body trembling with power barely held in check. His suit was torn, soaked, blood-slick. His hair clung to his forehead in damp curls. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled in like claws.

He hand't noticed you yet. He was talking to himself, low and frantic, like he didn't even realize sound was coming out of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to—I tried, I tried, they didn’t listen—I told them not to run—why did they run—”

Your heart clenched. You took a breath, steady and slow. Lifted your hands, palms open, non-threatening. Stepped forward, one careful step at a time.

"Bob," you whispered.

His head jerked up like a struck animal. His eyes were pitch black. Not just his pupils. Everything. You could see the Void slowly taking over control of his entire body. Crawling across his skin in veins of shadow, threading through him like poison, claiming more and more by the second. There was nothing human in his face.

Then he saw you.

You took another step forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Bob," you said again, softer now.

His lips parted. The black in his eyes shimmered, like something beneath it was trying to break through, trying to remember.

You took another step.

"I'm here," you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. "It's me."

"GET DOWN!" a voice screamed behind you.

You barely turned in time to see the soldier—young, shaken, finger already tightening on the trigger of his rifle, aimed straight at Bob.

“No!” you shouted, throwing a hand out. “Don’t—don’t shoot him!”

But it was too late.

You whipped back toward Bob—and his hand was already rising. Not fast. Slow. Deliberate.

Eyes locked on the soldier, face blank and unreadable, voice low and distant.

“Mine.”

“Bob!” you screamed, adrenaline tearing through your veins like lightning. You rushed toward him, arm outstretched. “STOP! STOP!”

A pulse of black energy burst from his palm. It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t explode. It just erased. The soldier was there—and then he wasn’t.

No scream. No blood. Just a curling wisp of smoke, and a blackened shadow scorched into the tile where he’d stood. Like reality itself had been scrubbed clean.

Your breath caught. Your body froze.

The soldier was gone. Just like that. And Bob? He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just stood there, hand still raised, void energy curling around his fingers like it wanted more.

You moved before you even realized it.

You ran.

“BOB!” you screamed, voice hoarse with panic.

You slammed into him, hands flying up to grab his face—rough, desperate, grounding. Your fingers dug into his jaw, into his cheeks, trying to feel him, shake him loose from the darkness overtaking his body.

“Bob! Look at me!” you yelled, tears already slipping down your face. “Fuck—look at me, please!"

His head twitched in your grip, eyes still black, but they widened. Like he didn’t know how you got so close. Like he didn’t even recognize his own name.

“You promised,” you choked out, forehead pressed against his. “You promised you wouldn’t let this happen again. You said I could help you. You let me in. Bob, please, I know you can hear me. Let me in. Let me help you."

And then—

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The black void in his eyes gone, replaced by fear. Replaced by gut-wrenching guilt.

And suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your arms, trembling hard. Holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped, voice splintering in his throat. “I just… he—he pointed that gun at you. I—”

His knees buckled.

You caught him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped again, clinging like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, fingers stroking through his hair, down his back. “I know, it’s okay. You’re okay—I got you. I'm right here."

You could feel it under your hands—the tension building again. The static crawling across his skin. He was shaking harder now, like he was trying to hold himself together with bare hands and sheer will, and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“I told them,” he growled, voice rising, wild and hoarse. “I told them not to send me. I told them—I told them!”

“Bob,” you tried again, your hands cradling his face, trying to ground him. “Stop—just breathe, okay? Look at me. Just look at me. It’s over. You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Bob—”

“Holy shit,” someone gasped.

You turned. Too fast. The team stood there. Yelena’s eyes were wide. Ava’s mouth hung open. Alexei looked stunned. Bucky was frozen mid-step.

And Walker? Walker’s gaze went straight to the scorched mark on the floor, and his lip curled.

“What the fuck did he do?”

That was it.

You snapped.

“You were supposed to look out for him!” you roared, your voice echoing down the hall like a whipcrack. “You knew he wasn’t ready! You knew, and you left him in there anyway—what the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Don’t yell at me because your little pet project finally snapped—”

You stepped toward him so fast Yelena actually reached out to stop you.

“Say that again, Walker.” you dared, low and deadly. “Say it. Fucking say it again.”

“Guys—” Ava started.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered behind you.

And that’s when you realized—Bob wasn’t in your arms anymore.

You turned, panic already in your throat. He was standing a few feet away, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched. His shoulders were shaking, his jaw tight, like he was about to split open.

The way they were all looking at him. Like he was a monster.

And he saw it. He saw everything.

“No, no, wait—” you started.

But he was already moving. He shoved past you, not roughly—never roughly—but like he couldn’t stand to be touched anymore. Like he didn’t deserve it. And then he ran.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran after him.

You found him down a back alley, drenched in rain, his back pressed to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you could see it—how close he was to falling apart, how the power still surged beneath his skin, barely contained. His body shook with it, with guilt, with the kind of rage that didn’t know where to go.

You took a step closer and he shifted like he was going to bolt again, eyes flicking to the shadows like he could vanish into them.

You grabbed his wrist. Tight. “Don’t run.”

That stopped him. His breath hitched, but he didn’t turn.

“Bob,” you said, softer now, over the pounding rain. “Please. Look at me.”

He turned slowly—and god, the look on his face broke you wide open. Soaked, shattered, eyes full of guilt and too many unsaid things. He looked like he didn’t believe he deserved to stand in front of you. Like just being seen by you hurt.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate.

Like he needed your mouth to remind him he was still real.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. You collided like two storms, all sharp edges and soaked skin. His mouth crushed yours, messy, uncoordinated, bruising. You dragged your hands through his rain-slick hair, pulled him closer until your bodies slammed together. He groaned your name like it hurt to say it, like it ripped something open inside him just to speak it.

You kissed him back with everything you had, dragging your fingers through his soaked curls, pulling him closer, crushing your lips to his until your teeth clacked and your breath fogged the air between you. He whimpered into it, raw and broken, hands clutching your waist through your suit like he didn’t know where to touch, like he needed to touch everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against your lips, voice already hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—” His words cut off with a sob. You shushed him with another kiss, slower this time, lips brushing his like a promise.

“I need you,” he breathed, voice broken. “God—I need you, I need you so bad—I can’t—fuck—don’t let go—please, don’t let go—”

Your gear hit the wall behind you, water slapping between you like applause. His mouth was on your throat, biting, sucking, moaning, as your hands worked beneath his already ripped suit, shoving it aside, frantic to get to skin. His hips rocked into yours like he couldn’t stand being apart from you even for a second.

“Please,” he groaned again, breath hot against your ear. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just—fuck—just let me have you.”

You gasped, arching against him, letting him press you tighter to the bricks. You were already soaked—skin flushed, thighs shaking—and the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in his world snapped something open inside you.

You grabbed his face, kissed him hard, desperate. “Take it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Take anything. Everything. I’m all yours, Bob.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and that was it.

Your suit came undone in ragged pieces, his hands tearing at fastenings with trembling fingers, your legs wrapping around his waist as he shoved your soaked underwear aside. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, grinding his cock against your slick center until you cried out, nails raking down his back.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he gasped. “You want it, don’t you? You want me to lose it for you—inside you—?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, tilting your head back as he pushed in. “Yes, yes—please—”

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke and you screamed, fingers clawing at his soaked suit, legs tightening around his hips. He was so deep, so hot, so real, and the way he fucked you—fast, rough, relentless—was like he didn’t know if he’d survive without this. Without you.

Every thrust hit something raw, something needy, his voice ragged against your ear. “You’re mine—you’re mine, say it—fuck, say it—”

“I’m yours,” you cried, body shaking. “I’m yours, Bob—fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He sobbed against your throat, thrusting harder, faster, panting between curses and broken prayers. “You’re perfect—so perfect—god, you feel so good—you make everything quiet. You make it all fucking stop—”

And when you came, it hit like a shockwave—your whole body convulsing around him, mouth open in a wordless scream as he slammed into you, burying himself deep and coming hard, spilling inside you with a desperate cry of your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He held you afterward like he might never let go, still shaking, still breathing like he’d run through hell. His forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, and this time, it was a vow.

His breathing was ragged.

Shallow gasps against your neck, chest rising and falling like he was still trying to outrun something only he could see. The rain hadn’t let up. It fell in heavy sheets around you, but neither of you moved. You stayed wrapped around him, trembling, your back against the soaked alley wall, his body still buried in yours, shaking with the aftershocks.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even lift his head.

His arms stayed locked around your waist like a vise, like if he let go even a little, you’d disappear. You felt him swallow, once, twice—and then his shoulders began to shake in a different way.

“Bob?” you whispered, hand sliding up to the back of his head, fingers weaving through his soaked hair. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”

He sobbed.

Quiet at first. Just a ragged breath that stuttered out of him like it had been waiting for too long. Then another. And another. His whole body trembled, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he finally—finally—let himself fall apart.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he choked out. “I tried—I tried so fucking hard—I just wanted to be useful, I wanted to help—and I killed him—”

You shushed him softly, rocking him gently where you stood, your hands stroking down his back.

“You came back to me,” you said, voice low. “That’s all that matters. You came back.”

“I don’t deserve this,” he rasped, holding you tighter. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You do. You do. You’re still here. You’re still you. That’s all I care about.”

You stayed like that for what felt like forever—him wrapped around you like a lifeline, your bodies still locked together, breathing in sync. The heat between you slowly cooled, but the weight of it all stayed heavy, real.

Eventually, his head lifted, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you were real. Like maybe you were the only thing left in the world that hadn’t abandoned him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing over the scar just below his eye.

“I know,” you said. “But I’ve got you.”

And he leaned into your hand like a man starved for touch.

Back at the tower, everything was chaos—shouting, agents scrambling to do damage control, the team fighting with each other, trying to put the blame on someone—but none of it touched you. Not when you had him. Not when he never once let go of your hand.

You didn't go to the infirmary. Didn't sit through the debrief. Bucky tried to say something, but you just shook your head. Bob didn't even look at him. At no one.

You led him straight to your room.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, his body sagged like the air had left him entirely. You helped him out of the rest of his suit, piece by piece, your fingers gentle even when your heart still ached from the weight of it all. He did the same for you, so soft, so gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled him into your bed without a word.

He followed like he always did. Like he couldn’t not.

He wrapped around you the way he always did—legs tangled, arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck. But this time it wasn’t just comfort.

It was clinging.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just held on.

You stroked his hair, tracing slow patterns into his scalp, letting your breath match his until he calmed, until that tremble in his shoulders finally stilled.

But he still didn’t sleep.

You felt him shift closer, nose brushing your collarbone. His voice, when it came, was wrecked and so, so quiet.

“Do you think they’ll ever look at me the same?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

You didn’t answer right away. You could feel how tightly he was holding his breath, like he was bracing for the worst. You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through the back of his hair, your lips brushing against his forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered. “They know it. Even if they won’t say it out loud. This—what happened—you didn’t want this. And they know that.”

He didn’t reply, not at first. But you felt it—the way his chest stuttered, how he finally let himself breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, broken.

“I know.”

“I was so close,” he said, voice cracking like glass. “I could feel it. Like I was right there. One more second and I wouldn’t have come back.”

“But you did,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “You came back to me.”

He shuddered, breath hitching again as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Leaving a soft kiss that made your heart clench. “You’re the only one that brings me back,” he whispered. “The only one.”

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him tighter.

And finally—finally—he started to drift.

It wasn’t peaceful. He twitched. Mumbled things you couldn’t make out. Flinched like his dreams were still trying to drag him under.

But he didn’t wake.

Because you were still there.

And he knew it.

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos

[societyfolklore]

Trapped Together

Title: Trapped Together

Pairing: Sheild!Bucky Barnes x Sheild!Female Reader

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

Word Count: 4.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

You both froze.

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

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

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

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

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

“No keyhole.”

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

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

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

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

The realization settled between you, heavy and unshakable.

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

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

And then the inevitable happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that? That was going to be a problem.

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

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

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

Your cheeks burned. “I’m not- ”

But you were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say, Doll.”

And somehow, despite everything, you did.

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky was hard.

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

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

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

Your own arousal.

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

You needed to wake him up.

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

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

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

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

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

You stiffened, before trying to move away.

"I just- "

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

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

"I didn’t do a thing.”

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

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

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

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

"I wasn’t- "

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

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

Bucky's hand cupped you through your pants, his palm pressing against the damp fabric, making you gasp. A dark chuckle rumbled against your neck as he felt the heat radiating through the thin material.

"Undo your pants," he murmured, the command cutting through the thick haze of tension.

You found yourself shifting, your own shaking fingers undoing the button and pulling down the zipper, Bucky’s hand sliding in without hesitation. The sensation made you arch, your body betraying you as his fingers made contact. A little whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

"All that grinding made you all ache and sensitive, Babydoll…" His metal finger barely pressed your underwear against your swollen clit, the faintest amount of pressure making your breath stutter.

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, his fingers starting a slow, teasing circle over the fabric still covering you. "Bet you've been dripping for me all night," he murmured, his lips tracing the shell of your ear. "So wet and needy, and you don’t even wanna admit it."

His hand slid further, fingers pushing past the final barrier of fabric to find you bare beneath, slick and ready. He groaned at the feel of you, his grip tightening as his fingers slipped through your wetness, coating themselves in evidence of your arousal. "Fuck, sweetheart… you're soaking."

A strangled sound caught in your throat as his fingers circled your clit, the cool contrast of metal making you shudder. You tried to resist the pleasure flooding through you, but Bucky was relentless, keeping you spread open with his thigh between yours.

"Bucky- "

"Shh, sweetheart. Just let me feel you," he whispered, voice thick with desire. His hand moved with intent now, slow and devastating strokes that had you trembling against him. "That’s it, good girl… just like that."

His fingers slid lower, teasing along your folds, gathering the slickness that betrayed just how much you wanted this. A wicked smirk ghosted across his lips as he pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in before pulling back, his touch agonizingly light.

"So sensitive," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. "So fuckin’ wet for me."

You let out a strangled moan as his metal finger circled your clit again, more pressure this time, more purpose. Heat coiled low in your stomach, each slow stroke sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. Your hips moved before you could stop them, chasing the friction he so cruelly teased you with.

"That’s it, sweetheart," Bucky coaxed, voice laced with dark amusement. "Knew you wanted this. Knew you couldn’t resist."

You barely had time to bite back another moan before he flipped you onto your stomach, his grip firm as he pressed your cuffed hand down against the mattress. His free hand slid to your hip, tugging your pants lower, the cool air ghosting over your bare skin making you shiver.

The bed creaked as he moved behind you, the unmistakable sound of his belt being undone making your breath hitch. The rasp of his zipper sent anticipation curling through your spine, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His own pants coming down, the clank of his metal belt

"Been waiting for this all night," Bucky murmured, his hand smoothing over the curve of your ass before squeezing. You felt your hips raise back to meet his hand, instinctively seeking friction, rubbing against the heavy, hard length pressed against you.

He groaned at the contact, his breath coming out harsher as he gripped your waist, his flesh hand against your skin. "That’s it, sweetheart," he muttered, grinding his cock against you slow and deliberate. "You want it, don’t you?"

You barely had time to answer before his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing along your already slick folds. "So fuckin' wet for me," he groaned, his touch purposeful as he spread your arousal with slow, torturous strokes. "Bet you were dreamin' about this, weren't you? Ridin' my leg, gettin' yourself all worked up..."

Your breath stuttered, a whimper slipping from your lips as he pushed a finger inside you properly, curling it just right, making your body jolt. The pleasure was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

"Bucky- " you gasped, barely able to form the words as he worked you open, his touch both devastating and precise.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, teasing, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed another finger in, stretching you further, our cunt clenching and holding onto his fingers. "That feel good, sweetheart? You gonna admit how bad you wanted this?"

Your fingers curled into the sheets, a desperate moan slipping from your lips as he thrust his fingers deeper, stroking the spot that had you trembling.

"Fuck- Bucky, I- " you tried, but your words cut off into a whimper when his thumb circled your clit, sending another wave of pleasure through you.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Let me hear you."

Bucky chuckled, dark and pleased, withdrawing his hand only to replace it with the heavy press of his cock against your entrance. "Gonna take my time with you, Doll," he murmured, voice thick with hunger. "Gonna stretch you open nice and slow... make sure you feel every inch."

And then, with a deep, steady push, he sank into you, stretching you inch by inch, until there was nothing left between you but heat, pressure, and the raw, unrelenting pleasure of being completely, utterly filled.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned, the weight of him making it impossible to properly move. Your walls fluttering around him as you let out a soft whine.

Bucky’s fingers tightened against your hips, his breath ragged against the back of your neck. “That’s it, not so sassy now, are ya baby?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. His thrusts deepened, each roll of his hips sending pleasure spiking through you. “Just needed my fat cock to make you behave.”

A choked moan escaped your lips, your body arching instinctively, pushing back against him. The stretch, the pressure- it was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the desperate sounds spilling from your throat.

Bucky chuckled darkly. “Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, his pace picking up, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room. “Moanin’ like a needy little thing. Thought you hated being stuck with me?”

You couldn’t even answer, couldn’t form words between gasps and whimpers.

“C’mon, sweetheart, use your words,” he taunted, his flesh hand slipping beneath you, fingers finding your clit. “Tell me how good I feel stretching you out.”

Your breath hitched, your back arching as pleasure ripped through you. “Bucky- I- fuck- ”

He groaned, thrusting harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made you see stars. “That’s it, take it, baby,” he rasped. “You’re so fuckin’ tight- so fuckin’ perfect wrapped around me.”

Your body clenched, heat coiling in your belly, the pleasure unbearable as his fingers worked you mercilessly, pushing you closer to the edge.

““Gonna come for me?” Bucky growled, his grip on your waist tightening. “Gonna soak my cock like a good girl?”

Your breath hitched, your body tightening around him, the pressure building unbearably fast. His fingers on your clit never relented, pushing you closer and closer, his thrusts turning sharper, rougher, until it was too much-

The pleasure crashed over you in a blinding wave, your cry muffled into the pillow as your body convulsed beneath him. You clenched around him, squeezing him so tight he let out a strangled moan, his grip on your waist turning bruising.

“Fuck- just like that,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his body seizing as he drove into you one last time before he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering groan. The heat of it sent aftershocks rippling through you, your body still pulsing with the remnants of your orgasm as he slumped over you, both of you panting, sweat-slicked, and utterly spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress. His breath fanned over the back of your neck, warm and uneven, his heart hammering against your spine. Neither of you spoke, your bodies still tangled, still connected, the cuffs a firm reminder that there was no pulling away just yet.

Bucky chuckled breathlessly, his lips ghosting over your shoulder as he murmured, “Guess being stuck together ain’t so bad after all, huh?”

His words sent a lazy shiver through you, but you were too boneless, too utterly wrecked to argue. Instead, you let your eyes drift shut, exhaling slowly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Yeah, you were definitely in trouble.

By the time backup arrived, you were fully dressed again, but nothing about the tension had faded. If anything, it had settled deeper. The flight home was quiet, and you were quiet too.

Bucky hadn’t let go of you the entire time. His fingers brushed your thigh every so often, casual, like it was nothing. Normally, you would have said something- told him to quit it, nudged him away- but right now, your brain was too hazy, too fluffy to form a real thought. The ache between your legs made every small movement an unspoken reminder of where he'd been, of what he'd done.

You kept your eyes on the window, forcing yourself to breathe, to act normal. But in the reflection, you saw it-

Bucky watching you.

That same small, satisfied smile on his face.

As the jet touched down, Bucky finally pulled at the cuffed connection, his vibranium arm giving a gentle but insistent tug. Your gaze snapped up, attention pulled from the window as your fingers instinctively curled into your lap.

"On your feet, Doll. Don't wanna keep Stark waiting."

"Yes, Sir." The words left your lips before you could even think about them, your breath hitching the moment you realized what you’d said.

Sir? When had that slipped into your vocabulary?

Bucky’s smirk deepened, though he didn’t comment, just gave a slow hum of amusement as he stood, the cuffed hand ensuring you followed right after. Blinking, heat creeping into your cheeks, you cleared your throat and got to your feet, falling into step slightly behind him as you made your way toward Stark’s lab.

Tony raised an eyebrow at the sight of you and Bucky, still cuffed together. "What the hell happened here?"

"Long story," Bucky muttered, avoiding your gaze, though his grip on the cuffed hand lingered a second too long before finally letting go.

Once the cuffs were finally removed, you should have felt relief. Should have been grateful to be free. But instead… you hesitated.

Bucky hesitated, too.

You both lingered, standing too close, the air between you charged with something unspoken. His fingers flexed at his side like he was fighting the urge to touch you again, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered over you, lingering on the places he'd marked just hours ago. And for one, sharp moment, you thought he might- might say something, might pull you back in, might remind you exactly how good you felt under him.

But then, he just smirked. Slow, knowing, dangerous.

"Don’t think this means you’re off the hook, Doll."

Your breath caught. "I’m not?"

Bucky leaned in, his voice dipping into something husky. "Not even close."

His eyes held yours, heavy with meaning, and your stomach flipped, heat flooding your face and running down your chest. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering as he finally stepped back-

But instead of leaving, he gave your cuffed hand a light tug, guiding you toward the hallway. "C'mon, sweetheart," he murmured, his smirk deepening. "Think it's time I take you somewhere a little more comfortable."

Your breath hitched, your body still too warm, too sensitive from everything that had happened. "Bucky- "

He shot you a look over his shoulder, teasing but firm. "Unless you wanna sleep alone tonight?"

A nervous giggle bubbled up before you could stop it, and you cleared your throat, shaking your head as he led you toward his bedroom.

[lazi4ss]

That's Not My Milkman

masterlist

Warning: slight gore but not that detailed, doppleganger Francis

Gender neutral reader

(NOT MY ART, I FORGOT WHOS TIKTOK THIS IS FROM BUT CREDITS TO YOU!)

"So... Is everything in check?"

A tired voice mumbled out as your eyes trailed up from the ID and entry request in your hands to the source of the sound. Tired hazel eyes stared back at you as Francis rubbed the back of his neck.

You felt bad, here you were double and triple-checking everything while the exhausted and probably underpaid milkman was there standing and waiting to be let in. But it's for everyone's safety so don't feel too bad. You gave a small smile as you handed back his paperworks. Everything seems to check out and you were going to let him in but... what's that on his uniform sleeve?

You squinted your eyes as you scanned the cuff of his right sleeve. His gaze travelled to where you were looking and with a shrug of his shoulders he lifted his hand to give you a clear view. And it is in fact blood, and by the looks of it, quite fresh too. How come you didn't notice it before?

You raised an eyebrow, one hand slowly inching closer to the danger button as you tried to be subtle and casual about it. Because what the heck? He was confident enough to show you something so suspicious without batting an eye.

"Sooo... Uhm. Anything you want to share?"

You casually asked, yet nervousness was laced in your tone. He sighed, keeping his composed and nonchalant act as put his hand down, burying it in his pocket as he dragged his free hand on his face. If he's a doppelganger then he's really going the extra mile to act or seem believable.

"Mmm. I know you're on edge."

He mumbled, gaze traveling from your hand that was ready to press the danger button to your face. Staring a little too long as he examined your features. You got a very pretty face yet it was filled with mistrust. Shame. Catching himself, he quietly scoffed under his breath. Good job Francis, already had the doorperson suspicious of you.

"But this is not what it looks like. I injured my hand earlier with a broken glass, blood must've gotten on my uniform accidentally."

He finished, not breaking the staring contest you two have started. You don't quite seem to believe that story, but it was plausible. There was a tense silence for a while before you broke it.

"Show me your wound."

You requested and again, another tense silence. He didn't look like he was going to comply. Just you and him staring down at each other. No one backing down and tearing their eyes away.

"... Fuck."

He quietly hissed and that was enough confirmation for you. You pressed the button immediately, grabbing the phone as you dialed the D.D.D. A familiar voice on the other end confirms and tells you that agents are on their way.

You sighed in relief, although that didn't last long as you heard banging on the glass pane separating you and the doppelganger. Thank God those were strong enough to withhold the assaults. You should've been shaking in your seat right now, and you were albeit not so intense, but it was the first time you came across the quiet and aloof milkman's doppel.

Hell, it was the first time you even saw Francis up front, not just out of the picture in the folder provided for your job. Out of curiosity, you raised the metal shutters to take a peek at it. And what greeted you was a snarling, red-eyed Francis. His features twisted in rage as he banged on the glass repeatedly.

"Let me in, Y/n!"

He growled, to which you shut the metal blinds again on his face in response as you heard the agents barge in. You thought it would be like last time, after a while they would let you know that the cleanup was successful and that they would be on their way back. Easy peasy, right? Oh how wrong you were. Turns out, this one was putting up quite a fight.

You could hear shouting, a lot of screaming, and the sound of something sharp slashing at flesh. Wet sounds of people gurgling in what you presumed to be their own blood... That was disturbing. You were almost too scared to pull up the shutters to see what was going on. But suddenly the noises stopped. Did they catch him? Was it finally over?

With shaking hands, you pressed the danger button off. The blinds slowly ascended and holy shit, the sight was like something out of a nightmare. It was straight up a blood bath. The agents' bodies were piled on the right side. Some missing their heads, missing their upper or lower half, and others' stomachs were ripped out and just generally shredded and torn. But that wasn't what you saw first.

It was Francis, or well, his doppelganger, with blood splattered on his clothes and a little getting on his cheek. His forearm was resting on the glass as he leaned. His mouth opened and formed a smirk as he panted, breathing heavily while glaring at you. His left hand fiddled with the blood-drenched tie on his neck.

If he wasn't a murderous doppelganger, you would've swooned. But alas, you can't have nice things in life. You blinked at him before pressing the button again,

"Wait- damn it!"

He called out but the windows were closed off again as you dialed the number quickly. Yet again, the same old thing was said, another batch of agents were dispatched. You waited, fidgeting in your seat as you heard him call out to you.

"Come on... I'm sorry Y/n, I didn't mean to frighten you. Can you open the door?"

He tried to coax you with that voice... That smooth and deep voice that sounded so tired, on the verge of begging you... Wait what-

You shook your head, patting your cheeks lightly because what the hell was that? Such intrusive thoughts are not welcome while your life's in danger!

More screaming and shouting was heard as the agents arrived and you could tell they were much more prepared than the last batch. Gunshots can be heard but another animalistic growl pulled you out of your thoughts. Everything went silent again. You stay rooted on your spot as the only thing that can be heard in the air is your quivering gasps and heavy breathing on the other side of the glass panel.

Is he still there? You thought as you turned off the danger button again. More bodies were piled up on the left corner and surprise surprise, he was still alive, albeit in a rougher shape than previously. He wasn't wearing his milkman hat anymore, letting his brown messy hair show. His uniform was missing three buttons at the top, slightly showing his chest, bowtie was nowhere to be found.

