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ladysif8 · 27 days ago

Text

BookTok Made Me Do It

•Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Size OFC

•Rating: Explicit

•Tags: Alternate Universe, Modern Day Bucky, Motorcycle Driver Bucky, Plus Size OFC, She Thick & Curvy, Body Dysmorphia, Weight Issues, BookTok, Bestie Darcy, Sam Wilson Has Seen Somethings, Smooth Talker Bucky, Sex, Flirting.

Summary:

In the heart of steamy Savannah, Georgia, tucked between Spanish moss and cobblestone streets, sits Bean There, Read That-a chaotic little bookstore-slash-coffee-shop serving up caffeine, filth, and every BookTok rec under the sun.

Madison is the unapologetically plus-size, smut-loving owner with a dirty mind and a soft spot for morally gray book boyfriends. Her bestie and chaos partner, Darcy Lewis, helps keep the espresso shots flowing and the spice levels dangerously high.

But nothing could've prepared Madison for the day her walking wet dream strolled through the door in the form of Bucky Barnes-gruff, inked, and sin wrapped in leather. One motorcycle ride later, and Savannah's heat has nothing on them.

Author Note

Look, I've got one WIP. Possibly another, depending on whether caffeine or chaos wins today. I'm also writing an original novel like some kind of overachieving lunatic, working full-time, Mom-ing full-time (yes, it's a verb now), and casually battling insomnia like it's an Olympic sport. And yet... my brain, that twisted little goblin, keeps throwing one-shot ideas at me like it's trying to win a prize I didn't sign up for. Do I know how I'm still functioning? No. Do I know what day it is? Also no. But am I writing anyway? Absolutely. Send snacks.

P.S Also send caffeine!

Savannah, Georgia, is a city that breathes history and charm, where cobblestone streets wind through a landscape draped in Spanish moss. The live oaks stretch their gnarled branches over the walkways, their silvery-green canopies filtering the golden sunlight. Their leaves rustle with a soft, whispering hush in the warm breeze, which carries the mingling scents of blooming jasmine, fresh earth after an afternoon rain, and the briny tang of the nearby river.

Historic buildings with sun-faded facades and ornate wrought-iron balconies stand like silent storytellers, their walls softened by time, their windows reflecting the ever-shifting light of day. Gas lanterns flicker on as dusk settles, their glow casting long shadows across the uneven brick sidewalks. The air feels thick with stories—some whispered through the creak of an old porch swing, others echoing in the hidden courtyards behind ivy-covered gates.

Tucked along one of Savannah's quieter side streets, between a weathered brick coffee shop and a row of historic townhouses, sits a small bookstore with a name as charming as its atmosphere—Bean There, Read That. A faded green-and-gold awning shades the paned front windows, which are crowded with artfully stacked books, handwritten recommendations on notecards, and a small chalkboard announcing the latest arrivals. A brass bell jingles softly as the door swings open, ushering visitors into a world where the scent of aged paper and freshly brewed coffee wraps around them like a well-loved quilt.

This bookstore is a BookTok lover's dream, the kind of place where readers can get lost in every trope imaginable. Dark romance, enemies-to-lovers, morally gray heroes, spicy fantasies, cozy romances—the shelves are overflowing with every genre that has dominated social media feeds. A section near the entrance is dedicated entirely to trending books, their covers displayed with small sticky notes bearing staff recommendations and excited exclamation points. Posters of H.D. Carlton, Nevesa Allen, Penelope Douglas, Colleen Hoover, and other BookTok-favorite authors adorn the walls, their quotes scrawled in looping script beneath their images. A neon sign near the register reads, "One more chapter..." casting a warm glow over the counter where stacks of pre-orders wait for eager readers.

The bookstore's walls are lined with towering wooden shelves that bow slightly under the weight of their treasures. Hardcovers with cracked spines and dog-eared paperbacks sit alongside glossy new editions, their pages whispering with the promise of adventure. A rolling ladder, its rungs worn smooth, glides along the highest shelves, inviting readers to explore hidden gems tucked into forgotten corners. The honey-colored hardwood floors creak gently underfoot, a soothing counterpoint to the distant strains of jazz playing from an old record player near the counter.

A wide archway on the right leads into the coffee shop, a warm, inviting space where the hiss of the espresso machine blends with the rhythmic clinking of ceramic mugs. The walls here are exposed brick, rich and dark with age, adorned with framed literary quotes and watercolor paintings of Savannah's famous squares. The seating is eclectic—mismatched chairs and cozy booths, with a long window seat running beneath the wide front window where customers linger over their lattes, watching the world drift by outside. The air is thick with the scent of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and vanilla, punctuated now and then by the buttery sweetness of fresh-baked scones.

The two spaces flow seamlessly together, creating a sanctuary where time slows just enough for stories to unfold—whether on the page or in quiet conversations over steaming cups of coffee. Some customers come for the books and stay for the cappuccino; others arrive for the coffee but find themselves drawn into the aisles, trailing fingertips over well-worn spines as if searching for a story that's been waiting just for them. Here, amid the ink and steam, strangers become friends, words become memories, and for a little while, the world outside feels a little softer, a little slower—just enough for the magic to take hold.

It was a beautiful morning, the air thick with humidity, the kind that settled on your skin like a second layer of clothing. The air clung, heavy and wet, turning every breath into something you had to work for. As you stepped outside, it felt like slicing through a wall of heat—each step a deliberate push through the dense atmosphere. The world shimmered faintly under its weight, the pavement already warm beneath your feet, and it wasn't even 8:30 yet, the scent of damp earth and blooming magnolia hanging in the air like perfume. Even the breeze, when it stirred, was no relief—just a reminder that the heat could move, too.

Standing behind the scuffed wooden counter of Bean There, Read That, Madison's fingers flew over the register, efficiently ringing up a customer's latest haul. Her ombre red hair—shifting from deep auburn to fiery copper—was haphazardly twisted up, secured with a skull-hand clip, looking like something straight out of a gothic fairy tale. A few wild curls had escaped, framing her round, freckled face as she shifted her weight. The hem of her knotted T-shirt—boldly declaring, "Morally Gray Is My Favorite Color"—rode up slightly over the waistband of her worn-in denim shorts, the fabric soft and well-loved from years of wear.

The familiar beep of the scanner blended into the comforting soundtrack of the store—the occasional rustle of a turned page, the murmur of conversation from the café side, and the soft hiss of Darcy expertly steaming milk for a latte.

"Alright," Madison said, flashing her bright, bracey smile as she slid a receipt across the counter. "You're leaving here with some serious heartbreak and highly questionable moral choices, but in the best way." She tapped the top book in the customer's stack—a dark romance with a moody, black-and-red cover—her grin turning downright wicked. "This one? Total emotional devastation. Have snacks ready. And maybe a support group."

Before the customer could respond, a frozen coffee drink—towering with an absurd amount of whipped cream and caramel drizzle—landed on the counter.

"Did she bully you into that one?" Darcy asked, raising an eyebrow at the customer before glancing pointedly at Madison. "She did, didn't she?"

Darcy Lewis—Madison's best friend, her other half, her partner in crime, her soulmate in everything but romance, and, most importantly, her business partner.

They had met in middle school, drawn together like two characters from wildly different genres thrown into the same book club. Madison had been quirky, quiet, and reserved—the kind of girl who got lost in fantasy worlds and always had ink smudges on her fingers from scribbling notes in the margins of her books. Darcy, on the other hand, had been loud, outgoing, and unapologetically blunt—the type who talked too much in class but always had the best book recommendations.

Somehow, they had balanced each other perfectly. Madison thrived in chaos—stacks of books, half-finished projects, and an endless supply of Post-it notes filled with story ideas. Darcy kept things moving, bringing order to the madness with an easy confidence and the kind of attitude that made people believe she had everything under control, even when she didn't.

Now, years later, their dynamic remained the same. Madison sold people on stories; Darcy kept them caffeinated enough to stay up all night reading them. Together, they had turned Bean There, Read That into something more than a bookstore and café—it was a haven for book lovers, a caffeine-fueled sanctuary where mismatched souls found the stories they didn't know they needed.

Madison rolled her eyes, grabbing another book from the pile and slipping it into a tote bag. "Ignore her. I do."

"Gah!" Darcy clutched her chest dramatically. "That is just rude. Why do I put up with you?"

Madison smirked, handing the now-full tote to the blonde on the other side of the counter. "Because nobody else will put up with either of us?"

Darcy narrowed her eyes. "Touché." With a playful glare, she turned and sauntered back toward the café.

The customer—a sweet girl named Abby—laughed, her hands curling around the tote bag's sturdy handles. The bag, printed with the phrase 'Just One More Chapter,' sagged slightly under the weight of her new bookish obsession.

"I'm so excited to read these!" Abby gushed. "I just came across BookTok last night and was immediately intrigued."

Madison adjusted her thick-framed glasses, absently pushing them back up where they had started to slide. "Let me know if you enjoy them," she said, nodding toward the bag. "I've got some new books coming in later this week, you might like if those turn out to be your thing."

Abby's face lit up. "Oh my gosh, really? I totally will!"

Madison grabbed a Bean There, Read That bookmark—this one sporting a doodled stack of books with tiny stars around it—and tucked it into the tote. Enjoy your books! And if that plot twist ruins your life, come back and yell about it with me."

Abby practically bounced out of the store, her grin wide and her arms loaded with stories, and Madison leaned against the counter, exhaling happily as she took in her surroundings.

Books were stacked in precarious, to-be-shelved piles, some dangerously close to toppling. Handwritten staff picks—taped to the shelves with colorful washi tape—were scrawled with passionate notes and doodled hearts, exclamation points, and tiny warnings like "Wrecked me in the best way."

A nearby section, labeled BookTok's Worst (Best) Influence, boasted everything from spicy romantasies to grumpy/sunshine tropes and forbidden love stories so intense they made people clutch their chests dramatically in the aisles. The walls were decorated with posters of BookTok darlings—H.D. Carlton, Penelope Douglas, Neveesa Allen—some of which had cheeky annotations scrawled in Sharpie. Someone—probably Madison herself—had added a sticky note to one cover that read, "This man is RUINING LIVES and I am HERE FOR IT."

At that moment, a low thud echoed from the fairy section, followed by the sound of something clattering to the floor.

"Kyle!" Madison called without even turning around.

From behind a nearby bookshelf emerged the store's resident menace—Kyle, a stocky orange tabby with a white chin, a kinked tail, and the deeply chaotic energy only orange cats possess. His fur was a perpetual mess of static, and his wide, unbothered eyes made it very clear he had no regrets. He hopped onto the counter with a dramatic flick of his tail, narrowly missing a stack of bookmarks.

"He knocked over the Meredith Gentry series again," Darcy called from the café. "Tell your furry son to get a job!"

Kyle blinked slowly, then began aggressively licking his paw like the very picture of innocence.

"Don't let the toe beans fool you," Madison muttered, scratching him under the chin. "He's a menace."

Kyle purred loud enough to vibrate the counter.

The orange terror leapt down again, making a beeline for his cat tree tucked beside the romance section. He clambered up the tower like he owned the place—because, honestly, he did—and then flopped dramatically in the cat bed nestled in the sun-warmed front window. Within seconds, he was sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, basking in a sunbeam like he hadn't just terrorized a customer ten minutes ago for trying to pet him uninvited.

From the café, Darcy muttered something about abandoned coffee cups, and Madison smirked, grabbing her own iced coffee before turning back to the register, already scanning the store for her next victim.

Someone in this shop needed to be lovingly bullied into their next bookish obsession.

And Madison was just the woman for the job.

Madison trudged down the sidewalk, the brown paper takeout bag in her arms rapidly soaking through with sweat from her palms. The air was a sauna, thick and muggy, and every step felt like wading through hot syrup. Her thighs stuck together uncomfortably, and her denim shorts were riding up in places she definitely didn't appreciate. Her T-shirt—normally loose and soft—now clung to her skin like shrink-wrap, damp and suffocating. She felt like a busted can of biscuits, about to pop at the seams. Her face was flushed, a bright red she could feel without needing a mirror, and sweat was collecting at the small of her back in a way that made her want to scream. Not to mention her damn glasses were fogged up. It was one of those days where every inch of your skin just aches from being too hot.

As she turned the corner toward the bookstore, she barely registered the low purr of an engine until it rumbled to a stop right in front of her. A motorcycle. Big. Loud. Sinfully sleek. The guy riding it pulled up with effortless confidence, boots hitting the pavement as he kicked down the stand. Madison's steps slowed. Her eyes widened.

She couldn't see his face thanks to the matte black helmet, but everything else? Lord help her. His black T-shirt was plastered to his chest like a second skin, showing off a body sculpted like he lived in the gym—or maybe just wrestled bears for fun. His jeans were criminally tight, the kind that made her forget how to blink. They clung to him like they were made specifically for him, tracing every muscle, and it was so distracting that she almost forgot to breathe. His motorcycle boots were scuffed in a way that suggested they'd actually seen the road—and that was somehow even hotter. She caught the flash of woven and beaded bracelets on both wrists, and something about that tough guy with artsy wrist candy made her brain short-circuit. He looked like one of those guys she followed on TikTok just to thirst over in silence at 2 a.m.

And then he pulled off the helmet.

Madison tripped over absolutely nothing.

Because underneath that helmet was a face so stupidly beautiful it should've come with a warning label—thick dark hair, messy but perfectly styled, long on top with a fade on the sides. A lightly stubbled jaw that made her heart stutter, and the prettiest damn blue eyes she'd ever seen, framed by lashes that looked like they belonged on a model, not a guy who probably spent half his time getting mud on his boots. She nearly dropped their lunch right there on the sidewalk.

For a split second, all she could do was stare, wide-eyed, her entire brain unable to process anything other than the fact that this man was real and not a figment of her overheated imagination. The heat of the day felt miles away for just a moment, as if the world had narrowed down to just him, the kind of gorgeous that made her feel dizzy.

Bucky swung his leg off the bike, the engine's hum dying down as he pulled the helmet off with one hand and ran the other through his sweat-damp hair. The air hit him like a slap, thick with Southern heat—stifling and relentless, wrapping around him like a damn wet blanket that didn't let go. His shirt clung to his back, sticky and uncomfortable, and even his jeans felt like they were suffocating him. He should've worn something lighter, but honestly? He hadn't exactly planned on sticking around long enough to feel like he was baking in an oven.

He'd been down here a week, visiting his college best friend Sam Wilson with his other lifelong best friend, Steve Rogers.

Steve and Bucky had met Sam one night at a college party—Steve and Sam hit it off right away. Bucky and Sam? That had taken a bit longer. But now the three of them were thick as thieves.

Somehow, Sam had managed to convince them to spend their summer in Savannah fuckin' Georgia. Bucky had been all set to hop back on the bike, head out of this sticky, suffocating town, and get back to somewhere cooler—preferably with fewer bugs.

And then he saw her.

She was coming down the sidewalk, arms full of takeout, looking like every step was a battle she was losing. The way she moved—like the very air was conspiring against her—had Bucky's attention locked on her. Her face was red, hair clinging to her forehead in damp curls, her thighs sticking together in the heat just like his. Her glasses, perched on her nose, were fogged up from the humidity, making her squint slightly as she tried to navigate through the oppressive warmth. But despite the obvious discomfort, there was something endearing about the chaos surrounding her. Her T-shirt was clinging to her in all the right ways, the fabric stretching slightly as it molded to her curves, her shorts—well, they'd definitely seen better days. She looked like she might throw the food in frustration or maybe just break down and cry. Or both.

Then she looked up. Saw him. And stumbled—like walking had suddenly become an Olympic event she hadn't been prepared for.

Bucky blinked, half a smile tugging at his lips as her bag nearly tumbled from her arms. He stepped forward, instinctively ready to catch it or her—if either one fell.

He couldn't help it. He was already stepping in her direction, the rush of the moment pulling him forward without thinking. If anything was going to hit the ground, he was damn sure it wasn't going to be her lunch.

"You okay?" His voice was low, rough from the heat, but with an undercurrent of concern. He shifted his weight, standing just a little too close—but the heat in the air, combined with her flustered expression, made the distance feel a lot smaller than it probably should've been.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, like she'd just seen a ghost—or maybe something even better. For a second, Bucky wondered if he was the one who looked out of place. Maybe she was seeing something about him that he didn't even understand.

Her face flushed deeper, a mix of embarrassment and surprise, and she scrambled to steady the bag, a flicker of a smile pulling at the corner of her lips. It was small, hesitant, but it was there, like she was trying to regain her footing—and not just physically. It was a look of intrigue, maybe even curiosity.

In that moment, Bucky couldn't help but think that maybe—just maybe—this stop in town wasn't going to be as quick and forgettable as he had planned.

Madison opened her mouth, but no actual words came out. Just a soft, breathy sound—maybe the beginning of a "hi" or an "I'm good," but it completely derailed somewhere between her foggy glasses and his very distracting face.

"I—uh—you—yeah, I mean—I'm fine," she finally managed, voice high and shaky as she fumbled the bag in her arms again.

Bucky bit back a grin, watching her scramble to string together a sentence like it was the hardest thing she'd done all day. He thought it was kind of adorable—how her cheeks went pinker the more she tried to act casual. Definitely more endearing than annoying. And considering the number of people he dealt with who couldn't shut up, he found her flustered honesty kind of refreshing.

"Let me get the door for you," he said, stepping around her with ease and pulling it open like it was no big deal.

Madison blinked and followed, feet moving on autopilot as she stepped gratefully into the shop's blissfully cool interior. The whoosh of air conditioning hit her like salvation, and she silently sent up a thank-you prayer to Willis Carrier, the patron saint of people who sweat through their clothes by noon.

She barely had time to adjust to the drop in temperature before a familiar voice called out from the back.

"MADDY! Please tell me that's food and not your ghost 'cause I swear, I was about five minutes away from going out there and scraping your melted remains off the sidewalk!"

Darcy came barreling out from behind the counter, her dark curls piled on top of her head, eyeliner still sharp despite the heat, and a wide grin on her face—until her eyes landed on the man behind Madison.

She skidded to a stop, blinking once, then twice. Slowly, her gaze traveled from his scuffed boots to his jeans to the black T-shirt still clinging to his broad chest. Then up to the helmet tucked under his arm, and finally to his face.

"Oh my god," she breathed. "Did I die? Did I actually pass out from hunger, and now I'm in heaven? Because if you tell me that man came with the food, I'm gonna propose."

Madison groaned softly, wanting the floor to swallow her whole.

Bucky? He just chuckled.

"I will literally throw this bag at you," Madison muttered under her breath as she shoved the takeout into Darcy's hands, avoiding eye contact like it might spontaneously combust.

Darcy, completely unbothered, cradled the bag like it was a newborn. "Worth it."

Bucky leaned against the nearest bookshelf, his helmet tucked under one arm, watching the whole exchange with a spark of amusement in his eyes. The air conditioning was helping, but the flush on Madison's cheeks wasn't going anywhere.

Suddenly, from the far corner of the shop, there was a low hiss. Madison's gaze snapped to the side as Kyle, the shop's orange tabby cat, slinked out from his perch by the window, his amber eyes locked on Bucky.

The cat's ears flattened, and he let out another warning growl, tail flicking in agitation.

Darcy, noticing the commotion, grinned. "Don't mind Kyle. He's just making sure you're not here to steal his girl."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking down at the cat, who was now crouched low and giving him a menacing stare.

"I don't mind a little competition," Bucky said with a smirk, watching Kyle warily. "I've got plenty of fight in me."

Kyle responded with an even louder hiss, his back arching slightly.

Madison, half-annoyed and half-amused, knelt down and gave Kyle a soft pat on the head. "Relax, buddy. You're the only man here, okay?"

Kyle gave a disgruntled meow, but he wasn't convinced. He let out a final growl at Bucky before wandering off to find a spot on the counter, eyeing him suspiciously the entire time.

"Looks like he's not a fan of the competition," Madison said with a smile, standing back up.

Bucky chuckled, watching Kyle carefully. "I'll win him over. Maybe."

Darcy was still grinning like the cat was the least of her concerns. "Kyle's a little protective of Maddy. But don't worry, she's got a soft spot for all things fluffy—except you, apparently."

Bucky shook his head, clearly entertained. "Guess I've got to start with the cat first, huh?"

Madison sighed, pushing the takeout bag into Darcy's hands once more. "I hate both of you."

"Aw, don't be like that, Maddy. You're the one who walked in with him like the opening scene of a romance novel. I'm just the best friend who's legally required to say inappropriate things when that happens."

Bucky chuckled under his breath. "She's funny."

"She's relentless," Madison corrected, peeking out from behind her hands. She looked at him, finally meeting his eyes again. "Thanks...for the door. And for not letting me faceplant on Main Street."

"Anytime," he said, voice still carrying that easy, gravelly tone. "You looked like you had your hands full."

"I looked like a heatstroke victim," she muttered.

He shrugged. "You still looked cute."

That made her brain stop working again. Full system reboot. Darcy outright choked on her bite of food.

Madison blinked. "I—uh—thanks?"

He nodded, then looked toward the front door, like he should probably be leaving—but didn't actually move. "This place got coffee?"

Darcy, ever the opportunist, grinned. "Best in town. And since I'm on break—Mads, why don't you show him where the good stuff is?"

Madison gave her a look that said I will kill you in your sleep, but Darcy just hummed and took another bite of her sandwich like the conversation was over.

And just like that, Madison found herself walking toward the coffee bar with Bucky trailing behind her, his presence warm even in the cool air.

"You sure you're not a mirage?" she asked without thinking.

Bucky chuckled. "You sure you're not still overheating?"

She smiled despite herself.

Maybe Steve convincing him to stay another week wasn't such a terrible thing after all.

Madison busied herself behind the counter, pretending the espresso machine required her full attention even though she could work it half-asleep. Her hands moved automatically—grabbing a cup, pressing buttons, avoiding eye contact like it was a weapon. Bucky, of course, leaned casually on the counter, like he had all the time in the world and was fully aware of the way he was throwing her off.

"Y'know," he said, voice low and teasing, "if I knew small towns came with cute girls and decent coffee, I might've started showing up sooner."

She paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup. "You don't even know if it's decent yet."

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "Don't need to. You're making it. I trust you."

She finally looked up at him, eyes narrowed in amused suspicion. "Do you flirt with everyone who nearly trips in front of you?"

"Nah." He tilted his head, that smirk not letting up. "Just the ones who look like they walked straight out of my daydreams."

Madison scoffed, trying not to let her smile show. It was a losing battle. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm also very hot, according to you."

Her jaw dropped. "I did not say that."

"You didn't have to." He leaned a little closer across the counter, his voice dropping. "It was written all over your face when you looked up at me."

Madison's cheeks went nuclear. "That was heatstroke."

"Oh yeah? Guess I should check your pulse, then."

She turned away before he could see her laugh, grabbing the cup and pouring the coffee like it was suddenly urgent. "You're awful."

"I've been called worse." He straightened up just enough to give her space, but not before brushing his knuckles lightly along the counter, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. "But I like the way you say it."

Madison handed him the coffee, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. "Careful. That's hot."

"So am I, apparently."

She almost dropped the cup.

From across the store, Darcy let out a not-so-subtle cackle.

Bucky took a slow sip, blue eyes watching her over the rim of the cup. "Mmm. Not bad."

"Told you," Madison mumbled, folding her arms to keep her hands from fidgeting.

"I'll be back for another," he said, straightening up, still holding her gaze. "And maybe lunch, if you're on the menu."

Her mouth fell open.

He winked, gave a lazy salute with his coffee cup, and headed for the door—boots thudding softly against the wood floor, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm like he was walking off a movie set.

Darcy wandered over, grinning like a lunatic. "So...when's the wedding?"

Madison stared at the door, still slightly dazed. "I hate you."

"Sure you do, babe. But you love me more."

The sun had finally dipped below the treeline, giving the sticky heat of the day a slight reprieve. Cicadas still hummed outside, but the air felt a little less like soup as Bucky flopped down onto the worn, but surprisingly comfortable couch in Sam's living room. A box fan buzzed lazily in the corner, barely circulating the lukewarm air. The faint scent of grilled chicken and charcoal still lingered from earlier, clinging to the curtains like a memory.

Steve stood in the kitchen doorway, nursing a bottle of beer, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He looked relaxed—sun-kissed and content in that way only Steve Rogers ever seemed to manage.

Across the room, Sam was locked in battle with the ancient TV remote—the kind that only worked if you sweet-talked it and held the batteries in just right. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration, thumb jabbing the buttons like it owed him money.

Bucky cracked open a cold bottle of water, the condensation slick in his hand. "Ran into someone interesting today."

Steve glanced over with a knowing grin. "Oh yeah? That why you came back later than you said you would?"

"Yeah, I stopped in that bookstore café—"

"Bean There, Read That?" Sam cut in without looking up.

Bucky raised a brow. "You spying on me now?"

"Nah," Sam said, giving the remote a final, triumphant press. The TV beeped in surrender. "I just know the place. That little indie shop with the espresso bar in the corner and the plants hanging from the ceiling, right?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, kicking his boots up onto the scuffed coffee table. "She works there. Walked right into her—well, almost. She was two seconds from face-planting with a bag of takeout."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "And let me guess—you turned on the full Barnes charm."

Bucky shrugged like it was nothing, but the way his lips curved said otherwise. "Maybe just a little."

Sam snorted. "Man, you better be careful messing with those BookTok girls."

Bucky blinked. "Book-what now?"

"You know—TikTok, but for readers," Sam explained, flopping into the armchair. "Morally gray romance junkies. They'll flirt with you, write a whole spicy novella about it in their heads, and then ghost you 'cause fictional you broke their imaginary heart."

Steve burst out laughing, nearly choking on his drink.

"I'm serious!" Sam grinned. "They're dangerous. One wrong smirk, and boom—you're the villain in their slow-burn enemies-to-lovers arc."

Bucky looked amused, leaning back like he was settling in for the show. "She didn't seem like the TikTok type."

"They never do," Sam said with a knowing nod, like a man who'd seen things. "Next thing you know, someone's turned you into a broody vampire and tagged you in a thread called 'the man who ruined me and also my credit score.'"

Bucky snorted, clearly entertained. "Sounds intense."

"They're also kinda kinky," Sam added casually, reaching for his own drink.

Bucky perked up. "I could get with that."

Steve groaned dramatically. "He's doomed."

Sam pointed the remote at Bucky like it was a weapon. "Just don't go acting like a walking trope, Barnes. These girls can sniff out emotionally unavailable men like bloodhounds."

"I'm plenty available," Bucky said, overly confident.

"Emotionally?" Steve raised a brow.

Bucky hesitated, then tilted his head. "...I'm workin' on it."

Sam snorted into his drink. "Godspeed, man. Godspeed."

Steve shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth as he lifted his beer. Just before taking a sip, he paused and glanced at Sam.

"Wait—how do you know BookTok girls are kinky?"

Sam didn't miss a beat. "Because I read, Rogers. And because I made the mistake of dating one once. Let's just say... she owned more rope than a rock-climbing gym."

Steve choked on his beer mid-sip, coughing and laughing as Bucky grinned wide.

"I told you," Sam said, smug. "Dangerous."

The weeks went by in a blur of humidity and heavy summer air, but Bucky's visits to Bean There, Read That became a regular part of his routine. He found himself at the small bookstore-café nearly every afternoon, slipping in with a casual grin, like he was a man on a mission. And, in a way, he was—his mission? Madison.

He'd never been much of a reader. Hell, if you asked him, he'd probably tell you the last book he'd finished was in middle school. But here he was, buying a coffee every day, then standing at the counter like a damn sponge as Madison went off about books he barely understood, just so he could be close to her.

It was some kind of masochistic charm, how she could speak about a book series like she was giving him a tour of another world. Her hands were always moving, her eyes lighting up as she described characters, plot twists, love triangles he didn't even know existed. He hung on every word. He even bought a couple of books based on her recommendations—none of them had gotten read yet, but that wasn't the point.

He just wanted to see that spark in her eyes when she spoke. Wanted to hear her voice, even if he didn't know the difference between Grishaverse and Throne of Glass. He'd even started pretending he understood all the references, nodding along and trying to sound like he knew what the hell she was talking about.

That is, until one afternoon when she caught him.

Madison had just finished talking about The Shadow and Bone series for what felt like an hour. Bucky had been nodding along, his gaze fixed on her face, watching her animated expressions, but his mind was miles away, completely lost in the pull of her words and the way her lips moved when she talked.

She stopped mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Okay, Barnes," she said, crossing her arms. "I don't think you've heard a word I've said."

Bucky blinked, looking at her like she'd just accused him of murder. "What?"

"I said, you've been standing there like you've heard every word, but you're not even listening, are you?"

His lips curled into a sheepish grin. "I'm listening."

"No, you're not," she challenged, her tone playful but firm. "You're pretending."

He gave an exaggerated sigh, looking defeated. "Alright, you caught me."

Madison raised an eyebrow. "What's your deal, huh? You keep coming in here, asking about books, listening to me ramble, and you don't even read them. Why?"

Bucky leaned against the counter, his hands casually resting on it, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said, his voice softer now, like he was letting her in on a secret.

She leaned forward, arms still crossed, looking skeptical but intrigued. "Try me."

He paused, the air between them thick with something neither of them had quite put into words yet. "You have no idea, do you?" he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave, making the words feel like they carried a weight. "You have no idea how absolutely beautiful you are, how you drive me crazy every damn time I walk through that door."

Madison froze for a second, her breath catching in her throat. She could feel her face heating up, and she quickly looked away, trying to mask her reaction. "That's cheesy," she said, but even she could hear the way her voice wavered.

Bucky's grin widened. "Yeah, maybe. But it's the truth."

Madison swallowed hard, unsure of how to process the sudden shift in the air between them. She wanted to roll her eyes, to dismiss it as just another line, but something in his gaze made her heart skip a beat. And that was dangerous, because she didn't have the time or energy for anything complicated right now.

But Bucky wasn't done.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice again, his eyes locked on hers in a way that made her pulse quicken. "I come in here for the coffee, sure, but I also come in here because I get to see you light up when you talk about the things you love. And that," he said, letting the words settle between them, "that's worth coming back for."

Madison blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. She didn't know what to say at first, so she just shifted awkwardly, letting the silence hang in the air before finally speaking.

"Finally!" Darcy shouted from the back of the store.

Madison's eyes widened, and she realized how close she and Bucky were standing, their faces only inches apart. She quickly took a step back, clearing her throat, but Bucky didn't move, his eyes still locked on hers.

"I have been waiting for this for weeks!" Darcy called as she emerged from the back, holding a tray of pastries like she'd just won a battle. "I mean, I was about to give up hope! You two have been stuck in this endless 'will they, won't they' flirt-fest forever! I was about to just leave and go find you two smooching on the sidewalk."

Bucky and Madison exchanged a look, both of them a little wide-eyed at Darcy's bluntness. But before either of them could react, Darcy was already talking again.

"Listen, Romeo," Darcy said, hands on her hips. "If you're not going to read those books, at least stop acting like you're in the prelude to a rom-com. You've got her wrapped around your finger with all that smooth talk, but I'm done with the games. You want her to notice you for real, Barnes? Here's the thing—at some point, it's time to turn the flirty banter into something else."

Bucky blinked, thrown off for a second by the sudden shift in Darcy's tone, but his smile never fully disappeared. He glanced at Madison, his expression now a little more serious, and she felt the sudden tension between them.

Madison, however, felt a flush creeping up her neck. Darcy was pushing them into uncharted territory. It wasn't that she didn't like the flirting—it was just... well, she wasn't sure where it was headed, and Darcy wasn't giving her any room to breathe.

Darcy was clearly having none of it. She leaned over the counter, glancing between the two of them with a mischievous glint in her eye. "You're both clearly over the whole 'will they, won't they' routine. So how about we cut the crap? I'm tired of waiting for you to make a move, Bucky. You either kiss her already or stop wasting both of our time."

Bucky's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before it returned, sharper, more confident. "I like where your head's at, Darcy. I was just trying to take my time... you know, be a gentleman."

Darcy scoffed, leaning back, crossing her arms. "Gentleman? Bucky, please. The only thing you've been a gentleman about is wasting my time." She turned back to Madison, raising an eyebrow. "You are noticing the difference between banter and the real stuff, right?"

Madison cleared her throat, trying her best to look unaffected by Darcy's bluntness. She could feel Bucky's gaze on her, the tension shifting between them. Darcy was right—she was getting tired of the back and forth, the playful teasing. She was ready for something... more.

Bucky leaned closer, his voice suddenly low, thick with meaning. "Darcy's right. I didn't want to rush it, but hell, I'm done pretending."

Madison's heart skipped a beat. She opened her mouth to say something, but Darcy cut in, winking at her.

"Yeah, yeah, we get it. Bucky Barnes is totally head over heels." Darcy reached into the pastry box, pulled out a cinnamon roll, and took a big bite. "I'll just be over here, trying not to gag on the sweetness. Don't mind me."

Bucky's laugh was deep and genuine as he turned his attention back to Madison. "So, what do you say, Madison? Go out with me. You think you can handle me when I'm not pretending to be some 'bookish' guy who's just here for coffee?"

Madison met his eyes, the playful tension finally breaking as a smile tugged at her lips. "I think you might be more than I can handle, Barnes."

Darcy clapped her hands together. "Finally! The R-rated version. I knew it was in you two."

Madison shot Darcy a playful glare. "You're insufferable."

Darcy gave her a sweet, innocent look. "Oh, I'm just getting started."

Madison stood in front of her full-length mirror, arms crossed tightly over her chest, a deep frown pulling at her lips. She pulled another dress over her head, adjusting the straps as she turned side to side, trying to see it from every angle. The fabric clung awkwardly to her stomach, highlighting every bump she didn't want noticed. Her arms—soft and untoned—felt completely exposed.

"God, I look awful," she muttered, tugging at the hem. The material refused to cooperate.

All she wanted was to be comfortable. Cute and comfortable. Was that too much to ask?

She had a date with Bucky tonight. Tonight. Her stomach fluttered just thinking about it, but one glance at her reflection sent that flutter spiraling into full-blown anxiety. She looked less like a confident woman and more like a sack of potatoes in pastel lace.

"Ugh, this is ridiculous," she groaned, throwing her hands up. "Nothing looks good on me!"

With a frustrated sigh, she yanked the dress off and flung it onto the growing pile on her bed. Her closet loomed like a battleground behind her, hangers askew, clothes draped in chaos. She scanned the racks desperately, already half-dreading her next choice.

"Still struggling, huh?" came a familiar voice.

Madison turned to see Darcy leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.

"I don't know what to wear!" Madison exclaimed. "I want to look good, but I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard. How am I supposed to balance that when I look like a potato?"

Darcy snorted, stepping inside like she was entering a fashion intervention. "First off, breathe. Second, you are a sexy potato. And third, I wouldn't wear a dress."

Madison paused, one hand still gripping a hanger. She narrowed her eyes. "No dresses? Why not? You know I was thinking about the cute blue one with the lace trim..."

Darcy flopped onto the bed with all the drama of someone who'd seen this meltdown coming. "Not unless you want to flash the entire street when you hop on the back of his bike."

Madison blinked. "Wait—what?"

Darcy tucked her arms behind her head, fully relaxed now. "He rides a 2024 BMW S1KRR. Sleek, all black, probably purrs like a damn panther. He definitely babies that thing. You wear a dress, and one wrong breeze, and bam—instant Marilyn Monroe moment."

Madison stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "How do you know what kind of bike he rides? Are you stalking him or something?"

Darcy shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I have my ways."

Madison blinked again, still processing. She looked down at the heap of clothes on her bed, then back at Darcy, a mixture of shock and suspicion clouding her face. "I hadn't even thought about his bike."

"Exactly." Darcy sat up and grabbed something from the laundry basket on the floor. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed a pair of soft black shorts onto the bed. "These'll work. Comfortable, flattering, and—bonus—you won't flash the neighborhood. Pair it with that white blouse we found at that boutique, the one with the flutter sleeves and the cute neckline?"

Madison picked up the shorts, running her fingers over the fabric. Soft. Easy. She could sit, move, breathe in these. "Okay... yeah. That would be cute."

"Damn right it will be," Darcy said, standing and brushing invisible lint off her leggings like a job well done. "Now that you're sorted, I'm going to grab a bottle of wine and drown my single sorrows in Grey's Anatomy... and possibly the last of the cheesecake."