He was still drenched in blood but what stunned you was what he was doing. His form raised and dropped as he inhaled and exhaled heavily, tired hazel eyes staring back at you as his eyebrows scrunched up. His hands pressed together in a pleading manner. Is he actually begging?

"Y/n, let me in... Please?"

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

REQUEST: Can you do one where Paige and get gf get caught making out (or full on doing it) in one of the team facilities and they get bullied (in all good faith) for the entire day but the next day they show up with hickeys on their necks and the whole team including coaches see and teammates make fun of them. Later in the day they see hickeys on their thighs and asked crazy questions again and do not let it go | request here

WARNING(S): (18+) slight smut ⋮ oral (r!receiving) ⋮ hickeys on neck + thighs ⋮ making out ⋮ getting caught ⋮ teasing ⋮ established relationship ⋮ think that's all ..

WORD COUNT: 4.9K

| MAIN MASTER LIST |

THE GYM STILL PULSED with the ghost of motion, the energy of the game clinging to the air like an echo that refused to fade.

The sharp squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood still lingered in my ears, phantom footsteps chasing each other across the court.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows that stretched and swayed as if they, too, were reluctant to let the night end.

The air was thick—humid with the weight of bodies in motion, steeped in the sharp, briny scent of sweat and adrenaline.

It wrapped around us, a heady mixture of exertion and something else, something less tangible but more intoxicating. Something unspoken yet undeniable.

Laughter and chatter rippled through the gym as teammates gathered their things, shoving each other playfully, shoulders bumping, voices overlapping.

The scent of worn leather and cooling skin mixed with the artificial sweetness of sports drinks, the occasional pop of a water bottle cap punctuating the noise. One by one, they trickled out, disappearing into the night, the open world waiting to swallow them whole.

But not us.

Paige and I lingered, the pretense of duty draped loosely over us like a threadbare excuse. Gathering stray basketballs, stacking neon cones, looping resistance bands over our arms—movements automatic, practiced, but our minds were elsewhere.

The silence between us wasn’t empty; it was charged, humming with the friction of something unspoken but growing louder with every second.

It had started during practice, or maybe even before that. The slow, burning awareness of each other, the weight of her gaze when she thought I wasn’t looking. The brush of her fingers against my back, my waist, my hip—each touch fleeting but deliberate, setting my skin ablaze in ways a full game never could.

This wasn’t just cleanup.

This was stalling.

Dragging out these last few moments before the inevitable pull became impossible to resist.

Every stolen glance, every fleeting brush of her fingertips had been kindling to a fire that had long since ignited—its embers buried beneath my skin, glowing, crackling, spreading like molten honey through my veins.

Heat curled in the pit of my stomach, thick and insistent, twisting like smoke from a slow-burning wick, waiting for the moment it would finally catch, finally consume.

Even now, as I stood gripping a stack of disc cones, I could feel the weight of her gaze—heavy, dragging over me like a painter’s brush, tracing every line, every curve with a deliberate slowness.

Mapping the length of my legs, the dip of my waist, the way my sweat-slicked shorts clung to me like a second skin.

Paige wasn’t just looking. She was studying. Committing me to memory in a way that sent a sharp, thrilling ache curling between my ribs.

"Are you even listening?" I narrowed my eyes, placing the cones inside the storage room, my voice sharper than I intended, though it did nothing to break her focus.

Paige didn’t answer.

Instead, she moved—fluid, intentional, her every step humming with a quiet sort of control that made my breath catch. Her hands, warm and unyielding, found my wrist, her grip sending a jolt of anticipation up my arm, down my spine. She tugged me into the narrow hall, the space suddenly feeling too small, too charged, her body a live wire against mine.

Her eyes flickered around, scanning for stragglers, but the way her fingers tightened just slightly around my wrist told me everything.

I knew that look.

And I knew exactly where this was going.

And then, before I could even shape her name into something solid, before the thought of resistance could form, she was moving—swift and sure, pushing open the locker room door, guiding me inside with a silent kind of urgency that sent a sharp thrill down my spine.

The heavy door swung shut behind us, the world outside fading into nothing but muffled echoes, leaving only the pulse of her presence, the charged air stretching taut between us.

“Paige—”

I barely breathed it, barely formed the syllables before my back met cold wood, the shock of it biting through the heat coiling in my veins.

The wooden locker bench rattled behind me, a hollow clang swallowed by the hush of the room, by the press of her body against mine—so warm, so solid, so devastatingly close.

The air crackled between us, thick with something unspoken, something waiting to snap. My skin burned, every nerve alive with the anticipation of her touch, every cell in my body tuned to her. And then—

Then, she kissed me.

It was reckless, molten, a kiss that stole the breath from my lungs and replaced it with fire. Her lips crashed into mine, not tentative, not teasing, but claiming. A collision of want and heat, of something that had been simmering too long, finally spilling over.

The weight of her against me, the way her hands grasped at my hips like she couldn’t stand the distance—God, it was intoxicating.

I gasped into her mouth, fingers clutching at the fabric of her jersey, dragging her closer, needing more, needing her in a way that felt primal. But it still wasn’t enough.

I needed her like a body needs air. Like fire needs oxygen to burn.

I let my hands slip beneath the edge of her jersey, fingertips grazing the soft warmth of her skin, pulling it up slowly as if I could feel every inch of her body alive beneath my touch.

The smooth curve of her waist, the hard lines of muscle beneath, each shift of her body beneath my hands made me ache with a need that settled low in my belly. Every ridge, every dip of her form seemed to hum against my skin.

A shiver ran through Paige, sharp and electric, as my fingers traced the contours of her body.

The quiet groan that rose from her chest vibrated through me like a low hum, something primal, something desperate, and it cut through the haze of wanting, striking me like a blade to the heart.

My own pulse quickened, blood rushing to my ears, the ache inside me sharp and deep.

And then—without warning—I was lifted.

Paige’s hands slid beneath my thighs, strong and steady, lifting me effortlessly as though I weighed nothing at all. My back left the cool, hard wood of the lockers, and I was weightless for a moment—caught in the air, held in her arms.

Her strength was a kind of magic, and when she set me down on the couch, I could feel the weight of her presence settling between my legs. Her body pressed into mine, full of warmth and heat, every inch of her against me—so close that my head spun, my breath shallow and ragged.

The pressure of her, the force of her body moving against mine, made my chest tighten with a craving so raw it nearly stole the air from my lungs.

Her lips left mine, trailing a path of fire down my jaw, each kiss a whispered promise, each breath a silent plea. Her mouth found the curve of my neck, her breath warm and soft, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

She paused at my pulse, lips brushing, then pressing firmly as she sucked—tender, then teasing, then possessive in a way that made my body arch instinctively towards her.

I gasped, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, not caring if she could hear my desperate need in the way I tugged at her, urging her deeper into me. A sigh slipped from her lips, vibrating against my skin, and I felt it all the way down to my bones.

Goosebumps rippled along my skin in the wake of her touch, each fingertip leaving a trail of fire and ice in its wake, as if her hands were both a balm and a blaze.

The contrast was sharp—cool, electrifying shivers meeting the molten heat pooling low in my stomach, a tension so thick it pulled tight across my chest.

My hands roamed the wide expanse of her back, tracing every sinew, every curve, as though trying to memorize the way her muscles moved beneath soft skin. I felt the subtle shift of her posture, the delicate flex of her body as she adjusted, as she pressed closer, her breath mingling with mine.

Each movement was deliberate, every inch of contact like a silent conversation—an exchange of yearning and promise.

We were caught in the tide of something that wasn’t just lust, wasn’t just the desperate need of bodies craving each other.

No, it was thicker than that, heavier—like a dark, intoxicating storm that rolled in without warning, flooding me with a desire that felt like drowning, but in the best way possible.

The ache in my chest, the throbbing pull in my veins, was more than just physical. It was the quiet desperation to feel her, to be with her, to lose myself in the space where she and I collided. We were fire and fuel, each breath a flame that threatened to consume us whole.

When Paige’s lips found mine again, it was slower, deeper—an unraveling.

The kiss wasn’t frantic; it was a quiet, lingering hunger, a study of each other’s mouth, of the rhythm we created, of the way our bodies knew how to bend and fit together, like two puzzle pieces that had been waiting their entire lives to meet.

Each brush of her lips was a gentle claim, a slow unraveling of tension that had been wound too tight. My hands tangled in her hair, urging her closer, needing the weight of her against me, needing to feel the full depth of her hunger.

My lungs burned, but I didn’t care.

Paige wasn’t just my breath.

She was the wildfire consuming me, turning everything to ash and desire, leaving only the scorched remnants of myself behind.

Paige’s back was faced towards the door, her body a steady, comforting presence against mine. We were so lost in each other, the touch of her hands, the press of her lips, the weight of her gaze—that everything else in the world faded away.

The hum of the gym, the sounds of our teammates disappearing into the distance, the lingering burn in our muscles—all of it dissolved into the quiet intimacy of the locker room.

We were cocooned in our own world, where nothing existed but the electric pulse of our skin against each other.

The only sound was the rhythmic thumping of our hearts, syncing in a frantic dance that echoed through the silence, our bodies swaying as if guided by some magnetic pull.

But then came the footsteps.

A faint shuffle at first, barely perceptible, but loud enough to snap us back to reality, to shatter the fragile bubble we had created. The sound of sneakers against tile grew louder, sharper, like a warning bell ringing in the distance. Panic flared up in my chest, sudden and hot.

Before I could process the rush of alarm, the door slammed open with a loud crack that felt like it shattered the space between us.

The sound echoed in the room, jarring us from the fragile cocoon we had woven around ourselves.

My body jerked back, nearly losing balance, but Paige’s hands were like fire on my waist, quick and strong, anchoring me as I crashed into her.

Her breath hitched in shock, her eyes wide with surprise, but there was a flash of something else too—anger, protective and fierce—as she twisted around, her gaze sharpening into a glare, directed at the intruder as if daring them to even think about encroaching on our space.

Her posture was all fire, like a lioness ready to protect her territory, and I felt the power of it settle deep in my chest. The room felt smaller now, but it wasn’t the tightness of walls—no, it was the weight of being caught, of being exposed, that made the air thicken.

We pulled apart, hearts still racing, our faces flushed with the rush of embarrassment and the remnants of heat we couldn’t shake.

But when our eyes found the source of the interruption, it wasn’t anger we felt—it was an awkward jolt of vulnerability.

Our friends stood in the doorway, their wide eyes taking in the scene, none of them saying a word, but their grins spoke volumes. Ice, ever the instigator, raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly, knowing smile.

My heart was pounding, and I could feel the heat creeping up my neck, my cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and confusion.

The air between us was thick, suffocating with the pressure of what had just been interrupted, but the doorframe suddenly filled with the faces of our friends—wide-eyed, mouths agape.

And then Ice’s voice cut through the tension, teasing, light but pointed, as her grin stretched across her face like a wolf circling prey.

“I’m sorry, were you two...?” she drawled, her voice dripping with mischief as she let the question hang in the air. The rest of the team filed in behind her, already laughing, already knowing—too much, too soon.

“Nothing happened!” I shot back instantly, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively. My face burned, hotter than anything Paige had made me feel just moments before.

“Nothing, huh?” Sarah’s voice was laced with playful challenge as she gave us a knowing, half-smirk. “We’ll just tell Coach then, no big deal.”

“Shut up!” Paige muttered, her voice thick with laughter that didn’t quite cover the surprise still rattling through her. She tried to brush it off, but it was clear—she was as flustered as I was, and the teasing was only beginning.

Azzi’s voice rang out across the room, teasing and loud, almost playful enough to pierce through the tension.

“You guys are so cute,” she teased, the words thick with a mix of affection and mockery. “Kissing in the locker room like it’s a rom-com!”

“Yeah, how long have you two been sneaking around, huh? Making out after practice?” KK’s voice joined in, her grin cheeky, her wink a clear challenge.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, leaning into Paige’s side for support, her warmth grounding me even as the teasing escalated.

She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer, her own quiet laugh vibrating against my ear as we tried to cover the embarrassment we both felt.

But the teasing didn’t stop there. It continued in small bursts—every casual glance from across the room felt like a spotlight, every whisper coated in an undertone of knowing.

The rest of the team didn’t let up. For the rest of the day, we were the subject of every whispered conversation, every sly look, every playful jab.

It was harmless, all in good fun—but still, the intensity of it all made us feel like the center of a universe we hadn’t meant to create.

THE NEXT DAY:

Last night had been something out of a fever dream—clothes flung carelessly across the room, the lingering scent of sweat and skin, the remnants of our desperation painted in bruises along our bodies.

Every inch of me ached, a slow burn of pleasure and exertion coiling beneath my skin, a testament to the way we had taken each other apart, piece by piece, only to put ourselves back together again.

But the morning… the morning was no different.

A slow, building sensation—warmth pooling low in my belly, something slick and wet teasing against the most sensitive part of me.

Even in the haze of sleep, it sent shivers up my spine. My breath hitched, my legs twitching beneath the sheets as pleasure stirred me from the edges of unconsciousness.

Then came the first real stroke of her tongue, languid, deliberate. My hips jerked slightly, a moan slipping past my parted lips.

“Oh, fuck—” My voice was rough with sleep, my fingers blindly searching for something—anything—to hold onto as my body arched against the touch.

My eyelids fluttered open, the dim light of morning spilling through the curtains, and there she was. Paige, mouth hot and eager against my folds, licking into me like a woman possessed.

She pulled back just enough to press a kiss to the inside of my thigh, her breath warm against my damp skin.

“Good morning, baby.”

Her voice was thick with amusement, smug and knowing, before she dove back in, this time wrapping her lips around my clit and sucking, sending a jolt of electricity straight through me.

My back arched off the mattress, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat, my hands tangling in the sheets.

I kicked off the duvet, the fabric pooling at my waist, revealing Paige in all her sinful glory—hair twisted into a messy bun, blue eyes locked onto mine, her mouth glistening with me.

My legs were thrown over her strong shoulders, her grip bruising against my thighs as she held me open for her, completely at her mercy.

And God, she looked starved.

"M’sorry," she groaned, voice muffled as her lips pressed deeper against me, her mouth hot and unrelenting.

The apology was empty—pointless—because the moment her tongue flattened and dragged through my folds, all I could do was arch into her, thighs trembling.

A shuddering gasp tore from my lips as the vibration of her words rippled through me. "Got hungry, baby," she murmured, her grip on my hips loosening just enough to tease me with the absence. One hand left its place, drifting lower, a featherlight caress against my entrance that had me keening.

And then—Paige filled me.

Two fingers, warm and deft, stretched me open with a slow, deliberate thrust, the kind that sent a sharp, needy cry tumbling from my lips. My breath hitched, nails clawing into the sheets as pleasure curled low and deep, winding through me like a live wire.

"Please," I gasped, voice shaking, body trembling against her.

She didn’t make me wait. Paige was never cruel like that. Her fingers curled inside me, finding that devastating spot with a precision so sharp, so consuming, that my vision blurred at the edges.

A white-hot rush seared through my spine, my back arching off the mattress as my legs quivered beneath her touch.

"Right there," I moaned, voice raw, desperate. "Right there, baby."

She hummed in satisfaction, her lips never straying far from where she wanted to worship me.

Open-mouthed kisses burned along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, her tongue flicking over the heat she left behind before she latched on, sucking slow, deep, claiming.

A moan spilled from my lips as I felt it—the mark she was leaving, a deep bloom of purple, a whisper of her possession etched into my skin.

"Paige!" I cried out, my hips jerking when she finally—finally—attached her lips to my swollen clit. The sensation was instant, electric.

The dual assault of her mouth and fingers—sucking, stroking, curling—had me spiraling, toes curling into the sheets as heat pooled molten in my belly.

My thighs tensed around her head, every muscle locking up, strung tight with the unbearable need for release.

My walls clenched around her fingers, desperate, unrelenting, pulling her deeper.

A strangled sound ripped from my throat as my head fell back, drowning in it, lost in her.

"Ugh—baby, I’m so close," I whimpered, voice breaking, pleasure surging in waves. "Please—please, don’t stop."

"Come for me, princess," Paige murmured, her voice dark, coaxing, dripping with sinful intent.

And I did.

The coil inside me snapped, pleasure bursting like a tidal wave, swallowing me whole.

My back arched, lips parting on a silent scream as the world around me dissolved into nothing but heat, touch, and the sweet, unbearable pulse of release.

My thighs trembled, my body wracked with aftershocks as Paige worked me through it—her fingers slowing, her tongue soothing, kissing away the remnants of my pleasure until I was nothing but a boneless, trembling mess beneath her.

I gasped, shuddering as I came down, my mind hazy, limbs heavy, completely undone. The room was thick with warmth, with the scent of us, with the lingering echo of my moans still ghosting through the air.

Still catching my breath, I reached for her, pulling her up—bringing her close. Paige hovered above me, her lips glossy, eyes dark, watching me with a knowing smirk.

But I wasn’t done.

With a lazy, satisfied grin, I rolled us over, pressing her into the mattress, my hands already trailing down, teasing, promising.

"Your turn," I purred, voice still wrecked from what she had done to me.

Then, without another word, I disappeared beneath the duvet—ready to return the favor.

"Morning, y’all," Paige greeted smoothly as we stepped into the gym, her voice dripping with the same ease and confidence she always carried.

But this morning, that nonchalance felt almost too casual—like she hadn’t woken up and stared at the same damning evidence on her neck that I had on mine.

The second we crossed the threshold, the air in the gym shifted. Conversations stumbled to a halt, laughter simmered down, and a thick, buzzing silence settled in its place.

It wasn’t the usual quiet before practice, nor was it the exhausted lull after a hard workout. This was the kind of silence that comes before a storm.

And then—like a fuse finally catching fire—it spread.

Smirks ignited on familiar faces, creeping across lips that barely tried to hold back amusement.

Eyes flickered between Paige and me, scanning, assessing, then zeroing in with a focus so sharp I felt it like a brand against my skin.

Azzi. KK. Sarah. Ice. And—oh, for the love of God—now Aubrey, too.

Goddamn it, Ice and her big-ass mouth.

There was a certain mischief in their gazes, their smirks widening as they took in something Paige and I clearly hadn’t noticed yet. A slow, prickling heat climbed the back of my neck, my stomach twisting with unease.

Paige and I exchanged a glance. Confused. Searching. Unspoken words flickering between us.

And then I saw it. Or rather, I felt it.

A dull ache where her lips had pressed against my neck last night, kissing, sucking, marking. And the realization hit me like a slap.

Shit.

The matching bruises. The unmistakable evidence of last night’s reckless hands and wandering lips, still stamped across our skin like ink that refused to fade.

I didn’t even have time to react before KK’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Oh, it definitely was a good morning, huh?” KK smirked. 

"Guess you two didn’t just kiss yesterday," Ice hollered, her voice ringing through the gym like a gunshot.

A wolfish grin stretched across her face as she pointed directly at our necks. "More like… full-on making out, huh?"

Laughter exploded around us, bouncing off the gym walls, each chuckle and cackle making the heat in my face burn even hotter.

Azzi let out a low whistle. "Damn, y’all couldn’t wait till after practice?"

KK snorted, elbowing Sarah. "That’s why they volunteered to clean up last night. Thought they were being slick."

Sarah shook her head with a smirk. "More like sloppy. Y’all didn’t even try to cover it up."

Aubrey, of all people, chimed in with a teasing grin. "At least pretend to be ashamed."

And Paige?

Paige had the audacity to smirk.

She loved this. Thrived in it.

She simply shrugged, all lazy confidence, like she wasn’t the reason I was currently dying of secondhand embarrassment.

"Jealous?" she drawled, the smirk in her voice just as clear as the one on her face.

A collective groan. Eye rolls. KK threw a towel at her. A chorus of “oh, shut up, Paige.”

I buried my face in my hands, groaning as the teasing escalated, but even through my fingers, I could feel Paige’s eyes on me. Not just watching—devouring, savoring, enjoying every second of my suffering.

And across the gym, CD finally glanced up.

Her gaze flickered over us, cool and unreadable, before settling back down, like she were choosing peace instead of engaging in whatever the hell was happening. But it didn’t matter. The damage was done.

This wasn’t just any morning at practice.

We could pretend we had walked in like normal. We could act like nothing had changed.

But the proof was already there, written in bruises and smirks and the way Paige’s fingers brushed against mine like last night wasn’t enough.

And judging by the way our teammates were still grinning, teasing, and whispering, they weren’t going to let this go anytime soon… again.

My body was a canvas of aching muscles and fatigue by the time practice ended. Each movement felt like a betrayal, the weight of the day pressing into my bones, the sting of every drill lingering in my skin.

Geno’s harsh words were still burned into my mind, his voice echoing like a drumbeat, demanding more—more effort, more focus. He’d been relentless today, his critiques like sharp stones, each one sinking deeper than the last.

And then there were the girls—constant teasing, their laughter ringing in my ears, pulling at the edges of my patience. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had gone my way today.

I tried to shake it off, willing the exhaustion to loosen its grip on me, but before I could even gather my thoughts, Geno’s voice cut through the air again, sharp and direct.

“Y/N.”

My name bounced off the walls like a sudden storm, filling the empty gym with a weight I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

I turned, locking eyes with him, trying to steady my breath. His gaze was different now, less harsh, almost softened by the weariness of the day.

He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture signaling that he was about to say something important—something that, for once, might actually make me feel like I wasn’t just the target of his frustrations.

“You know I push you because I believe in you, right?” His voice was quieter now, more personal, like he was trying to reach through the tension between us, to calm the storm in both of us.

I let out a breath, slow and controlled, nodding. “I know.” And I did. I knew he was tough on me because he expected the best. Because he believed I could handle it, even when I felt like I was breaking.

But today... today had felt different. The weight of every word, every move, it had all piled on, and no matter how hard I tried, it was impossible to shake it.

The gym was emptying out now, the sound of bag zippers, shoes squeaking on the floor, and quiet chatter filling the space.

I bent down to grab my bag, my fingers brushing against the cold floor as I tried to push all the noise from my head. But then, behind me, a sharp gasp broke through the hum of the room.

“Oh my god…”

It was Paige’s voice, thick with disbelief, and the instant she spoke, the whole world seemed to stop. I froze. I didn’t even need to turn around. I already knew what she was staring at.

The marks. The dark, unmistakable hickeys on my thighs.

I swallowed hard, my heart stuttering in my chest. No. No, not now. Not here.

Azzi’s voice rang out, light and teasing, as if she’d just found the greatest treasure. “No way,” she said, her words drawing a sharp laugh from the rest of the team.

“You guys are out here with hickeys on your thighs now? What’s next? A map of your entire body?”

And just like that, the weight of my embarrassment crashed into me, a flood of heat rushing to my face. I wanted to disappear. To sink into the floor and never come back. But of course, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Stop it!” I groaned, half-laughing, half-wincing. The teasing was relentless, each word digging deeper, a playful but pointed reminder of my private life spilling out into the open. “You’re making it worse!”

Sarah stepped forward, arms crossed, her expression dramatic and serious, but her eyes sparkling with humor.

“Where’s the line, huh?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock concern. “Are we gonna see them on your backs tomorrow?”

The entire team erupted into laughter, the sound of it echoing in the gym, bouncy and light, as if the day’s weight had been lifted by this moment of shared chaos.

Even our coaches, who’d been trying so hard to stay professional, couldn’t hold back a chuckle under their breath.

Paige stood next to me, her face a mirror of my own—exasperated, embarrassed, but also unable to do anything but laugh with the team. We exchanged a glance, our eyes saying everything without a word.

This was the price we paid for trying to keep something private in a world that was far too eager to share it.

And yet, there was something freeing about it too. Every time they found a new angle to tease us, every time the jokes started back up, it felt less like an invasion and more like a badge of honor. We had earned this moment. We were owning it, because what else could we do?

The teasing didn’t stop, but neither did we. And as the laughter rang in my ears, I realized it wasn’t the worst thing in the world after all.

…or maybe it was.

requests are open! Also just wanted to say that I loved writing this <3

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: Yeah, I know – the trope’s older than time and cheesy as hell, but I’m too in love with a certain supersoldier to care 🥰

Warnings: smut, fluff, a bit of angst, mentions of blood, pain, bruises and wounds, implied domestic abuse in the past

Word Count: 9K

Summary: It’s been another rough day, one too many, and Bucky’s just looking to forget. No comfort, no connection, just something simple, physical. You weren’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to want more. It wasn’t supposed to get complicated. But it did. It's what happens when neither of you know how to say what you feel.

Bucky stared at his reflection and muttered a curse.

Fresh bruise blooming high on his cheekbone, a split above his brow, still bleeding a little and that dull, familiar throb where metal met muscle at his shoulder. He looked like shit.  Lately, everything ached more. Took longer to heal. Everything just... dragged.

He splashed cold water on his face and gripped the sink.

You’re getting too old for this shit, he thought and not for the first time. He’d never wanted to be anyone’s savior, never wanted to be a hero, that had always been Steve’s thing. Steve saved the world, Bucky just tried to stay upright.

So how the hell did he end up here again?

Steve. Steve was gone. And in the silence he had left behind, something flickered, something Bucky never said out loud. That quiet itch, that voice that whispered what if...

What if he could’ve had it too? The normal life with morning paper, school drop-offs, shitty traffic, an office job. Coming home.

Home.

Weird word. As much as it might seem it didn’t mean walls or clean sheets or expensive furniture. He had all that now, but it still didn’t feel like anything. Still didn’t feel like home.

His phone buzzed.

A message. She’s downstairs.

He let out a sharp breath, straightened, wiped his face. He hadn’t been drunk when he booked it, just unraveling like every time he did. This wasn’t about sex, not really, it was about forgetting. For a little while, at least.

He’d picked the agency for a reason – discreet, top-tier, no questions, no judgment. That’s why he always paid extra. Still, he braced himself.

Same old pattern: a glance at the arm, the polite step back, the smile that didn’t quite hide the unease or worse, the disgust.

He’d seen it all before. It’s why he stopped dating, why he didn’t even try anymore.

Who the hell wanted a hundred-year-old mess with more baggage than a freight train?

You were used to nerves, used to that thick tension just before the door opened.

Actually you didn’t take new clients anymore, not after that incident a few months back.Too much risk, too much cleanup when someone forgot the rules or worse, decided they didn’t apply.

But this one came recommended with double pay and half the demands.

Your boss swore up and down he was a regular, quiet, predictable, not a single complaint from the other girls. Wanted one thing, didn’t want it for long, no talking, no touching unless necessary, no eye contact if he could help it.

You told yourself that was fine, perfect, even. You weren’t here to fix anyone. You weren’t peeling back trauma or saving souls. You were a body, a balm and gone before the sheets even cooled.

Still, as your hand lifted to knock, something twisted in your gut.

The door clicked open before you touched it.

He stood there – tall, broad, bruised, wearing a scowl like armor, but the exhaustion in his eyes bled through.

He opened the door like he was expecting a fight, eyes scanning, shoulders tense. He glanced over you once, then stepped aside without a word, like letting you in was a task on a list he hated checking off.