Madison laughed, the tension in her chest finally easing a little. "You better leave me a bite."

"No promises," Darcy called over her shoulder as she left.

Madison shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to the mirror. She set the shorts on the bed, peeled off the last of her indecision, and stepped into them, tugging them over her lacy white panties. The fabric settled perfectly around her hips—comfortable, but still cute.

Her eyes lifted to her reflection again. Better.

Her mind wandered as she pulled the white blouse from her closet. Bucky. BMW S1KRR. How did he even afford something like that? She knew he had a cool, kind of mysterious vibe—but Darcy seemed to know details that Madison hadn't even thought to ask about.

She slipped the blouse over her head, adjusting the hem as her fingers lightly traced the fluttery sleeves.

As she smoothed the fabric down, she couldn't help but wonder—just how much more did Darcy know about Bucky? And more importantly... what exactly was Madison walking into tonight?

The low, throaty growl of a high-performance engine broke the quiet of the late afternoon as Bucky pulled up to the curb in front of the apartment tucked behind the old brick storefront. The sun caught the sleek lines of his matte-black BMW S1KRR, making the whole thing look like it belonged in a movie—polished, powerful, and just a little dangerous.

He cut the engine and kicked the stand down, pulling off his helmet with a practiced flick of his wrist. His dark hair was tousled beneath it, a few strands falling over his brow as he scanned the familiar building with calm eyes and a restless energy that buzzed just under the surface.

Out on the stoop, Darcy was lounging in a weathered patio chair like she was holding court, one leg slung over the other, sunglasses perched on her nose, and a sweating glass of something suspiciously tropical in hand. She looked entirely too pleased with herself.

"Well, well, look what the alley cat dragged in," she called out, flashing a grin like she'd been waiting all afternoon for this moment. "Dark Knight's here!"

Bucky chuckled, one corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile. "Hey, Darcy."

Without missing a beat, she turned and hollered toward the open front door like she was trying to wake the dead. "MADDY! YOUR DARK KNIGHT IS HERE TO WHISK YOU AWAY! HOPE YOU WORE PANTS!"

From inside came a muffled groan. "I hate you."

Darcy raised her glass like it was a trophy. "Love you too, sugarplum!"

A few seconds later, the screen door creaked open, and Madison stepped out onto the porch. Her expression was equal parts unimpressed and faintly amused. She ran her fingers along the edge of her flutter-sleeved white blouse, smoothing the fabric as she moved. The blouse was soft and airy, the kind that fluttered with the breeze, and it tucked neatly into black high-waisted shorts that showed off a generous amount of thigh—enough to turn heads, but still casual enough to say I didn't try too hard, this is just how I look.

Bucky had just started swinging a leg off the bike when he spotted her—and immediately froze mid-motion.

He blinked. Then blinked again. His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat, stuck like he'd just been sucker-punched.

Madison descended the porch steps at an easy pace, not trying to be graceful but somehow hitting every note just right. His eyes followed the motion of her scuffed-up Doc Martens, up her strong, tanned legs—thighs that shifted and curved as she walked—past the cinch of her waist and the dip of her neckline. Her lips had a faint shimmer of gloss, her cheeks flushed from the heat or maybe just the attention. The glasses she usually wore were gone, leaving her soft eyes more open, more striking. Her chestnut hair had been French braided into two neat pigtails that trailed down past her shoulders, just messy enough to be cute.

Bucky barely remembered how to move.

"You okay there, Barnes?" Darcy called, clearly enjoying herself. "You look like you just got hit with a two-by-four."

He cleared his throat and straightened up quickly, shutting his mouth before it could hang open any longer. "Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

Good was generous. He was hanging on by a thread.

Madison reached the bottom step and shot Darcy a dry look, though the twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her. "You're impossible."

Darcy raised her glass again, beaming. "And you're hot. Go have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"That leaves a very small list," Madison muttered, shaking her head, but her laugh spilled out anyway—light and warm and addictive.

Bucky stepped forward, offering the spare helmet. Their fingers brushed, a spark of contact that made something low in his stomach flip. Madison hesitated for just a moment before taking it, her gaze flicking to his, something unreadable passing between them.

She pulled the helmet on and fumbled with the straps, her fingers unsure.

Without a word, Bucky turned toward her, gently lifting his hands to fasten the chin strap. His fingers grazed her jaw, and for a moment, everything slowed down—the noise of the street, the heat of the sun, even the sound of their breathing. Just him. Just her. Just this.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice lower than he intended, a little rougher—gravel and velvet.

She looked up at him with a slow, knowing smirk. Pure trouble. "You tell me."

And just like that, Bucky knew one thing for certain—

He was screwed.

Bucky swung a leg back over the bike and got situated, his hands moving over the controls like second nature. Madison stood beside him, helmet secured, fingers flexing at her sides like she was gearing up for a skydive instead of a motorcycle ride.

She hesitated for a second, eyeing the seat behind him like it might bite.

"You good?" Bucky asked, glancing over his shoulder, voice calm and patient. The helmet muffled his words a little, but she heard the smile in them.

"Yeah. I just..." She looked down at her hands, then at his back. "I've never ridden one of these before. I don't really know where to—uh—hold on."

She shifted her weight, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Also, what if I mess something up? Like, I don't know... shift my weight wrong and tip the whole thing over? Or break something?"

Bucky blinked, then let out a soft laugh—warm, not mocking.

"Madison," he said gently, "This bike can take corners at a hundred miles an hour and not flinch. Trust me—you're not gonna break anything."

She gave him a doubtful look, still hovering uncertainly.

"I promise," he added, voice dropping just a little, steady and sure. "You're safe with me. I won't let anything happen to you or the bike. I've got you."

Her heart did a weird flip at that. I've got you.

He reached back, gently taking her hands in his gloved ones. His touch was firm but careful, guiding her arms around his waist and pressing her palms flat against his stomach. His hands lingered just a second longer than necessary.

"Right here," he said. "Hold on tight when we get moving, but otherwise just relax."

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and swung her leg over the bike, settling in behind him. Her thighs hugged the seat, her knees brushing his hips as she scooted closer. The moment her chest touched his back, Bucky bit down on a curse.

The contact was soft, warm, and far more intimate than he'd prepared for. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, the slight tremble in her hands as they rested against him. She smelled like coconut shampoo and vanilla lotion, and it was doing dangerous things to his ability to think straight.

"You okay?" he asked, half turning his head.

"Mm-hmm," Madison hummed, even though her heart was hammering like a drum in her chest. "Yeah. I'm good."

He smiled again—more to himself this time—then started the engine.

As the bike rumbled to life, Madison instinctively tightened her grip around his waist. Her helmet brushed the back of his shoulder as the powerful machine lurched forward and melted into a smooth glide down the road.

Bucky couldn't help it—he loved the feel of her holding onto him. The way she molded to his back, her legs snug against his sides, her breath occasionally ghosting over his neck. He told himself he had to focus on the road, but her presence made that nearly impossible.

She was nervous. He could tell. But she trusted him. She held on like she believed he'd keep her safe. And he would. No matter where the night took them.

He revved the engine just enough to make her squeak and bury her face briefly between his shoulder blades—and damn if he didn't grin the whole way to their first stop.

The world blurred as they sliced through the quiet streets of Savannah, the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the sidewalks and casting long shadows that danced beneath the tires. A salty breeze rolled in from the coast, carrying the scent of the ocean, warm pavement, and fresh-cut grass. The air was thick with summer, touched by the rich, old-soul perfume of brick buildings warmed by decades of sun.

Bucky's grip on the handlebars was steady, controlled. The weight of Madison pressed against his back was grounding—comforting in a way he hadn't expected. As they zipped past rows of historic townhouses, their iron railings blooming with ivy and flowers, and oak trees heavy with Spanish moss, he felt like the city was guiding them along its winding path.

Streetlights blinked on one by one, painting the cobblestone roads in a soft amber glow. The bike purred beneath them like it belonged to the rhythm of Savannah itself—smooth, easy, timeless.

Behind him, Madison clung tighter, her arms locked around his waist. Her palms rested against the firm muscles of his stomach, and he felt her breath rise and fall in time with the engine's vibrations. The wind tugged at her hair where it peeked out beneath her helmet, strands fluttering like streamers. The breeze was cool, but her body against his was warm—too warm—and the contrast made his skin hum with awareness.

She shifted slightly, trying to find her balance. The movement pressed her thighs closer around him, her knees brushing against his hips. Every dip and lean of the bike molded them together, until the space between them barely existed. Her chest was flush against his back, her breath soft and quick, and he could feel her pulse thudding through her fingers.

They passed an old brick pub with wide windows, laughter and music spilling out into the night air. Strings of lights glowed overhead, and people on patios looked up as they sped past. A moment later, they cruised by a row of art galleries—windows glowing with soft lamplight, paintings gleaming through the glass like secrets waiting to be discovered.

Savannah held a kind of quiet magic this time of day. It was calm but alive, humming just beneath the surface. Like something was always about to happen.

Madison swallowed hard, her thoughts racing almost as fast as they were. But beneath it all was peace—real, solid peace. She hadn't expected to find that with a helmet on her head and her arms wrapped around someone like Bucky Barnes, but here she was. It felt a little like flying. A little like falling. And nothing like fear.

Bucky leaned into a curve, and she moved with him, instinct kicking in. He shifted like the bike was an extension of him, fluid and sure, and she couldn't help but marvel at how natural it looked. He didn't fight the road—he danced with it. She could feel the power in his body, the quiet control in his posture, and the care in the way he kept her steady.

Her heart thudded harder. There was something wild about him, something untouchable—but also something deeply steady. The way he handled the machine, the way he let her be close—it made her feel like maybe they weren't so different after all. Maybe he was just as tightly coiled inside as she was.

They veered onto a side street, quieter than the rest. Old Victorian houses lined the road, their wraparound porches lit with porch lights and flickering lanterns. The trees above formed a soft canopy, branches whispering to each other in the breeze. Even the crickets seemed to hush as they passed.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, catching her eyes through his visor. There was a spark there—teasing, maybe, or something deeper. It made her breath catch. He revved the engine slightly, a playful jolt that sent the bike forward and Madison closer, her chin brushing between his shoulder blades.

She laughed, quick and breathless, and though the wind swallowed the sound, he felt it. And he smiled.

"Hold on tight," he called, voice muffled but clear. There was something in the way he said it—like it meant more than just the ride.

She tightened her grip, pressing close. Her body molded perfectly to his, and as they sped forward, the lights and sounds of the city melting behind them, she stopped trying to hold herself apart.

The buildings blurred into streaks of color. The trees arched above them like a tunnel. The wind roared past her ears and kissed her skin. Everything she'd been holding inside loosened, like knots finally coming undone.

Bucky was solid in front of her. Unshakable. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't just surviving.

She was alive.

This was freedom—fast and warm and a little reckless. This was something she hadn't even known she'd been starving for.

And with her arms wrapped around him, the whole world finally felt just a little more within reach.

The bike slowed as they turned onto Habersham Street, the steady hum fading into a softer purr. Warm lights spilled from the windows of a corner brick building ahead, and a neon sign glowed in the dusk—The Green Truck Pub.

Bucky guided the bike into a spot along the curb and cut the engine. The sudden quiet buzzed in Madison's ears after the wind and motion of the ride, and for a second, she stayed still, catching her breath and letting her nerves settle.

He swung a leg over the seat and stood, then reached back to help her down. His gloved hand curled gently around hers—warm, steady, easy.

"Gotcha," he said, guiding her feet to the pavement.

Her legs wobbled a little when her boots hit the ground, but she managed a laugh. "That was... a lot."

Bucky smirked, pulling his helmet off. "You didn't scream once. I'm starting to think you like danger."

"I was too scared to scream," she joked, then tugged her helmet off and shook her hair out. "Also didn't wanna embarrass myself."

His smile widened. "You wouldn't. But I'd have teased you for it anyway."

Madison laughed, brushing her fingers through her windblown hair and glancing up at the pub. "I love this place. It's kind of a local secret."

"Sam pointed me toward it," Bucky said, nodding at the building. "Said it's his go-to when he wants good food and no tourist crap."

She arched a brow, impressed. "Sam's got taste?"

Bucky held up a hand and tilted it side to side. "In food? Hell yeah. In other things?" He made a face. "Debatable."

Her laughter bubbled up again, and some of the tension slipped from her shoulders.

They walked side by side toward the door, the smell of garlic, burgers, and something fried floating in the warm evening air. Inside, the pub was cozy—exposed brick, old wood, chalkboard specials. Vintage soul music hummed softly under the clink of glasses and low conversation.

Bucky held the door open with an exaggerated flourish. "Ladies first."

Madison hesitated, smiling shyly. "Thanks."

"Anytime, darlin'," he said with a wink, following her inside.

They settled into a booth near the back, tucked beneath a ceiling fan that lazily stirred the warm air. Bucky shrugged off his jacket and draped it on the seat beside him, then flopped back like he owned the place.

Madison slid into the other side, tugging at the hem of her shirt. She was hyper-aware of herself—her curves, the way she took up space, how she probably looked after the ride. Her eyes flicked to the menu, grateful for the distraction.

"You like burgers?" he asked, glancing over the top of his menu.

She hesitated. "Yeah, I mean... I was thinking maybe just a salad."

Bucky tilted his head, lowering his menu.

"If that's what you want, salad it is," he said easily. "But just so you know, I'm about to destroy this double bacon jalapeño burger because it looks like it might change my life."

Madison laughed despite herself.

He leaned in, his voice softer. "If you're worried about eating in front of me, don't be. I'm not here to judge you—I'm here to spend time with you. You're beautiful. And you're allowed to enjoy your damn food."

Her cheeks flushed, eyes darting down. "You're really not subtle, huh?"

"Never been accused of that," Bucky said with a grin. "But I am honest."

She smiled, a little shy but warming to him. "Okay... I'll get the burger too."

He grinned, looking pleased. "Atta girl."

The server came by, and they placed their orders, with Bucky adding fries "the size of my face" and a chocolate milkshake "for balance."

As the server walked away, Madison bit her lip to keep from grinning.

"You always flirt this much on a first date?" she asked.

"Only when I'm nervous," he teased, then gave her a wink. "But seriously... you're easy to talk to."

She blinked at that, a little stunned. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," he said, resting his arm along the back of the booth. "You've got this quiet thing going on. Makes a guy want to lean in and listen real close."

She shook her head, half laughing, half disbelieving. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're gorgeous," he shot back. "We all have our flaws."

Madison laughed, ducking her head, a blush blooming across her cheeks.

Their food came, and the conversation flowed easier now—soft teasing, warm glances, the kind of comfort that felt rare. Every time her self-consciousness tried to creep back in, Bucky countered it with something light, something kind.

He caught her staring once as he licked a bit of sauce off his thumb.

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Nothing," she said quickly.

"Mmhmm," he said, grinning. "Just so we're clear, I know I'm pretty."

Madison snorted. "Modest too."

"Terribly," he agreed. "It's a curse."

When the check came, Bucky slid his card in before she could reach for her purse.

"I could've—"

"You could've," he said, sliding out of the booth. "But you didn't."

They walked slowly, neither in a rush to end the night. The buzz of Savannah nightlife hummed softly in the distance, but here, beneath the hush of swaying Spanish moss and golden streetlight, it felt like they were in their own little world

"You full?" Bucky asked, glancing sideways at her.

Madison nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair back with one hand. "Yeah."

He sighed, exaggerated, and dramatic. "That's a shame, I could go for some dessert." His eyes lingered on her lips at he bit his bottom one, the hint of a smirk curling at the corner.

She shot him a look, half amused, half flustered. "Do you ever not flirt?

He grinned, cocky and unbothered. "Only when I'm sleeping."

Madison shook her head, laughing, but there was no hiding the flush in her cheeks or the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him.

Bucky stopped under a tree, its branches arching low and heavy with moss. The warm light overhead painted gold across his face, and he turned to her, the teasing softening just a little.

"You've got that look in your eye," he said, stepping closer.

She raised a brow. "What look?"

"Like you want me to kiss you."

Her breath caught, but she didn't look away. "And if I do?"

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with feather-light care. "Then I probably would."

"Probably?" she echoed, breathless.

His voice dropped to a slow, southern drawl. "I'm tryin' to be good."

She smiled, lips parted, her eyes locked on his. "I don't I want good."

That was all it took.

In one smooth step, he closed the space between them, his hand cradling the back of her head as he pulled her in. The kiss wasn't soft or tentative. It was hungry—full of heat and tension that had been building from the moment she'd climbed on the back of his bike.

His mouth moved over hers with purpose, tongue brushing hers as her fingers clutched the front of his shirt. He kissed her like he'd been waiting all damn night for permission—and now that he had it, he wasn't going to hold back.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, her lips tingling, Madison stared up at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I don't usually do this," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"I know," he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. "That's what makes it so damn good."

She swallowed hard. "If we get back on that bike right now, I might not be able to keep my hands to myself."

Bucky grinned like the devil himself. "Then maybe we should get back on the bike."

He kissed her again—slower this time, deeper—right there beneath the moss-draped tree, as Savannah swirled softly around them. The rest of the world faded into the background, leaving nothing but heat, lips, and the slow burn of something that was quickly spiraling into more than either of them expected.

The night air was balmy as they tore down the quiet road, Savannah fading behind them in a blur of golden streetlights and weathered cobblestone. The rumble of the motorcycle beneath them was steady, low and hypnotic, vibrating through Madison's entire body as she wrapped herself around Bucky.

But this time... she wasn't just holding on.

Her hands, once tucked politely at his waist, started to roam—tentative at first, like she was testing the waters. Fingertips glided over the hem of his shirt, then up, brushing lightly against the firm lines of his stomach. The muscles there twitched beneath her touch, flexing with every subtle movement of the bike. She let her palms explore, bolder now, smoothing over the warmth of his body like she'd been dying to do it all night.

Bucky didn't say anything right away—but she felt the shift in him. His posture went a little straighter, tighter. Then came the laugh—low, rough, unmistakably amused.

"Careful, sweetheart," he drawled over the engine's hum. "You keep that up, and I'm liable to forget which one's the brake."

She grinned into his back, heart pounding like crazy. "Thought you said you could multitask."

"Only when I'm sleepin'," he tossed back, a smirk in his voice. "Right now? You're makin' it real hard to focus."