You catched a quick glimpse of the spacious hotel suite: dim lights, curtains drawn tight.  An untouched whiskey bottle, neatly folded cash on the table with a combat knife beside it.

You turned as the door shut behind you and the shadows shifted just enough to see him better.

His leather jacket was heavy, tactical, too much for a spring night, but it fit him – the weight of it, the coolness. Blood stained cuff. You furrowed a brow but didn’t ask. You never did.

You knew who he was, of course.

Congressman Barnes, you reminded yourself, alias James Buchanan Barnes, alias Bucky, former assassin, ex–Winter Soldier, newly minted Avenger – whatever that meant.

But he didn’t look like a superhero, he looked like a man one breath away from falling apart.

His face was a slow car crash with a fresh bruise blooming across his cheek, a split in his brow still faintly red, and dark circles deep under his eyes.

But it was the eyes that caught you, not just blue and deep. Soft, wrecked, as if sleep hadn’t come in days, and peace hadn’t come in years.

He looked wrecked, not just on the outside – bruises, blood, the usual – but deeper. He looked like someone who’d stopped believing the pain would ever end and just learned to carry it.

“Mr. Barnes?” you said gently. “Or do you prefer James?”

He hesitated. “Doesn’t matter.”

His voice was low, rough as if it hadn’t seen daylight in days.

You slipped off your coat and stepped further inside.

Why did he always get nervous when it came to this? He should have been used to it by now. He paid, they obeyed.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight as he watched you scan the room, the dim light, the drawn curtains, the untouched whiskey, the knife he had forgotten to hide.

You didn’t blink, the heels, the coat, the way your gaze swept the place, it was all effortless as if none of this fazed you. Like he didn’t faze you.

You turned back to him, eyes pausing on the blood drying at the cuff of his jacket.

Yeah, he knew how he looked. Bruised, exhausted, a little too close to unhinged, still dragging half a mission behind him. You didn’t ask, didn’t even flinch.

“Rough night?” you said softly, not really a question, just acknowledgment.

He gave a small nod, almost grateful for it, for your calm, your lack of judgment, for your normalcy.

You stepped in closer, slow, deliberate, watching him.

“I read your preferences,” you said, gently, slipping off your heels. “You want control. Minimal talking, nothing soft.”

He flinched, just slightly, not enough for most to catch, but you did. 

There was something in his eyes, in the way he held himself, tight as a drawn bow, chest rising just a touch too fast, trying to mask his nerves, that made you question it.

On paper, it sounded like dominance, detachment, but standing here, face to face, it didn’t read like control. It read like fear. 

Fear of himself, of what he might feel, of what he might need.

But you didn’t push, you didn’t challenge the rules right away, you just softened your posture, eased your tone and stepped a little closer, slow enough to give him space to retreat if he needed it.

“You know,” you said, voice low and calm, “people ask for rough when they’re scared soft might undo them.”

His eyes snapped to yours, startled and a little wary.

“You think that’s me?” he asked with a sort of a bite in his voice, but it cracked at the edges.

You gave a small smile. “I don’t think anything yet. I’m just here, however you need me.”

You stepped in closer. “You know the rules?”

He nodded, stiff and tight. “I know.”

“My safe word is silver,” you said, voice even. “If I say it, everything stops.”

Another nod, quick, automatic, like a box he was checking off, but his jaw was tight, and that flicker in his eyes hadn’t left since you walked in.

“And yours?” you asked, stepping back slightly to give him room.

“I won’t need one,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, eyebrow lifting just a little. “That’s not how it works.”

“I can handle it.”

You paused, eyes flicking to the faint tremor in his left hand, the flesh one, not metal.

“Even soldiers bleed,” you said, gently.

That landed, his throat bobbed with a swallow he didn’t mean to show and after a beat, he murmured: “Winter.”

“Alright,” you said softly. “If I say silver, you stop. If you say winter, I stop.”

He gave a small, tense nod.

You could see how tightly wound he was, shoulders coiled, muscles locked, he wasn’t looking at you anymore, eyes gone distant, like he was already halfway out of the room, halfway numb.

You kept your voice easy. “And where would you like to have me?”

You glanced around the suite – the leather couch looked inviting, the bar counter could work too – but before you could suggest anything, he looked at you, surprised, as if no one had asked before.

He blinked, then nodded toward the bed, the only real softness in the room.

You nodded back, walked over to your bag, pulled out an unopened pack of condoms, a small bottle of lube and placed them on the nightstand.

You could feel him watching, tracking your every move.

Then you turned, crossed the room, stopped right in front of him and reached for the hem of your dress, slow and steady.

“Let’s begin.”

There was still no eye contact, but you swore you saw him exhale.

You pulled the dress over your head and let the fabric fall.

He watched, not hungrily, not with the usual detached interest of men who paid for the illusion of closeness, but rather as if he had no idea what to do with softness.

You stepped in, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. He didn’t move.

His chest rose a little too fast under his shirt, but his hands stayed at his sides, one flesh, one metal, both clenched like he didn’t trust them if they strayed.

“You can touch me,” you said, quiet.

Still, he didn’t, just stared at your collarbone like it was safer than your eyes.

It was. Your eyes were too steady for Bucky, they didn’t search for threat, didn’t calculate, didn’t judge, they just saw him and that scared him more than a loaded gun.

He’d been clear about what he wanted – brief, physical, detached. Everyone before you had stuck to the script, no softness, no lingering, no emotional weight, no invading into his space. Just friction, silence, then the door.

That’s what he thought he needed, what he thought he deserved.

But you didn’t follow the script, you looked him in the eyes, you didn’t rush or flinch, or retreat, you met his gaze head-on. No flicker of fear, no forced kindness, no wide-eyed recognition, or false, rehearsed sympathy, just calm, steady presence so close that he could smell the fresh mint in your breath.

It seemed you didn’t see the assassin or the walking weapon, not even congressman or the Avenger or Thunderbolt or whatever title was bestowed upon him again. You looked at him as if he wasn’t a ghost wearing a body, but just… a man. And he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

All the anger, all the tension that had hardened in his body like concrete started to leak out, slow and silent, like you’d found the wound without naming it.

“Start where you want,” you told him. “However you need to.”

You reached out, slow. No touching, echoed in your mind, but you didn’t give a damn about it now. You’d been in this work long enough to know: it was never really about the spoken rules, it was always about what went unsaid.

You knew too well that look in his eyes – like he’d simply forgotten what it was to be touched without consequence, without hurting, without breaking, or maybe he’d never had it to begin with.

He wasn’t here for control or power, he was here to feel. Something. Anything. He just didn’t know how to ask, didn’t know how to let himself want it.

You gave him a soft smile and reached for his hand – the flesh one – lifting it gently until it rested on your waist. His breath caught, rough callused fingers brushed your skin. He wasn’t trembling, but he was close.

With your other hand, you touched his jaw, softly, almost asking, your thumb skimmed the edge of it. He didn’t pull away, just clenched tighter, the metal fist still locked at his side like it might betray him if he let it move.

You rose onto your toes, slow and careful, giving him every chance to back out.

He didn’t.

The second your mouth touched his, he went still, like you’d hit him, but then your breath brushed against his lips, and something cracked. He kissed you back like it hurt.

It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet, it was mouth and teeth, and desperation, raw, hungry. Like he was punishing himself with it, like he needed to forget or maybe remember, maybe both, like he was drowning, and your mouth was the only way he could breathe.

He backed you into the wall with force, his hands suddenly everywhere – pulling, gripping,  yanking your underwear down in a few rough motions. 

You didn’t resist, you let him take. There was no finesse in it, but there was also no cruelty, no deliberate roughness, just raw, unfiltered need. 

He ripped off his jacket, flung it aside. You caught a glimpse of blood at the seam of his shirt. 

His mouth crashed back onto yours, messy and demanding, but under all the chaos, something trembled. You kissed him back just as fierce, your fingers twisting in his hair, yanking, reminding him you were here, you were real. He moaned into your mouth. 

His hands moved faster now, dragging you toward the bed with that same wild urgency. He spun you around and shoved you onto the mattress like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. You landed face-first, caught yourself on your palms.

The sharp clink of his belt echoed behind you.

You turned quickly around and pushed up onto your elbows. No way were you just giving him your back, you wanted to see him.

He didn’t even bother taking off his shirt, pants shoved just far enough down to free his cock, already thick and hardening in his hand as he stroked it to readiness.

Then his eyes met yours – surprised. You shook your head and reached for him.

He climbed onto the bed, pressing you flat beneath him in a rush of heat and breath, the mattress dipped hard under his weight.

One hand gripped your hip, bruising, the other braced beside your head, breath ragged, body tense and hovering.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, tugging gently, and he stilled. You met his gaze, calm and steady and kept going.

After a long second, he finally let you. You pulled it over his head slowly, your fingers brushing down his shoulders, his arms – flesh and metal. He flinched when you touched the cool vibranium.

You didn’t stop, you trailed your hand over his chest, down his taut stomach. God, he was solid.

Your fingers found the edge of his pants, you looked up and for a second, what you saw wasn’t lust – it was grief, hunger, not just for your body, but for comfort, peace, for something he didn’t even know how to name.

You reached up for him again, your hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek. Gently, you guided him toward you and kissed him, slow and searching.

He groaned into your mouth – a wrecked, low sound – and you wrapped your legs around his waist, arching into him, your hands sliding over the hard lines of his back, not teasing, just caressing, grounding. 

And he melted, not completely, not yet, but enough that you felt the tension begin to bleed from his muscles and you felt the shift – his grip loosening, not desperate anymore, just there.

He kissed you again like he didn’t know how, seemingly bracing for you to vanish if he let himself want it.

You leaned up, lips near his ear.

“I feel you and I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a reflex he hadn’t used in years.

“That’s what everyone says,” he muttered. “Right before they figure out who I really am.”

You pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me who you really are. You know who I am. You know why I’m here. It’s easy. You don’t have to pretend, not with me.”

You started to tug his pants down, his breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. 

His flesh hand moved first, slow and unsure, tracing up your side like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you.

The other – metal – stayed frozen, fingers twitching just a little, like he didn’t trust it, like he didn’t trust himself.

So you reached down, took the cold, heavy hand in yours, and gently placed it on your thigh.

“Touch me,” you said, voice low. “All of you.”

His breath caught, you felt the hesitation ripple through him, the metal fingers were stiff, tentative, like he thought this might be the moment you flinched, pulled away, changed your mind, but you didn’t.

You kept your hand over his, guiding it slowly up the curve of your thigh, the cool glide of vibranium over warm skin. You pressed into his palm, letting him feel you, letting him know it was okay.

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “It doesn’t feel… natural.”

You smiled, lips brushing along his jaw, your fingers traced his metal forearm, slow and soft.

“It feels like you,” you whispered. “Strong. Steady. Careful.”

He shuddered.

You took his metal hand and pressed it to your stomach, let it rest there as your hips rolled gently beneath him. Then you found his other hand, guided it to the soft curve just beneath your breast.

“Touch me like I matter,” you said. “Not like you’re afraid I’ll break.”

And slowly, haltingly, he did.

You guided his hands as they moved over you, not with hunger this time, but with awe. You felt it in his breath, in the way his touch lingered, fingertips trailing across your ribs, the dip of your waist, mapping your skin like it was something almost sacred.

You kissed his shoulder, his collarbone, the scar beneath it, then lower, down his chest, your mouth slow, gentle, your tongue lingering on his skin, tasting him, teaching him the difference between surrender and trust.

Your hands followed your lips, gliding over firm muscle and warm skin. You caressed the planes of his abdomen with open palms, feeling the way he tensed under your touch, not from discomfort, but from the unfamiliarity of being handled with care.

He was solid, strong, perfectly built, but as your fingers traced a scar, skimmed the curve of his waist, and pressed a kiss to the hollow between his ribs, you didn’t think of strength, you thought of restraint, of loneliness.

“Like this,” you whispered, lips brushing his skin, sliding lower, palms skimming down his back, easing the tension from every knot and scar. “This is how it’s supposed to feel.”

Both his hands trembled now as they roamed over you, he lowered himself again, slower this time, his eyes locked on yours. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate anymore, it was human.

Your hand wrapped around him, warm and steady. You took your time, stroking the thick length of his cock with slow, fluid movements. Your thumb slid over the head, gathered the slick precum, and spread it down his shaft in long, smooth strokes.

His breath caught, jaw slackened and a low groan escaped him, wrecked and involuntary, like your touch was almost too much.

You reached for the nightstand without looking, tore open the foil packet, as you held him in your palm, hot, heavy, pulsing, and he exhaled, shaky and uneven, one hand fisting the sheets. 

The other hovered midair, like he didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know if he was allowed to want this and have it, too.

You stroked him slowly, fingers gliding from base to tip before rolling the condom on, confident, unhurried, letting him feel everything. He moaned, low, broken, head tipping back as you guided him between your legs, letting him feel the heat of you, the slick glide of your folds against his cock.

You were more than ready. The lube stayed forgotten.

You angled your hips, guided him in, breath catching as the thick head pushed past your entrance with a deep, stretching burn. 

He thrust into you hard. Deep.

A broken sound escaped both of you, your bodies slamming together with force that echoed through your bones. You rose to meet him, thighs tightening around his waist, pulling him in, your nails dragged lightly down his back.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I can take it. I can take you.”

He moved fast at first, frantic, unfiltered, all sharp hips and reckless rhythm, like he needed to burn something out – anger, guilt, need.

His grunts were rough, each thrust punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin.

And you took him, legs wrapped around him, hands roaming his back, feeling every tremble, every breath he tried to hold in.

You kissed his neck, soft presses of your lips against his hammering pulse, your hands never stopped, smoothing over his skin, grounding him, and slowly, it shifted.

His rhythm faltered, thrusts slowed, got deeper, less punishing, more present.

He was still panting, still shaking, but now he was listening, to your body, your breath, the way your hands guided him, the soft pull of your hips inviting him closer, deeper, not just into your body, but into the moment.

And even if you hadn’t expected it – pleasure bloomed low in your belly, coiling slow and hot.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t want to. 

Your breath hitched every time he hit that perfect angle, deep, just right, making your fingers dig into his back. And then it happened: a moan, raw and real, ripped from you like it had been buried too long.

His head snapped back, he stared down at you, stunned, eyes wide, mouth parted, like he couldn’t believe what he just heard.

You were trembling beneath him, clutching at his skin, and your pleasure was impossible to fake.

“I…” he choked out, voice cracking. “You’re…fuck…,” the words died, his hips faltered, rhythm falling apart and with a hoarse groan he came hard, his whole body shuddering, breath panting.

He collapsed against you, breathless, shaking, forehead pressed to your collarbone, his chest heaved with each ragged inhale, like he didn’t know how to come back down from wherever you’d just taken him.

You didn’t speak, didn’t move, you just held him, fingers threading through his damp hair, the other hand at the back of his neck, brushing the tight line of his spine, feeling the stutter of his heart.

It was way past the paid hours when you finally let go and sat up to dress.

He didn’t say anything, just watched from the bed as you pulled your clothes on. He sat up, the sheet slipping down his chest, and slowly stood, dragging on his boxers and jeans.

He picked up the folded cash you’d already seen waiting on the table, wordless, he stepped over and held it out.

You took it gently. He held on a moment too long.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out, so you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

A goodbye.

Then you turned, your heels clicked against the hotel floor as you walked to the door.

He just stood there.

Just another job, you told yourself as you stepped out and closed the door behind you. But somehow, it didn’t feel like one.

It was two weeks before you heard anything.

You hadn’t expected to.

Men like him, closed off, broken in ways they didn’t want to admit, rarely asked for seconds, especially not when you touched something they weren’t ready to admit.

The message came through the agency. 

James Barnes. Requests the same companion as last time. Exclusive. No substitutions.

You stared at the screen longer than you wanted to admit, heart skipping for reasons that had nothing to do with professionalism.

You didn’t answer right away. 

You’d crossed a line last time, held him too long, let yourself feel too much. It all had felt so painfully familiar, an almost long-forgotten image emerging in the back of your mind like a jagged shard of glass. He had reminded you of someone. 

You saw her clearly, that young girl with wild hair and desperate eyes, broken and aching, thinking she didn’t deserve any other treatment, convinced it was all her own fault. You thought you had buried her long ago.

You shook your head as you read the message again. Feelings, attachment, empathy, hope – those were dangerous in this line of work, they made you soft, exposed.

You told yourself you were not taking him, you were not going back, then your boss called the next morning.

“He asked explicitly for you,” she said. 

You hesitated, tried to say maybe it wasn’t a good idea, that maybe someone else…

“Look,” your boss cut in. “He’s paying triple. No special requests. Just wants a repeat. You’re one of the best. Handle it.”

You agreed before you could talk yourself out of it.

The hotel was the same, the suite too – dim lights, curtains drawn, untouched whiskey on the table and him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you tested, slipping off your coat.

“Bucky,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor. “You can just… call me Bucky.”

He looked nervous, but not like last time, different.

“So,” you said, turning to face him, “you asked for the same setup. No talking. Rough. Detached. Right?”

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck again, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I did.”

You waited.

He exhaled sharply, almost annoyed with himself. “It’s just… what I know how to ask for. Easier that way.”

You nodded, watching him fidget with the seam of his sleeve like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

“But is that what you want?” you asked, tilting your head. “Or just what you’re used to getting?”

Long pause, then a small, one-shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. I just… didn’t think I could ask for anything else.”

You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “You can,” you said quietly. 

One more step, slow and deliberate, your hand lifted, no pressure, no rush, and when your fingers brushed his jaw, he didn’t pull away, he leaned in, eyes fluttering shut.

Your thumb stroked the edge of his cheek, rough stubble scratching your skin.

“When’s the last time someone touched you like this?” you asked softly. “Not just contact. But this.”

He was silent for a while, brow furrowed like he had to dig for the answer.

“Besides you?” he asked.

You nodded.

His eyes opened, barely, a small, bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can’t remember.”

You didn’t let go, just held him there, your hand on his jaw like it belonged then you leaned in and kissed him – slowly, easy, no urgency, just warmth.

He kissed you back, hesitant and uncertain, like he was relearning how, his hand settled lightly on your waist, not quite holding. You covered it with your own, pressed it closer, his breath caught, and slowly, bit by bit, you felt him start to relax.

You pulled off your shirt, casual, unhurried. He watched you like he was seeing you for the first time.

You helped him undress too – shirt, jeans, layer by layer—fingers brushing over warm skin and old scars. You kissed his shoulder, let your lips travel down his chest, he shivered, but let you.

This time it was you to guide him to the bed. Both of you sank into the mattress and he crawled over you carefully, like he still thought he might break something.

You pulled him closer, legs parting easily around his hips, hands sliding up his back, settling between his shoulder blades. 

His hands moved with a reverence that caught you off guard, fingers trailing slowly up your sides, along your ribs, like he was memorizing you by touch. He dipped his head, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower, kissing a soft path down to your breasts.

His mouth was gentle there, almost shy, as if he didn’t want to take too much.

His tongue circled your nipple, slow and careful, followed by a soft kiss, then again and again until your breath caught and your fingers tangled in his hair.

He glanced up, quick, uncertain, checking if he was doing it right. The hand at your waist gave him away, thumb brushing back and forth, soothing, trying, not just to please you, but to feel you.

When he pushed into you, it was deep and careful. He groaned, not just from the pleasure, but from the way you looked at him while it happened. 

You stroked his hair back, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I…,” he started, voice shaky, moving slowly like he didn’t want to mess it up.

“Schhhh,” you cut him off with a smile. “You’re doing fine.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hips moved in a lazy rhythm that made heat curl low in your belly. 

You moaned softly into his mouth.

He froze – just for a second – like he couldn’t believe it, like he wasn’t sure you were really enjoying him, then he moved again, steadier now, bolder, still gentle, but with intention. He was there, present, wanting to feel you, stay with you, soak in the warmth and store it as if he didn’t know when he’d get it again.

“You okay?” you whispered against his neck.

He nodded into your shoulder, voice low and tight. “Yeah. I just… didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smiled, kissed his jaw, fingers tracing lazy lines down his spine.

“Now you do.”

The next request came just two days later.

You didn’t even think, you accepted the moment you saw his name, before your brain could catch up and tell you not to.

It wasn’t until two weeks later, after pacing the same bright hotel stairs almost every other night, that it finally hit you.

You barely made it through your apartment door, keys dropped from trembling fingers onto the table. Your heart was pounding too hard and too fast, something between wanting to burst or break.

You kicked off your heels and leaned back against the door, trying to breathe.

You’d done this long enough to know the rules. Keep it clean, keep it clear, draw the lines and don’t cross them. You were good at it, good at making men feel seen without giving them anything real, a few hours of connection, good sex, a bit of warmth, sometimes softness, sometimes something else - anything they needed. You knew how to play the game, how to remain in control.

It always ended with the door closing behind you, but this time…

His eyes, his shaking hands, the way he held you after, like he didn’t know how to let go. You felt it. All of it.

The way he softened under your touch, the way he looked at you, like maybe, just maybe, you were something worth holding on to.

Shit.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to push the feeling down, will it into something smaller, safer. It didn’t work.

The softness had rooted itself, the lines were gone, and you weren’t sure anymore where the job ended and you began.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The office was quiet, soft morning light slipping through half-open blinds.

Your boss didn’t even look up at first, fingers still tapping at the keyboard. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind you that she glanced up.

“I’m not taking him again,” you said, before even sitting down.

That got her attention, she leaned back, arms crossing, brows raised. “Okay... wanna tell me who him is?”

“James Barnes. Bucky.”

The name felt weird in your mouth, too personal, too real.

She leaned back further in her chair. “He do something?”

You shook your head. “No. That’s the problem.”

Silence.

You rubbed your forehead. “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep it clean. I don’t cross lines. But with him…”

You hesitated, then made yourself say it.

“I let it get too close. He got too close.”

She narrowed her eyes, not harsh, just reading you. “So are you telling me, you caught feelings?”

You gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t even know what to call it, but I can’t pretend it’s nothing. I thought I could keep it professional, but I can’t. Not with him.”

She watched you a second longer, then gave a small, slow nod.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll handle it. I’ll take him off your list. If he tries to book again, I’ll let him know it’s not happening.”

You exhaled. Something in you unclenched, but something else twisted tighter. The weight of it settled fast – this is it, no more hotel rooms, no more late-night requests.

No more him.

Fuck.

How did you let this happen?

First three times there were just polite answers, saying that you were unavailable, but after his fourth attempt to book you again, the agency finally called Bucky back. 

“She won’t be available,” the voice said flatly. “Not now. Not ever.”

He blinked. “What do you mean not ever?”

“She’s declined further bookings. With you, specifically.”

There was a long silence.

“We can offer others,” the voice continued. “Discreet. High quality. Same experience.”

“No,” he said immediately.

“Mr. Barnes…”

“No.” His voice cracked, then dropped lower. “I don’t want anyone else.”

They paused. “Understood.”

Click.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed for hours, staring at nothing. The phone was still in his hand, screen long gone dark. His metal fingers flexed against the edge of the mattress, making the sheets crinkle like paper.

“Idiot,” he muttered. “Fucking idiot.” 

What the hell had he expected?

Love ‘til the end of your days? From a prostitute?

The word made his stomach twist, not because of what you were, but because of how small it made everything feel. 

But that was the truth. He paid. You came. You touched him like no one ever had and he let himself believe, just for one night, then another, that it meant something more, that maybe he wasn’t just a job, that maybe you saw him, not the Winter Soldier, not the weapon, not the broken thing trying to pass as human.

And now? Everything was over, like it always did.

His jaw clenched, a burn crawling up behind his eyes as his hand twisted into the sheets.

You knew better than this.

You’re not built for softness. You’re a machine with a man’s name stapled to it. Why would anyone want more than a few hours from you? A few paid hours.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room, then stopped, frozen mid-step and just stood there, numb and hollow, except for that one place inside him that ached like mad.

He thought of your hand on his jaw, the way you’d guided his metal hand to your thigh like it didn’t matter, the way you looked at him when he came in your arms.

None of it meant anything.

His eyes landed on the glass beside the whiskey bottle. The sharp crack of it shattering echoed in his ears, the shards scattered across the floor like broken thoughts. He flinched, staring at the mess like it hadn’t been his hand that hurled it at the wall.

He didn’t sleep, he just sat in the dark, back to the cold wall, bottle of whiskey in hand.

He didn’t want the burn.

He just wanted you.

But he drank anyway.

The med bay was a blur, too-bright lights, sharp voices, the sting of antiseptic. Bucky barely remembered how he got there, blood crusted on the side of his face, pain ripping through his flesh shoulder like fire.

Damn it. Two metal arms hadn’t exactly been on his bingo card, but he’d come close, too close.

Now he was laid out on a gurney, the sterile white sheets sticking to his skin, wires clipped to his chest, IV half-started in his arm. Overhead light buzzed.

A doctor’s voice cut through the haze: “You need stitches. And your shoulder! Christ, Barnes, it’s a mess.”

Bucky didn’t answer, just stared at the ceiling like it was pressing down on him. It was all his own fault, he had been distracted.

He didn’t want stitches, didn’t want rest, didn’t want someone checking his vitals every ten minutes and pretending that meant he was going to be okay. 

Of course, the shoulder would heal. It always did.

What didn’t heal was the hole in his chest, it just grew bigger with every damn day.

The doctor moved in with a needle, and that’s when Bucky snapped upright, ripped the wires from his chest, not paying attention to the shriek of the monitors, and yanked the IV from his arm. Blood spattered across the floor.

“Jesus…Barnes!” someone shouted, reaching for him.

He shook off the hand like it burned. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not…”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice was low, cracking underneath like glass under pressure.

He yanked his jacket on with a grunt. 

The doctor stepped in front of him again. “You walk out like this, you could bleed out. You need treatment…”

“I need air,” Bucky muttered, brushing past him.

The door slammed open as he walked out, ignoring the calls behind him and the red smears he left on the floor.

It wasn’t the first time he’d stood here.

Truth was, he’d been coming every night since he figured out where you lived – an info pried out of a reluctant CIA contact who owed him a favour. 

But that wasn’t the only thing he had done. He wasn’t proud of it, wouldn’t even admit it to anyone.

The young agent hadn’t asked questions, just lit up like it was an honor to be given a task by Bucky Barnes. The file he handed over before the last mission wasn’t long, but it had been enough to throw Bucky off his game. Almost got the whole thing compromised.

You had moved to New York five years ago. No close family listed, both parents deceased. A trail of medical records stretching back for years – bruised ribs, concussions, two broken wrists, one collarbone. All logged as accidents. 

Slipped down the stairs.

Fell on ice.

Walked into a door.

You must’ve been real clumsy.

But Bucky knew better, knew what those reports meant, knew the patterns, the silence between the lines. Someone had hurt you. Repeatedly. And no one had stopped it.

Then the trail went dark, two years of nothing – no address, no job, no medical history, like you’d dropped off the face of the earth, and then suddenly, you reappeared in New York. 

Clean slate, new name, job at an escort agency.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his jaw like he could grind the guilt out of his bones.

And he’d thought he was the only one with ghosts, the only one carrying pain he didn’t talk about.

But you... you'd crawled out of hell, too.

And he’d been so wrapped up in what he was feeling, he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t asked. 

He’d let your presence become routine, a comfort he thought he could keep buying. He hadn’t asked how you were, hadn’t even tried.

He knew every line and curve of your body, but he didn’t know if you liked coffee, didn’t know what music you listened to or what kind of day you’d had before walking into that hotel room.

And now?

Now he stood outside your building like some damn ghost, night after night, too broken to leave, too ashamed to come closer.

Maybe you were asleep. Maybe you were awake, just too busy to notice him.

Maybe you saw everything and just didn’t care.

Still, he kept showing up, across the street, in the shadows, watching your second floor windows light up. Watching them go dark. 

He didn’t even know what he was hoping for – a flicker of your shadow, the sound of your laugh through an open window, just proof you were still there, that you hadn’t vanished for good.

The last entry in the file had actually been the most unsettling.

Target terminated the job contract with the agency. Seen at the train station multiple times this week.

The train station. Were you leaving again? Running?

His chest tightened, breath caught, heart stuttering in his ribs.

Were you already gone? Was tonight too late?

The light in your window was still on, the curtain half-drawn.

And for the first time in weeks, Bucky moved off the curb, across the street, up the steps.

It was close to panic that carried him now – if he didn’t knock now, he might never get another chance.

He raised his hand to the buzzer, it hovered, hesitated, faltered, then, heart pounding, he pressed it.

And waited.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

That was the first thing that hit you when the buzzer rang, slicing through the quiet of your apartment. You froze on the couch, eyes flicking toward the door.

You hesitated, nobody buzzed this late unless it was an emergency or a mistake, or… 

Crossing the room cautiously, you checked the security feed and your breath caught.

Bucky.

He looked like hell, blood dried on the side of his face, a split brow, and a strange stiffness in the way his flesh arm hung at his side. He wasn’t even looking at the camera, just standing there, head bowed slightly.

You should’ve walked away, pretended you weren’t home, let it ring. That would’ve been the smart move, the safe one.

You owed him nothing, he wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t even supposed to know where you lived.

But you just stood there, frozen in front of the screen, and stared at him, your hand hovering near the intercom. 

Don’t do it, a voice whispered. Close the panel. Walk away. He’s not your responsibility.

Then he looked up, just for a second, right into the camera as if he knew you were there watching him. And that was it, you muttered a curse under your breath, called yourself a goddamn idiot, and hit the button. Then you opened the door and waited.

The hallway was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. He took the stairs. Why the hell did he take the stairs and not the elevator? He emerged from the staircase and neared your door slowly.

You took him in – torn skin, blood dripping down his fingers and smeared across his temple,  half-wiped like he’d tried to clean up and couldn’t finish.

“Jesus,” you breathed. “What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stood there a second longer, then let out a rough exhale.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

It was such a cliché to say, sounding like something out of a moody, old romance movie, but he didn’t have anything better. 

He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Honestly, he hadn’t even believed you’d open the door, let alone talk to him. He’d taken the stairs just to buy himself a little extra time, to get his head straight, but the second he tried, his thoughts scattered, flapping around his brain like panicked chickens.

You didn’t move. 

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried. I swear I tried.” 

There was something oddly sweet about the way he stared down at his boots like they were the most fascinating thing in the world and scratched the back of his head with his metal hand. Grown up man looking like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You let out a slow breath, then stepped aside.

“Come in,” you said. “You’re bleeding all over the hallway.”

He followed, quiet.

The kitchen light was soft, the air still warm with the faint scent of tea. Bucky hovered in the doorway, shoulders tight, eyes flicking over everything but you.

You nodded toward the chair by the table. “Sit.”

He did, lowering himself with a wince.

You grabbed the first-aid kit, a damp cloth, and a bottle of vodka from your secret stash.

Bucky gave the bottle a look.

“What?” you said, catching his glance. “You think I keep medical-grade disinfectant around just in case some supersoldier shows up bleeding on my doorstep?”

Bucky gave a half-shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost smiled. “Would’ve been convenient.”

You rolled your eyes and set the bottle down beside the kit. “You’re lucky I had vodka at all. I was saving it for a shitty day.”

He glanced down at himself, bloody and slouched in the middle of your kitchen. “Guess today qualifies.”

“Take that off,” you said, nodding toward his jacket.

He shrugged out of it with a wince. The T-shirt underneath had definitely seen better days, it was torn, soaked in blood and clinging to the wound at his shoulder.

You grabbed a pair of scissors, knelt beside him, and carefully cut the shirt away, then you soaked a cloth in vodka, wrung it out, and reached for his face.

He flinched.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

He hissed through his teeth when you pressed the cloth to the gash above his brow.

“I thought you were a supersoldier, or something,” you muttered under your breath.

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy vodka facials.”

You rolled your eyes but kept dabbing carefully. 

“You showed up bleeding on my doorstep, you don’t get to complain about my methods.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes searching yours. “Yeah, but I get to be grateful for them.”

You blinked at that, caught off guard for a second, but you recovered quickly, giving his good shoulder a light nudge. “Just shut up and let me finish saving your life.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with something very close to a smile on his lips.

You cleaned the blood from his temple, careful around the split in his skin. He kept shifting, eyes darting away, like being under your hands was harder than the pain itself.

“You’re not good at this,” you said softly.

“At what?”

“Letting someone take care of you.”

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. “Don’t really get the chance.”

You didn’t say anything, just focused on the cut above his brow, patched it up, then moved to his shoulder. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, already starting to heal, but he still tensed every time your fingers brushed his skin and groaned when you pressed the vodka-soaked cloth to it.

You folded the gauze, pressed it gently to the wound, and taped it down with steady hands, or so you thought.

When you finally packed up the kit and snapped it shut, your eyes landed back on the vodka bottle. That’s when you noticed it, your hands were shaking like hell.

“You’ll live,” you muttered, grabbing the bottle and taking a long, burning sip, before holding it out to him without looking.

Bucky took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, he hesitated a second before tipping it back for a sharp swallow, then set it down with a quiet clink on the table.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

The room was suddenly too quiet, you could hear the tick of the old clock on the wall and the soft hum of traffic through the window. 

“In truth I didn’t think you would let me in,” he said finally, his voice rough from more than just the drink. 

You leaned back against the table, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together.

“I didn’t come here expecting anything,” he added. “I just… I needed to see you, make sure you were okay.”

You gave him a look. “You’re the one bleeding all over my furniture.”

That almost got a smile, almost, his lips twitched before falling back into a line.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Then slowly, he moved, reached out and gently took your hands in his. You froze, caught off guard.

He turned your wrists over with care, thumbs brushing the faint lines of your skin and without rushing, he lifted them to his mouth and kissed them, first the right, then the left.

You didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a breath.

He held your gaze, searching for words that wouldn’t sound too small or too late.

“For letting you walk away,” he said finally. “For pretending I didn’t care. For caring too much and never saying a damn thing. For not asking about you, not once.”

You didn’t speak, just looked at him, your wrists still resting lightly in his palms and a lump forming in your throat.

“When you stopped seeing me, I told myself it didn’t mean anything,” he went on, voice rough. “Tried to believe it was just a job, just time I paid for.”

He paused.

“But it wasn’t, not to me. Every second with you felt like… like breathing again.”

“I didn’t come here to make things harder,” he continued. “I just... I needed you to know, even if you slam the door in my face after this – I had to say it.”

He swallowed hard, his grip loosened, just slightly, giving you space to pull away, to run, to reject him like he half-expected.

You didn’t move, your eyes filling before you could stop it.

You blinked fast, trying to hold it in, but the tears came anyway, quiet and unexpected.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t care,” you said, voice catching on the words. “I left because I did, because I couldn’t go on like that anymore.”

You covered your mouth with one hand, shaking your head like the words were spilling too fast and you couldn’t stop them. “Because it didn’t feel like a job and I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything like that again.”

He stared at you, breath held, like even breathing too loud might break the moment.

“I spent years building walls, Bucky,” you said, voice unsteady. “Telling myself I’d never fall again. Never let anyone in, because the last time I did, it wrecked me and broke me in ways I’m still crawling out of.”

You let out a soft sob, almost a gasp, and he moved without hesitation, pulling you into his arms, warm and solid. You didn’t flinch, if anything, you melted into him.

“I wasn’t scared of you,” you whispered, voice raw. “I was scared of how much I wanted to stay. Of how badly I wanted this to be real and something more … more than just… just fucking for money.”

He exhaled, slow and shaky, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“I might be a damn idiot when it comes to feelings,” he murmured, “but I’m not here to break you, I swear. And I won’t hurt you. Ever.”

“I believe you,” you breathed, barely a whisper. “That’s what makes it so terrifying.”

You didn’t speak after that. There was nothing else to say, nothing that words could carry. You were not sure what this was, neither of you were, but it was something. Something unnamed, delicate and a little messy but nevertheless real and beautiful.

Bucky’s forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm against your cheek and his hands cradled yours like they were the most fragile things he’d ever held.

Eventually, you pulled back. 

“You should lie down,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over the bruised line of Bucky’s jaw. “The bleeding hasn’t stopped yet.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but you didn’t give him the chance, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom, switching off lights along the way.

He sat at the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure what to do next. You handed him a clean T-shirt, one of yours, oversized and soft, and he took it without a word.

He tried to pull it over his head on his own but winced halfway through, his shoulder clearly still aching. You stepped in, brushing his hands away gently. “Let me,” you murmured.

Carefully, you helped guide the shirt over his head, easing his arms through the sleeves. As the fabric settled over his chest, you bit back a smile. It looked oversized folded in your drawer, but on him, it clung just enough to stretch around his shoulders, riding up slightly over his abs. 

He didn’t complain, just looked up at you and you shrugged, lips twitching. “I think it suits you.”

Bucky kicked off his boots, then shot you a sheepish look as he reached for his jeans. His fingers fumbled at the button, cheeks going pink like this was the first time he was undressing in front of you, which, considering everything, was kind of ridiculous.

He averted his eyes and turned slightly, like that would somehow make it less awkward, then shimmied out of the denim, keeping his boxers on, and slipped under the blanket like he was trying to outrun the embarrassment.

You didn’t laugh, didn’t tease, just watched him for a second, heart aching a little, for all the muscle and the myth, there was something so soft in the way he still got shy when it wasn’t just about sex, when it was something more, something new.

You slid into bed beside him, quiet, not touching, letting the moment breathe.

Then his hand found yours under the blanket, uncertain, careful, and your fingers curled around his without thinking.

You shifted closer and placed your cheek on his chest. His heart was racing.

A second later, his arms came around you, hesitant at first, then stronger, and when Bucky exhaled, it sounded like he hadn’t breathed easy in weeks.

You didn’t protest, just stayed like that, no words, no labels, just warmth, just this, whatever it was. 

Bucky closed his eyes, breathing in the faint scent of your hair, it wasn’t his place, wasn’t even his bed, but somehow strangely it felt like… like home.

[cryoculus]

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 1) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @httpsserene-main @simplyyalika @peyiswriting @sunfairyy @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @gg-trini @serpenttines @lewisroscoelove @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @saturnville @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @imjustheretomanifest @iamryanl @greedyjudge2 @beauty-gurl @hotfudgeslug @jessnotwiththemess

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. masterlist

# a/n: I'm here for a good time not a long time....trying something new and don't worry I will come back to Wilo & Juju but I needed some rest out of the footballer world.

next chapter |

Sunday mornings in the Ricci household were sacred— literally. No matter what blood had been spilled or what deals had been struck the night before, the family attended 9 a.m. mass at St. Anthony's without exception. Your father, Salvatore Ricci, would sooner put a bullet in a man's head than miss confession.

Last night's cleanup had been particularly messy. You'd overheard enough on your way to bed to know someone had talked to the feds. By morning, the problem had been "resolved," and your father had prayed extra long during confession.

You adjusted the simple gold cross around your neck as you sat in the third pew, the same spot your family had occupied for as long as you could remember. Your three younger sisters fidgeted beside you while your mother gently shushed them, her dark hands elegant against their designer dresses. Francesca Ricci, née Williams, had become the very picture of a mafia wife over the past thirty years, though the journey hadn't been easy. Being Black in the traditional Italian underworld had meant proving herself twice over, earning respect through unflinching loyalty and quiet strength.

You'd inherited her brown skin and sharp eyes, along with what your father called "that stubborn American backbone." The combination of your mother's Jamaican-American heritage and your father's Calabrian blood had given you a face that turned heads—not that anyone in your father's circle would dare look too long. Not after what happened to Tommy Venucci, who'd made a crude comment about mixing bloodlines at a family gathering three years ago. He still walked with a limp.

As Father Donato delivered his homily about the prodigal son, you found your mind wandering to the meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Suitor number four. The mysterious Englishman you'd heard whispers about for weeks. Your father's capos had been arguing about this one—bringing in an outsider, a non-Italian, was controversial. But his reputation preceded him: ruthlessly efficient, technologically savvy, and with legitimate business fronts that even the FBI couldn't crack.

Three men had already come to present their cases to your father. Three men had measured you like prized livestock, their eyes calculating your worth in territory and influence rather than seeing a woman with a mind of her own. The Sicilian had practically drooled, his reputation for violence preceding him—you'd seen the photos of what he'd done to a rival, the body barely recognizable afterward. The Irishman had been old enough to be your grandfather, his breath reeking of whiskey even at noon, hands stained with decades of other people's blood. And the Cuban... just the memory of his eyes on you made your skin crawl. Your father's men had whispered about his "special room" where women who displeased him disappeared for days.

"Peace be with you," Father Donato intoned, snapping you back to the present.

"And with your spirit," you murmured along with the congregation.

Your mother squeezed your hand, somehow sensing the direction of your thoughts. She'd been in your position once—the daughter offered as a bridge between families, though in her case it had been to bring peace between rival factions in New York. Your grandfather had run numbers in Harlem until the Italian families decided to expand their territory. Instead of war, they'd chosen marriage. At least she and your father had found genuine love over the years. You couldn't imagine being so lucky.

"He'll be here at three," your mother whispered as you all stood for the final blessing. "I've heard he's... different from the others."

Different. You'd been hearing that word a lot lately. Different business model. Different approach. Different standards. But at the end of the day, he was still a man looking to acquire you like a business asset.

Back at the estate, you changed from your church clothes into something more appropriate for meeting a potential husband—a knee-length navy dress that was modest enough to please your father but tailored enough to command respect. You weren't about to present yourself as either a nun or a trophy.

From your bedroom window, you could see your father's men patrolling the grounds, Berettas and Glocks barely concealed under their jackets. Through the iron gates, you caught glimpses of the cars parked along the street—not just your father's security, but watchers from other families. The Sicilians in particular had been keeping eyes on the estate since their heir had been rejected. In this world, wounded pride often led to bloody retribution.

"You're not even trying to look excited," Sophia, your youngest sister at seventeen, lounged across your bed, scrolling through her phone. "I'd be thrilled if Papa was setting me up with a hot British guy."

"You don't know that he's hot," you replied, securing your hair into a sleek twist. "And I'm not excited because I'm being traded like a racehorse."

"Better than being stuck with Lorenzo Bianchi," she shuddered, referring to the Sicilian. "Did you see those teeth? Like a shark that chews tobacco. And those gross neck tattoos that look like he let a drunk toddler draw on him."

You couldn't help but smile at her assessment. "True. Or Patrick O'Malley with his wandering hands and breath that could strip paint. Pretty sure he was checking out your ass too, by the way."

"Ugh, stop! I still have nightmares." She made a gagging sound. "At least the Cuban was good looking, even if he gave off serial killer vibes."

"Raúl Suarez doesn't just give off those vibes. Why do you think Papa suddenly had that basement remodeled after his visit?" You raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

Sophia's eyes widened. "Wait, seriously? I thought that was just a rumor."

"Talia in the kitchen overheard Papa and Uncle Paolo talking. Three girls went missing from his clubs in Miami last year. No bodies, no witnesses."

"Jesus Christ," Sophia whispered, crossing herself reflexively. "And Papa was still considering him?"

"The Suarez connection would have opened up shipping routes we need," you explained, repeating what you'd overheard at the door of your father's study. "Business is business."

"See? That's why this British guy might be better!" Sophia sat up, suddenly serious. "Papa wouldn't choose someone horrible for you. Not really."

The faith your sisters had in your father was touching, if naive. Salvatore Ricci loved his daughters fiercely, but business was business. The empire always came first—an empire built on gambling, protection rackets, and increasingly, designer drugs that catered to Wall Street instead of street corners. Class had always been your father's obsession; he wanted the Ricci family mentioned alongside the Gambinos and Genoveses, not relegated to some minor footnote in mafia history.

A knock at your door announced your mother, elegant as always in a simple black dress, gold at her throat and wrists—the uniform of a donna who knew her worth.

"He's arrived," she said simply. "Your father wants you downstairs in ten minutes. Not before."

The power play was familiar—make the suitor wait, establish dominance from the start. You nodded, applying a final touch of lipstick.

"Is he..." you hesitated, unsure what you even wanted to ask.

Your mother seemed to understand anyway. "He's older. Established. Carries himself with confidence." She paused, something like surprise crossing her face. "And he's... not what I expected. Quite striking, actually."

That piqued your interest. Your mother wasn't easily impressed by men's appearances.

"And he came alone," she added. "No entourage."

That was unusual. Most made a show of strength, bringing captains and consiglieres to these meetings.

"Smart," you mused aloud. "One man alone in the lion's den shows he's either foolish or fearless."

"We'll see which," your mother replied with the faintest smile. "Ten minutes."

You used all ten, not out of vanity but strategy. The longer this Lewis Hamilton waited, the more you could observe without being observed in return. The security feed on your tablet showed the grand study where these meetings always took place, giving you a perfect view of the potential fourth suitor.

He sat perfectly at ease in one of your father's leather armchairs, legs crossed casually, declining the offered espresso with a polite gesture. Not a hint of nervousness or impatience crossed his face as the minutes ticked by. Unlike the others who had fidgeted, paced, or tried too hard to impress your father with crude jokes, this man simply existed in the space like he belonged there.

What struck you immediately was how different he looked from what you'd expected. Your father's world was full of either old-school traditionalists in tailored suits or younger men trying too hard with flashy designer clothes. Lewis Hamilton was neither. His suit was impeccably tailored, yes, but modern in cut. More noticeable were his looks—his hair styled in neat braids with a precise fade at the sides, double nose piercings glinting subtly in the light, and multiple earrings in both ears. Tattoos covered his hands in intricate patterns, and you could see more ink peeking above his collar.

Your father, old-school to his core, would typically dismiss such a man instantly. The fact that he hadn't spoke volumes about what Hamilton must be bringing to the table.

At thirty-nine, he had fourteen years on you, but carried them well. Not a young hothead with something to prove, but not an old fossil clinging to outdated ways either. Even on the grainy security feed, you could see his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"Time," your mother called softly from the hallway.

You tucked the tablet away and took a steadying breath. Whatever game this Englishman was playing, you weren't about to be a passive piece on the board. If your hand in marriage was the prize, you'd make damn sure everyone understood exactly what they were getting.

The walk downstairs felt longer than usual, each step bringing you closer to a future being decided by men's ambitions rather than your own desires. But unlike many in your position, you weren't entering this blind. Years of listening at doors, reading files left unattended, and cultivating your own network of informants meant you knew more about your father's business than he realized. You knew about the cops on payroll, the judges who could be bought, and exactly how many bodies were buried in the foundation of your father's newest hotel development. Knowledge was the only power you'd been able to accumulate—and you intended to use it.

As you approached the study doors, you heard your father's distinctive laugh—a rare sound in business meetings. Whatever Hamilton had said had genuinely amused him, which was either very good or very dangerous.

You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and nodded to Marco, your father's most trusted guard, to announce your arrival.

The conversation inside went quiet as Marco opened the door. "Signorina Ricci," he announced formally, a small nod of encouragement just for you.

Three sets of eyes turned as you entered—your father's familiar scrutiny, your uncle Paolo's curious assessment, and the cool, evaluating gaze of Lewis Hamilton, who rose smoothly to his feet.

Up close, his presence was even more striking. The tailored suit couldn't quite mask the physicality beneath—this wasn't a soft businessman but someone who clearly maintained his body as meticulously as his appearance. The tattoos on his hands were mathematical in design, all clean lines and precise geometry, nothing like the crude symbols the Irish thugs or Italian soldiers typically wore. His braids were perfectly maintained, the fade on the sides mathematically precise. The piercings that should have looked rebellious somehow just enhanced the sharp angles of his face.

Your father gestured you forward. "My daughter," he said simply. "The jewel of our family."

You extended your hand as you'd been taught, expecting the usual kiss that suitors performed with varying degrees of sincerity. Instead, Hamilton clasped it firmly in a handshake, as if greeting a business equal rather than a prospective bride.

"Ms. Ricci," he said, his British accent crisp and refined. "Lewis Hamilton. I've heard a great deal about you."

"Strangely," you replied, meeting his gaze directly, "I've heard very little about you."

A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps amusement—crossed his face so quickly you might have imagined it. Your father cleared his throat in warning, but Hamilton didn't seem offended by your directness.

"Perhaps we can remedy that," he said, releasing your hand and gesturing for you to sit.

As you took your place in the chair beside your father, you noted how Hamilton waited until you were settled before sitting himself—a small courtesy the others hadn't bothered with. He moved with the fluid economy of someone comfortable in his own skin, his attention seemingly casual yet you could feel the intensity of his observation.

This was a man who missed nothing, categorized everything, and revealed only what served his purpose. In that, at least, he was like every other man in this room.

"Mr. Hamilton was just explaining his unique business structure," your father said, the enthusiasm in his voice telling you he was already impressed.

"Legitimate enterprises supporting our more... specialized operations," Hamilton explained, his voice low and measured. "Technology has changed our world. The old ways of doing business leave too many vulnerabilities."

"And what exactly are your specialized operations, Mr. Hamilton?" you asked, earning another warning look from your father.

But Lewis Hamilton didn't seem troubled by your question. In fact, the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment.

"Let's just say I provide certain hard-to-acquire items to people with specific needs," he replied smoothly. "And ensure that financial matters remain... private. In today's digital world, that's becoming quite the valuable service."

Guns and money laundering. The cornerstones of power in your world, dressed up in polite euphemisms. You'd seen the reports on your father's desk—Hamilton's operation was smaller than the traditional families, but his weapons were military-grade, his financial networks impenetrable even to federal investigators. He'd built something sleek and modern while the old families were still using ledger books and cash drops.

"My daughter has been educated at the finest schools," your father interjected, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "Fluent in four languages, accomplished in music and art."

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The sales pitch was always the same—as if your college degrees and cultural accomplishments were nothing more than decorative features, like listing the premium options on a luxury car.

"Brilliant," Hamilton nodded, but his eyes remained on you rather than shifting to your father. "And what gets you going beyond your formal education? What interests you?"

The question caught you off guard. None of the others had bothered to ask about your interests. They'd been content to let your father extol your virtues while they imagined you in their bed.

"I'm particularly interested in business strategy," you answered honestly, curious to see his reaction. "Especially how traditional operations can adapt to changing markets and technologies."

Your father shifted uncomfortably beside you, but Hamilton leaned forward slightly, his interest seemingly genuine.

"Any specific areas?" he pressed, ignoring your father's obvious desire to change topics.

"Digital currency," you replied, deciding to test how seriously he'd take you. "Its implications for our particular... industry. The blockchain creates both opportunities and vulnerabilities that most traditional families haven't begun to address."

A flash of genuine surprise crossed Hamilton's face before his expression settled back into its usual controlled mask. "I'd be proper interested in hearing your thoughts on that sometime," he said, a hint of his British vernacular slipping through the polished exterior.

The conversation shifted then, your father guiding it toward the proposed alliance between families. You sat quietly, observing rather than participating, noting how differently Hamilton conducted himself compared to the others. Where they had boasted and promised, he stated facts. Where they had emphasized tradition, he spoke of innovation. Where they had leered, he maintained respectful distance.

It didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. If anything, the control he exhibited made him more so. This was a man who wouldn't lose his temper and lash out—he would calculate exactly how much force was needed and apply it with surgical precision. You'd heard whispers about his operation in London—small but lethal. People who crossed Lewis Hamilton didn't end up beaten or threatened; they simply disappeared without a trace.

As the meeting concluded, Hamilton rose, shaking your father's hand and your uncle's before turning to you once more.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ricci," he said, his eyes meeting yours directly. "I look forward to our next conversation."

The certainty in his voice suggested he already knew your father's decision—or was confident enough in his proposal not to doubt it. Either way, something told you Lewis Hamilton wasn't a man accustomed to hearing the word "no."

"Until next time, Mr. Hamilton," you replied neutrally, giving nothing away.

As Marco escorted him out, you felt your father's eyes on you, assessing your reaction.

"Well?" he asked, unusually interested in your opinion. "What do you think?"

You considered your answer carefully. "He's different from the others," you admitted.

"Those piercings," your uncle Paolo muttered, shaking his head. "And the tattoos. Like some street thug."

Your father waved his brother's concerns away. "Times are changing, Paolo. His operation is smaller, but cleaner. More modern. The connections to legitimate business would give us protection we currently lack."

Protection. That was what this had always been about. Your father had built an empire on blood and loyalty, but times were changing. The old ways were becoming more dangerous, and Salvatore Ricci had no son to guide the family into the future.

Just four daughters, with you as the eldest—the crown princess who could never wear the crown yourself, but could place it on the head of a worthy husband.

"You'll have dinner with him tomorrow night," your father said, not a question but a command. "Alone. I want to see how he conducts himself with you when we're not watching."

A test, then. For him, or for you, or perhaps for both.

"Whatever you think is best, Papa," you agreed, mind already racing with possibilities.

Lewis Hamilton was undoubtedly the most intriguing of your suitors, but that didn't change the fundamental truth of your situation. You were still a commodity being traded, a bridge between empires.

The question now was whether you could turn this arrangement to your advantage—and whether the careful control you'd glimpsed in Lewis Hamilton would prove to be your prison or your opportunity.

*************************************************

The next evening found you standing in front of your closet, contemplating the impossible task of dressing for a dinner with a man who might own you by the end of the month. Too conservative would suggest meekness, too bold would offend your father, and either way, you'd be telling Lewis Hamilton something about yourself before you were ready for him to know it.

"The black Tom Ford," your mother suggested from the doorway, always able to read your mind. "Elegant but not trying too hard."

You nodded, pulling out the dress in question—a simple black sheath with architectural details at the neckline that walked the perfect line between sophisticated and interesting. Like armor disguised as silk.