That should've embarrassed her. A week ago, it would've. But something about the way he said it—the teasing warmth, the easy confidence—made her feel bold. Beautiful. Like maybe she wasn't just some quiet girl from out of town. Like maybe she could be his kind of trouble.

So she kept going.

Her hands slid higher, brushing over the planes of his chest through the thin cotton of his shirt. She traced the line where his pecs met his ribs, her fingertips barely there. His breathing hitched. Just slightly. But she caught it.

And then—

His hand slipped from the handlebar, just for a second, reaching back to rest on her thigh. Not just rest—he squeezed gently, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly what that would do to her. His fingers skimmed up, brushing beneath the hem of her dress, a tease and a threat all in one.

Madison gasped softly—not from shock, but from the jolt of heat it sent straight through her. Her thighs clenched around him instinctively, and suddenly, she wasn't just playing around. She was all in.

Her hands dipped lower, confident now, gliding down the center of his abs, tracing the curve of his hip bones before settling on his thighs—solid and warm beneath his jeans. She gave them a gentle squeeze, just to see what would happen.

The groan he let out was low and raw, cutting through the engine's hum like a live wire.

"Mads..." he said, voice strained. "You tryin' to get us killed?"

She leaned in closer, her helmet nudging his shoulder. "You're still drivin' straight."

"For now," he growled, and the gravel in his voice made her pulse skip.

She smiled—giddy, breathless. "You're really easy to fluster."

"You're really easy to throw over my shoulder and take into the woods," he shot back.

"Promise?" she whispered.

That did it.

The bike swerved—not dangerously, but enough for her to feel it. The tension. The restraint. The edge he was skating just to keep control.

And Madison? She'd never felt so powerful.

And Bucky? He was hanging on by a thread—and wondering how fun it'd be to let go.

The road stretched out ahead, winding and shadowed, moonlight painting silver streaks across the asphalt. The engine throbbed beneath them, but the ride was secondary now—just a backdrop to something far more dangerous.

Bucky's hand didn't stay on her thigh for long—not really. Just enough to make a point. To make her think about it. But it burned, a slow heat that lingered, echoing across her skin long after he pulled away. And now, she wasn't just touching him out of curiosity—she was doing it with intention. Like she knew the rules now, and she wanted to break every single one.

Her fingers swept up his torso again, slow and deliberate, pausing to trace every dip, every line. She circled her thumbs just beneath his pecs, her touch feather-light but full of purpose.

"Y'know," he said, voice rough and low, "I was gonna be a gentleman tonight."

"You still can be," she said sweetly, dragging her fingers lower—down past his ribs, across his stomach, and dangerously close to the waistband of his jeans.

He let out a bark of laughter. "That ain't helpin', sweetheart."

She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. "Then stop pretending you mind."

His groan was low and primal, the kind that wrapped around her spine and made her knees weak. His grip on the handlebars tightened, knuckles white under the soft streetlight glow.

"Damn," he muttered. "You were shy a few hours ago."

She grinned against his shoulder. "Guess I just needed the right motivation."

He glanced down, just enough to catch her hands sliding over his thighs again, slow and sinful. His hips twitched under her touch—just a small shift, but enough to make her smile.

"Keep doin' that," he warned, "and we're not makin' it to your place."

"Sure we are," she murmured. "Eventually."

His breath hitched. She felt it in the way his body tensed, in the way his jaw clenched. And God, she loved it. Loved the power in her hands, the way he was unraveling bit by bit under her touch.

"Bet you're proud of yourself right now," he muttered.

She bit her lip. "A little."

He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes over his shoulder. His look was smoldering—dark, intense, and laced with a challenge.

"Might have to wipe that smug little smile off your face later."

"I dare you."

That shut him up.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was electric. Every beat of the engine, every shift in the wind, every breath between them added to the pressure building under their skin.

He made a sharp turn onto her street, tires crunching over gravel as they pulled into the driveway. The bike rolled to a slow stop, the engine idling for a moment before he cut it off.

But neither of them moved.

Her hands were still on his thighs. His breathing was shallow, almost ragged. The tension between them stretched taut like a wire about to snap.

"You gonna invite me in?" he asked, voice low and intimate.

"I haven't decided yet," she said, her fingers drifting up his stomach again—light, teasing. "You think you earned it?"

His laugh was quiet and dark, more exhale than sound. "Baby, I'm the one who drove you home."

She leaned closer, lips brushing the stubble along his jaw. "Then you're halfway there."

Bucky reached down and turned the key.

The engine died.

The silence that followed?

Deafening.

And full of promise.

The sudden silence was jarring—so sharp it left her ears ringing. Or maybe that was just the blood, rushing fast and wild through her veins, thudding against her skull like a war drum.

Before Madison could catch her breath, Bucky swung off the bike, boots crunching against the gravel. He turned to her without a word, his movements smooth and sure as he reached for her helmet. Fingers brushed her hairline as he lifted it free, strands spilling out in tousled waves. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each uneven breath.

She looked wrecked—in the best way.

Still, he didn't speak. Didn't hesitate.

Bucky dropped the helmet onto the seat and closed the space between them in one stride. One hand found the back of her neck, firm but gentle, guiding her forward as he crashed his mouth against hers.

There was nothing slow about it.

No warning. No build.

Just fire.

The kiss was hard, messy, hot—his mouth demanding, his teeth catching her lower lip as if he couldn't get close enough. Madison gasped, but he swallowed the sound like he needed it, like it fueled him. His other hand found her waist, pulling her tight against his body, hips pressed to hers. The warmth of him soaked through her clothes, and suddenly, she was gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, kissing him back like she might come apart if she didn't.

Her back bumped the side of the bike, but she barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the feel of his mouth, the weight of his body, the raw heat pulsing between them.

She dragged her hands over his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, needing something solid to hold onto. Her fingers curled, bunching the fabric in her fists as she pressed closer, chasing the friction, the contact, the chaos of it all. Her hips rolled against his without thinking, and the noise Bucky made—low and wrecked—lit her up from the inside.

"Jesus, Mads," he growled against her lips, breath ragged. "You're driving me fuckin' crazy."

She couldn't help the grin that tugged at her mouth. "That's the idea."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, slower but no less intense. It melted her knees, made her sag into him, fingers clutching his jacket for balance. Her heart hammered in her chest, thudding in time with every brush of his tongue, every stroke of his hands.

He groaned into her mouth, hands sliding lower, over the curve of her ass, gripping tight enough to draw a gasp from her lips.

The air between them was thick, crackling with the kind of tension that couldn't last much longer. Every second they stood there, every shift of their bodies, brought them closer to that edge.

And when he finally broke the kiss—just barely—he didn't move far. His forehead leaned into hers, both of them breathless, lips brushing.

"You wanna take this inside?" he asked, voice rough and low. "Or should we give your neighbors something to talk about?"

His lips ghosted over hers as he added, quieter this time, "Can we...?"

The way he said it—like he wanted to devour her but still needed to be sure—sent a thrill down her spine.

Madison didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and that cocky smirk returned. "What about your roommate?"

"Darcy?" Her brain fumbled to keep up, already half-melted from the way his thumbs were sliding just under the edge of her jacket. "She's probably not home. And even if she is..." Madison's mouth curved into a wicked smile. "She owns headphones."

That was all he needed.

And from the way Bucky's hands tightened on her hips, the way his mouth found hers again, hungry and unrelenting—he planned to make damn sure Darcy needed them.

She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the front door, practically dragging him up the walkway. He followed with a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. Her keys fumbled in the lock, nerves and anticipation making her hands unsteady, but the door finally gave way. They stumbled inside—lips crashing together again before it even clicked shut behind them.

He kicked the door closed with a boot, their mouths never parting as she backed him into the living room. Their jackets were discarded in the chaos—his hitting the floor with a heavy thud, hers landing somewhere near the coffee table.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered between kisses, his voice gravelly and burning with need, "and I will."

She hooked her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him closer until their bodies were pressed against each other, no space left between them.

"I'm not gonna," she whispered, her voice low, sultry. "So don't."

That was all it took.

Control snapped.

Bucky spun her around, lifting her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist with a surprised laugh. "Bucky, wait—put me down," she said, a flush rising to her cheeks. "I don't want to hurt you."

He paused mid-step, brows furrowing as he looked at her. "Madison," he said gently, "you couldn't hurt me, baby."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her quiet—soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. "You think I don't know exactly how strong I am?" he murmured against her lips, already walking them through the apartment again. "You're perfect. Let me hold you."

Her breath caught as his mouth trailed from her lips to her jaw, down her neck, his touch sure and demanding.

By the time her back hit the wall just outside her bedroom, Madison was trembling, hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as he ground against her.

"Bedroom?" he rasped, eyes dark with want.

She nodded, eyes heavy-lidded, her breath shallow and erratic.

With one last kiss—hard and claiming—he carried her through the door, like he already knew he'd never get enough of her.

Darcy had just settled into bed with a glass of wine and the latest episode of The Bachelor queued up. She sat cross-legged on her bed in her favorite oversized hoodie, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, eyes glued to the screen as one of the contestants fake-cried into a rose.

"Girl, he is not that into you," she muttered, tossing popcorn at the TV just as the front door opened.

She didn't even have to look—those heavy boots and that low murmur? Bucky. Madison's laugh followed, soft and breathy, and Darcy just smiled to herself. Finally.

The bedroom door across the hall shut quietly.

Darcy was just getting into a juicy confrontation on-screen when a faint thump echoed through the wall. Then a pause.

And then— yep. That was Madison.

Darcy blinked, tilted her head slightly like she wasn't sure she heard right, then heard it again—softer, a little breathy, unmistakably not part of the TV show.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Bucky didn't hesitate. He tossed her onto the bed, descending after her with a primal growl. His hands slipped under her shirt, his warm palms gliding over her skin, igniting electric sparks of desire wherever they lingered

Madison gasped, arching her back, her skin alive with sensation. His lips found the hollow of her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point, making her tremble beneath him. "God," she breathed, fingers tangling in his hair again. "Where did this come from?"

He smirked against her skin. "Been holding back."

"Well, don't."

Bucky paused, just enough to gaze into her eyes, which were smoldering with need. His chest heaved with a raw, electric tension. In one fluid motion, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, revealing the sculpted strength of his body. Madison's breath caught in her throat as she absorbed the sight——his body lit by the soft bedside lamp, a powerful contrast to the hunger in his gaze.

"You sure, Maddy?" he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly with longing. "Once I start, I'm not stopping unless you tell me to."

She gave a fervent nod, pulling him back to her with urgency, their lips colliding in a heated embrace. "Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."

It was all the invitation he needed.

His mouth crashed onto hers with a consuming hunger, his body pressing her firmly into the mattress. His hands wandered with intent—over her ribs, tracing her plush waist, and caressing the curve of her thick hips—each touch igniting a blazing inferno within her. She couldn't pinpoint when she had become so daring, so insatiable for him, but with him? It felt utterly right.

As if she was finally seizing the desires she had longed to embrace.

Bucky devoured her lips like a man famished, as though he had been yearning for this moment for an eternity. Her clothes disappeared, piece by tantalizing piece, his lips trailing every newly revealed inch of her skin. His touch was both worshipful and voracious, as if he could never have his fill.

When he finally slid her pants down her legs and settled between her thighs, he gazed up with a wicked, knowing grin.

"Still with me, darlin'?"

Madison's breathless reply escaped in a trembling whisper: "All the way."

His grin widened with wicked intent. "Good. Because I'm just beginning."

Bucky's lips descended upon her inner thigh, each kiss and languorous lick igniting torrents of molten heat through her core. She quivered, her hips arching instinctively toward him, drawn like a moth to flame. He chuckled, a low, dark rumble that reverberated against her skin.

"Easy," he murmured, his lips grazing the tender spot below her hip. "I intend to savor every moment."

Madison's fingers clutched the sheets, her heart a wild drumbeat in her chest. "You're driving me insane."

"That's precisely the plan, darlin'," he murmured, his voice a sultry caress, thick with desire.

His strong hands firmly gripped her hips, anchoring her in place as he traced a fervent path of hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Each electrifying touch ignited an inferno within her, a fire that blazed and spread through every fiber of her being. She whimpered his name, a desperate plea that echoed with urgency, and he succumbed, tasting her with a ravenous intensity, as though he could not endure another moment of restraint.

He licked and sucked at her clit, maintaining a rhythm that had Madison writhing beneath him, breaths coming in ragged gasps. His name tumbled from her lips over and again as pleasure mounted, coiling tightly deep within her. Bucky responded by deepening his ministrations, his movements both teasing and assertive.

Madison's fingers found purchase in his hair, guiding him insistently, her body language spelling out exactly what she needed from him as pressure began swirling into an overwhelming crescendo. Her back arched off the bed, pushing against his face as her voice broke on a high, keening wail.

The world narrowed down to the overwhelming sensation spiraling from where Bucky's mouth was fervently at work. Then, with a final cry torn from deep within her throat, Madison climaxed intensely, waves of pleasure breaking over her like a relentless storm her vision burst into a kaleidoscope of stars.

Gradually, the waves ebbed away, leaving her panting and spent on the tangled sheets.

Bucky lifted his head, his lips wet and glistening in the dim light, grinning with the satisfaction of a man who had just conquered untold territories. His eyes sparkled with pride and an unmistakable look of adoration as he watched her come back down to earth.

"Okay?" he whispered, voice husky and laced with affection.

Madison nodded weakly, still catching her breath, her chest heaving. "More than okay," she managed to say, her voice a sultry murmur. She tugged him up by his hair gently to bring his face close to hers.

Their lips met again, this time in a kiss that was sweeter, slower, grounding them both after the intensity of their passion. Bucky's weight shifted as he maneuvered above her, each careful movement calculated not to break their connection. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead tenderly, his gaze locked on hers.

"Ready for more?" Bucky's voice was a whisper against her lips, laced with both challenge and promise.

"Yes," she whispered back, pulling him down for another kiss, her hands roaming over his powerful shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle that tensed under her touch.

Bucky's grin was pure mischief as he shifted his body, aligning himself with hers. The flushed head on his weeping cock breached her slowly.

"Oh fuck me—" Bucky grunted.

Madison's nails dug into his shoulders as he thrust into her, their mutual groans filling the room. The intense, carnal sensation of their bodies joining was almost unbearable, their desire having reached a fever pitch.

"Y-you feel so good," Madison moaned.

His movements were deliberate, each shift and touch sending a new wave of anticipation rushing through Madison. He took his time, kissing her deeply, thoroughly, as if each kiss could tell a story of its own.

She wrapped her arms around him, vice-like, crushing her body against his, desperate to feel every inch of him.

Their rhythm started languidly, a primal dance of rediscovery, each sensation raw and exhilarating. But patience was not a virtue they possessed tonight. Their movements quickly turned wild and untamed, each chasing their own pleasure, hungry and relentless. Bucky's hands roamed her body, fingertips mapping the landscape of her curves with reverence and a desperate hunger. Madison met each of his thrusts with an urgency that matched his own, her hips rising to meet him, urging him deeper.

"You're so beautiful," Bucky breathed, his voice raw, eyes hungry.

Bucky's hand slid up her side, slow and sure, then higher—until his fingers curled gently around the front of her throat. Not tight. Not rough. Just there.

The weight of his hand made her breath catch.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something sharp and electric pulsing between them. She didn't expect to like it. But the truth hit her fast and hard—she loved it. The heat of his palm, the way his thumb rested just below her jaw, grounding her, claiming her. It was possessive in a way that made her knees weak.

Bucky didn't say a word, but his eyes darkened when he saw the way her lips parted, her chest rising faster. He felt it—the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers. The way she arched into it, into him. Her velvety pussy gripping his cock like a goddamn vice.

"Didn't know you liked that," he murmured, voice low and rough with want.

Madison swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "Didn't know I did either."

But now? She never wanted him to stop.

Madison's breaths came in short bursts, and every nerve in her body seemed to sing with pleasure from Bucky's relentless pace. He watched her beneath him, his gaze burning with intensity as he studied every reaction, every little sigh and moan that escaped her lips.

Darcy was knee-deep — The Bachelor was on, and the current episode was packed with tears, too much champagne, and a surprise elimination. When the unmistakable sound of something thudding against the wall rattled her picture frames

She froze.

Then came the rhythmic creak of a mattress and—oh god—Madison's voice, soft at first, then not-so-soft.

Darcy's eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed her.

Another bang against the shared wall had her reaching for the nearest throw pillow and launching it with a dramatic groan. "Guys! Some of us live here too !"

No response. Just more sounds of passion and what she could only assume was a particularly enthusiastic movement of furniture.

Darcy grabbed the nearest object—a shoe—and thumped it against the wall. "Hey! I swear to god, you're emotionally scaring me!"

Still nothing.

"Ugh!" She leapt up, practically spilling her wine, muttering, "Where the hell are my headphones—oh my god, is that a moan ? That's it. I'm moving."

She dove into her nightstand drawer like it held the key to salvation, snatching up her noise-canceling headphones like they were sacred relics. As she jammed them on, she mumbled under her breath, "Madison, I love you, but if I hear one more ' Bucky ' like that——"

"Bucky," she gasped out his name, her voice quivering under the onslaught of sensations he provoked.

Hearing his name spoken with such desperate passion only drove him further, and he adjusted his angle slightly, eliciting a sharp cry from Madison that echoed off the bedroom walls. Her response urged him on, and he moved faster, each thrust deeper than the last. Bucky shoved her thick legs further up, adjusting his angle driving his fat cock deeper into her deliciously, wet heat.

The sound of their bodies colliding was punctuated by heavy breaths and soft moans that crescendoed into the night, filling the room with the evidence of their unabashed need for each other. His pace quickened, the air charged with electricity as every muscle in his body worked in intense focus.

Bucky could feel like pressure building at the base of his spine, the way her greedy cunt sucked him back in with each thrust made his balls pull tight.

"Oooh....nnugh," she whimpered.

Madison could feel another climax building, stronger and more forceful than before. Her moans turned into cries as she clutched at his back, nails scoring his skin as pleasure washed over her again, wave after crashing wave.

"That's it darlin'—Jesus fuck," he groaned.

Bucky's movements became erratic, his breaths ragged against her neck. And then, with a low growl and a final deep thrust, he shuddered above her, his body tensing as he reached his own powerful release, collapsing onto her in a heated, exhausted heap. Their slick bodies melded together as he buried his face into the crook of her neck, breaths slowing, but heartbeats still racing.

The room settled into a quiet calm, save for the occasional soft murmur or chuckle that escaped one of them, punctuating the silence with the intimate sounds of their recovery. As they lay entangled, skin sticky and gleaming with the sheen of their exertion, Madison felt a wave of contentment wash over her. Here, in Bucky's arms, everything felt right—like all the pieces of her world fit perfectly.

Eventually, Bucky propped himself on one elbow to look down at her. His hair was a wild array of tangles, his eyes soft with affection. "You okay?" he asked again, his thumb tracing idle circles on her hip.

Madison smiled up at him, her hand reaching up to trace the lines of exhaustion and satisfaction etched across his face. "Better than okay," she murmured, pulling him down for a gentle kiss that spoke volumes of the gratitude and love swelling in her chest.

Bucky smiled against her lips, a contented sigh escaping him as he settled beside her, pulling her close until she was nestled against his chest. The steady beat of his heart was comforting, rhythmic and reassuring.

They lay like that for a while—quiet, tangled together in the afterglow. Madison traced lazy patterns across his chest, her fingers feather-light as they skimmed over the planes of muscle, the curve of his collarbone, the fine trail of hair that led beneath the sheet. Bucky's breathing had evened out, his eyes closed, a rare look of peace softening the edges of his face.

But then her hand started to wander.

Lower.

And lower still.

Bucky's brow twitched. He let out a low groan, his voice rough with amusement. "What do you think you're doing, sweetheart?"

Madison didn't answer. Not with words.

She pushed herself up on her knees, hair tumbling around her shoulders as she leaned in, brushing her lips along the line of his neck. Her mouth was warm and deliberate, kissing just beneath his ear, trailing down to the hollow of his throat. Bucky shifted beneath her, a low rumble in his chest.

Then, with a wicked little smirk, she adjusted the blanket—peeling it back just enough—and swung her leg over him in one smooth motion, settling herself atop his waist.

Still, she didn't speak.

She just smiled, lip caught between her teeth, eyes full of fire.

Bucky's hands lifted for a moment, as if to touch her, but then he chuckled and let them fall behind his head, the picture of smug surrender. "I think Sam was right about you book girls," he drawled, his gaze drinking her in. "You girls really are a bunch of kinky little things."

Madison leaned in close, her mouth brushing his as she whispered, "You haven't seen anything yet."

Darcy was nestled in her cocoon of blankets, resembling a snug burrito ready to be devoured by the Sandman. Her trusty white noise machine hummed like a sleepy bee, and the toasty flannel sheets were the perfect recipe for a snooze-fest. Just as she was teetering on the brink of dreamland, it hit her—a sound low and rumbly, like a bear with indigestion, vibrating through the wall.

A groan. But not just any groan. The kind that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Darcy blinked her eyes open, staring at the ceiling as if it held the secrets of the universe. She was frozen for a moment, like a deer caught in the headlights of her roommate's bedroom antics.

The bed frame squeaked next, confirming her suspicions. She groaned, lifting her pillow and pulling it over her head.

" Again ? Seriously?" she muttered into her pillow, her voice a mix of amusement and muffled resignation. "Girl's gonna kill him."

With a chuckle and a shake of her head, she blindly reached for her headphones on the nightstand. "Guess it's a lo-fi beats and love taps soundtrack tonight."

She giggled, nestling her headphones in place and burrowing deeper into her blanket burrito. "Go get 'em, Mads," she whispered with a grin, allowing the soothing tunes—and the occasional wall-shaking thud—to guide her back into the embrace of sleep.

Mood board

Sif's Masterlist

#marvel #fanfiction #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #mcu alternate universe #plus size character #bucky barnes x plus size original female character #thick and juicy #motorbike

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simonsacryptid · 5 months ago

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use this ask as an excuse to post more about your life series winners au 👉👈 (i like the aesthetic of all the winners sharing a vast albeit eerily empty castle) (i am v interested) (forward slash not forcing)

OMG YEH OFC

Here are my ideas for the windows! (I only drew out three of them so far because i did them during history class)

Grians window is of him standing in the vast dessert. The sun is blaring behind his head and his hair and shawl are blowing in the wind. He has his macaw wings, but their tattered from explosions and the such— only one eye is visible, tears flowing down his cheek and a purple tint to his usual eye color. Only one hand is stretched out, the wind blowing red sand from it. The rimming is gold with soft spirals and edges, symbolizing the softness he felt for Scar (and a very bad doodle of it for you)

Scott's window is a little more elegant. He's standing on a tree, like he was when he got his last kill, and he has a hand over his heart. His other hand is outstretched in a pinky promise to the other two G's, promising his loyalty and the full truth. The scene is at night, with stars creating a small halo around his head. He's also starting directly at whoever is recreating this scene with a soft smile. The rims are shaper, symbolizing the harsh winter that Last Life took place during and the brutality of the game itself. Theyre silver

Pearl's window is the first one to not be directly looking forward, instead looking somewhere out of the scene. She's giving a salute as wind comes rushing at her and there's a glow from a nearby explosion. Her hands and knees have frostbite on them, and her eyes are tired from countless nights alone. Her tower can be seen in the background, and there's the moon behind her head. Stars scatter the night sky, but are flickering in and out of visibility. Tilly is sitting near her feet. The rims of this one are ridgid and broken, made of slowly oxydizing copper, showing her broken and decaying heart.

Martyn's scene is underwater, with seaweed flowing around him and coral poking out of his head. He has a hand raised with a timer striking 0:00 in it, and his other hand covering his eyes. The water makes his hair flow and his ears visible, making his window the only one to have ears included and not eyes. Even thoigh he's in the water, theres still a red planet—Mars—behind his head, reflecting against the waves and creating a contrast to an otherwise very green and blue window. There are bubbles surrounding him. The rim mimics the coral on his head, made of diamonds. Innocent and beautiful, but harsh and cruel if forged in the right ways.

Scars window is another unique one. His head perfectly aligns so it's infront of Bdubs's Earth-Base, somehow repaired from the fires. He's standing in a feild of sunflowers at night, facing away. The black of his cloak shows, as well as his hat, both adorned with lilacs and poppies over black fabric. His face is entirely obscured by the hat except for his sad smile. The rim is amethyst, mimicing the Evo symbol. There are swirls along it that look vaguely like writing from afar.

Cleo's scene is in a village. Pluto is behind her head and she's got a VR headset that she's actively taking off. She looks exhausted from the final fight, but happy that it's over with. One of her eyes is still blocked by the headset, the other changing between closed in relief to open and looking at people passing by. It changes whether she's due for another visit to the castle or not

Joel's is the only one expressing real joy. He's holding an enderpearl in one hand and a sword in another, the enderpearl having a comet-like trail behind it. Around his neck is a key to the car thats silhouetted behind him. There are references to various wold cards around him, like curls in the frame resembling snails, lighting striking in the back for the trivia bot, and a clock around his waist to keep track of how fast they're moving. Overall he just looks cool and happy to be there, a stark difference from the other winners

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violentdelights-violentendss · 1 year ago

Note

Hii :) if you still do requests could you do a one shot where Tangerine teaches the reader something, like fighting for example. And they realize there’s tension between them? Thank you so much!💗

Ofc! Thank you sm for requesting something! I presume you meant sexual tension…so I added some smut…? Hope that’s okay!! Boi, this turned out to be super long. Please, request as much as you’d like!

Dog Shit Fighting

Pairing: Fem!Reader X Tangerine

Synopsis: Heated moments ensue after you both train together.

Warnings: NSFW

You hissed in pain, the deep slash on your leg leaking warm blood. You gently placed your hand on it, feeling the ripped fabric of your tights under your fingertips. “Fuck me,” you groaned, the pain blinding, making you dizzy. You leaned against the wall, sliding on the floor. The bodies of the men you had just killed littered the room.

You sighed, barely focusing on them. You’d slowly started getting used to killing; the sounds of their now lifeless bodies collapsing to the floor. The light trickling away from their eyes. It didn’t slash your heart as much as it used to when you had started a two months ago.

You sighed, closing your eyes, and resting your head against the dingy wall behind you, the grime sticking to your hair. “God, just a few months ago I was a law abiding person,” you thought, glancing down at your blood stained hands.

“Yeah…and perhaps it would have been better for you to remain a law-abiding person,” a voice chuckled on your left.

You turned around, grasping the gun in your hand, but quickly relaxed when you saw your crime partner, Tangerine, standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall, not a drop of blood on his immaculate suit. “Ha ha ha, so funny.” You dead-panned, waving him over. He arched an eye-brow, not moving a single step towards you. You rolled your eyes, hatred for the impossibly attractive man whom you had to deal with on a daily basis filling your chest. “I’m wounded; I can’t walk.”

Tangerine’s face darkened for a second, before he leisurely stepped over towards you, elegantly avoiding the bleeding corpses. You gripped the wall, slowly easing yourself to stand up, wincing in pain. You stretched out your arm, expecting him to loop it around his shoulders and be used as a crutch. Instead, Tangerine crouched down in front of you. “Hop on, luv.”

“Asshole. You’re enjoying this,” you hissed, slowly climbing on his back. You slipped your gun in the holster strapped to your hip. With your now empty hands, you wrapped them around Tangerine’s broad shoulders, trying to ignore his twitching muscles. You gasped as Tangerine straightened, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, hissing as the wound pulsated. Tangerine’s warm hands slipped behind him to hold your thighs and support your weight. You closed your eyes, his warm hands so close to your core sending electric waves down your spine.

To distract yourself, you cleared your throat, starting to speak. “So, how do you manage to never get any blood on your clothes?” You asked, comparing the state of your bloodied clothes to his.

“Because I know how to fight, darling. I thought that you’d start to learn how to do it by observing my perfect technique, but still get hurt every time.” Tangerine mumbled, turning his head to glance at you. You huffed, embarrassed, hiding your face with your hands.

“Shut up. You get hurt too.”

“Not as much as you, princess.”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll teach you. I’m the best fucking l teacher there is out there.”

“Yeah, as if.”

•

A few days later, your wound bandaged and healed, you were standing in the middle of you and Tangerine’s hotel room, the furniture pushed to the side. Tangerine was standing in front of you, jacket laid on his bed, and the first few buttons of his shirt opened. You were directly opposite him, wearing a loose shirt and some leggings, stretching your arms and rolling your shoulders.

“I didn’t think you’d actually teach me how to fight,” you said, running a hand through your hair.

Tangerine looked at you, a small smile peeking under his mustache, holding a toy knife in his hand. “I don’t plan on burying your dead body just fucking yet.”

You chose to ignore the last part, your heart skipping a beat. “Alright, so how are we doing this?” You asked, shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure.

Tangerine threw the knife in the air, grabbing it without even looking. “Attack me, love.” You didn’t need to be told twice, lunging towards him, your own toy knife in hand. You tried jabbing him in the side, but Tangerine effortlessly dodged it, quickly grabbing your waist and holding you against him, your back flush to his chest, his toy knife now gently pressed against your neck.

You blinked, enveloped by his cologne. “Dead.” His warm voice caressed your ear. You closed your eyes, tempted to wonder in the labyrinth of your fantasy, feeling the outline of his body pressed against you. With difficulty, you pushed yourself away, shattering the dream painting your lashes.

You turned around, frustration boiling under your skin. “Again.” Tangerine ordered, his tone become more serious.

You didn’t attack immediately this time, pausing for a second, before darting towards the right. As soon as you noticed Tangerine sidestepping away from you, you jumped towards him, a glimmer of satisfaction flickering in your heart as you witness his supposed expression. But as soon as the flame of hope breathed to life, it was quickly extinguished when Tangerine spun away from you, stepping behind you.

Tangerine blindly threw his arm around you, once again dragging you against him. “Dead again, love. You’re real shit at this, (Y/N).” His smug voice taunted. You were about to start cursing at him, when you realized Tangerine’s hand was resting against your breast.

Your cheeks flushed red in an instant, the waves of heat shooting down between your legs. Your voice momentarily stopped working, and you had to swallow a few times before you could feel your vocal cords’ tight knot loosen. “Might wanna…um…move your hand, Tangerine.” You croaked.

There was a brief moment of silence before the realization hit the man standing behind you. “Oh, fuck me.” His hand flew away from your tit, smacking against his thigh. You quietly slid away from his arms, the strong urge to rub your thighs together clogging your mind.

Tangerine cleared his throat, a small flush dusting his cheeks. “Alright, we’ve established your absolutely shit at combat. Let me teach you the basics.” You nodded, dazed. “First, the places to stab.” Tangerine gripped his knife. “Of course, you know there’s eyes, heart, stomach, liver, so on. All that basic shit. But now I’m going to teach you a few things. Come here.”

You stepped closer to him, unsure of what he wanted to do. “Okay, let’s pretend a fucker’s chocking you.” As Tangerine spoke, he maneuvered you to stand with your back to him, wrapping an arm around your neck.

“Kinky.”

Tangerine rolled his eyes. “How do you get out?”

“Um��kick in the nuts.”

“Not bad, but most men know that’s their weak spot so they keep their hips away.” Tangerine shook his head. “Try jabbing your elbow repeatedly in their stomach.” You followed his tip, miming the act. Tangerine’s arm slithered away from your neck, pretending to be hurt. “Now, take your knife and stab from downwards to upwards, try to avoid the rib cage, go under it.”

You clasped the knife tighter, once again pretending to do it, visualizing the blood gushing on you, the adrenaline pumping in your veins. Tangerine clapped his hands slowly. “Great! Now you’re a bit better than absolute dog shit at fighting.”

“So now my fighting is at cat shit level?” You joked, tossing your toy knife in the air. Tangerine laughed. The sound was so sincere it knocked the breath out of you. It had been a while since he laughed so genuinely, the pressure of the previous job sucking all the happiness from both you, leaving you grey and unhappy. His happiness radiated from him as if he was the sun god himself, your heart melting, making you drop your knife on the floor.

You scrambled to pick it up, snapping out of your daze. As you kneeled down to grab it, you found yourself to be staring at Tangerine’s crotch. Your mouth dried the moment you noticed a significant bulge hiding behind his dress pants. You quickly stood up, pretending not have seen anything, biting your lip, as everything started becoming more noticeable to your sensitive skin, especially the seam of your leggings pressing against your crotch.

“Now, let’s try something else. What if I pick you up?” Tangerine asked, lunging towards you, wrapping his warm hands around your waist. You snapped out of your lust induced daze, quickly struggling against him, planting both feet on the ground. Tangerine started using more strength, holding you against him to destabilize you. Your ass pressed against his crotch, his bulge becoming even more evident.

Your body soon became warm again, and you could feel the perfect outline of his bulge against the thin fabric of your leggings. A soft, breathy moan ripping out of your lips. Tangerine stopped moving, his arms loosely around your waist. You froze, unsure if Tangerine had heard you. Your senses became aware of everything, mainly focusing on your shallow breath.

Tangerine’s warm hands glided down your waist, gripping your hips. Slowly, unsure, tentative, Tangerine moved his hips against you. You whimpered again. “Oh fuck, (Y/N).” Tangerine groaned. “Tell me stop,” he grunted in your ear.

You shook your head, placing your hands on his, encouraging him. “No…keep going.” You bucked against him, throwing your head back to rest against Tangerine’s broad shoulders.

“Fucking finally.” His words were breathless, his warm hands quickly spinning you around so you were face to face with him. Without a second of hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his neck, lifting your leg. Tangerine quickly took the hint, holding your thigh, squeezing it, pressing you against himself.

You whimpered, grabbing his loosened tie and yanking him against your lips, a passionate kiss with clashing teeth and dripping saliva. His hands threaded threw your hair. Using him to balance your weight, you started grinding against him, pulling away from the kiss to press your already swollen lips against his shoulder, muting your sounds.

You gasped, feeling Tangerine’s hands hold your waist tightly, lifting you effortlessly in the air, walking briskly to the bed that had been pushed against the wall. He let you drop on it, bouncing on the expensive mattress. You quickly spread your legs, letting him hover above you.

Your eyes locked with Tangerine’s limpid blue eyes. Your heart skipped a beat, and heat suddenly burst on your cheeks. Tangerine sensed it, smiling warmly at you. “Hey, doll.” He whispered, caressing your cheek. The cold of his many rings clashing against the warmth of your heated cheeks.

“Hey,” you whispered back, suddenly timid, the weight of your near future actions suddenly drenching you in cold, wet panic. Your heart beat so fast, Tangerine could probably hear it. You averted your eyes, afraid of the beauty of his eyes.

“What’s wrong, darlin’? We can stop at any minute if you don’t feel like it,” Tangerine murmured, massaging your hips to ease the tension.

“No. No I…I don’t want to stop. I’m just…afraid, I guess. I…I don’t want this to just be a meaningless fuck.” You admitted, vocalizing the fears that had nestled deep in your heart in the span of a few seconds.

Tangerine’s face quickly changed, the difference almost as striking as sunrises and sunsets. His eyes rapidly searched for yours, holding your chin in place delicately with his fingers, almost as if he was touching a goddess. “This was never meant to be a meaningless fuck, (Y/N). Yes, I’ve dreamt of fucking you, but those dreams walked hand in hand with wishes of holding you while you slept, hiding you in my arms when life becomes too harsh.” Your eyes filled with tears, a watery smile painted on your trembling lips. “I think, the first moment I saw you, you had already taken control of my heart with a simple giggle.”

Your heart suddenly overloaded with light, the darkness of your fears melting away. You leaned towards him, clasping his lips in a kiss, the mood suddenly changing. Tangerine sighed happily in your mouth, wrapping his arms around your neck and gently laying you down on the mattress.

Your legs spread open, as Tangerine gently accomodate himself in between them, expertly pressing his knee in your crotch. Your arms hugged his shoulders, pushing him an against your heaving chest. Your lips locked together, and you barely registered Tangerine’s long fingers reaching down between your legs and hastily unbuckling his belt. His pants tumbled over the edge of the bed, nestling between the dust bunnies underneath it.

His warm hands returned back to your waist, gripping you as if his life depended on it. His lips slowly slid down to your damp neck, leaving a series of hickeys behind.