"You know you don't have to do this if you truly don't want to," your mother said quietly, closing the bedroom door behind her. It was a conversation you'd had before, one that always ended the same way.

"And what's the alternative, Mama?" You slipped off your robe, stepping into the dress. "I run away and do what exactly? With what money? What protection? How long before someone uses me to get to Papa?"

Your mother sighed, moving behind you to zip the dress. "I just want you to have choices I didn't have."

"You chose Papa," you reminded her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Eventually."

"I grew to love your father," she clarified. "I was lucky. Not every arranged marriage turns out that way."

You turned to face her. "Do you think he's decided already? On Hamilton?"

Your mother's expression was measured. "Your father was impressed. And the message that arrived from the Bianchi family this morning may have sealed it."

"What message?" This was news to you.

"Lorenzo's father sent over a 'reconsideration' proposal. Doubled the territory offer, added shipping routes through Sicily."

You couldn't hide your disgust. "So he's literally trying to outbid Hamilton for me?"

"It's business," your mother said simply, the phrase all of you used to rationalize the uglier aspects of your life. "But your father was... displeased with the approach. Said Bianchi should have led with their best offer, not tried to undercut after the fact."

You turned back to the mirror, applying your lipstick with perhaps more force than necessary. "And the Cuban? Has Suarez given up?"

Your mother's expression darkened. "He sent flowers. Again. With a note your father wouldn't let me read."

That explained the fresh roses on the foyer table that hadn't been there this morning. Raúl Suarez's idea of courtship had a distinctly threatening undertone, like each bouquet carried an implicit "or else."

"So I'm still on the auction block," you said, keeping your voice even. "With Hamilton as the current high bidder."

"It's not—"

"It's exactly like that, Mama. Let's not pretend."

Your mother didn't argue the point. Instead, she reached for your jewelry box, selecting a pair of diamond studs. "Hamilton requested to meet in the city. Your father agreed, but only with security protocols in place."

That was unexpected. Most meetings happened on family territory, where your father controlled every variable. Allowing you to go into Manhattan, even with security, was a significant concession.

"Where in the city?" you asked, suddenly more interested. It had been months since you'd had an excuse to leave the compound in Mill Neck. Your father's insistence that you live at home "for your safety" had become increasingly restrictive over the past year, as tensions with rival families escalated.

"Eleven Madison Park," your mother replied, a hint of approval in her voice. At least Hamilton had good taste. "Antonio will drive you. Marco and Luca will provide security, but they'll maintain distance unless needed."

You nodded, a small thrill running through you despite everything. An evening in Manhattan, away from the estate's watchful eyes and your father's immediate presence, felt like temporary freedom—even if it was just an illusion.

"Is this Hamilton's way of testing boundaries?" you wondered aloud. "Seeing how much control he can take from the start?"

"Or offering you neutral ground," your mother suggested. "A place where neither family has home field advantage."

You hadn't considered that perspective. "Interesting theory."

"Just... keep an open mind," your mother advised, squeezing your shoulders gently. "And remember everything I taught you about reading men."

You smiled at that. While your father had trained you in the visible aspects of the business—the legitimate enterprises, the social connections, the charitable foundation that laundered both money and the family's reputation—your mother had taught you the more subtle arts. How to read microexpressions, how to extract information while appearing to share nothing, how to make men believe your ideas were actually theirs.

"I'll read him like a book," you promised, securing your mother's diamond studs in your ears. "But I doubt he'll be that easy to decipher."

"No," she agreed thoughtfully. "But that might make him more interesting than the others."

The others. As if on cue, your phone buzzed with a text. Lorenzo Bianchi's name flashed on the screen, the fifth message today. You showed it to your mother with a raised eyebrow.

"He's persistent," she acknowledged. "And his family is dangerous when rejected."

"They're all dangerous," you reminded her, deleting the message without reading it. "That's the whole point of this arrangement. Finding the devil whose hell I can live with."

Your mother didn't contradict you, just helped you select a simple gold bracelet to complete your outfit. "Antonio will be ready at six. That should put you at the restaurant by seven, even with city traffic."

An hour in the car each way. Normally that would seem tedious, but tonight you welcomed it. The ride from your family's North Shore estate into Manhattan would give you time to prepare mentally. To strategize. To remember that no matter how intriguing Lewis Hamilton might be, this was still a business transaction at its core.

At precisely six, you descended the grand staircase to find not just Antonio waiting, but your father as well. He stood in the foyer, examining you with a critical eye.

"You look beautiful," he said after a moment, the compliment sounding oddly formal. "Remember who you are tonight. You represent our family."

"I always do, Papa," you replied, accepting his kiss on both cheeks.

"Hamilton is... unconventional," your father continued, walking you to the door. "But he's smart. Connected. His operation in London has expanded into five countries in just eight years. No arrests, no leaks."

You nodded, understanding what your father was really saying. Lewis Hamilton represented new blood, new methods. A way to modernize the Ricci empire without sacrificing its core business.

"The Bianchis have been calling all day," your father added, his expression hardening. "Lorenzo claims he's in love with you. After meeting you once."

You couldn't help the derisive sound that escaped you. "Lorenzo Bianchi wouldn't know love if it stabbed him in the chest. Which, according to what I've heard, is his preferred method of solving problems."

Your father didn't deny it. "Just be careful. These rejected suitors... their pride is wounded."

"I'll have Marco and Luca," you reminded him, though the concern in his voice was touching. For all his faults, your father did love you. He just loved the family business more.

"Yes, well." He adjusted his tie, a nervous gesture you rarely saw. "Hamilton strikes me as capable of handling himself if trouble arises. But still, be cautious."

The idea that your father was entrusting your safety partly to Hamilton was telling. Perhaps his mind was already made up about this match.

"I'll text when I arrive at the restaurant," you promised, stepping outside where the black Escalade waited, engine running.

Antonio, your family's most trusted driver, held the door for you with a respectful nod. At thirty-five, he'd been with the family since before you were born, rising from teenage errand boy to become one of your father's most reliable soldiers. If trouble found you in the city, Antonio was nearly as deadly as Marco and Luca combined.

As the car pulled down the long, tree-lined driveway of the estate, you felt the familiar mix of relief and anxiety that always came with leaving the compound. Your family's ten-acre property in Mill Neck represented both prison and protection—a gilded cage that kept you safe from enemies while simultaneously restricting your freedom.

The gates swung open, revealing a black sedan parked just outside the property. You didn't need to see the occupants to know it was Bianchi's men, maintaining their unwelcome surveillance. They'd been there for three days now, ever since Lorenzo's proposal had been declined.

"Persistent bastards," Antonio muttered, accelerating past them.

You watched in the side mirror as the sedan pulled out to follow at a discreet distance. "They're still tailing us?"

"Don't worry," Antonio assured you, his hand moving briefly inside his jacket where you knew he kept his Glock. "Luca and Marco are right behind them. They won't get close in the city."

You nodded, settling back against the leather seat. This was your normal—being followed, guarded, watched from all sides. Sometimes by people who wanted to protect you, sometimes by those who wanted to use you as leverage against your father. The distinction hardly mattered when the end result was the same: limited freedom.

As the Escalade merged onto the highway, you watched Long Island's affluent suburbs give way to increasingly urban landscapes. The city gradually appeared on the horizon, a collection of glittering towers against the darkening sky. Despite everything, you felt a flutter of excitement. It had been nearly three months since you'd been to Manhattan, your movements increasingly restricted as multiple families vied for alliance through marriage.

"Looking forward to dinner?" Antonio asked, catching your eye in the rearview mirror.

"I'm looking forward to something different," you replied honestly. "Even if it's just another man evaluating me like a prize thoroughbred."

Antonio had the grace to look uncomfortable at your candor. He'd known you since childhood, had taught you to drive (secretly, against your father's wishes) when you were sixteen, had even covered for you once when you'd snuck out to a college party. But the realities of your position in the family were something even loyal Antonio couldn't change.

"This Hamilton," he said carefully. "Word is he's formidable. Not like the others."

"So I've gathered," you replied. "Is that good or bad, in your opinion?"

Antonio considered this as he navigated through increasing traffic. "Good, maybe. A man secure in his power doesn't need to prove it constantly. Might make him a more... reasonable husband."

The word "husband" still sent an uncomfortable jolt through you. This time tomorrow, your father might well have decided to give you to Lewis Hamilton for the rest of your life.

"We'll see," was all you said, turning your attention to the city lights now fully visible ahead.

Your phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Lorenzo Bianchi but Raúl Suarez. A photo message that you opened against your better judgment.

It was a picture of you. From yesterday. Walking from the house to the garden, completely unaware you were being photographed.

Looking forward to changing your mind, belleza, the accompanying text read. I'm a patient man.

You deleted it immediately, suppressing a shiver. The Cuban's tactics were becoming increasingly concerning. At least Bianchi limited himself to excessive texts and flowers.

"Everything okay?" Antonio asked, noticing your expression.

"Fine," you lied smoothly. "Just another reminder of why I need to choose the least objectionable option."

As the Manhattan skyline enveloped you, traffic slowing to the typical crawl of early evening, you found yourself wondering what kind of man Lewis Hamilton really was beneath the controlled exterior and strategic business proposal. Was he truly different, as everyone kept suggesting? Or just better at disguising the same possessive, controlling nature that seemed endemic to men in your world?

You'd find out soon enough. For now, you were determined to enjoy this rare taste of the city, this brief illusion of freedom before decisions were made that would determine the rest of your life.

And if Lewis Hamilton thought you'd be an easy acquisition, a docile addition to his growing empire, he was about to discover exactly how mistaken he was.

Eleven Madison Park glowed with understated elegance, its Art Deco interior a testament to old New York money and taste. The maître d' greeted you by name before you could even introduce yourself, suggesting that Lewis had ensured they knew exactly who to expect.

"Mr. Hamilton is already seated," the man informed you with a deferential nod. "If you'll follow me."

You felt eyes tracking your movement through the restaurant—the curse of being a Ricci in Manhattan, where your family name was whispered in both boardrooms and back alleys. Marco and Luca had already positioned themselves strategically at the bar, pretending to be just another pair of Wall Street types unwinding after hours, but their eyes constantly scanned for threats.

Lewis rose as you approached the table, set in a discreet corner that offered both privacy and a clear view of all entrances. The tactics of a man who never let his guard down. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that somehow made his tattoos and piercings look deliberate rather than rebellious, like they were as much a part of his carefully crafted image as the Italian leather of his shoes.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, that British accent wrapping around your name in a way that was irritatingly pleasant to the ear. "Thank you for joining me."

"As if I had a choice," you replied, allowing him to pull out your chair.

Instead of looking offended, a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. "There are always choices. Even when they're all bad ones."

You settled into your seat, noting how he waited until you were comfortable before sitting down himself. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"Just honest." He signaled to the sommelier, who appeared instantly at his side. "The Puligny-Montrachet we discussed earlier, please."

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for both of us already?"

"Just the wine," he clarified. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

The challenge in his tone suggested he'd done his homework—probably knew that white Burgundy was your preference, information easily obtained from any of the high-end restaurants your family frequented. You decided not to give him the satisfaction.

"That's fine," you conceded. As the sommelier departed, you added, "Though I'm surprised you didn't choose something British."

A subtle shift crossed his features—not quite a smile, but the suggestion of amusement. "British wine is improving, but I'm not a patriot when it comes to vintages."

"Just when it comes to business?"

"Especially when it comes to business." His dark eyes held yours with unsettling directness. "I value loyalty above all else, Ms. Ricci. To people, not countries."

The sommelier returned with the wine, going through the tasting ritual with Hamilton, who handled it with the practiced ease of someone used to fine dining. Once your glasses were poured and you were alone again, you decided to cut through the preliminary niceties.

"So why exactly are we here, Mr. Hamilton? My father could have made his decision without this... interview."

"Interview?" He seemed genuinely amused now. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it? You're evaluating whether I'll be suitable for whatever role you've envisioned in this merger of empires." You took a deliberate sip of wine, noting that it was, annoyingly, excellent. "Or did you just want to see the merchandise up close before finalizing the purchase?"

Something flickered in his expression—a brief hardening of his features that vanished so quickly you might have imagined it, replaced by that same controlled composure. But in that fleeting moment, you glimpsed what might happen to anyone who truly crossed Lewis Hamilton. It wasn't hot rage like the Sicilians or cruel pleasure like the Cuban—just cold, efficient finality.

"If I viewed this as a purchase, Ms. Ricci, I wouldn't have bothered with dinner," he replied evenly. "Business transactions can be handled over the phone."

"Then what is this?"

"A conversation between two adults who might be spending quite a bit of time together in the future," he said simply. "I find it's useful to know who you're dealing with before making commitments."

The waiter appeared, saving you from having to respond immediately. You both ordered—you, the sea bass; him, the duck—and when you were alone again, you decided to press further.

"Why me? Why the Ricci family? Your operation seems entirely self-sufficient."

Hamilton considered his answer, turning his wine glass slowly between tattooed fingers. "Expansion requires allies. Your father has established routes and connections I could use. I have technological innovations and legitimate business fronts he needs. It's symbiotic."

"And I'm the connective tissue in this symbiotic relationship," you finished for him. "How flattering."

"You're underestimating your importance," he countered. "Your father doesn't need a son-in-law. He needs a successor he can trust. There's a difference."

The distinction was meaningful, suggesting he'd actually thought about this beyond mere territorial acquisition. Still, you weren't convinced.

"And what exactly do you get out of it?" you pressed. "Besides the business advantages, which you could negotiate without marriage. Why tie yourself to a woman fourteen years younger? I'm sure there are plenty of eligible women in London closer to your age who'd be more... compatible."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, unexpected and transformative. It didn't soften him, exactly, but it added a dimension you hadn't anticipated.

"Perhaps I appreciate the view beyond the business benefits," he said, his eyes making a deliberate, assessing sweep that should have felt offensive but somehow didn't. It wasn't leering, just honest appreciation.

Before you could respond, he added, "Age is largely irrelevant. I've met twenty-year-olds with the cunning of veteran strategists and sixty-year-olds with the wisdom of children. You're not some naive girl, Ms. Ricci, regardless of your birth year."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's supposed to be an answer. I'm not interested in this arrangement because of your age, but despite it. Your father has kept you involved in enough of the business that you understand the world we operate in. You're educated, strategic, and from what I can tell, not easily intimidated." His eyes locked with yours. "All useful qualities in a partner."

The word "partner" caught you off guard. Not "wife" or "possession" but "partner"—suggesting if not equality, then at least value beyond decoration or bloodline.

"Most men in your position want docile trophy wives," you noted, watching his reaction carefully. "Not partners."

"Most men in my position are fools," he replied without hesitation. "Wasting half the intelligence available to them out of archaic notions of gender. I don't have that luxury."

Your first course arrived, temporarily pausing the conversation. You used the moment to study him more carefully. His movements were precise, economical. Nothing wasted. The tattoos on his hands were intricate geometric patterns, almost mathematical in their precision. His braids were immaculate, suggesting attention to detail that extended to every aspect of his presentation.

"Your security detail is quite good," he commented casually, gesturing subtly toward Marco and Luca at the bar. "Though they might want to vary their positioning. Too predictable."

This surprised you. Most people never noticed your family's security arrangements. "You have men here too?"

His smile was brief but genuine. "What makes you think I need men?"

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down your spine. The rumors about Hamilton handling his own enforcement suddenly seemed very plausible. His athletic build wasn't just for show, and those hands with their beautiful, precise tattoos had probably ended lives with the same efficiency they now used to cut into perfectly prepared duck.

"I heard you dealt with problems personally in your early days," you said, testing the waters. "Is that still your preference?"

He regarded you steadily. "I find that delegation is necessary for growth, but direct intervention is occasionally... clarifying for those who might misunderstand my intentions."

It was the most diplomatic description of enforcement you'd ever heard, but no less chilling for its restraint.

"Like the situation with the Brennan family in Dublin?" you asked, dropping the reference deliberately.

His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that you knew about an operation that had been kept remarkably quiet. Three years ago, a Dublin crime family had tried to hijack one of Hamilton's weapons shipments. All five men involved had disappeared without a trace. No bodies, no witnesses, just gone—along with the family's patriarch a week later.

"You've done your homework, Ms. Ricci," he acknowledged, neither confirming nor denying.

"As have you, apparently," you countered. "The wine choice, the restaurant reservation under my name rather than yours, the awareness of my security. You've been watching me."

"Prudent research before a significant investment," he replied smoothly. "As I'm sure you've done as well."

The main course arrived, giving you a moment to recalibrate. Hamilton was harder to read than you'd expected. The calculated control you'd sensed at yesterday's meeting extended to every aspect of his behavior, yet didn't feel like the facade that so many men in your world maintained. This was simply who he was—disciplined, precise, lethal when necessary but not gratuitously cruel.

"May I ask you something direct, Mr. Hamilton?" you said after a few bites of excellent sea bass.

"Please do."

"If we were to move forward with this arrangement, what exactly would you expect from me? As your... partner."

He set down his fork, giving the question his full attention. "Loyalty, above all. Discretion. Intelligence applied to our mutual benefit." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't require you to love me, Ms. Ricci, but I do expect your allegiance to be absolute. No divided loyalties between my interests and your father's once we're married."

The bluntness was almost refreshing after the veiled language of most business discussions in your world.

"And what would I get in return?" you challenged. "Besides the obvious financial security that I already have."

"Protection. Freedom to pursue your own interests within reason. Respect." He took a careful sip of wine. "And a certain degree of autonomy that I suspect you haven't been permitted under your father's roof."

He'd identified perhaps the one thing that might actually tempt you—the promise of freedom, even if limited. The ability to move through the world without constant supervision, to make decisions without your father's approval.

"That's quite an offer," you said carefully. "But words are easy. How do I know you'd follow through?"

"You don't," he admitted. "Just as I don't know for certain that you wouldn't betray my trust at the first opportunity. Marriage is a risk, Ms. Ricci, even when it's a business arrangement."

You considered this, appreciating his honesty if nothing else. "And if I said no? Hypothetically."

"Then I'd finish this excellent meal, thank you for your time, and pursue a different approach to expansion." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Your father would likely move on to the next suitable candidate for your hand, and our paths might not cross again."

The complete lack of threat was notable, especially compared to how the Sicilian and Cuban had responded to the mere suggestion of rejection. Either Hamilton was supremely confident that the deal would proceed regardless of your opinion, or he genuinely wouldn't force the issue.

"I find that hard to believe," you said. "Men like you don't simply walk away from strategic advantages."

"Men like me?" His eyebrow raised slightly. "You seem to have placed me in a category, Ms. Ricci. I'm curious which one."

"Dangerous men who build empires and eliminate obstacles," you replied without hesitation. "Men who don't take no for an answer."

That small smile returned, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I always accept 'no' in personal matters. It's more efficient than the alternative." He leaned forward slightly. "But in this case, I don't think you want to say no. I think you're considering whether being tied to me would be better or worse than your current circumstances."

The accuracy of his assessment was unsettling. He read people too well—a dangerous quality when combined with everything else you knew about him.

"And what's your assessment?" you asked, meeting his gaze directly.

"I think you're calculating whether I'd be a prison or a pathway. Whether trading your father's control for a husband's would improve your situation or merely change the scenery of your confinement." He said this without judgment, simply stating what he observed. "It's the logical analysis, given your position."

Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance caught your attention. Marco had shifted position, his hand moving subtly toward his concealed weapon. A group of men had entered—three Italians in expensive suits who were definitely not there for the cuisine.

Hamilton noticed your attention shift and glanced casually over his shoulder. "Friends of yours?"

"Bianchi's men," you replied quietly. "The rejected Sicilian. Apparently he's not taking no for an answer."

Instead of looking concerned, Hamilton merely nodded, returning to his meal with infuriating calm. "They won't approach while you're with me."

"You seem very confident about that," you observed, noting that Marco and Luca were now on high alert, communicating silently across the room.

"They've already seen me," Hamilton replied, cutting into his duck with precise movements. "They know who I am and what would happen if they created a scene."

You studied him with new interest. "And what exactly would happen, Mr. Hamilton?"

He met your eyes, and in that moment, you saw it again—that flash of cold finality that suggested absolute certainty in his ability to handle any threat. "They'd regret it deeply in whatever time they had left."

The matter-of-fact way he said it, without bravado or theatrics, made it all the more chilling. This wasn't a man who made threats; this was someone stating simple causality. Action and consequence.

True enough, Bianchi's men maintained their distance, settling at the bar where they could watch but not interfere. Your security team adjusted accordingly, creating a careful balance of power across the restaurant floor.

"Tell me something, Ms. Ricci," Hamilton said, smoothly changing the subject as if the potential threat were inconsequential. "If you weren't bound by family obligation, what would you do with your life?"

The question caught you off guard—no one had asked you that in years, perhaps ever. "I—" you hesitated, unused to such direct inquiry about your own desires rather than your family's needs.

"That's not a fair question," you finally said. "I've never had the luxury of that kind of thinking."

"Humor me," he pressed, those dark eyes fixed on yours with unexpected intensity. "If you could choose any path, what would it be?"

You considered deflecting again, then decided against it. This man might own half your life soon; he might as well know what he was buying.

"I'd want to build something of my own," you admitted. "Not separate from the family business necessarily, but something that was mine to shape. I have ideas about expansion into tech and legitimate finance that my father considers too risky."

Hamilton nodded, looking genuinely interested. "Forward-thinking. Your father mentioned you studied finance at Columbia?"

"And computer science," you added. "Though he prefers to emphasize my language skills and social graces when presenting me to potential husbands."

A brief smile touched his lips again. "The criminal world is changing. Technology and finance are the future. Your father knows it, whether he admits it or not. It's why he's considering me despite—" he gestured to his appearance, "my departure from traditional values."

The rest of dinner passed with surprising ease. Hamilton asked about your ideas for modernizing operations, listening with what seemed like genuine interest rather than performative attention. You found yourself speaking more freely than you had in months, outlining concepts for digital money laundering and secure communication networks that you'd never dared share with your father.

As dessert arrived, you realized with some surprise that you'd almost forgotten this was essentially a business meeting disguised as a date. Hamilton was unexpectedly easy to talk to when he chose to be, his questions precise and thoughtful, pushing you to expand on your ideas rather than simply agreeing.

"You're not what I expected," you admitted as you finished your chocolate soufflé.

"Is that good or bad?" he asked, watching you with those calculating eyes.

"I haven't decided yet," you replied honestly. "But it's... interesting."

He nodded, accepting this assessment without pressing for more. As he signaled for the check, you noticed Bianchi's men were still at the bar, watching with poorly disguised resentment.

"They'll follow us out," you said quietly.

"Probably," Hamilton agreed, signing the check without even glancing at the total. "Though they won't get close."

"Because of Marco and Luca?"

"Among other reasons." His tone suggested something you couldn't quite identify.

As you both stood to leave, Hamilton offered his arm in a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture. You took it, aware of the statement it made to the watching eyes. Bianchi's men would report back that you seemed comfortable with Hamilton, that there was a connection forming. Whether true or not, perception mattered in your world.

"I'll walk you to your car," Hamilton said as you exited the restaurant into the cool evening air.

"That's not necessary. I have security."

"I'm aware." Something in his tone made you look up at him. "But I'd like to anyway."

Against your better judgment, you nodded. As you walked the short distance to where Antonio waited with the Escalade, you felt Bianchi's men emerge from the restaurant behind you. Marco and Luca immediately moved to intercept, creating a buffer between you and the potential threat.

Hamilton continued walking as if completely unconcerned, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of your back—proprietary but not controlling. The gesture shouldn't have felt as reassuring as it did.

When you reached the car, Antonio opened the door, his face carefully neutral despite the unusual situation. Before you stepped in, Hamilton turned to face you.

"Thank you for dinner, Ms. Ricci," he said formally, mindful of the watching eyes from multiple directions. "I look forward to continuing our conversation."

"As do I, Mr. Hamilton," you replied with equal formality.

He took your hand, and instead of the handshake you expected, raised it to his lips in the briefest, most controlled kiss. The gesture was calculated, you knew—a clear signal to Bianchi's watching men about his intentions. Yet something about the fleeting pressure of his lips against your knuckles sent an unwelcome shiver up your arm.

"I'll be speaking with your father tomorrow," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "If you have any objections to moving forward, now would be the time to voice them."

The question surprised you—again, he was offering a choice where none was expected. You studied his face, trying to discern his true intentions behind the controlled exterior.

"No objections," you heard yourself say. "Yet."

That subtle smile appeared again, transforming his severe features for just a moment. "Prudent. Never commit without leaving yourself an exit strategy."

With that, he stepped back, allowing you to enter the car. As Antonio closed the door, you watched through the window as Hamilton turned to face the direction where Bianchi's men stood. He didn't approach them or make any obvious threat, just stood perfectly still, watching them with the focused intensity of a predator assessing prey.

Even from inside the car, you could see the Sicilians' discomfort grow under that unwavering gaze until they finally retreated to their own vehicle.

"Home, Miss?" Antonio asked, interrupting your observation.

"Yes," you replied, your mind already racing ahead. "Home for now."

As the Escalade pulled away from the curb, you found yourself wondering if Lewis Hamilton represented a different kind of cage or the key to one you'd been in your entire life. Either way, you suspected your father's decision was already made—and for once, you weren't entirely opposed to the arrangement.

Dangerous men were common in your world. But dangerous men who saw you as more than decoration or a means to an end? Those were rare enough to warrant further investigation.

Tomorrow would determine whether you'd found a partner or simply a more sophisticated jailer than the others who had sought your hand.

*******************************************

Your father summoned you to his study the following afternoon. You'd barely slept, your mind replaying every moment of the dinner with Hamilton, analyzing his words, his carefully controlled expressions, the brief moments when something genuine seemed to break through his disciplined exterior.

When you entered the study, your father wasn't alone. Uncle Paolo sat in his usual chair by the window, while your mother stood behind your father's desk—her presence unusual for these kinds of meetings. Whatever decision had been reached, it was significant enough to warrant the family's core leadership.

"Sit," your father said without preamble.

You took the chair across from his desk, smoothing your skirt with practiced composure. The heavy silence told you everything before a word was spoken.

"Hamilton has made a formal offer," your father finally said, gesturing to a folder on his desk. "The terms are... substantial."

"I'm sure they are," you replied evenly. "Since I'm such a valuable asset."

Your father's eyes narrowed slightly. "This isn't the time for attitude. This is business."

"It's my life, Papa."

"It's both," your mother interjected softly. "Which is why we want to know your thoughts before proceeding."

This was unexpected. Your father rarely solicited your opinion on family matters, let alone ones that involved strategic alliances.

"My thoughts?" you echoed, careful to keep the surprise from your voice.

Your father leaned forward. "Hamilton specifically requested your consent be part of the agreement. Said he has no interest in an unwilling partner." A flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "Very modern of him."

That explained it. Your opinion wasn't being sought out of respect for your autonomy but because Hamilton had made it a condition. Interesting that he'd actually followed through on the choice he'd offered you last night.