“Tan…Tan..” You moaned, trying to buck your hips to hint you wanted your pants off. Your partner, smart as he was, instantly received the message, yanking your thin leggings down your legs. His fingers slipped in your panties, grinning wickedly when he felt how wet you were.

“My god…all of this for me? You spoil me, darlin’.” Your cheeks dusted with embarrassment, but you soon forget your shame, Tangerine’s fingers slowly slipped inside you, making you touch the plains of heaven with the tip of your finger.

Your partner soon managed to find the sweet, spongy spot inside you, making your back arch away from the rumpled sheets and further into his chest. Although the pleasure was incandescent, you couldn’t wait anymore. You gently grabbed his wrist, halting his movements.

Your other hand slid inside his curls, gripping them, and slowly leading Tangerine back against your mouth. Pressed against his lips, you breathlessly pushed out, “Tangerine, I can’t…ngh…I can’t wait any longer. Fuck me. Right now.”

The demand raced straight to his dick, and Tangerine didn’t even have the control to take off his shirt before he slowly slid inside you.

The sensation was indescribable: both of your bodies were drowning in pleasure, stars twinkling in the corners of your vision. Tangerine would never admit it, but he almost blew his load immediately, your pussy becoming his new favorite sin. It took a few beautifully aching moments for his long length to bottom out, but when it did, you swore you could feel his heartbeat where your two chests connected.

“Can…can I move?” Tangerine’s voice was breathy, beautiful, caressing your ears like a loving memory. You nodded, gulping down yet another strangled moan. He bucked his hips experimentally, and both of your bodies curled in pleasure.

Tangerine started moving his hips, picking up pace every minute, and soon, the sound of the trashy soap opera the room next door had been watching was soon drowned by your grunts of pleasure. Your hands gripped Tangerine’s shoulders for dear life, and you thanked that he had kept his shirt on, or else his back would be littered with red, passionate scratches.

“Oh…oh my god, Tan! Right there!” You gasped, right after Tangerine had thrown your left leg over his shoulder, managing to find your sweet spot for the second time that night. You clenched tightly around him, Tangerine throwing his hair back in absolute bliss.

“You’re so…fucking…tight!” He groaned, punctuating each word with a thrust. He suddenly dropped back down, hovering above you, his left hand clutching the headboard while the right was on your hip. You didn’t mind, already feeling your orgasm in the pit of your stomach, like the shoreline receding before an incoming tsunami.

Tangerine pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that could be described as sloppy, passionate, heavy with all the lost kisses you had burned to give one other, and all the sleepless nights you had yearned for each other. His mustache gently scraping your upper lip was the only promise that you hadn’t died and had reached heaven.

You pulled back, noticing the string of saliva connecting your swollen lips. “I— I’m almost there.” You whimpered. To help you reach your climax, Tangerine placed his calloused thumb on your swollen clit. And truthfully, that’s all you needed.

Your orgasm crashed on you, making you almost scream in pleasure, holding Tangerine closely against you, wanting to feel all the whimpers of pleasure that cascaded from your lips. The vice-like grip you had around his cock soon dragged Tangerine over the edge. With one final trust, he emptied himself inside you, instinctively wrapping his arms around you, and crushing you into a hug, where he nuzzled his face in your neck, whispering your name back to you.

You both slowly came down, panting loudly, all your energies spent. As the sweat cooled down on your glowing skin, Tangerine could only caress your back, trying to convey feelings he was too tired to express.

After a few minutes of hugging each other in silence, Tangerine pulled out of you, and you whimpered, feeling the sudden loss of warmth. Your lover quickly fixed the problem by yanking the covers from underneath you, and covering your naked bodies, before engulfing you in another hug, peppering your face with kisses. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” You admitted quietly, pressing a soft kiss on his earlobe.

Your blissed out state had already taken you by the hand, and was leading you into Morpheus’ arms, but heard Tangerine chuckle quietly: “And to think that none of this wouldn’t have happened if you were not completely horrible at fighting.” You barked out a laugh.

“Hey, now if we train, and you accidentally touch my breast, you won’t have to act all embarrassed,” you murmured sleepily, your words slushing together. Tangerine’s deep, throaty laugh, and his deep, rich scent were the only things you recalled before you slipped into the most peaceful sleep you ever had, excited about the wonderful days that awaited the blossoming of your new relationship.

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine x y/n #tangerine smut #bullet train

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atomic-rattz · 19 days ago

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dearest lab partner, it hath been so very long since I last laid my eyes upon you. Tis not very skibidi. I miss you dearly, for I hath held onto the image of your face and your unnerving ass eyes for so long. Doth thou recount how we used to run 🚬 and how I made you eat grass. Those around me are saying to write this as normal and put through a Shakespeare translator, but would it be from the heart if I weren’t wrong? Doth my words, though be potentially incorrect, not be from what is truest to me? I wish to be given reprieve from this hell and to I don’t even know like be in a room with you again. Parallel play? I’ve been kind of parallel play pilled today I miss you. Chomp chomp <-imagine I’m snapping my jaws at you like a dog. Farewell my beloved, for tonight I’ve seen to run out of words to spill the sludge of my soul, though truly in secret I doubt that there will ever be enough words act as a prophet for the depths of my mind. I miss you skibidi -your dearest lab partner, from the depths of the nuclear reactor pool. Blub blub.

my dearest lab partner slash husband, oh how i yearn for the freedom and the shackles to be broken from the academic place podent of mary jane. but, do not fret; thou time is to come on the twenty sixth of april. (if you dont die ofc)

so long my skibidi, and until we meet again that very day. Once more we will be able to frolic in my bountiful fields (my dusty ass carpet) on that blue moon that will rise (probably my LED lights) once again. (the 26th) -your dearest rat in the nearest lake, tomi

#atomic’s irrelevant talking #i didnt write alot #gomen

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duocatt · 10 months ago

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blease,,, fem stevetony recs list,, my crops,,,

never fear, i gotchu & ur crops, friend.

1. all of me wants all of you. by frostfall

(teen+, dimension travel, light angst, getting together)

One day, a portal opens up in the middle of Toni's workshop, leaving behind two men who apparently are them, Captain America and Iron Maiden, well, Man, from another universe.

But that's not the only thing that Steph finds bizarre. What's also bizarre is that Captain America and Iron Man are together.

Together in a relationship.

And apparently somehow, they're not the only pair.

(Or the five Steves who convince Steph to confess her feelings to Toni and the one Steve she has to convince to confess to his own.)

- this one is my favorite & my go to for feel good fem!stevetony. the avengers are all genderswapped plus multiversal shenanigans plus steph very obviously pining & toni being completely oblivious to it. i dont want to say too much about which universes show up bc thats not as fun, but one thing thats rlly nice for me personally: natasha stark is trans here & i think that's neat. ❤️

2. Yes, Boss by suitofhumour

(teen+, college/university AU, bodyguard AU, angst with a happy ending, getting together)

When Antonia (Tony) Stark is set to go back to MIT, her mother has only one condition - she needs a bodyguard. Tony hates it and tries to skip out from it using every excuse possible but Maria is firm and Tony is stuck with a bodyguard who is bound to cramp her style. It just gets even worse when the bodyguard is Captain Stephanie Rogers and Tony doesn’t know if her destiny hates her or wants her to just give in to the weird feeling that kinda sounds like love.

- i already love bodyguard AUs & college AUs & this is both ❤️ here, tony is just a girl trying to make her robots & follow her heart & steph is the hot bodyguard realizing oh no perhaps this is not just a job. what ever will she do???? (also steph is trans & once again, that's neat!)

3. The Unintentional Reevaluation of Natasha Stark by kdm103020

(teen+, getting together, pining steph)

Howard's daughter drives her nuts.

In which Natasha Antonia Stark morphs from Steph's personal nightmare into...well, something else. She's not quite sure about that yet.

- this one reminds me of the older getting to know each other stevetony fics that came out after Avengers 1 which is a specific kind of vibe that i love. tasha grows on an oblivious steph, its rlly cute. good soup ❤️

4. Mistletoe (Take a Risk) by greymantledlady

(gen, first kiss, christmas fic, past peggy carter/steve rogers)

Steve stands quietly under the mistletoe, watching, and thinks she could watch all night: Tony is bright and funny and effervescent and sweet, though Steve knows that Tony would never believe in her own sweetness. Tony’s hair is sticking up in the dearest little dark curls over her head. There’s one particular curl over her ear that Steve wants very much to poke her finger through.

Tony’s coming over now. Steve doesn’t move, just smiles a little and waits for her; her heart is suddenly thumping in her throat. Take a risk, Steve had told herself, because Tony was worth it, a thousand times, and mistletoe was mistletoe and sometimes wonderful things happened beneath it.

Peggy would have thought so, Steve thinks suddenly. Peggy would have said that to her: take a risk.

To be read as a standalone fic.

- this one is very VERY soft, very sweet. straight up unabashedly adorable. i have a whole cache of christmas fic i reread around the holidays & this is in there ofc. this author is just generally rlly good at delivering the warm fuzzies, honestly.

5. (let her sleep) for when she wakes, she will move mountains by Portia77

(teen+, pre-relationship, showers, protective steve, comfort no hurt)

“If you get killed, walk it off.”

Pfft.

Sure, easy for Steph Rogers to say. She’s 6’0 and a veritable wall of muscle.

By comparison, Toni feels like a hand blown glass vase left out in a hurricane.

- this is pre-slash & i don't like reading those usually bc im impatient & i wanna see em smooch romantically, but i really liked this one. the vibe is tired toni while she's all beat up & steph taking care of her, which i coincidentally have a big ass soft spot for. its rlly cute, i like it.

there you go, pal. stevetony continues to be my emotional support brainrot, lemme know if you want more recommendations

#(holds up stevetony) i just think theyre neat #also im aware no one asked for my thoughts on these fics but i talk a lot about things i like so too bad #btw ive never rlly gone searching specifically for femslash stevetony i usually just happen upon it #so it always feels like a real treat. a little unexpected present #stevetony #femslash #heydocpotts fic rec #there was another one i wanted to add but the author made it anonymous even tho i remember who wrote it so i wasnt sure how exactly #to go about it. maybe another time

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helpallthenamesaretaken · 1 year ago

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EPISODE 8 😭😭 THE FEELS

the first line being 'look, you didn't ask to be a half blood' 😭😭 this is the shows equivalent to the good kid reprise

The wooden sword 😂

they have my respect for showing a luke and percy practicing sword fight scene SERIOUSLY the rest of the riordanverse percy still hears advice from luke while swordfighting and that is a plot point that is so special to me okay

the transition from luke to percy as he asks for single combat it's SO CINEMATIC I LOVE IT

The threatening aura of ares after being grumpy and comedic is chefs kiss about dayum time

I wish they kept the scene where percy says something along the lines of "we didn't mention any dreams" when ares yells that gods don't dream but ofc tv!percy knows all

cue one of the most epic sword fight scenes of the century

IM THE SON OF POSEIDON NOW FACE THE TIDE INSIDE OF MEEEEEEEE

NO SERIOUSLY SOMEBODY MAKE AN EDIT

THE SIZE OF PERCY COMPARED TO THE WAVE, THE WAVE ENVELOPING BOTH OF THEM

The camera shots are too good I swear

Ok that was short

I kinda missed the police cars and the sirens in the background and the reporters and all that chaos

sallys in the breeze she's in the trees

Alecto redemption arc wasnt on my bingo card but I actually like it guys

THE NECKLACE

percy staring at annabeth as she makes it harder each day to believe no one cares about him will never get old ❤️

“Wheres the glory in that” lazy ppl dont need glory

Rip lance reddick❤️

the next time hes going to roast zeus’s family percy is going to be older and more intimidating ZEUS IS GOING TO LISTEN and thats something so amazing

the way that percy fell to the ground with his arms on his head by instinct as zeus raised his lightning bolt

POSEIDON YASSSSS

”perseus” wait a sec is this the first reveal of percys real name?

THEIR ACTING AS ALWAYS 10/10

”can i ask you a question?’ DID YOU EVER HAVE SOMEONE KISS YOU IN A CROWDED ROOM AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOUR FRIENDS WAS MAKING FUN OF YOU

Dude was like no hon i aint gon tell bout what i dream about your mother kaboom peace out

huggggg (btw guys im in this show im the camper in the background clapping for the hug) i love that laugh from percy like ‘yep this is how we roll now not bad’

I love that theyre using that position to just ominously talk about clarisse not even letting go, just hugging it out talking about the traitor

Luke and annabeth in the same frame!!! We got a hand on annabeths shoulder AND NOTHING ELSE

THE CINEMATOGRAPHY OF THE NEXT SCENE IS UNPARALLELED

THE WAY THE FIREWORKS GET DARKER AND DARKER AS LUKE IS CAUGHT

Backbiter glowed up fr now he can make interdimensional portals

also percy knows everything as usual.

the girls are fightinggggg

”im sorry” *luke taking advantage to slash percy in the arm* you will always live in my heart

The heartbreak in lukes eyes

the hearbreak in annabeths eyes

also that shot of leah against the bright lights of the fireworks makes her look so pretty

ok we’re just going to gloss over the sadness of the betrayal

Can i just say i love chirons casting SO MUCH im so excited to see him party next season

“I am percy jackson” slay

ANNABETHS PIGTAILS ARE SO CUTE

OFC SHES GOING TO DISNEY WORLD

the way shes just worrying about what it might do to kill her 🥺

annabeth: *Exists*

percy: ❤️🥺😁🥰

THE LIL FLOWER

HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

bro literally gave us the percy and sally reunion of our dreams

”your survival is the key to my rise” get lost grim reaper

petition to call kronos grandpa every dream

ILL BE BACK NEXT SUMMER YOULL SEE ME AGAIN ILL BE BACK NEXT SUMMER ILL SURVIVE TILL THEN

Percy arming himself with the umbrella

I BETTER GET SEASON 2

Woooooooooooo gabe dieeeeee

#percy series #pjo #percy jackson #annabeth chase #rick riordan #percabeth #pjo fandom #heroes of olympus #pjo tv show #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo tv series #grover #percyjackson #taylor swift #taylor alison swift #swifties #tswift

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foundtherightwords · 1 year ago

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The Firebird - Chapter 14

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: violence, fire, gore

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Deathless

After everything he'd heard of Zhara's brother, after witnessing every act of cruelty Illarion was capable of, Paul was expecting a villain, someone who exuded power and wickedness. What he saw instead was a boy, looking no older than sixteen, of the same tall, slender build as Zhara, with the same red hair, though it was a shade darker, almost auburn, and the same freckles. There was even something of Zhara's impishness in the turn of his mouth as well. Only the eyes were different. When Paul looked into those eyes, his heart sank, and all his doubt about the boy's true nature vanished. They were the same glittering green as the medallions, hard and cold. Zhara's eyes were always human even when she was transformed into a bird. This boy's eyes didn't even seem alive; the only hint of life in them was a glare of hate.

But Paul didn't spend too long contemplating those lifeless eyes. His attention was riveted on a large mesh cage at the window. Zhara was fluttering in it, while the setting sun cast its light on her plumage, turning her into a fireball, just like the first time Paul had seen her in the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

Underneath the cage, laid out on the table, were an array of strange items and instruments—a gold chest, a hare, a duck, and an egg. The animals each had an angry red slash on its chest. It seemed Illarion had everything he needed for the Deathless ritual, except for the most important one—the needle containing his death. This the boy was twirling between his thin fingers while he leaned casually against the throne, watching Paul with a curious, almost fascinated expression. Under the disconcerting gaze of those flat green eyes, Paul became too aware that he was no knight in shining armor, with his torn and bloody shirt and mismatched weapons. He could only hope that appearances may be misleading.

"For a mere mortal from Rus', he did quite well, did he not, Zharissa?" Illarion said conversationally. "Much better than those bumbling bogatyrs of yours. I wonder what other surprise he may have in store."

To Paul's shock, Zhara spoke. "Paul," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Go! Save yourself!" He stared at the bird. It was Zhara's voice, desperate and full of tears, coming out of her beak. What trick was this?

"Oh, now she talks," Illarion said, sounding annoyed. "I gave you the power of speech so we could have a chat and make the waiting a little less tedious, and you refused to talk to me, but the moment he showed up, you started chattering away?"

"If you don't want to wait until I'm human again to perform the ritual," Zhara said, "why not undo the curse and just kill me now?"

"I would if I could!" Illarion shouted. "Do you think I want to wait? But they are very imprecise, curses. I never meant to curse you, you know. This avian form greatly diminishes your power. If you would only agree to wear that medallion—"

Why, he doesn't know how to undo the curse, Paul realized. He's nothing but a boy, in over his head. He wondered if Zhara had realized this as well and was stalling for time.

"You didn't have to control me," Zhara said to Illarion, spreading her wings in an imploring gesture. "I would've gladly let you rule—"

"What, so you could go behind my back and gather the support of the boyars?" Illarion hissed, baring his teeth in anger. "So you could play the victim and undermine my rule? I know you too well, sister."

They sounded like siblings bickering over a game rather than discussing matters of life and death. Paul took a tentative step forward, reaching for the skull in his knapsack, the only weapon that might stand a chance against Illarion's magic. "Let her go," he said. At least his voice was steady.

"Or what?" Illarion snickered. "Are you going to throw that skull at me?"

In reply, Paul raised the skull. Fire shot out of its eye socket. He meant to aim it at Illarion, but the flame hit a corner of the velvet curtain instead, setting it ablaze. Illarion shrugged, looking almost bored. "I never like those curtains anyway," he said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"How's this for better?" Paul aimed the skull at Illarion's robe. There was a flash, and the robe caught fire. Illarion didn't even flinch. He beat out the fire with his bare hand, as casually as blowing out a candle. Refusing to be intimidated, Paul advanced upon the boy, the skull held in front of him like a musket. He shot another bolt of fire; Illarion dodged it, and the flame hit the corner of the throne in a shower of sparks.

"Enough of this," Illarion growled. He pinned the needle to the shoulder of his robe before slipping something out of his belt and throwing it at Paul.

Belatedly, Paul saw that it was a medallion.

He threw up his arms, but the medallion hit his chest, burned through his shirt like a cattle brand, and adhered itself to his skin.

The pain was unbearable. He'd thought being pinned under an iron-and-copper dragon was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this red-hot agony, this hellfire that seared his very bone, that reached all the way to his heart, that spread through his blood. Was this how it had been for Afron when he foolishly cast in his lot with Illarion? Was this how it had been for poor Alyosha Popovich?

Paul collapsed, clutching at his chest. The last thing he heard was Zhara's panicked voice, calling out his name, as the white-and-gold room around him faded to black.

***

When the darkness cleared from his eyes, Paul found himself on a bed, a large bed, with the silk cover of a pillow under his cheek. There were blue velvet drapes with gold fringes around the bed. The room around him was blue and gold as well, and strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize this was his bed. His room, the one at the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. An untrimmed candle still flickered on the bedside table, but the morning sun was pouring in through the curtains being swept back by a servant. The door opened, and his mother walked in.

"What, still abed at this hour?" she said, though she didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "And on such a big day?"

Paul sat up, blinking stupidly. His hand flew up to his chest. The pain was gone. Had there been a pain there at all, or had he dreamed it?

"A big day?" he repeated.

"Your coronation, of course!" his mother said, laughing and clapping her hands together.

Paul stared at her, too stunned to speak. His mother seemed almost giddy, quite unlike herself. "Are you—are you abdicating?" finally he asked.

"That was always the plan, wasn't it?" She briskly walked over to an array of frock coats and robes being laid out by the servants, pointing to several. "That one, that one... no, that one. Yes." Turning back to Paul, she said, "It was agreed that I would only rule until you reached your majority. Now that you have, it is time for me to step down."

Something was not right, but Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt dazed, half-asleep, as though he'd just come out of a nightmare and was not quite awake. Yet he vaguely remembered that it was true, the council had finally convinced his mother to pass the throne to him. He let himself be dragged out of bed, washed and dressed in full ceremonial regalia, and before he knew it, he was standing in the cathedral in front of a crowd, while priests chanted over him and the crown, the crown he'd seen on his mother's head hundreds of times and coveted each time he saw it, glittered on a velvet cushion before him.

Could it be? Could it be that he had finally achieved what he desired the most?

He looked at the crowd, at their adoring faces all turned toward him. Yes, this was what he wanted, to be seen and respected and appreciated. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he wanted, something missing. He noticed a young lady standing by his mother, doll-like with her porcelain face and tiny rosebud mouth, eyes cast down demurely. Paul didn't remember having seen her before.

"Panin," he said to his old governor, who was standing by his side, "who is that young woman?"

"Why, that is your betrothed, Your Excellency."

Startled, Paul wracked his brain. Again, he had some vague recollection of having chosen one of the princesses from all the miniatures given to him, but try as he might, he couldn't remember her name. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terribly embarrassing to ask Panin her name, wouldn't it?

The young lady lifted her eyes to look at him, and Paul suddenly found himself expecting her eyes to be a warm, golden color, honey held up to sunlight. How strange. Her eyes were blue, perfectly pretty, but for some reason, he kept thinking of those amber eyes. Where had he seen such eyes?

And then, to his shock, the young lady's face began to change. Her eyes turned golden just as he'd imagined; her powdered wigs became a long, red braid, and freckles splattered across her skin. If he looked closely, he could see seven freckles curve around the corner of her mouth... he remembered kissing them... he remembered running his hand over that hair, having those eyes look into his in the moonlight...

"Your Excellency," Panin said in his ears, but it wasn't Panin's voice, it was a strange voice, oily and cold, a voice he'd heard once before in a dark forest. "This is what you want, isn't it?" the voice continued. "You can have all that, and more. As long as you obey me."

Paul turned to his old governor in horror. Panin was looking at him with eyes the color of malachite.

"If you want her," Panin said, still in that spine-chilling voice, "well, I cannot give you the real thing, you understand, but I can give you something very similar." And he nodded at the young lady who looked like someone Paul both did and didn't know.

There was a weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

The young lady opened her mouth. She was standing not five feet from him, yet her voice seemed to be coming to him from far, far away. "Fight it, Paul!" she was screaming. He knew that voice. He knew her.

The crowd around him faded, leaving only her eyes and her voice. Holding on to them as an anchor, he clasped a hand to the base of his throat. His fingers closed around a hard disc, something like a pendant or a medallion that was stuck to his skin. It burned. He pulled it out, screaming as it took some of his skin and flesh along with it, and flung it as far away as he could.

The cathedral vanished. Paul found himself on the floor of the throne room, the marble cool under his cheek. The burning sensation on his chest had gone, but the pain lingered, weakening his limbs. Lifting his head with difficulty, he saw that Illarion stood over him, nostrils flared in fury, while the cage stood empty, with a gaping hole in its side—fragments of the medallion scattered nearby told Paul that he must have hit the cage with the medallion by accident and broken it open. Where was Zhara?

The thought of Zhara finally cleared the cloud in his head. She had saved him. She had pulled him out of that—that vision or hallucination or whatever it was that Illarion had used to tempt him, and brought him back to reality.

This, this was real. Not his mother's palace, not his coronation, not his nameless betrothed. This was real. Zhara was real. And he must save her.

And there she was, a spot of red circling close to the ceiling, out of Illarion's reach. Illarion was flinging his hand at her with his fingers outstretched, launching all sorts of things at her—lightning bolts, stones, even sharp icicles—anything he could conjure out of thin air, it seemed. Strike after magical strike hit the ceiling and the walls, and bits of marble rained down. Zhara flew on agile wings, narrowly avoiding the missiles and the debris that flew off the ceiling and the walls. But she could not hold out for long, not when the sun was getting lower and lower by the minute. Why wasn't she fighting back? Her power may be weaker, but she could still throw a few fireballs, surely? Or did she hesitate because she still thought of this crazed boy as her little brother? Well, if she refused to fight him, then Paul would.

As Illarion twisted and turned like he was battling a particularly pesky fly, Paul struggled to his feet and pulled out his broken sword, holding it ready. At one point, Illarion turned fully toward Paul, arms wide open as he tried to hit Zhara with a whirlwind. This was Paul's chance. He ran at the boy at full tilt and stabbed the sword through Illarion's chest.

Staggering back, Illarion stared at the sword's handle sticking out of his chest in astonishment.

Then he started to laugh.

"You fool!" he said, still laughing. He pulled the sword out and threw it to the floor. There wasn't even any blood on it. If it wasn't for the torn patch on his robe, nobody would know he'd been stabbed.

He truly was Deathless.

With a flick of his hand, Illarion threw an invisible force at Paul, sending him sprawling.

Paul's eyes caught a glint on Illarion's robe. It was the needle, reflecting the red rays of the sun.

The needle! Of course! To defeat Koschei, one had to destroy the needle. Paul picked himself up on trembling limbs and aimed the skull at it. If he could at least damage it somehow, that would distract Illarion long enough to give them a chance...

Illarion spun around. Another unseen hand slammed into Paul. This time the force knocked the air out of his lungs and hurled him across the room. The back of his head hit the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes. Golden ropes sprung out of the floor like tree roots, binding his wrists and ankles. He strained against them, but they only tightened, threatening to slice off his hands and foot. The skull clattered away, rolling to the foot of the throne. Illarion's boot came down, smashing it into bits.

Paul was still staring at the smashed skull, his last hope, when Illarion came to stand in front of him.

"Stupid mortal!" he spat at Paul. "How dare you defy me! Now you shall pay!"

He pointed his hand at Paul and curled his fingers into a fist. Paul gasped. It felt as though there was a claw inside him, squeezing his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in his veins. Incredible, indescribable pain radiated from his heart to his ribs, his neck, his arms and shoulders, and the rest of his body, choking him, paralyzing him. He could feel his life force draining away, but he was helpless to stop it.

From the ceiling, Zhara came barreling down like a golden arrow. She dashed past Illarion, who made a grab for her but missed her by just a hair's breadth. The pressure around Paul's heart loosened, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing. Zhara shot back to the ceiling, and Illarion clasped a hand to his shoulder, the first hint of fear creeping to his face—the needle was gone.

"Please, Lariosha, stop this," Zhara said, the needle tightly grasped between her talons.

"Do not call me that!"

"The magic is killing you! If you go through with the ritual, you'll be dead! Baba Yaga told me—the same thing happened to Koschei—"

So Baba Yaga had told Zhara the truth after all. Was that why she wasn't fighting Illarion? Was she still trying to save him?

"See, that's where you're wrong, sister," Illarion said, though he indeed did not look well. The boy's face was pale, as pale as the marble walls around them, his hands shook, and he was breathing hard, spittle spraying from his lips. Only his green eyes burned feverishly. "Koschei was an old fool. He put his death into an ordinary needle. But I am cleverer than that. This needle will be indestructible once I temper it in your fire. Don't try anything stupid. Whatever you do to it will only make it stronger."

"I'm sorry," Zhara said. "I can't let you go through with this." Turning to Paul, she said, "Hold on to Baba Yaga's handkerchief. It will protect you."

"Protect me—from what?" Paul gasped. He still hadn't quite regained his breath after Illarion's attack.

"From me."

With that, she pointed the needle at herself and plunged it into her chest.

"No!" Paul and Illarion both screamed.

Blood spurted from Zhara's breast, dying her red feathers a darker shade. Blood dripped to the floor below her, and wherever the blood fell, fire sprang up and spread around the room as though the floor was made of the oldest, driest wood and not cold, hard marble. Flames surrounded Zhara, turning her whole body into a fireball, burning the needle white-hot. Flames swallowed up the table with its instruments of magic. Flames licked around Paul, but he strained his bound hand to find Baba Yaga's handkerchief in his knapsack, and the fire never touched him, though he felt its heat on his skin.

"You think you can stop me by killing yourself?!" Illarion hissed. "No, no, dear sister, you will live—at least long enough to serve me!"

He raised his hand. Zhara was pulled toward him on an invisible string, her wings flailing uselessly against his force.

"I have taken Koschei's powers," Illarion said, "and now I'm going to take yours!"

Just as he had done to Paul, Illarion curled his fingers into a fist. Paul knew now that the gesture meant Illarion was draining his victim's life force. And there was Zhara's life force—flames rolled along the string of air between them, flowing from sister into brother, until they were connected by a rope of fire. Paul could only watch, powerless, while Zhara's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she made a strangled sound. Her plumage started losing its color and luster. The paler she got, the stronger Illarion seemed to be—his face was no longer deathly white, his hair became redder than the fire itself, and his eyes burned more brightly.

The fire was almost gone from around Zhara's body now, her feathers a dim, dark shade of purplish brown, like old blood. She was limp, only held up in midair by the force of Illarion's magic. The needle was lifted from her chest by that same force and flew into Illarion's hand. He caught it, laughing, paying no heed to the incandescent metal.

"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think to do this sooner? This is so much better! Now I can temper the needle with my own fire! I shall be truly invinci—"

He didn't finish the sentence. The smug smile vanished from his face. The fire continued to blaze around his body as it blazed around the room, sucking out all the air, turning the whole place into an inferno. Despite the protection of Baba Yaga's handkerchief, Paul could still feel the heat blasting him in the face and scorching his lungs.

"No, this is enough—" Illarion was saying. "The tempering is done—I want it to stop—Zhara! How do I get the fire to stop? Help! Help me, please! "

Zhara, who was suspended lifeless in the air with her head lolling back and her wings drooping, gave no answer.

"It burns—oh gods, it burns!" Illarion moaned. He tried to throw the needle away, but it had melted into a puddle of liquid metal in his palm. Still the fire raged on. "You witch!" Illarion screamed at Zhara, his face twisted with rage. "You've tricked me! But you won't get away with it! If I die, you shall die too!"

He clenched his fist again, and some of the fire flowed back to Zhara, searing her feathers. She remained unconscious. Soon, the fire would consume both brother and sister...

Paul took his hand out of the knapsack and dropped the handkerchief to the floor. The moment it left his fingers, flames roared up around him. He angled his body toward it, letting the fire burn the ropes around his wrists and ankles to ashes, biting back a scream as it scorched his skin. As soon as he was free of the ropes, he got to his feet.

Illarion saw the handkerchief, and his eyes went wide. They both dove for it. Paul—perhaps by sheer luck—was a fraction of a second quicker. He scooped the handkerchief up, jumped at Zhara, and snatched her out of the air, wrapping her in the square of fabric.

"No!!!" Illarion, now nothing more than a pillar of fire with a vaguely human shape in its middle, charged at Paul. Paul leaped aside, and Illarion crashed through the window, plummeting down the sheer cliff, burning like a falling star.

A long while later, a blast from the sea below told Paul that the boy had met his end.

The flames rose all the way to the ceiling in one last furious eruption, and then, with a rushing sound of air being sucked inward, they vanished, leaving behind only a few scorched patches and an acrid smell.

Paul looked down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Zhara was lying there, in his arms—Zhara, as he'd seen her that first night in the woods of Lukomorye, freckles standing out on her skin, her hair covering her body like a cape, her eyes closed, the wound on her chest still bleeding. Outside the broken window, the sun was taking its plunge into the sea, turning the water into molten gold for a moment before winking out, and darkness descended on everything.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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tedlebred · 1 year ago

Note

You gotta teach me how to use tone tags correctly 😭😭 I feel like I don’t know what half of them mean + use them incorrectly

There r so many and they can be so confusing…………. I went around using /gen as /gentle for like a year before I realised🥲🥲(it’s actually /genuine)

but tone tags tone tags forever I love tone tags!!!!! I wouldn’t be able to survive on the internet without tone tags. Here are the ones I use the most often:

Warning this ended up longer than I expected…….

/j: joking -

use when you’re making a joke, or saying something jokingly/playfully that could be misunderstood as serious

/hj: half joking -

use when you’re. Well. Half joking about something

/srs: serious -

Use when you’re serious about something/not joking

/lh: light hearted -

I’m honestly not sure how I should explain this…….. you use it when you’re. Being. Light hearted??? Idk I’m sorry it’s just muscle memory for me at this point

/ref: reference -

Use when you’re referencing something. A movie, game, meme, book - anything that you’re referencing

/lyr: song lyric -

Use when you’re quoting a song lyric

/q: quote-

use when you’re quoting something- book, movie, video game, meme, whatever

/nf: not forced -

Use when you suggest something, or ask something, or anything like that but want to clarify that you’re not forcing the person to do it

/nm: not mad -

FUN FACT I JUST GOOGLED THIS ONE TO MAKE SURE I GOT IT RIGHT AND I HADN’T. I USED TO THIBK THAT IT MEANT /NOT MEAN. WELL

but use when you’re talking to someone and want to clarify that you’re not mad with them, or making a joking comment that appears harsh/mean and could come across as you being mad

/p: platonic -

Use when you want to say that whatever statement you’re saying is in a platonic way, ex saying “I love you” to friends

/r: romantic -

Use when you want to say that whatever statement you’re saying is in a romantic way

I HOPE THAT MAKES SENSE!!!!!?? Those are just the ones I personally find the most useful, but there are loooaads others!!!! Here are some places w more information if you wanted it:

Uhm. Yeah. I use tone indicators with pretty much anyone who isn’t a close irl friend (ofc I use them w them too, but they usually know me well enough to know what I’m saying/mean at any point) because they make everything so much easier!!!!!!!!! Especially for me!!!!!!!! I don’t get online interaction etiquette, I’m constantly afraid of coming on too strong onto mutuals/afraid of people misunderstanding me, and I don’t really understand things over text. it’s annoying lmao,, tone tags saved my life!!!!!!!!!! Looooove stacking tone tags at the end of a sentence to make sure I’m not confusing 💞💖Hope this was helpful!!!!/gen

#UHHHMMM SORRY IF YOU WANTED A SHORTER EXPLANATION 😶😬 but yeah. Embarrassed that I only now realise I was using /nm incorrectly after #3 years on the Internet #ask #TONETAGS4LIFE

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demona-andariel · 2 years ago

Text

Object of Obsession - 2 / 46

Fandom: Halloween

Pairing: Michael Myers x OFC

Summary: In Haddonfield everyone knows the legend that was Michael Myers. Content and at ease, they’d forgotten what it was to feel fear in the month of October. But now, he finds himself back and ready for blood but then a bond forms between him and one of his victims. A bond he can’t seem to break. And it starts to make him do things he never thought of doing before.

Warnings: (Encompassing the whole story in no particular order) kidnapping, noncon, explicit sexual content, smut, loss of virginity, rough sex, blood and violence, knifeplay, canon-typical violence

Author Note: Minors DNI!

Word Count: 3,700

Chapter 2 - Unexpected Turn of Events

The wind played with Gretchen’s loose hair, tangling it more as she ran. She wrapped her arms around herself. She was wearing a much too thin dress considering the cold October weather. There had been no time to change. She had to get there! In the distance, she spotted two figures. One of them picked up the other and slammed a dagger through his chest. She screamed.

Gretchen sat up with a start. Her heart pounding in her chest. Tentatively, she placed her hand near her heart, pressing down as if that would calm her. It did for a moment. She closed her eyes and hummed softly an old tune.

Brandon! The images of him being pulled out of the car before being stabbed by Michael Myers ran through her mind. Michael had killed him. And then he had focused his attention on her and-

She straightened and felt her chest again then quickly checked her body. No stab wounds, no blood. The back of her head hurt, but she wasn’t dead. At least, she didn’t feel dead. Her eyes slowly scanned her surroundings. It was hard to see. There was barely any light

She didn’t recognize the place. She was laying in the front room of an unfamiliar house. There was a long hallway before her. Towards the back, she was sure there were stairs leading up. To her right was a living room and behind that, she wasn’t quite sure what that room was. But to her left was a dining room and back further was the kitchen. The four rooms connected into the main hall.

She slowly stood up, brushing herself as she did. Her clothes were still damp from the rain. Goosebumps popped up as a shiver ran through her. Wet, cold, a little cranky but mostly scared. Had someone rescued her before Michael could finish her off? But why put her in the front room by the door if they had? Why not set her on the perfectly viable couch that she could easily spot in the living room?

She opened her mouth to call out to her possible rescuer. But then her senses tingled. Something was wrong. Someone was watching her. She didn’t dare turn her back to the hallway even though she didn’t see anyone as she stepped back until she felt the front door. Her right hand moved desperately searching for the doorknob as her eyes darted around trying to find the reason for her panic. Finding the doorknob, she turned and twisted. It didn’t move. Clearly locked. She searched for a way to unlock it but found nothing.