"So if I said no, this deal wouldn't proceed?" You tested the boundaries of this supposed freedom.

Uncle Paolo scoffed. "Let's not be dramatic. The alliance has significant benefits for both families. Hamilton is simply being... diplomatic."

Translation: Your consent was expected regardless of how it was framed.

"What exactly are the terms?" you asked, redirecting to practical matters.

Your father pushed the folder toward you. "Marriage within the month. You would relocate to London initially, though Hamilton maintains properties in several countries. Your trust fund remains independently yours, with additional provisions from both families."

You opened the folder, scanning the documents inside. Legal language camouflaged what was essentially the transfer of partial ownership of you from one man to another, albeit with surprisingly favorable conditions. Hamilton had negotiated for your financial independence and included provisions for your continued education if desired—details most traditional suitors wouldn't have bothered with.

"And the business arrangements?" you asked, knowing that was the true heart of the agreement.

"Access to his distribution networks in Europe. Technology integration for our financial operations. Weapons procurement without the usual middlemen." Your father couldn't hide the satisfaction in his voice. "In exchange for our established routes in North America and our political connections."

"Hamilton also has legitimate businesses that could help launder our more... problematic income streams," Uncle Paolo added. "Very sophisticated setups. Even the feds haven't been able to crack them."

You continued reading, noting the careful delineation of territories and responsibilities. Unlike most alliance agreements you'd seen, this one didn't simply absorb one organization into the other. It created distinct spheres of influence with clear boundaries.

"And the Bianchis? The Suarez family? How are they taking this?" you asked, thinking of the men who had watched you at the restaurant last night.

Your father's expression darkened. "Not well. Lorenzo Bianchi has been particularly vocal about his... disappointment."

"That's why we need to move quickly," Uncle Paolo interjected. "The longer this drags out, the more opportunity for interference."

"Interference," you repeated. "You mean attempts to kill Hamilton? Or me? Or both?"

"Don't be dramatic," your father snapped, but the tightness around his eyes confirmed your suspicions. "Appropriate security measures will be in place."

"Including Hamilton's own people," your mother added. "He's sent two advance team members who arrived this morning."

That explained the unfamiliar faces you'd glimpsed patrolling the grounds. Hamilton was already moving pieces into position, securing his investment.

"So it's decided then," you said, closing the folder. "I'm to be Mrs. Hamilton by the end of the month."

"Not if you truly object," your mother said, earning a sharp glance from your father. "Lewis was quite clear about that condition."

You studied your mother's face, wondering if she actually believed you had a choice or was simply playing her role in this carefully choreographed negotiation. Either way, the question remained: did you want to object?

Hamilton was dangerous, certainly. But so were all the men in your world, including your father. At least Hamilton seemed to value your mind alongside your family connections. And despite the age gap, he was undeniably intriguing in ways that Lorenzo Bianchi and Raúl Suarez could never be.

"I don't object," you finally said. "But I'd like to speak with Hamilton again before anything is finalized. Alone."

Your father's eyebrows rose. "That's not traditional."

"Neither is he," you countered. "If I'm going to bind my life to his, I want to be clear about certain... expectations."

Uncle Paolo looked scandalized, but your mother nodded slightly, understanding passing between you. Every marriage in your world involved unspoken rules and boundaries. Better to establish them early than discover incompatibilities too late.

"Fine," your father conceded. "He's coming here tonight to discuss final arrangements. You can have thirty minutes with him beforehand."

"An hour," you negotiated automatically. "And in the garden, not the house."

A flash of irritation crossed your father's face, but to your surprise, he nodded. "You're already taking after him. Negotiating everything."

You accepted this as the backhanded compliment it was intended to be. "What time?"

"Eight o'clock. Don't be late." Your father turned his attention to other papers on his desk, a clear dismissal.

As you rose to leave, your mother followed you out, closing the study door behind her.

"A word," she said quietly, guiding you toward her private sitting room where conversations couldn't be overheard.

Once inside with the door secured, she turned to you with an expression more candid than she usually allowed herself.

"You should know that your father has additional expectations from this union that aren't in the formal agreement," she said without preamble.

"Let me guess. Grandchildren." It wasn't a question.

Your mother nodded. "Within the first two years of marriage. He sees Hamilton's bloodline as... advantageous for the family's future."

You couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped you. "Of course. Not only am I being traded like a thoroughbred, I'm expected to breed like one too."

"That's the reality of our world," your mother said, not unkindly. "I just wanted you to be prepared when the subject arises."

"Is that what happened with you and Papa? Was a baby part of the merger agreement?"

Your mother's expression softened slightly. "Yes. Though in our case, we were fortunate enough to develop genuine feelings before you were born." She touched your cheek gently. "I hope the same for you, whatever you may think of the arrangement now."

You leaned into her touch briefly before pulling away. "Did Hamilton agree to this... breeding schedule?"

"It wasn't presented to him directly. Your father considers it a family matter, not a negotiation point."

"How convenient," you muttered. "Anything else I should know before I'm shipped off to London?"

Your mother hesitated, then said, "Hamilton has a reputation for certain... tastes. Nothing concerning," she added quickly, seeing your expression. "Just... particular."

"What kind of particular?" You weren't naive about what happened in bedrooms, but your experience was admittedly limited—a college boyfriend your father had eventually scared away, and a brief affair with an Italian businessman that had fizzled when you realized he was more interested in your family connections than you.

"Controlled. Dominant." Your mother chose her words carefully. "But not cruel, from what I understand. Unlike some in our circle." The unspoken reference to men like Raúl Suarez hung in the air.

"Wonderful," you said dryly. "I'm to be the obedient wife in the boardroom and the bedroom."

"Not necessarily." Your mother's tone suggested she knew more than she was saying. "Just... be prepared to discuss boundaries clearly. Men like Hamilton respect directness more than they let on."

The conversation left you with more questions than answers, but at least you were forewarned. As you headed back to your room to prepare for the evening's meeting, your mind raced with everything you wanted to establish before signing your life away.

********************************************

The garden at dusk held a particular magic, the fading light softening the carefully manicured grounds of the estate. You'd chosen this setting deliberately—outside the confines of the house, away from listening ears and watchful eyes, but still within the secure perimeter of the property.

You wore a simple wrap dress, casual enough to suggest this wasn't a formal negotiation but elegant enough to maintain the upper hand. Your hair hung loose around your shoulders, a small rebellion against your father's preference for the sleek, controlled styles he considered appropriate for business meetings.

At precisely eight o'clock, you heard footsteps on the stone path. Lewis Hamilton moved with that same contained grace you'd noticed at dinner, his attention seemingly casual but missing nothing as he scanned the garden. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to reveal more of the intricate tattoos on his forearms. Less formal than yesterday, but no less commanding.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, those dark eyes taking in your appearance with that same assessing gaze. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."

"I'm the one who requested it," you reminded him, gesturing to the bench beside the rose trellis. "Please, sit."

He complied, maintaining a respectful distance as you settled beside him. The evening air carried the scent of late summer blooms and the faint spice of his cologne.

"I understand congratulations are in order," he said, those eyes never leaving your face. "Your father has accepted my proposal."

"With the condition of my consent," you noted. "Which was an interesting stipulation to include."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I don't believe in forced partnerships. They tend to... malfunction at critical moments."

"How pragmatic of you."

"I'm a pragmatic man." He leaned back slightly, one arm extending along the back of the bench though he didn't touch you. "I assume you have questions or concerns you wanted to address privately."

"Several," you confirmed. "Starting with what happens after the wedding. You mentioned London?"

He nodded. "Initially. I maintain a residence there, another in Amsterdam, properties in several other locations. I thought we might begin in London while you acclimate to the arrangement, then discuss preferences."

"And my involvement in the business?"

Something like approval flickered across his features. "That depends on your interests and aptitudes. From our dinner conversation, I gather you have significant insights into modernization opportunities. I'd welcome your input in those areas, to start."

"To start," you repeated. "With the possibility of expansion."

"Precisely." He studied you for a moment. "You seem surprised."

"Most men in your position view wives as decorative accessories, not business partners."

"Most men in my position are shortsighted," he replied simply. "I prefer to utilize all available resources effectively."

"Is that what I am? A resource?" You kept your tone neutral despite the provocation.

That slight smile appeared again. "We all are, in different contexts. The question is whether we're valued appropriately for what we bring to the table."

It was a fair point, if somewhat coldly phrased. "And what exactly do you think I bring to the table, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Intelligence. Strategic thinking. Social connections my organization currently lacks in certain circles. Perspective from a different generation." His assessment was calm, matter-of-fact. "And of course, the Ricci family alliance, which opens doors that would otherwise remain closed to me."

"That's quite a list." You weren't sure whether to be flattered or offended by his inventory of your attributes. "And what about the personal aspects of this arrangement? I assume you've considered those as well."

"Of course." If your directness surprised him, he didn't show it. "Marriage typically involves certain... intimacies."

"Is that what we're calling it?" you asked dryly. "Intimacies?"

For the first time, a genuine smile broke through his controlled expression. "What would you prefer to call it? Fucking? Sleeping together? Making heirs for our respective families?"

The crude language from his cultured British accent was jarring, but not unwelcome. At least he wasn't treating you like some delicate flower who'd wilt at plain speaking.

"All of the above, apparently," you replied, matching his bluntness. "My father expects grandchildren within two years, though he didn't include that in the formal agreement."

Hamilton's eyebrow rose slightly. "Interesting that he'd leave such an important detail out of the negotiations."

"He considers it a family matter, not a business point."

"When in fact it's both," Hamilton observed. His gaze turned more assessing. "And how do you feel about this... breeding arrangement?"

The crass term made you wince, though it accurately described your father's approach. "I haven't decided. Children weren't in my immediate plans, but I always assumed they'd be part of my future eventually."

"Regardless of your father's timeline, that particular aspect would be between us," Hamilton said firmly. "Not subject to external schedules."

The clear boundary he established around your shared decisions versus family expectations was unexpectedly reassuring. "And the... physical aspects of marriage in general? What are your expectations there?"

Hamilton considered you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I expect mutual respect and clear communication about boundaries and preferences. I don't believe in coercion of any kind, but I do value honesty."

"That's very diplomatic," you noted. "But not very specific."

"Would you prefer specifics?" he asked, that dangerous edge suddenly more apparent beneath his controlled exterior. "I can be quite direct, Ms. Ricci, but most find it... uncomfortable."

"I'm not most people," you countered. "And if we're to be married, I think I deserve to know what I'm agreeing to."

A brief nod acknowledged your point. "Very well. I enjoy control—giving it completely in business settings tends to make one appreciate having it in private ones. I prefer partners who understand the value of clearly defined roles and boundaries." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't believe in ownership or subjugation, but I do expect a certain level of... deference in intimate settings."

The frankness of his assessment sent an unexpected heat through you that you hoped wasn't visible in the fading light. "And if that arrangement doesn't appeal to me?"

"Then we negotiate alternatives," he replied simply. "As I said, coercion has no place in my world. But I've found that compatibility in these matters tends to reveal itself naturally, given time and trust."

The conversation should have been mortifying—discussing sexual dynamics with a virtual stranger who might soon be your husband. Instead, you found his directness refreshing after a lifetime of veiled implications and unspoken expectations.

"Any other concerns you wish to address?" he asked, seeming entirely comfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"Freedom of movement," you said, returning to practical matters. "My father keeps me under constant surveillance for 'protection.' Would I be exchanging one form of confinement for another?"

"Security is necessary in our world," Hamilton acknowledged. "But I don't believe in cages, golden or otherwise. With appropriate measures in place, you would be free to pursue your own interests, travel within reason, maintain your own social connections."

"Within reason," you repeated. "And who defines what's reasonable?"

"We would—together. Based on security assessments and legitimate risk factors, not arbitrary restrictions." His tone suggested this was non-negotiable. "I won't apologize for prioritizing your safety, but I have no interest in controlling your every movement."

It was a fair compromise, better than you'd expected and certainly better than your current situation. "And fidelity? What are your expectations there?"

"Absolute," he replied without hesitation. "On both sides. Anything else introduces unnecessary vulnerabilities and complications."

"At least we agree on something," you said, surprising yourself with the admission. Infidelity was common in your world—your father had kept mistresses over the years despite his genuine love for your mother—but you'd always found it distasteful and dangerous.

"We'll likely agree on more than you expect," Hamilton said, his voice softening slightly. "This arrangement may be unconventional in its origins, but that doesn't mean it can't evolve into something mutually beneficial on multiple levels."

The diplomatic phrasing couldn't quite disguise what sounded dangerously close to optimism about your potential relationship. You weren't sure what to make of that.

"One last question," you said, aware that your allotted time was nearly up. "Why me, really? Beyond the business advantages and family connections. You could have pursued alliances with a dozen other families, many with more extensive operations than ours. Why choose the Ricci family? Why choose me?"

Hamilton was quiet for a moment, considering his answer carefully. When he spoke, his voice held a different quality than before—less measured, more genuine.

"Your family's operation is smaller than some, yes, but more adaptable. Old enough to have established roots but not so entrenched that evolution is impossible." His eyes held yours steadily. "As for you specifically... I make decisions based on careful assessment of potential and compatibility. You possess qualities I consider valuable—intelligence, adaptability, strategic thinking, resilience."

"You gleaned all that from one dinner and a brief meeting at my father's house?" Your skepticism was evident.

"I've been researching your family for months," he admitted without apology. "You specifically for weeks. The dinner merely confirmed what my investigation suggested."

The revelation shouldn't have surprised you, yet somehow it did. "That's... thorough."

"I don't leave important decisions to chance or superficial impressions." His gaze was unwavering. "Marriage is a significant commitment, even when it's primarily strategic."

Before you could respond, the garden lights activated automatically with the deepening dusk, illuminating the space around you. In the sudden brightness, you could see Hamilton more clearly—the precise lines of his face, the intensity of his gaze, the subtle pattern of the tattoo visible at his collar.

"Our time is nearly up," he observed. "Your father will be expecting me in the study."

"Yes," you agreed, oddly reluctant to end the conversation. "I suppose he will."

Hamilton rose, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, noting the controlled strength in his grip, the warmth of his palm against yours. He held on a moment longer than necessary, his eyes searching yours.

"Have I addressed your concerns adequately, Ms. Ricci?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only you could hear it. "Or do you have objections to proceeding?"

The question echoed the one from last night—again offering you a choice, or at least the illusion of one. You considered your options realistically. Refusing would create chaos in the family, potentially trigger violence from rejected suitors, and leave you back where you started—under your father's thumb, awaiting the next strategic match.

Accepting meant embarking on a life with a dangerous, controlled man who nonetheless seemed to see you as more than a decorative accessory or breeding stock. A man who, despite the age gap and cultural differences, offered something resembling partnership rather than ownership.

"No objections," you said finally. "Though I reserve the right to revisit these discussions as needed."

Something like satisfaction crossed his features. "I would expect nothing less." He released your hand slowly. "Shall we join your father?"

As you walked together toward the house, you were acutely aware of the weight of the decision you'd just made. Within weeks, you would be bound to this man—leaving behind the familiar constraints of your father's house for the unknown territory of marriage to Lewis Hamilton.

Whether that represented freedom or simply a different form of captivity remained to be seen. But for the first time in years, you felt something dangerously close to hope about your future.

"One last thing," Hamilton said as you reached the terrace doors. "Once we're married, I'd prefer you call me Lewis. 'Mr. Hamilton' seems excessively formal for a wife, don't you think?"

The request was so unexpectedly ordinary after the intensity of your conversation that you couldn't help a small, genuine smile. "I'll consider it... Lewis."

His name felt strange on your tongue, intimate in a way that caught you off guard. The slight widening of his eyes suggested he felt it too—this small shift from formal negotiation toward something more personal.

Without another word, he opened the door for you, and together you stepped back into the house to finalize the arrangement that would bind your lives together—for better or worse.

…….tbd

[biolumien]

heya!! Saw you had open requests. And I was wondering if you could do something with Hoshina with the trope of Opposites attract?

Like maybe reader could be shy and quiet type. Who is strangely not a fighter like he is. Reader could be a sweet civilian or something and it'd be nice to see how the rest of the characters react to their relationship. Though of course, feel free to change it as you wish. Whatever you write I'm sure it'll turn out amazing.

Feel free to ignore this if it isn't your fancy :DD

notes: ahh repeat it with me now the fic got away from me and took on a life of its own... i hope this is okay ;-;!!

cafe latte

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader no content warnings necessary. i think word count: 1752

the first time you were saved by soshiro hoshina was in front of the wreckage surrounding your cafe. 

the smell of blood was overwhelming as you stepped out warily, wincing as a drop of the kaiju carcass’s acidic blood dripped onto the pavement in front of you, carving out a hole in the concrete. 

“careful!” a voice called out from somewhere above you. “it’s still not safe for civilians.” 

you watch as the vice captain of the third division, soshiro hoshina, lands deftly on the ground, sheathing his twin katanas at his back. his closed, smiling eyes crack open just a tad, and he hums, his voice muffled by his respirator. 

your eyes go wide. 

the third division was legendary among the defense force, after all, and it was soshiro hoshina in the flesh in front of you! your body seemed to move of its own accord, and--

“um–can i,” you stammer out, pulling out your notepad for taking cafe orders. “can i get your autograph?”

“huh?” hoshina wipes a bit of blood from his suit. “i mean, sure, but wouldn’t you rather get an autograph from captain ashiro? i’m sure the resell value on that is far better.” even as he said this, though, he’d reached out to sign your notepad, scribbling a haphazard signature.

“i mean–everyone likes captain ashiro,” you say nervously as hoshina hands the notepad back to you. “but—you kept the kaiju from wrecking my—my shop.” you shift your eyes to the front of your cafe, and then back to hoshina, covered in blood and still wearing his respirator mask. “so i wanted your signature specifically.” 

“oh, i see,” hoshina says. he sounds teasing. “business will be slow for a bit, though, with the cleanup. are you going to be okay?” 

“oh? i—yes, i… it’ll be fine. the cleaners usually take… two weeks, i think. so… it might be a bit slower.” 

“hmm.” hoshina hums, removing his mask. you’d seen hoshina’s face on the news, largely in the background as mina ashiro spoke on eliminating the kaiju threat—so you’d known he was handsome, but something about seeing his face in person was different. he felt more—tangible. real. 

���i’ll have to stop by some time,” hoshina says with a smile. 

“i…” you lift up your notepad to hide your face. “i-i mean… sure. i… i don’t know why you would… but—”

“think of it like me paying you back for the slow business,” hoshina says. 

“okay,” you say, your voice hitching slightly. 

[…]

business was slow the next week, as you’d told hoshina. the kaiju carcass outside was pretty bad for business, really–something about the bad vibes, or something like that. so you go through the motions, cleaning up tables, ordering new coffee beans and stock for the next few weeks when business would pick up again. it was hard work, but it was made a little easier based on the fact that there was hardly anyone in the cafe right now. 

you look outside the window, resting your elbows on the counter, sighing. looks like it’d be another slow day after all. 

you raise your head as the cafe door jingles.

“welcome to the—it’s you,” you stammer out as hoshina walks through the door. off-duty he wears fairly loose clothes, a sharp contrast to how sharply dressed he looks during press conferences. he’s dressed in a loose black jacket with a tight turtleneck, and loose pants with a pair of reasonably-fashionable looking sneakers, with a black mask over his mouth. “you really didn’t have to—”

“not like i had much better to do,” hoshina says easily, waving a hand, pulling down his mask now that he was inside. “it’s not often i get time off. and i gave you my word, so i might as well make good on it.” he walks forward, examining the cafe menu. “what’s good here?” 

“umm—the… americano, is… okay,” you say. “i… think.” “you think?” hoshina blinks at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, teasingly. “does that mean you don’t know?”

“i–no, it’s–it’s good,” you say more assertively now. hoshina laughs, and your heart skips a strange beat. 

“hm… i’ll admit i don’t really drink that much coffee, so i’ll give you free reign to do whatever you think i’d like.” hoshina smiles. 

“i–that’s too much freedom,” you protest. “what if you hate it–” “i’m not gonna hate it,” hoshina says. “i came here out of my own free will after all! just go with the flow.”

so you end up making him a latte, doing a bit of latte art on the top using some cream. it’s a small fox with closed eyes and a sharp smile, and you slide it across the counter for his approval. he picks up the cup, spinning it gently–and you try not to look too hard at his hands. he hums.

“looks almost too cute to drink,” he says. “cheers, though.” he takes a long, slow sip, and you feel your heart pound in your throat as he lowers the cup. 

“is—”

“it’s good,” hoshina says with a smile. “i’ll have to keep coming back here. i can’t believe i’ve missed out on this place.” 

[…]

he just… keeps coming back during his off duty hours, dressed sharply and plainly each time. you make him new animals in his lattes—cats, dogs, bunnies, mostly cats and foxes. 

a few times you attempt a very crazy looking kaiju, but by the time you hand over the cup it’s deflated already, and you slide over the drink with shame on your face and he just laughs, and you try not to think about the fact that his fingers brushed against yours as he takes the cup each time. 

you learn a bit more about him each time, but it’s mostly surface level things. how his day’s going, what’s annoying him—mostly what’s annoying him, but said in a conversationally light way. 

but he asks a lot of questions about you. favorite color, animal, food—innocuous at first, down to grittier questions about good memories, lasting regrets and the like. 

you answer to the best of your ability, hesitantly and nervously each time. 

“not that i don’t… appreciate the conversation, but…” you say one day as you’re scrubbing down a particularly messy table, “why do you ask all these questions anyway? i-i doubt my answers are… anything interesting, so—”

hoshina takes a sip from his coffee. 

you made him a penguin today. 

“i’m just curious,” hoshina says, in a tone that almost sounds apologetic. “work habit. gotta know everything about everyone. your coworkers, the officers, kaiju…” 

he watches out the window for a moment, and you think about the large gap between the two of you—two completely separate worlds as he fights to defend the world from a threat so foreign and massive that it seemed utterly inconceivable—and here you were, wondering about how you might sell enough cafe lattes to make ends meet and pay rent. 

“but more than anything,” hoshina says after a long moment, and you nearly startle hearing his voice again, “i just want to get to know you because you’re interesting.”

and in his eyes is a weighted, assured sincerity that makes your heart flip nervously. 

[…]

the second time you were saved by soshiro hoshina, it was a smaller, less dramatic affair. 

you’re carrying out trays to some other customers while hoshina sits at one of the tables, his laptop open as he’s working on some paperwork. 

and then suddenly you trip on one of the floorboards, falling forward with a yelp, and you brace yourself for the utter worst—spilled glassware and maybe a really bad fall—but then you gasp out as hoshina pulls an arm around your waist, keeping you from completely planting on your face. 

he lets go soon after, his eyes scanning yours for a moment. you wonder why your side feels a little bit colder, why you wished for the pressure of his hand against your side to stay for a little longer. surely it was nothing. 

“careful now,” hoshina says, a teasing lilt to his voice, but then he seems a little more contemplative, slightly more concerned. “nothing spilled too bad, right?” 

“no,” you say, a little dazed as you check the trays to find that thankfully, everything seemed in place. “thank you, hoshina.”

“mhm,” hoshina says, his eyes flitting back to his work. a smirk crosses his lips for a moment as his eyes flit back up to meet yours. “can’t save you all the time, can i?”

you sputter for a moment, and he laughs, and it’s not long before you’re laughing too. 

[…]

there are people huddled outside the street as hoshina enters into the cafe today. he seems a little weary, running a hand through his hair. 

“you look out of it,” you comment. 

“i… the…” hoshina glances back at the people outside. your eyes widen when you notice the telltale ponytail of—

“is that mina ashiro?” you exclaim, slamming your hands against the counter. “seriously? out here?” 

hoshina looks wearier at the excitement in your voice. 

“sorry,” you say. “but why is she here?” 

“i…” hoshina looks up at the ceiling, exhaling for a second. “do you want to go out with me?” 

you think your heart stops beating. 

hoshina’s watching you, and his eyes flit to yours, before trying to look at anything else. 

“where—where did this come from?” you ask. you want to hide behind something. your ears feel hot, and he coughs. 

“it comes from… ah, i’m not good at metaphor,” hoshina says, spreading his hands. “it’s so much worse than being straightforward—so i’ll just put it plainly. i like you. i come to the cafe a lot because i like you. i want to go out with you. and some of my… coworkers,” 

hoshina turns to glare at some of the people outside, who seem to scatter at his stare. 

“…were interested in seeing the person that has captured my attention. so… i hope that’s clear.”

does he seem ever-so-slightly nervous?

your face feels hot.

“yes,” you say, reaching out to clasp his hand. “of course.”

hoshina exhales, loud.

“okay. good. not that i was nervous or anything, but i’ve got a reputation to uphold out there, with those clowns,” hoshina says, squeezing your hand back, cool as ever. you smile, leaning up to kiss hoshina quickly, and he laughs, brushing his nose against yours.

and out of the corner of your eye, you see mina ashiro taking a picture with her phone. 

[moonstruckme]

I love your roomate!james. I was wondering if you could do one where shy!reader is sick and she doesn’t tell james bc she’s used to taking care of herself but he’s adamant about taking care of her. 🥺🖤

Thank you lovely!

cw: implied nausea and vomiting

part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.6k words

James worries he’s scared you off. 

He thought you’d been having a good time the other night, hanging out with his friends and then teasing each other while he battled you for cleanup duties after. He’d certainly had a good time. Watching you smile more readily as you got comfortable, feeling your soft form tucked up against his on the couch, it had made his whole body feel light and fizzy, but now James wonders if the easy, familiar energy of the night had made him too bold. There had been a moment, just before you’d gone to bed, where you’d seemed to stumble, defaulting back to the awkward, self-conscious way of speaking you’d had before you got to know each other. 

James might not have thought anything of it—you still get shy sometimes, he can never figure out what causes it—except you’ve been very obviously avoiding him ever since. That next day, you went to work and then disappeared into your room straight after you got home. He told himself he was being paranoid. But yesterday, you seemingly had the day off, and every time you needed to emerge from your room James heard you dash down the stairs and back up as if your bedroom was the only safe zone in the apartment. 

He hears you doing it again now, the soft click of your door unlatching before quiet footsteps start down the stairs. If Sirius were here, they’d probably make a game out of timing you, but James estimates it’s less than a minute before you start back up again. He wishes he could tell you not to hurry yourself; he has no intent of cornering you in your own home, even if he does want to patch things up. 

Then something falls on the stairs with a loud thud, followed by a sharp gasp just outside James’ room, and all thoughts of giving you your space are quickly abandoned. It was a valiant effort. 

“Shit,” he says as soon as he opens the door. He crouches beside you, taking your elbow in his hand, cushioning it from the cruel edge of the step, “Did you hurt yourself?” 

You must have had a mean fall. You’re completely crumpled on the stairs, one of your legs curled under you and one outstretched behind you as though it’s slipped back. Both of your elbows are braced underneath your body, keeping your face from smacking into the corner of the stair. James is willing to bet that big sound he’d heard was your knee hitting the step below you as you tripped. 

“Fuck,” you whine, pulling an entire loaf of bread from beneath your other elbow. The middle has been completely crushed, smashed between your forearm and the edge of a step. You look genuinely distraught about it. 

“Did you hurt your knee?” James frets, fighting the urge to haul you up off the stairs so he can look you over properly. He does take your other elbow in hand, using a firm grip to encourage rather than haul. You get more or less upright. 

“I’m okay.” You sound a bit odd, though he supposes you could be winded by the fall. “Thanks, sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” James can’t help it if a bit of teasing makes its way into his voice. This is something the two of you always do, you overapologizing and him making fun of you for it. “It seems like if anyone ought to be apologizing, it should be the stairs.” 

Your mouth tips up slightly. “Solid point,” you concede. 

The load in James’ chest lightens at your willingness to fall back into a casual repartee. He rubs the point of your elbow distractedly. “Wanna tell me why you’re taking an entire loaf of bread to your room?” he asks, grinning. “Do you have a secret stash of sandwich-making supplies in there?”

He feels goosebumps erupt on the side of your arm, and he does his best to soothe those, too. It must be too cold in here for you. “No,” you say quietly.

“Mm. I thought we were past this, angel. Come downstairs, I’ve still got leftover pasta in the fridge.”  

He starts to lead you down, but before he’s made it two steps you say, “No, thank you.” 

“Oh, come off it.” James shoots you another easy grin, hoping to loosen you up. “Don’t be a martyr. I’m all for carbs, but bread by itself will hardly sustain you.” 

“I don’t have much choice.” You shrug, and your shoulders stay up higher than they had been. You seem embarrassed. He waits, intrigued. “It’s sort of the only thing I can keep down at the moment.” 

It takes a blink for James to understand. “Are you not feeling well?” 

“Not very.” Your voice is softer than soft, swallowed up by the nerves James thought he’d earned an exemption from but nonetheless can’t hold against you in this state. 

He can see it, now. The way you’re holding yourself, like you could curl up on the floor at any given moment. Your face is shiny and your eyes slightly unfocused, glazed. 

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” It comes out more caring than he’d ever meant for it to, but James is too worried about you to dwell much upon that. You bat his hand away weakly, but he just moves them both to your cheeks, feeling himself frown. “You’re burning up, love. Why didn’t you say?” 

“Not much to say.” You move away from his touch, backing towards your room. James pursues you, hand hovering near your elbow because you really do look like you could pass out. "It's a stomach bug. It'll pass."

“I could have been helping you if I knew. I just thought you were avoiding me,” he admits. You look so sorry he’s quick to smooth things over with a smile. “Do you need me to get you anything from the store?”

“I already went.” You slump onto your bed before seeming to realize he’s still behind you, your brows coming down. “I’ve got everything I need, but thanks.” 

“You went to the store like this?” James is aghast. “You should be resting! How high is your fever?” 

“Dunno.” You seem to give up uncharacteristically quickly on getting him to leave, sighing and sinking back against a propped-up pillow. “I don’t have a thermometer.” 

“You don’t?” He’s more frazzled by the second, every way in which you’re not being properly taken care of piling onto the last. It seems a miracle you’re still alive. 

You look suspicious. “Do you?” 

Shit. He grins sheepishly. “No...” 

But that doesn’t change the fact that you should, for some reason. People like James are allowed to coast through the world unprepared because responsible ones like you always have the things they need. 

He feels your face again. This time, you let him. Your breath fans warm over his wrist, those fever-glazed eyes drooping slightly. 

“Your hand is cold,” you say through a sigh. 

“I think you’re just hot,” James mutters, but that doesn’t stop him from stroking his thumb over your cheek, just once. Your lashes flutter closed, and his heart does an impressive flip in his chest. 

“Have you had paracetamol?” he asks you. 

You hum. James sweeps his thumb over your cheek again, hoping to rouse you, but it only seems to worsen your drowsiness. Your head actually lolls into his touch. 

“Is that a yes?” 

“Mhm, yeah,” you say without opening your eyes. “You need to stop doing that, m’gonna fall asleep.” 

“You should be sleeping,” he says softly. It’s impossible to keep the fondness from his voice. “I’m gonna get you a cold flannel, okay?” 

Your eyelids crack open. “I don’t need you to take care of me,” you say, voice nearly slurring with sleepiness. “I’ve always done fine, by myself.” 

“You never neglect to remind me.” James slips his hand from beneath your face, going to the bathroom between your bedrooms. “I don’t mind helping, though. You don’t always have to do everything on your own, what are roommates for?” 

You make a quiet, breathy sound he suspects might be a laugh. “None of my other roommates were ever as nice to me as you are. I think you’re taking things beyond the requirements of the job.” 

James thinks so, too. But still. Regardless of the complicated feelings he’s starting to have for you, you’ve always deserved to be treated with care. 

“You mean to tell me,” he says, wringing out the flannel and going back to your room, “that if you were this poorly, none of your previous roommates would have offered to help?” 

Your eyes are open more fully now. You watch him as he lays the flannel on your forehead, smoothing away a couple of baby hairs before they can get trapped underneath, with an odd expression on your face. 

“I handle my own problems,” you say softly. 

James’ thumb is still stroking the baby hairs at your temple. He can’t get it to stop. 

“Maybe your problems could be my problems, too,” he says. The lightness of his tone is automatic, but it serves as no representation of the great and weighty feeling in his chest. He realizes his breathing has synced to yours. Quiet inhales and exhales in your quiet apartment. 

Your eyes slip closed again. “Why?” you murmur. 

James doesn’t have an answer for that. Not one he’s ready to think about. The lines of your face smooth out as you relax. More evidence of frowns than smiles, but he likes to think he’s made progress on the little creases fanning out from the corners of your eyes since he’s moved in. He feels a pang of triumph any time they make an appearance, little rays of sunshine on a wholly lovely face. 

Because he’s your roommate. Because whether you’re ready to admit it or not, he’s your friend. Because he cares about you. 

In the end, James doesn’t have to come up with an answer. You’re already asleep. 

[princesseilish]

PARROT

Billie Eillsh x Fem!Mom!Reader

Warnings: slight swearing, use of y/n? a pinch of funny

Synopsis: billie couldn’t help herself, and now Rosie can’t help herself either

It was supposed to be a simple grocery trip.

Y/N had explicitly instructed Billie to keep it together. They were just grabbing a few things for Rosie’s upcoming second birthday party—balloons, snacks, maybe a cake mix. Nothing complicated, nothing that should’ve been an issue. But Y/N should’ve known better.

“Babe, do we need more of that organic juice Ro likes?” Billie called from the next aisle, pushing the cart with Rosie sitting happily inside, her tiny hands wrapped around the bar.

Y/N, examining a box of birthday candles, glanced over. “Yeah, grab a couple bottles. The mango one.”

“Got it.”

It was going fine. Too fine, actually.

Until they hit the produce section.

Billie was trying to grab a bundle of bananas from the display when, naturally, the entire pyramid of fruit decided to betray her. A bunch tumbled to the floor with a loud thud, rolling in every direction. Billie, already flustered, muttered under her breath, “What the fuck.”

Y/N’s head snapped up like she’d been electrocuted.

“Billie,” she hissed, eyes darting to their daughter.

But it was too late.

Rosie, wide-eyed and always eager to mimic her favorite person in the world, opened her tiny mouth and proudly repeated, “What the fuh!”

Y/N’s soul left her body.

Billie froze, bananas still in hand, her face a perfect mix of horror and disbelief. “Oh, shit.”

“Billie!” Y/N practically dropped the candles as she rushed over, grabbing Rosie from the cart like she could somehow squeeze the word right out of her.

Rosie giggled, thinking it was all a fun game. “What the fuh! What the fuh!”

Y/N’s jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might crack. She turned slowly to Billie, who was trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Billie Eilish,” Y/N said in a tone that could curdle milk, “what the actual fuck—I mean—heck—heck is wrong with you?!”

Billie bit her lip, attempting to stifle a snort but failing miserably. “Babe, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to?” Y/N’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as she pointed at their gleeful toddler. “Her second birthday is in three days. Do you really want our daughter to be the kid who blows out her candles and yells ‘what the fuh!’ in front of everyone?”

Rosie clapped her hands excitedly. “What the fuh!”

Y/N shot Billie a glare so sharp it could’ve sliced through steel. “No, Ro, that’s a no-no word. Bad Billie.”

Billie winced like she’d been physically slapped. “Hey, c’mon, it’s not like I taught her on purpose.”

Y/N set Rosie back in the cart and grabbed the bananas out of Billie’s hands with a dramatic huff. “You’re on cleanup duty. And you’re explaining this to my mom if Ro slips up.”

Billie groaned, rubbing the back of her neck. “Your mom already thinks I’m a bad influence.”

“Well,” Y/N muttered, pushing the cart down the aisle, “now she has proof.”

Later that night, after Rosie was tucked in—without uttering any forbidden words, thank God—Billie shuffled into their bedroom looking like a guilty puppy.

Y/N was curled up with a book, doing her best to ignore Billie’s presence, even as Billie flopped dramatically onto the bed beside her.

“Babe,” Billie whined, nudging Y/N’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Y/N didn’t look up from her book. “You corrupted our daughter.”

Billie groaned, rolling onto her back. “It was an accident! I swear, I’ll fix it.”

Y/N finally glanced at her, arching an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan on fixing that?”

Billie grinned, pulling Y/N’s book out of her hands and tossing it onto the nightstand. “Simple. I’ll just teach her other words to say instead.”

Y/N sighed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Like what?”

Billie sat up, her face serious. “Like… ‘What the fudge!’ Or ‘What the flip!’” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Or we could go full grandma and teach her to say, ‘Oh, sugar!’”

Y/N finally laughed, shoving Billie’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.” Billie grinned, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Y/N’s cheek. “And I love you. And Ro. Even if she’s a tiny parrot.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her heart melted all the same. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Billie wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her into her chest. “Lucky? Nah, I’m just smart. I got you and Ro, didn’t I?”

Y/N sighed, snuggling into Billie’s warmth despite herself. “Just… try not to turn her into a sailor before preschool, okay?”

Billie chuckled, kissing the top of Y/N’s head. “Deal. But if she slips up… I’m blaming you for teaching her ‘heck.’”

Y/N groaned, but she couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. Life with Billie might’ve been chaotic, but it was theirs—bad words, bananas, and all.

[sweetimpurity]

☽༓･˚⁺‧͙ day 11! yayayy! I blacked out for this one 🥵

wc: 2.2k cw: bondage, breeding ;) enjoy!! ☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

“Shit…” He sighs. Running a hand through his hair, the talons peeking out slightly. They’ve been coming out and going back in all day, little pin pricks aching at his fingertips. Sensitive when he touches anything, pissing him off. Like he can’t control it. He’s been cooped up in his office all day. 

“Lyla. Update.” He demands in monotone, brow furrowed and focusing on the levels and charts on the holographic screen in front of him. The hovering pixels refresh as the levels increase and decrease. Numbers calculating. “They’re on their way back… just finishing some cleanup.” She replies. Hovering over his desk before settling, ‘leaning’ on a coffee mug from a few days ago. He hasn’t done anything, hasn’t eaten or drank anything since you left on that damn mission three days ago.  He should have remembered. That this specific time would have him aching for you. And now you’ve been gone. It’s his own damn fault and he’s been beating himself up over it. Feeling heavy, feverish, angry. He’s been tracking his levels every hour. Hormones and brain activity. Why must his warped genetics plague him in this way?

“Lyla I…I thought the serum was supposed to help…” He sighs, brow twitching, eyes closing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It will… but you only took one dose. It’ll be more effective after a few more.” She replies. Watching him with a raised brow. His behavior. 

He sighs again, a slight growl in the back of his throat. Pacing back and forth on his platform and crossing his beefy arms, like trapping his restless hands under them. Finally sitting down in his chair. His legs spread wide. It’s the only way with the pressure in his loins. With the need to be released. He’s in rut. As embarrassing as it is. And you’re not here. It’s like the perfect storm. 

“Oh- just landed…” Lyla chirps, popping up by him and displaying the portal chamber surveillance footage right in front of his face. Too close to his face, lighting his angry features up in a yellow glow. “Lyla!” He growls, trying to grab at her pixelated form. His hand went right through. But his eyes finally land on your form. Walking through the main portal alongside some other spider people. The team he sent you with. You’ve just entered the building and he can already smell you. Your pheromones. You’re floors and floors down and he’s already getting hard. The pressure in his suit tightening. “Lyla. Go.” 

She giggles. Floating around, teasing him. She’s all too familiar with his behavior by now. She puts up with so much. “Have fun, bossman…” She snarks, her hologram dissipating in front of his frowny face. A huff of relief leaving him once she’s gone. Leaving him alone. Waiting for you. 

He groans. The ache. His cock hard and hurting for you. Glancing over his shoulder at the door. Not yet. His hands go down, cupping his erection, only to whine softly at the pain he inflicts. Just the smallest of touches and he’s keeling over in his desk chair. “Ay… Fuck…” He sighs. Sharp canines biting down hard on his lip.

“Heyyyy!” Your voice breaks through the silence of his office. Your scent is stronger than ever when you push the door open. The stimulation goes straight to his dick, like it’s begging for your heat. Begging to be soothed in your slick warmth. Desperate to fill you up. To mate. To breed you. 

“Oh my god, you should have seen me out there… I was pretty good if I do say so myself… got the bad guy and all that. Even got a few common crooks while we were staking out…” You explain, jumping up on his platform. Bringing the box of equipment to his desk and setting it down. It’ll need to be cleaned and assessed. Some pieces to be fixed before they go back in rotation. 

His eyes darken. Watching you walk by. He’s glad you’re back. Of course. He loves you. But his mind isn’t on that right now. Right now he’s thinking about how good you’d look swollen and full of his babies. Full of his cock. Dripping with his potent seed. 

“Ben was a perfect alternative, he stepped in and really helped us out… Peter thought so too…” You keep going. Going over everything that happened over the past few days. “That’s… good…” He manages to say. His voice low and hushed, a croak. Watching your back, your ass. Moving from behind the chair, standing a few feet behind you now. He swallows hard. 

You glance up at his screens. He must have been busy as always. Keeping himself busy. Your hands slow down as you place machinery pieces on his desk from the mission supply. Spider senses tingling. 

In a matter of seconds, he’s pressing up against you. His chest against your back and his nose burying in your hair, in your neck. Inhaling your scent. His hearing picks up on the rise in your heart rate. The way you react to him. 

“Missed me, hm?” You hum, smiling and leaning into him. 

“More than you know…” He huffs. Pressing himself into your ass. Letting you feel just how needy he is. Your suspicions were correct. It’s that time again. Your senses never let you down. 

“That’s good because I missed you…” You whisper. Coaxing him. Leaning your head back on his shoulder. Letting him grind into your ass. Rubbing his erection into the soft plushness. And you hear the releases of breath from his lips, like he’s been pent up so long. “I love you…” He whispers by your ear. One of his big hands wrapping around, splaying across your tummy, imagining himself burying deep, all the way to your womb. 

“I love you too…” You can’t help but smile, rubbing back against him, hearing the slight hiss at the back of his throat. “Remember that…” He hums, something of a warning. The words stir something inside you. And you know what’s to come. This kind of fuck only comes once in a blue moon. Because normal Miguel would never allow himself to be so cruel. 

“Remember.” He hums in your ear. Turning dials on his watch this whole time. Smashing the screen and your suit instantly retracts. The confrontation of the cold on your skin makes you shiver. It’s too much for him. Your scent is stronger than ever. His dick leaking and crying to be inside you already. A strong hand on your back pushes you down to the desk. Tits smooshing and tummy contracting on the cold glass surface. A shiver and gasp filling your body. His hands work fast. White stringy webs leaving his wrists. Letting them bind and wrap around you. Working them around your torso, across your breasts. His webs, decorating your skin, wrapping you up. He wraps them around your wrists like ropes, only stronger, harder to break. Beautiful web designs scatter along your arms, wrapped around your body like a fly in a spider’s web. Like you’re the spider’s final meal. A loud thwip and he’s mounting webs on two opposite walls, letting it connect to your arms and spreading them wide. You can’t escape, you can barely move. Hanging, dangling, ever so slightly. With only the desk under your belly for support. But then there’s his hands. 

His big warm hands, suddenly bare of his suit. His dark tanned skin, fingers running up your hips, down your ass and delivering a gentle smack. Making you whine. Your pussy aching for him at this point. And he can smell it. He can smell your slick, he can almost taste it in the air. Like a drug he knows by taste alone. It’s taking all his willpower not to pound into you just yet. But the rut does not cloud his judgment to that extent. He could never forget that he loves you and would never dream of hurting you. Tying you up in his webs, that’s a different story. 

His hand wraps around, fingers running up your slit, parting your folds and collecting your slick on his fingers. Bring the fingertips to his mouth to wet them further, tasting you and groaning. “Oh baby- fuck so good… so so good…” He mumbles, his hand going back down between your thighs and running along your slippery sex. His fingers teasing your hole before plunging inside. Making you shiver and shake. Pulling on the webs you’re restrained in. One finger, then two. Dripping down his fingers and onto the desk. His hormone levels are off the charts. His mind going crazy. Wanting to come. Wanting to spill his seed but needing it to be inside you. He won’t waste it. He needs to get you pregnant.

“Oh Miguel!! Ah! Mm-ngh…!” His fingers work their magic, bringing you to glorious orgasm. Your juices dripping down his knuckles as you moan and whine. The webs straining and tensing under the pressure of your pull. Panting for breath, your knees pulling up and hitting against the edge of his desk. Bent over, tied up and needy for more. 

When you come down from the high, his fingers pull free. Bringing his fingers to his lips. He’s quiet. In a trance. Hazy and half gone and he hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet. His eyes flutter and roll back at the taste of you on his tongue. Sucking on his fingers ravenously and you can only hear the sucking sounds mixed with his groans. Crimson eyes blowing wide, bashing his watch for his suit to disappear entirely. Instantly grinding his hard, pulsing dick along your puffy pussy. Teasing his tip around your entrance and sucking on his fingers like it soothes him. Pacifies his ache even a little bit. 

“Baby- babe you want… I want- you’re so good, baby, taste so good…” He murmurs incoherently, whining. Pushing his cock through your folds, up to your clit, making your toes curl, knees drawing up. Wrapping your hands around the webs binding you. “Ngh just take it all, okay? I’ll fill you up and-and… and… Dios…ah, te amo tanto… no puedo vivir sin ti…” He whimpers. The softness of your pussy against his needy tip makes him crumble. Keeling over and pressing his mouth to your shoulder. Massaging his dick through your slick. Savoring the feeling for a moment longer. “Ay mami…” 

He bites down on your shoulder. Using his fingers to guide his cock to your core and slipping in. His brain short circuiting at the tight wet pressure. “Fuck!” He growls, instantly spurting hot white. His voice hoarse and needy. Grabbing your hips in the front and pushing in all the way to the hilt. Pushing you up the desk, the webs straining as your arms pull. His body practically mounting yours. Stretching you out on his girth in one go. Pulling a shrill cry from your lips, moaning at the warmth flooding your belly. “Ngh-Miguel! Ohhhh….”

“Oh yes…” He hisses. Finding relief in final release. Who gives a shit if he didn’t get two pumps in before it happened. He’ll pump you with much more cum before the night is over.  

He pulls back, drawing aching whimpers from your lips. Trying to soothe you with kisses to your shoulder blades, your neck. Collecting your hair into his hand and gently pulling back. Moaning as he does it. And he plunges back in, molding you around his cock. Slipping in easier with his cum loosening you up. “T-todo lo que siempre he necesitado, mami…” His sweet words make your heart flutter. His face tucking into your neck from behind as he pumps into you.  

Moaning as he pulls back again and thrusts back in deep. Working up a rhythm, holding your hair back. His other hand wraps around to your clit, rubbing with tenderness in a stark contrast to his powerful pumps. Webs straining, the tension threatening to break the strands as you cry out for him. Legs shaking and trembling. His own moans are broken and hoarse. Full of need and desperation. All he can think of is filling you up. His cum, his DNA tainting you, mixing with yours. Making babies. Lots of them. The image of you full of his children makes him crazy. “You’ll be such a pretty mami, baby… so pretty, so so so…” He pants. His hips slapping your ass with every push, like wild animals in the jungle. His spider half taking over completely. Your soft whimpering moans fill his ears. His words shooting right to your core, making your eyes roll back and gushing on him. Crying out for him and the webs snap! Your arms dropping and you’d fall flat on the desk if he didn't grab you in time. Pulling you to his chest, pumping into you even faster. Climbing up on the desk and kneeling down for leverage. Pushing your body down to arch for him. Pounding into you with unending power. Even after you come, he doesn’t stop. Pulling one more trembling orgasm from you before he’s spurting once more. Filling you just like he promised. Finally stopping with a huff. His mind mostly gone but there’s part of him left, just for you. 

“You okay, mama? Look at me…” He whispers, turning you over gently. Admiring that look on your face. That fucked out smile. “Te amo… needa make sure it sticks…” 

Taglist!! love my sweeties!

@spooky-sculder

@slushycoookie @xxyaoi-nationxx @snails-doodles22 @scaryplanetdestroyer @fate13

@divorcepaperz @yeahnohoneybye @zaunsin @tomalymme @drefear

@mrs-pondwater19 @saintdiior @aphinthestars @hyjionie

@palomanh @maxad99 @muuuwoppppp

if you'd like to be added/dropped from the taglist, please comment on my masterlist post. Or else I might not see it! thank you! 🩷

[phoenixblaze1412]

Thought on Dottore x wife and assistant fem!reader who is like... Working as a real preoperative nurse but shy with everyone and the surgery team so she quit and work for her husband instead because it's make her more comfortable, sorry i'm kind of a lil delusional here :')

Thank you for readingg! Have a good day<33

The antiseptic scent of the operating room never quite left you—not even when you were no longer clocking in at the hospital.

You had once been a pre-op nurse at one of the top medical centers in the country. Calm hands. Precise. Professional. But there was always one thing that shadowed your ability: people.

You could prep a patient blindfolded, organize surgical trays to perfection, but… speaking to the team? Being in that loud, fast-paced arena where every glance felt like pressure and every sentence felt like judgment? It wore you down. You hated the sound of your own voice in the breakroom. You hated the eyes, the expectation to keep up a social rhythm you didn’t know the steps to.

So when you turned in your resignation, you weren’t expecting anything but guilt.

What you didn’t expect either was your husband—Zandik, known to the world as Il Dottore—to offer you a new position. One he had never extended to anyone else.

“Be my assistant,” he said, expression unreadable, “You’re the only one I trust in a sterile field anyway.”

That was his version of affection. You’d learned to translate it.

—

Working in his private clinic was different.

Here, you didn’t have to speak to a dozen nurses or surgeons. Just him.

You handed him scalpels in silence. You organized his files, set up the tools, sterilized, documented, observed. You never had to talk if you didn’t want to, and he never forced you to.

To the rest of his surgical research team—fellow doctors, residents, biotechnicians—he was the usual Dottore. Cold. Dismissive. Borderline robotic.

“You’re dismissed.”

“I told you already. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“That level of incompetence would be laughable if it weren’t on my time.”

They feared him. Respected him. But no one liked him.

Except you.

And you were the only one who ever saw him pull off his mask at the end of a procedure, sigh, and ask, quietly, “Are your hands sore today?”

Or who felt his hand briefly graze yours during prep, a silent signal of reassurance—he was proud of you.

You were the only one who ever got to lean against him during break hours, his long fingers tangled in your hair while he scrolled through clinical reports with his other hand.

No one knew how gently he spoke your name when he thought no one could hear.

No one else had ever seen the way his tone changed entirely when you made a mistake—not sharp, not cold, but low and measured:

“You’re okay. You didn’t ruin anything. Try again, love.”

You weren’t sure when he started calling you that at work. “Love.” As if it were a secret only he could say behind the safety of closed doors and double-locked labs.

—

One afternoon, you stood by the surgical table while he wrapped up a long robotic-assisted demonstration with an audience of international fellows. Everyone had their questions, and his answers were clipped and scathing, unimpressed by their awe.

Then his eyes flicked to you.

You were standing behind the glass window, waiting for your cue to sanitize and help with cleanup. His gaze softened—not obviously, not something anyone else would notice.

But you noticed.

He nodded. Just once.

The signal was clear: You can come in now. It’s okay. You’re safe here.

You stepped inside, hands steady, chest calm. No fear. Not like the old days.

And as you passed by him to sterilize the console, his voice dropped, so quiet only you could hear.

“You did well today. I’m… glad you’re here."

Your face flushed. He didn’t look at you when he said it. But that was his version of a kiss in public. And it meant everything.

—

Later, at home, you curled up in bed while he reviewed reports beside you. You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Do you miss the hospital?” he asked.

“No,” you said truthfully. “Too many people.”

He hummed. “Good.”

You peeked up at him shyly. “You don’t mind working with someone like me?”

That made him pause.

Then he turned, gently tilted your chin, and kissed your forehead with surgical precision—soft, deliberate, and reverent.

“You are not someone like you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re mine. And there is no one else I’d rather have at my side.”

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Lukewarm

summary: you and joel get scared by the weight of it all.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, sexual themes, suggestive language, anxiety/fear, angst, reconciliation

wc: 2,317

an: we did…have to have just a smidge of angst my friends i apologize! it’s so brief tho as if it never happened <333

set the table masterlist | pedro pascal characters masterlist

It’s been a little under two weeks and Joel still hasn’t followed through on dinner.

You know he’s been busy; repairs, patrols, god knows what else but a quiet part of you still aches from it. Not because you expected anything grand or extravagant. But you expected something, and you expected it soon. A follow-up, a gesture, proof that it meant something. That you didn’t make it all up, that the taste of him on your lips and the grip of his hands on your thighs were real.

But, you don’t press. You don’t ask. You just keep going.

You won’t chase after him or anyone for that matter, not when life in Jackson already feels like the second chance you never anticipated. You’re happy here, with friends and community and a sense of self that was hard to grasp before the outbreak. Guess it only took a zombie apocalypse for you to finally know and choose yourself.

You like Joel and though that’s putting it lightly, you don’t want to abandon yourself for him.

You promised yourself you would never do that again.

Days have passed and, you’re out behind the school helping with fall cleanup—pulling the last of the weeds, hauling out bags of dead leaves, replanting the garden beds with hardy perennials someone traded seeds for. It’s one of the warmer fall days so you’re sweating under the sun, bent over one of the beds, when a shadow creeps up behind you.

“You always this stubborn?”

You straighten and turn. Joel stands there holding two sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper, a smudge of dirt on one hand like he’s been working too. His glasses are perched on his nose. His eyes flicker over your sweaty forehead, your scraped knuckles, your cargos speckled with dirt with reverence. You must look a mess but you know that he doesn’t see it that way.

You smirk, easily matching his teasing, “Didn’t realize it was a crime to volunteer.”

Joel shrugs, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t say it was. Just looked like you needed fuel.”

You take the sandwich, hands brushing his, the touch lingering too long. Warmth curls in your chest despite yourself. “Thank you, Joel.”

It’s turkey and lettuce and tomato, a light smear of mayo. It taste like the second coming of Christ when you take a bite, your hunger now clawing its way to your conscience in the absence of manual labor.

He scratches the back of his neck. “Saw you strugglin’ with those bags earlier. Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Struggling?” you arch a brow. “That your subtle way of calling me weak, Miller?”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Didn’t say that either.”

He watches you eat—first with a fond softness, then something darker, something heated. He takes a few steps toward you, just close enough to start to crowd you against the fence. His eyes drop to your mouth, then flick back up. The simple action nearly steals your breath, making your head swim.

And that’s when a voice cuts through the haze.

“Joel!”

It’s someone from town walking up the cobblestone paths. Joel steps back so fast he nearly stumbles. His hands drop to his sides where they had been reaching for you, and his mouth tightens.

“I was just checkin’ on her,” he says quickly. “You know. Lookin’ out for the community.”

His voice is even, but you feel the sharp sting of it. A dismissal. An unexpected boundary drawn in the dirt, striking like a snake.

You swallow around the last bite of your sandwich. Joel nods a farewell to both of you and walks off.

You don’t watch him go. You drop to your knees without so much as word and start working again, movements infused with a new strength and emotional undercurrent.

—

That night, just after dark, there’s a knock at your door. You consider ignoring it. But something tells you it’s him. You consider ignoring it again just for that reason.

You don’t.

Joel stands on your porch, the porchlight gilding the edge of his hair, the crease of his brow. His jaw is wound tight, hands flexing at his sides.

“I fucked that up,” he says.

You don’t say anything, raising a brow at him.

He shifts, exhaling through his nose. “Can I come in?”

You let his question linger before stepping aside. He walks in like he’s bracing for impact—like your silence is louder than any scream. You stay quiet for a while, letting the weight of it build. Waiting for him to say something that makes this all go away.

Joel clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—like that. I just—when she showed up—fuck. I panicked.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. “You didn’t have to lie. Didn’t have to shrink it down like it didn’t mean anything.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to lie,” he says, voice low, rough. “I was tryin’ to make it easier. For me. For… all this.”

“All what?”

He gestures vaguely between you. “You and me. Whatever the hell we’re doin’. I ain’t done this in a long time.”

You stare at him, needing more.

“I haven’t been with anyone seriously since—since Sarah’s mom. That was before the outbreak. Before everything.” His throat works, but he forces the words out. “I didn’t think I’d ever do it again. Didn’t think I could.”

The tension between you stretches. “And now?” you ask.

He looks at you, eyes glassy with something almost like fear. “Now I’m scared I already fucked it.”

You nod slowly, eyes softening. “It’s not about you being scared, Joel. It’s about how it felt—being erased. Dismissed.”

“I know, baby. I know.” His voice softens. “I didn’t mean to make you feel hidden. I’m sorry.”

You look away, feel broken open by his regret, by the way his mouth molds around the word baby. “You didn’t even eat with me.”

“I should’ve,” he says, stepping forward just shy of reaching for you. “I should’ve followed through. I should’ve made the damn dinner.”

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, your voice a whisper.

Joel swallows hard. “Because it scared the shit outta me. Because you matter. And I haven’t let anyone matter the way you do in… decades.”

Your throat tightens.

He takes another steps forwar, still not touching you, but closer now. You can feel his heat. “But I’m here now.”

You lift your eyes to meet his, the silence standing between you, thick and fragile.

“You brought me a sandwich,” you say, voice flat. “Watched me eat it like I was yours. Like you wanted to pull me down in the grass and fuck me right there. And then you just walked away.”

Joel closes his eyes, like the words physically hit him. When he opens them again, they’re dark and stormy.

“I did bring you that sandwich,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “I watched you eat it like you were mine. Couldn’t stop starin’. You looked so goddamn perfect—sun on your face, dirt on your knees, smilin’ like I was the only man in the world.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and you can see it, the desire in his eyes blowing out his pupils even as the two of you argue.

“And yeah, I want to pull you down in that grass. Make you moan for me like you did the other night. Just—remind you how good I could make you feel, how good you are.”

There’s a pause, tight and trembling. You thank the universe for the counter you’re leaning on because he’s looking at you like he wants to consume you.

“But then someone came by and I… fuck, I got scared. Said the first thing that’d make it all seem like less. Like nothin’. Like you didn’t mean—”

He breaks off, looking down, jaw clenched. You don’t speak just yet, letting the silence hold.

When he finally lifts his eyes again, they’re different— glassy, raw. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he says. “Not ever. I’m just rusty. It’s been a long goddamn time since I…”

He swallows hard, shoulders curling in like the words physically hurt. “Since I loved someone. And I think I’m startin’ to. Whether I’m ready or not.”

Your breath catches. You look at him, really look at him—the set of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the shimmer of something raw in his eyes. He looks at you like he’s already bracing for your rejection.

You step close, lift a hand to cup his face. His breath stutters.

You kiss him. Soft, searching, aching. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He tries to deepen it—mouth parting, pressing closer, wanting more.

You gently pull back. “You don’t have to show me that way,” you whisper. “I want you to show me by staying. By being brave. By trying to find the light.”

His forehead presses to yours, breath shuddering. “I want that. With you.”

“I believe you mean it,” you murmur. “But you’re still scared. And I can’t be the only one who’s ready.”

A long silence. Joel nods.

“Okay,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “I’ll prove it.”

When he goes to leave you don’t stop him, much as you want to. You try to tell yourself you were fine before Joel Miller, fine during Joel Miller and certainly would be fine in the aftermath of him too. But that would be a lie. The brief moments you two have shared together already feel etched into you on a cellular level.

You hope more than anything you’ve ever hoped for that he’ll prove it.

—

The next few days are quiet. Awkward. Full of thought spirals.

You see Joel around town—out on patrols, fixing fences, delivering parts for repairs—but you don’t speak. You feel him watching you sometimes, feel the weight of his gaze skimming your skin.

It makes you burn. But, you’re tired of being the only one reaching. The only one that’s really risking. A person’s heart, their love and affection mean more now than ever in the circumstances of the world. You won’t be taken for granted or hurt, even if Joel has the best intentions. Even if…you may love him.

So you had to stop trying, stop repeating patterns that you would’ve before the outbreak or even it’s early days. Here in Jackson, you’ve found the space and courage to grow.

Later that week, there’s a town gathering.

Music and firepits and cider; laughter in the cooling autumn air. You wear a scarf and your softest sweater. Joel lingers across the clearing, posted near one of the fire, talking to Tommy. You feel his eyes in you but you don’t go to him.

You dance with a little girl who tugs your hand, with a few of the women that work with you in the library. Eventually, you even dance alone.

Then someone else asks you. A man you know vaguely from patrol. Peter. He’s kind and friendly. Nothing in his eyes but respect.

Despite knowing that the only person you want to dance with is across the clearing, you say yes, not wanting to bruise Peter’s self-esteem.

You dance and it’s a good enough time— you end up recommending him a few books to come pick up. You smile and laugh a little.

Joel watches. He watches like it hurts because it does. His jaw locked, his fists clenched, shoulders rigid as stone. It should be him that’s holding you, swaying you across the grass. Him that makes you smile and laugh.

Once the dance is over you’re very particular in not looking Joel’s way, not daring a single glance. Your efforts turn out to be in vain. Later as the crowd thins, he finds you near the edge of the field.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, a little shaky.

You turn, arms crossed, to keep out the cold and to keep Joel from fracturing your heart any further. “Hey.”

He shuffles from foot to foot a little awkwardly. “You look good tonight.”

Your cheeks warm against your will. “Thanks.”

Silence settles between you.

Joel exhales hard. “Can we talk?”

“We’re talking right now, Joel.”

He flinches at the hardest of your voice. He deserves it, he knows he does. But he’s used to your softness, your sweetness. He’s never seen you this way.

“I been doing some thinking and I— I can do this. I need to. Give me a chance, sweetheart. Just give me a chance to show I can do right by you. I can, I will. If you’ll have me.”

For several moments, you don’t answer. You just look at him, eyes unreadable as they scrutinize every single piece of him. Something in them shifts, a softening around the edges and you nod, just once.

He nods back, chest rising like he’s steadying himself for something.

“Can I walk you home?”

Your answer comes much more quickly this time. “Sure.”

With no hesitation, Joel offers you his arm, in front of everyone that’s left in the field. You hesitate, but when your eyes meet his to check in there’s no insincerity there. Just brown warmth and encouragement.

You take it with a shy smile, waving goodbye to the women from the library, Tommy and Maria. Ellie and Dina give you smirks that you swear make Joel blush.

The walk back to your small house is silent. Neither of you is sure what to say, but as you draw nearer to your place you find yourself drawing nearer to him. By the time you make it there, your arm is around his waist, his is wrapped around you to fold you against him.

“Thank you for walking me home.”

“Thanks for lettin’ me.”

He walks you up to your porch and you give him a hug. He squeezes you back, before making his way down the stairs. The sight of him walking away from you makes you realize that tonight, you don’t want to be without him.

Before he gets too far away, you call after him. “Joel.”

Joel turns around so quickly he nearly stumbles, his eyes wide when he looks at you. “Yeah?”

You fiddle with the frayed edge of your scarf, the fabric soothing. “Do you want to stay? Not to—just to sleep. Do you want to stay?”

“I do. Are you sure?”

Your response is a simple gesture— you hold your hand out for him, and when he takes it, you guide him into your house.

Into your heart.

> pt. iv

nsfw joel miller taglist: @lesbianhotch, @ozarkthedog, @lowrisemiller, @iamthatonefangirl, @campingwiththecharmings, @stargazingcarol, @megamindsecretlair, @nerdieforpedro, @fakeplasticfeels, @for-a-longlongtime, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike, @arsonhotchner, @ashmiller, @veritable-trash, @yesjazzywazzylove-blog, @ficsavin, @diedorleft, @meetmeatyourworst, @amyispxnk, @marc-spectorr, @luzhesrozes, @joelmillersonlyprincess, @pedroswife69

and a couple others i noticed enjoyed the first two parts 🫶🏾😌: @banana-cheese-cake, @salingers

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Kageyama

It started with borrowed notes and ended with a study group. Well—started might be generous. It accidentally evolved into a study group.

You hadn’t been trying to be helpful, exactly. Yachi had asked if she could borrow your English notes one afternoon after class, frazzled and muttering about upcoming quizzes and something about Hinata writing “past tentacle” instead of “past participle.” That part might’ve been a joke. Or maybe it wasn’t.

“I just— I think they need someone who’s not already burned out,” she said, waving her hands while balancing her notebook and a pen. “They listen to me, but it’s like… they hear English and immediately go blank. You’re good at this. Could you maybe... help?”

You’d agreed, mostly because it seemed cruel not to. And that’s how you ended up in the back corner of the library, sitting across from Kageyama Tobio and Hinata Shouyou as they squinted at their textbooks like the words had personally offended them.

At first, it was just the three of you. You tried to keep things light — patient examples, color-coded worksheets, and a rotating snack selection that Hinata always finished by the halfway mark. Kageyama didn’t talk much. But he listened, sharp-eyed and silent, only interrupting to ask dead-serious grammar questions like, “Why does this rule exist if no one uses it?”

(You didn’t have an answer. You never had an answer for that.)

A week later, Yamaguchi drifted over with his usual quiet smile and a question about conditional clauses. The next session, Tsukishima showed up, leaned against the end of the table, and said, “You’re all hopeless. Move over.”

And just like that, it was a group.

You started looking forward to the sessions — not because of the grammar (which remained abysmal across the board), but because it felt easy.

Even Tsukishima, for all his sarcasm, had a rhythm to him. Yachi jotted notes and brought candy. Yamaguchi helped quiz people with a soft, steady voice. Hinata vibrated with caffeine and overconfidence. And Kageyama… Kageyama sat next to you every time, his chair just a little closer than strictly necessary.

He didn’t say much. Not when everyone was there. But he always paid attention. Always lingered a little longer after cleanup. Always walked you partway out, even when the others took a different exit.

You weren’t blind. You noticed it — the way he turned toward you when you talked, how he never interrupted, how his ears turned faintly pink when you gave him a compliment. But he never said anything. And you never asked.

Until the afternoon it all cracked wide open.

It had been a long session. Hinata had gotten into a minor (loud) debate with Tsukishima over the pronunciation of “colonel,” and Yachi had spilled water on someone’s handouts. When the group started packing up, you offered to return a few library books to the front. You weren’t gone long — maybe two or three minutes — but when you came back, the table was already half-empty.

You rounded the bookshelf toward your usual spot—

“—just tell her you like her already,” Hinata was saying.

You froze.

Kageyama let out a low, warning sound. “Hinata.”

“What?” Hinata groaned. “You’re so obvious about it. You sit next to her every time, you remember everything she says, you start blushing if she even looks at you—”

“Hinata.”

“You like her, dude!”

Silence.

Then your voice, flat and confused:

“…Uh. What?”

Hinata looked up like a man just realizing he’d walked into oncoming traffic.

You stood there, clutching your tote bag, eyes wide.

He blinked. “Oh no.”

You blinked back.

Then Hinata ran.

Not a slow backpedal. Not a stammered excuse. He bolted, arms flailing like he thought he could outrun the memory of what he just said. “I’M SORRY!” echoed behind him as he vanished down the hallway.

Kageyama hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

A heavy silence fell between you, padded only by the distant slam of a library door.

Kageyama shifted, his hands at his sides, stiff and tense.

“…I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he said quietly.

You let out a slow breath, heart thudding. “Okay.”

“I mean, it’s true,” he added, eyes still locked somewhere near your shoes. “But I wasn’t going to say anything. Not yet.”

You stepped forward, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

His words were simple. But the weight of them hit your chest like a stone.

He finally met your gaze — hesitant, blue eyes clear and unflinching despite the visible tension in his jaw. “I like the group. I like studying with you. I like being around you. A lot.”

Something tightened in your throat.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said.

“I didn’t plan it,” he rushed out. “I just— you’re good at explaining things. You don’t make me feel stupid. You’re calm. You listen. And I started noticing other stuff, too.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He hesitated. “Your notes. You write neatly, but your margins are always crooked. You tap your pen when you’re thinking but never when you’re reading. You always bring something sweet to the group but pretend you didn’t mean to share.”

Your face grew warm.

“I notice that when you smile after Tsukishima says something rude, it’s because you’re trying not to laugh. And when Hinata stresses you out, you do that thing where you rub the bridge of your nose.”

You stared at him.

“I notice you,” he finished simply.

Silence fell again, but it was a different kind of quiet this time — not strained, not shocked, but soft. Full.

You stepped a little closer.

“…You never made it weird.”

Kageyama blinked. “Huh?”

“I mean, if you liked me this whole time… you didn’t make it weird.” Your voice faltered just slightly. “You were just… present. Thoughtful. I always felt comfortable with you.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s good. Because I felt like I was dying inside.”

You did laugh then, one hand curling around the strap of your bag.

Kageyama looked down, but not away.

“So,” he said cautiously, “do you hate me now?”

You rolled your eyes. “No. I don’t hate you.”

His shoulders loosened a fraction.

You bit the inside of your cheek before you added, “I might like you too.”

His eyes widened.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you added, “but you’re kind. You’re quiet, but you listen better than anyone. And when you’re serious about something, you go all in. I noticed too.”

His breath caught just slightly.

You smiled. “So. Maybe… if you wanted to walk me home sometime, or split snacks before a session, or sit a little closer—”

“You’re literally within arm’s reach,” he said.

“I know,” you said, grinning. “But now it’d be on purpose.”

He blinked. Then, after a moment, he nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

A pause.

“…Want to chase after Hinata and make him cry?”

Kageyama smirked faintly. “A little.”

You laughed again, feeling the last of the nerves melt away.

And when you stepped back into the hallway, your arms brushed.

This time, neither of you moved away.

[lnracer]

Pairing: Son of Apollo! Lando x Daughter of Aphrodite! Reader.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1.501k.

a/n: Set in the PJO universe, hope you like it! 📜𖹭

Lando’s gaze flickered to her across the campfire, the golden light catching the angles of her face, the way her lips curved as she spoke to someone else. He couldn’t help it — his heart skipped, his mind scrambled. But as always, that sharp, familiar bite of self-doubt followed.

She must think she’s untouchable, he thought, watching her laugh, effortlessly perfect in a way that made everyone else fade into the background. She was like one of those people who are just used to being loved. Who expect it, even. Who think being loved by someone is some kind of privilege. Like it’s a favor.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. That’s it, right? She never even notice people like him. Just someone to look at and move on from. Like it’s nothing.

Lando forced himself to look away. To not let his mind run circles, to not let himself get lost in the illusion that someone like her would ever look at someone like him.

But gods, the way she smiled when she did.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The sun cast golden light through the Camp Half-Blood training arena, glinting off Lando’s curls as he leaned against the railing, carelessly twirling a celestial bronze dagger between his fingers. He wasn’t paying attention to the sparring session in front of him — how could he, when she were there?

She stood in the shade, casually tossing her hair over her shoulder, her laughter like honey. Daughter of Aphrodite — of course she was ethereal, captivating, the kind of beauty that made people forget their own names. But it wasn’t just that. Lando saw something else in her — sharp wit behind her glossy lips, kindness in her eyes, and this grace that moved through her like a secret.

She was poetry, and he was a song too scared to start.

He was hooked. Completely, pathetically entranced. And she had no idea.

Or so he thought.

Truth was, she knew. Gods, she knew.

Every time he walked by, golden and smiling like he belonged on a chariot, she felt the blush rise in her chest. Her fingers twitched at her side. She bit her lip, too proud to let anything show — because being a daughter of Aphrodite meant people always assumed she was already in control. Like she couldn’t possibly be flustered.

But she was.

When he laughed at something she said, she had to stop herself from staring at his lips for too long. When his fingers brushed hers — by accident, during campfire cleanup — she spent the whole night rolling over in bed, replaying the moment over and over again.

She tried to act normal. Polished. Refined. Goddess-forbid he ever knew what really went on in her head when he smiled at her like that — when his voice dipped low and sincere, when he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

Just like the way mortals once looked at dawn — like she was something holy, something kissed by light itself. There was a stillness in him whenever she walked into the room, as if the world slowed just to let him memorize the way she moved. And though he was born of the sun, heir to Apollo’s fire, it was her glow that warmed him most. To Lando, she wasn’t just beautiful — she was his sunlight. A softness he never thought he deserved, yet couldn’t help but reach for.

Lando didn’t think he had a shot. How could he? She was untouchable. People looked at her like a dream. He looked at her like she hung constellations with her hands. And he figured she didn’t even know he existed, not really — not in the way he wanted.

Too caught up in self-doubt.

He didn’t see the way her gaze lingered when he walked away. The way her breath caught when his arm brushed against hers in the corridor. The way she burned with wanting, silenced by fear that wanting too loudly would scare him off.

That night, at the campfire, their legs brushed beneath the log they shared, and her eyes flicked to his. His breath hitched.

The silence was electric.

He whispered, “You always look like you’re thinking something you’re not saying.”

She looked at the flames, heart thudding like a war drum. And with a slow smile, she answered:

“Maybe I am.”

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

She couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the way Lando’s eyes had lingered too long on hers at the fire, or maybe it was just the thick summer air at Camp Half-Blood, buzzing with tension she couldn’t shake off. Whatever the reason, she found herself wandering, the moon painting silver over the grass.

That’s when she heard it.

A voice, low and half-laughing, somewhere near the Apollo cabin gardens — quiet enough that he must’ve thought no one could hear. She crept closer, careful, heart pounding for reasons she didn’t dare name yet.

And there he was: Lando. Sitting on the steps, knees drawn up, a crumpled piece of parchment in one hand, muttering something to the night air.

At first, she thought it was a song. But as she drew closer, she realized — no. It was a poem.

For her.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

"O daughter of the foam and rose,

Whose footsteps sow the earth in bloom,

What temple could I build to house

The ruin of my heart for you?

A throne of gold? A silver tomb?

Or only this: a nameless ache,

A prayer not meant for gods to take—"

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

He broke off there, chuckling bitterly under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.

“So pathetic, mate,” he muttered to himself. “Like she’d even look at you.”

She stood frozen, air thick in her lungs, the words sinking into her skin like molten gold.

He meant it. All of it. And he thought he didn’t have a chance.

Her heart cracked wide open.

Without thinking, she stepped into the light. “You should finish it,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s head snapped up, horror flashing across his face when he saw her. The parchment nearly slipped from his fingers. “I—I didn’t know anyone—”

She crossed the space between her with measured steps, heart hammering in her chest. Don’t be scared, she told herself. Don’t hide.

When she stood in front of him, close enough to see the flush rising along his cheeks, she smiled — soft, real, no Aphrodite glamour needed.

“I think,” she said carefully, “you should finish it. Because if you don’t…” She paused, gathering her courage the way a goddess might gather her silken robes. “...you’ll never find out that you’re not the only one who lies awake thinking about all the things they’d do.”

For a heartbeat, Lando just stared at her, uncomprehending.

And then her hand brushed his, tentative, anchoring.

His breath stuttered out of him.

“Are you—” His voice broke, rough. “You’re serious?”

She smiled wider. “I won’t deny it,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

The parchment fluttered to the ground between them as Lando surged up, the space snapping shut like it had never been there at all.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

Lando’s hands hovered at her waist, like he still didn’t quite believe she was real, like if he touched too hard she might dissolve into mist.

“You’re sure?” he whispered, voice cracking slightly at the edges.

She tipped her chin up, so close now she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. “I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

Lando closed the distance in a breathless, reverent kind of way — as if kissing her was a sacred act, something he might be punished for daring. His lips brushed hers lightly at first, tentative, like the first brush of sun over the horizon.

But when she threaded her fingers into his curls, pulling him closer, something broke loose in him. He kissed her deeper then, a sunburst kind of kiss, golden and warm and desperate with all the words he hadn’t said.

She sighed against his mouth, melting into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, the whole camp — the whole world — fading into nothing but the two of them.

And in that moment, she realized something so deep it felt written into the marrow of her bones:

Maybe it had always been leading here.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The daughter of Aphrodite, born of foam and longing, who carried beauty like a weapon and a shield, had found her match not in a warrior, nor in a prince, but in a son of Apollo — he who bore the sun in his veins, who crafted songs out of longing, and poems out of hope.

It was not conquest that tied them, nor flattery, nor even fate. It was something simpler, older: beauty drawn to light, longing drawn to warmth. The heart, ancient and new, recognizing its echo in another.

The goddess's daughter and the god's son became one — not in temples or battles, but in a kiss under the silver eye of the moon, where beauty at last found a place to rest in the arms of the sun.

[wosospacegirl]

Ohh I know ATWRreader would be sooo jealous abt this

Y/n had been excited to watch Kyra play.

Because of her injury, she wasn’t called up for yet another FIFA date, but at least she was allowed to travel with Kyra. 

They were staying in the same hotel room, and Y/n even got a free pass to watch the game from the family section. Y/n was actually happy. She was learning to enjoy not being on the pitch and just cheering.

Until that moment.

It happened midway through the second half. A tangle of legs, a misjudged pass, and Kyra went down–hard. Face-first. 

Y/n's heart jumped to her throat. She gripped the edge of the bench in the family section, tense, watching the scene unfold.

Before anyone else could react, Charli was there, kneeling beside Kyra. She helped her up, one arm around Kyra’s waist, her other hand so gently brushing at Kyra’s face. 

Y/n could see her lips moving–saying something comforting, no doubt–and Kyra just stood there. Serene. A small, crooked smile on her face.

Y/n narrowed her eyes. She didn’t even realize she was fuming until Mami’s wife’s voice broke through her thoughts. “She’s alright, I think.”

“She better be,” Y/n muttered under her breath.

Y/n didn’t wait for the game to end. She grabbed her bag and stormed back to their hotel room, needing space from the growing tension in her chest.

..

Back at the hotel, Kyra hummed softly as she unlocked the door, still a bit sore but in a happy mmo. She pushed the door open to find Y/n sprawled on the bed in her hoodie, arms crossed, lips set in a firm line.

“Hey,” Kyra greeted, toeing off her sneakers. “Why didn’t you wait for us?”

Y/n didn’t respond immediately. She just looked at her. Really looked. 

Dirt still clung faintly to the hem of Kyra’s shorts, and there was a tiny smudge near her temple–missed during the locker room cleanup.

“Do you seriously not know, Kyra?” Y/n asked, her voice quieter than she intended, though it still carried a sharp edge.

Kyra looked at her with the most innocent expression on her face, which made Y/n almost soften… almost.

“I’m just surprised you came to our room after the game instead of, I don’t know, going out to celebrate with Charli,” Y/n added.

Kyra blinked, clearly confused. “Huh?”

“Charli. Right there on the field. Everyone saw it,” Y/n continued, eyes narrowing.

Kyra smiled at her, still confused. “What are you talking about?”

Y/n turned her head, clearly annoyed now. “She was stroking your face, Kyra. With two hands. And you just stood there.”

Kyra took a second to process, then suddenly burst out laughing. “What?! Baby, she literally wiped dirt off my face. I fell. Flat. Like, chin-first.”

Y/n folded her arms tighter, not convinced. “Yeah, but she was way too gentle and way too close.”

“My love, she was close because her arms are not two kilometers long?” Kyra said, trying not to giggle.

Y/n wasn’t buying it. “She touched your nose, very, very softly–it was intimate.”

Kyra smiled softly and placed her hand on Y/n's. “My love, she’s a teammate. And a very close friend of mine.”

“Way too close,” Y/n murmured under her breath, though she couldn’t deny the feeling in her chest.

Kyra sat down beside her, bumping her shoulder against Y/n’s. “Come on. You’re not really jealous, are you?”

Y/n didn’t answer right away, her silence speaking volumes.

“Oh my God,” Kyra gasped, her eyes wide with realization. “You are. You’re mad because someone wiped mud off my face. That’s adorable.”

Y/n huffed, turning her head away, a little embarrassed. “I’m not mad. And I’m also not jealous. I just didn’t like it.”

Kyra smirked and leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Y/n’s ear. “Well, next time I faceplant, I’ll make sure you’re the one to clean me up. Deal?”

Y/n finally looked at her, her grumpy mask cracking into a small, reluctant smile. “Deal.”

Kyra grinned, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to Y/n’s cheek, sending a spark of warmth through her. Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. 

She let Kyra curl up beside her, arm wrapped gently around her waist, content.

Kyra’s lips brushed against Y/n’s temple as she shifted closer, brushing away that last trace of dirt Charli had missed. “Next time you fall,” Y/n murmured, her tone playful, “I’m bringing a whole towel.”