Turning back to face the house, her heart sank to her feet. Michael was standing in the corner of the viewable kitchen. Watching her movements. She could barely see his silhouette that was mirrored through a glass door. But he was there. Why in the world had he brought her here? Was this some sort of sick game?

He moved.

Gretchen didn’t wait as she ran into the living room, opposite Michael’s location. Her eyes searched for any kind of weapon. Shit, she thought. There was only one way out, the way she’d run in. It didn’t take long for her to realize that there was no weapon in the room. She quickly turned and ran to the dining room, running straight into Michael.

He looked down at her and she looked up at him. His knife was over his head. She pushed away from him as he slashed at her. A sharp sting ran through her arm. She stumbled and landed on the ground. Michael moved with determination, he knew he had her.

Gretchen kicked out a chair from the dining table toward Michael. He didn’t expect it. She scrambled to her feet and ran to the other side of the table to keep some distance between them. Her heartbeat pounded loudly in her head. Michael moved slowly to one side, forcing her to move more into a corner.

His breathing was labored with excitement and amplified through his mask. She desperately searched for some kind of escape. The windows all had bars on them. Michael seemed to be enjoying their little game of cat and mouse. She had to find a way to get the upper hand. She couldn’t match him one on one. He was too big and strong. She had to outsmart him. Michael moved toward her around the table.

Maybe, she could escape upstairs. She threw a chair at him, momentarily distracting him. It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was enough for her to be able to run up the stairs. His silhouette was by the front entrance before she lost visual.

She threw open the first door to her left. Bathroom. Fuck! First door on her right was a room. Filled with junk, it was the perfect room to try to hide in. She closed the door and locked it. Not that it would keep him out for long. But maybe it’d exhaust him enough that she would have an advantage. She looked around, quickly trying to come up with some sort of plan. There were bars on the window. No way to escape that way.

Get the upper hand, disarm him. If I must, kill him. She ran towards the closet and slipped on a small rug. There was no traction to keep it in place.

Her body screamed in pain as she crashed to the ground. There wasn’t time for this. She mentally pushed the pain back as she limped toward the closet. Opening the door, she closed it loudly before, quietly, and carefully going to the other side of the room.

Michael banged against the door. She bit her lip to keep from moaning in pain. Michael hit the door with more force, breaking it open. She wrapped her hands over her mouth to cover her breathing.

Michael walked in, taking a look around. His eyes were immediately on the closet door. She waited, tucked in a corner. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. So loud it was a wonder he didn’t hear it.

Knock him on his ass, get the knife, stab him. For a moment, she saw her hands full of blood, a knife in them, and a body by her knees.

Michael stopped near the closet. The rug at his feet! Bursting from her hiding spot, she lunged for the rug and pulled with all her strength. He spun at the noise she made, helping her get him unbalanced. He hadn’t expected it and fell back with a crash. His knife flew out of his hands and landed close to her own. She grabbed it and jumped onto his chest. She had to kill him. It was the only way. She couldn’t let him recover and kill her.

Without another thought, she brought the blade down on him. Her whole body stopped. The blade was positioned just over his heart, all she had to do was push it in. Her hand shook uncontrollably, she couldn’t do it. Something deep inside her just wouldn’t let her kill him. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was doomed. How could she not kill him to save her life?

Michael grabbed her wrist and twisted her hand, effortlessly disarming her. She cried out as he easily switched their positions. Her whole body hurt as she landed on the hard wooden floor with a thud. He was over her before she could think, both of his legs on either side of her.

“No,” she cried out, shaking her head as her fighting spirit returned. She struggled, moving her hands in front of herself and pushing his chest as if her strength could get him off her. Her eyes caught his through his mask. They were filled with mirth. He was enjoying this.

His free hand caught her wrists and he pushed them back over her head. She let out another cry as she tried to struggle. Kicking her feet out. Maybe if she kicked him in the balls she’d have another chance to escape. But he was too high up for her to hurt him. His eyes twinkled as if he were smiling. He had her. They both knew it. Why in the world was he taking so long to kill her? He lowered the knife towards her heart. She knew tears were streaming down her face from frustration. Sure, she had visions of possibly having sex, but not of her being killed to warn her? He had allowed her to live long enough to play his fucking game of cat and mouse. Why her? Was he bored the way he was killing people? It didn’t matter. Summoning her fighting spirit, she glared up at him in defiance. She was afraid, she didn’t want to die. But if she did, at least she’d die showing her contempt.

She sucked in her breath, trying to sink her chest away from the knife as he slowly tortuously lowered it. Finally, he stopped, the tip of the blade pierced her skin, making her bleed. She didn’t wiggle, too scared to harm herself more. A little line of blood seeped from her wound, trickling down her chest to her neck. For some odd reason, her breasts caught her attention. During their struggle, her strapless shirt had ridden down. At least she wasn’t completely topless, but she was close, her nipples threatening to pop out at any second. She couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of her family finding her half-naked. No underwear. In a terribly flimsy slightly slutty princess costume.

Michael's eyes followed the blood trail. His breathing, already heavy and excited from his little game, changed ever so slightly. Raising his eyes up, she watched as he slowly took in their position. He held her arms firmly over her head. She followed his eyes as he moved them down, stopping for a moment on her breasts as if he were surprised that they were there. Lifting his knife off her heart, he slowly moved it towards her throat

“Don’t,” she breathed as she started to wiggle a little bit. He tightened his hand on her wrists, shooting pain down her arms as her wrist bones rubbed each other. She let out a small cry and arched her back to try to relieve the stress and stinging feeling in her arms.

He loosened his grip and she relaxed a little. As much as she didn't want to show fear, she couldn't help it. His actions confused her. She had no idea what he wanted or what he was going to do. She searched for his eyes in his mask, but could only see a glint. What was he thinking? Slowly, and oddly, carefully he moved his knife down her bare skin till he reached her top. “No,” she whispered and let out a small cry as her sudden breath allowed the knife to nick her. She looked back at him. Terrible knowledge filled her mind. She was in charge of her own injuries. The knife was incredibly sharp, He didn't look at her, moving the blade dangerously close to her skin, but his goal was to cut her top open. She gulped trying to keep her panicked breaths under control. The knife didn’t have to go far as it cut the tight, flimsy thin fabric that made up the top of her costume. She’d chosen a costume that was just a little bit smaller to entice Brandon on purpose. And she wasn’t wearing a bra. The fabric slipped away revealing her naked breasts. The cool air caused her nipples to perk up in response. Michael moved his knife away from her. Was he ogling her? His grip on her wrists loosened as did his grip on the knife.

This is your chance! Her brain commanded. With renewed strength, she surprised him by slipping out of his grip and grabbing the knife. Cutting herself a little bit from her effort, but she didn’t care as she swung it wildly in front of her. He rolled away, watching her. Keeping his knife pointing at him with her right hand, she covered her breasts with her left arm.

“I will kill you,” she said, her voice shaking as she stood up, not daring to take her eyes off him. It was a lie. As if reading her correctly, he rushed at her, twisting her arm so that she dropped the knife. “No!” she cried out, trying in vain to keep the control on her side, but failing. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him so that her back was pressed against his chest. She felt his hard on pressed against her.

Oh shit. In a panic, she tried to push him away, careful not to grab at his crotch, but he only pulled her tighter. She gasped as his left hand cupped her breast. In slight need, her pussy tensed. She bit her lip, trying to keep her body in check. Looking straight ahead, she saw a mirror on the wall. Her top covered her middle but her breasts were completely free. His left arm crossed over to cup her right breast. And then his right hand slid down her belly, his fingers quickly dug through her skirt and underwear before she could stop him.

“Wait,” she gasped, grabbing his right arm with her two hands in a desperate attempt to stop his powerful arm from proceeding any further. To her surprise, he growled. Leaving her breast, he used his left arm to control hers so that he could continue his assault. She could only watch helplessly through the mirror.

“Please, n-” she couldn’t finish her begging. Her chest hitched as a brief electric pulse traveled through her body as two of his fingers slid through her labia and brushed her clit. Her body quivered ever so slightly. She wasn’t sure if it was fear of what was to come or anticipation.

Michael stopped. She could hear his breathing deepen. He touched her again and she whimpered. This was so wrong. She could feel a tingle between her legs as her pussy started to get wet. There was still some fight left in her. She moved back, trying to get away from his assaulting fingers as he playfully tried to figure out what kind of button he’d discovered that caused her to make different sounds. Sounds that his primal brain understood.

Her movements only caused her to rub up against his hard-on and he let out a groan. She was stuck between his fingers rubbing her clit or herself rubbing against his hard-on. There was no escaping what was going to happen. She was out of options. Wasn’t he a killer? She’d researched him before, curious about the myth of Michael Myers. He wasn’t a rapist. He’d never been one. He was always a killer. So why her?

It was almost as if he knew he’d won. He let go of her arms and returned his left hand to massage her breast. She couldn’t help but let out a little moan as his fingers grazed her skin. Her primal mind told her this was right.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been in this same position. She was against having full-on penis in vagina sex because of her vision, but that didn’t mean she didn’t try experimenting in other ways. She closed her eyes. Her mind, trying to imagine Brandon in Michael’s stead. After all, she was supposed to lose her virginity to Brandon. But Brandon’s hands were smoother than Michael’s. And for whatever reason, the callouses on Michael’s hands just added more sensations for her.

His hand slipped a little bit further down and she felt one of his fingers enter her. She involuntarily moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. Her body seemed to gain a mind of its own as she felt her legs try to close around his hand as if to keep him trapped or get him to stop? She wasn’t sure anymore. Her primal brain was ready. It wanted him. She could feel that. But why? He was a murderer, a killer! He tried to kill her. He killed Brandon in front of her. And yet, a dirty part of her mind welcomed him as if she were some primitive and he’d won her in combat like some sort of prize. What was wrong with her?

Yes , the little voice in her head that was hers and yet not hers hummed. Her left hand clasped his thigh as her right hand grabbed his arm. Not to stop him but for leverage. He was building something inside of her, a heat in her core that she wanted to explode over her. She let out a louder moan this time, slowly grinding up and down.

She heard something, a huff, a snuff, a laugh? Whatever it was, it snapped her out of her euphoria that he had started to build her towards. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she felt ashamed and disgusted. There was only one thing in her mind that she thought she could do. She went limp.

She slipped through his arms, hitting the hard floor. Not sure what he was going to do, she quickly turned to face him, scooting back till she hit the bed frame. He was staring back at her. Hands in front of him, but he didn’t move. She could see his chest heaving as he breathed heavily. Her hazel eyes met his blue ones. Abruptly, he picked up his knife and left the room.

She sat on the floor shaking as she crossed her arms over her chest to cover herself. What the fuck was that about?

Michael stormed down the stairs, frustrated with his own emotions. Frustrated? Emotions? Him?! He squeezed the handle of his knife for comfort. He should go back up there and kill her. Drive the knife through her heart, and watch as the life left her eyes. That would put him back to normal, wouldn’t it? His hardened cock started to go down, much to his relief. He paused at the front door and looked up towards the stairs.

All he wanted was to play a little game of chase. He was going to kill her. But, he wanted to see her run around his home, desperately looking for a way out as he stalked her. He wanted to see the fear in her eyes and finally, when he had his fill of her panic and terror, he’d kill her. He liked the way she’d tried to escape him in the rain, the panic, and terror, but also there was some rage in her eyes. He was curious what she’d do in his own little hell hole. The old Myers house they were in belonged to his grandfather. It had been abandoned long before he was alive. He remembered hearing his mother talking about it. Wanting to sell it, but his dad refused.

Michael wasn’t sure how things worked. All he knew was there were times he seemed to be conscious of his surroundings. His family home was far too dangerous to stay in. So he ended up in the old one. No one seemed to know about it, and it helped that his grandfather hated visitors. The old man had bars installed in all the windows and doors. With an extra layer of protection, he put boards over all the windows. It made the house extra dark, which Michael didn’t mind. It was rather soothing. He had imagined bringing one of his would-be victims to the place. See how he liked chasing them in a more controlled space. There was no escaping him. He had the only key to the outside.

Michael felt his knife tap his leg. An unnecessary movement as were his thoughts. His resolve to kill her began to strengthen as he took one step toward the stairs.

His mind recalled the image of her blood dripping down her chest to her neck. The smell of it was enticing, but something about their position had changed his little game of cat and mouse to something else. Seeing her breasts rise up and down, feeling her body pressed against his, and her rubbing against him to try and get away, only to excite him more. Even the sounds she involuntarily made when his other mind started to explore her. He felt another kind of ecstasy. He’d seen people having sex before, even killed some before they did the deed, while and after. But sex never interested him. He got his euphoria from stalking and killing people.

His body tensed as he felt her phantom body quivering in his arms. For the first time in his life, his mind started to send him dirty images. Daring him to do things he’d never bothered to dream of before. She was a slut after all, wasn’t she? Why else was she dressed the way she was? Why else? He did find her fucking that guy in her car.

Far back in his mind, something taunted him to kill her already. Was sex better than seeing her blood on his knife? Hearing her last breath? Feeling his knife enter her body as smoothly as his cock could. Watch her face change from living to dead. But then another part of his brain wondered what it would be like to fuck her. Both. He could do both. Walk up there, fuck her then kill her.

He looked down at his knife and his hand. It was still wet from fingering her. For once, he didn't want to do something he'd regret. Did he feel regret? No, he was too confused right now to deal with her. Making up his mind, he opened the front door and locked it behind him. He had the only key. She wouldn’t be able to escape. He’d deal with her when he got back.

As he moved away from the house, his mind began to focus on one thing. The emotions he’d felt moments ago evaporated as if they never existed. He had heard some people say he was on a mission, for Satan or some evil being. But really, he just enjoyed killing people.

Chapter 3 - Always a First Time

#michael myers x oc #Smut #horror #noncon tw #Slashers #fanfiction #michael myers fanfic #tw noncon

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gothcsz · 1 year ago

Text

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter VIIII.

GIF CREDIT

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: After months of dancing around their emotions, Javier and Paloma finally address the tension between them head-on.

WORD COUNT: ~9.2k

RATING: 18+ Mature topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: smuttt, bulge riding, dry humping, protected p in v sex, dirty talk, javi being an asshole, angst, crime talk (if it's not accurate don't @ me), descriptions of violence against women, vomit mention, slut shaming(?), detective!javi is very gorgeous ME, other things that I'm probably forgetting.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized, including the usage of the song(s) that Paloma will perform throughout the story.

A/N: we did it… we did it joe !! javi and OFC finally [REDACTED] !! thank u to everyone who has been keepin up w this foolery so far, it makes my lil heart happy to see engagement < 3 also wanna say that years of watching criminal minds is finally starting to pay off and i rly hope u guys are enjoying the crime aspect of the plot because i'm havin A LOT of fun writing and developing it !! shit is gonna get twisted and intricate so brace yourselves for where we're about to go !!! sooo irrelevant but mayor abbott looks like jonathan bailey (bridgerton hive RISE!!) in my head so take that as u will xoxo always feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or ao3. i'd really appreciate it <3

♰ read on ao3. ♰

♰ playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

As the sun casts its golden rays over the quiet outskirts of town, a grim discovery awaits the two men. The body of Jessica Valdez, the young girl reported missing from their neighboring town, lies lifeless in a shallow ditch. Javier stands beside Sheriff Leighton, their expressions grave as they survey the scene before them.

Reporters and curious onlookers have gathered, drawn by the spectacle of flashing lights and the somber atmosphere. A small group of people whisper amongst themselves, their hushed tones mingling with the distant sound of camera shutters clicking.

Romeo’s authoritative presence looms beside him, a pillar of strength in the face of another tragedy. His eyes narrow as they push through the gathered crowd, commanding respect and order in the chaotic scene.

They duck beneath the yellow crime scene tape, ignoring the questions being hurled at them by the press.

“Are there any indications of a motive for this murder?”

“Is this connected to the similar incidents in the area recently?”

“Is there anything the public can do to assist with the investigation?”

Javier’s stomach churns with sorrow as he takes in the sight. The body lies face down and sprawled in the dirt. He clenches his jaw, steeling himself against the wave of frustration threatening to overwhelm him.

Another failure on their behalf and all he can think about is the kiss shared between him and Paloma.

“Talk to us, Cecelia.”

“Well, at first glance: the body is still fairly warm so she was alive a few hours ago. It looks like she was held captive somewhere due to the bruising on her wrists and ankles. There are signs of malnourishment and she has smaller injuries scattered throughout her body. I won’t know more details until I do the autopsy.” The coroner answers before continuing,” Her chest is completely slashed through, just like all the others. Still our guy. Or girl��– you never know nowadays.”

Javier’s jaw flexes out of exasperation, mirroring the heavy sigh that escapes the sheriff’s lips. The weight of this repeated revelation settles over them like a suffocating blanket, casting a shadow over their efforts to uncover the truth.

Despite their tireless pursuit of justice, they find themselves no closer to catching the culprit or unraveling the mystery shrouding these towns. It’s fucking infuriating.

Amidst the tangled threads of his personal life, Javier has momentarily lost sight of his purpose for being here. He has been too immersed in his own character transformation and entanglement with Paloma, overlooking the harrowing reality unfolding around him: innocent women continuing to fall victim to brutal, senseless violence.

The gravity of his oversight has a mixture of guilt and despair settling deep within his chest.

Javier prides himself on his prowess, his ability to navigate the most intricate of cases and weather the toughest of storms. As a seasoned field agent with a string of accolades to his name (some undeserved, others very well deserved), he’s faced down challenges that would make others quiver.

Yet here he stands, feeling utterly impotent in the face of this whodunit in the confines of a sleepy town.

It gnaws at him, this sense of inadequacy, like a persistent itch he can’t scratch. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, a humbling reminder of the unpredictable nature of crime and the limits of his own expertise.

He needs to be better.

“What’s interestin’, though, is this,” She stands, motioning for the two men to follow her and they share a look before wordlessly complying. Cecelia hands them both a pair of latex gloves, instructing them to put them on.

They make it a few feet away from Jessica’s body and that’s when Javi sees it.

“Is that vomit?”

Cecelia nods, “It is. I’m betting it’s hers. The interestin’ bit isn’t that she vomited–– but the contents. Take a look. Tell me what you see.”

Javier is the first to kneel with Romeo looking over his shoulder. He eyes the evidence, pushing his aviators to the top of his head, making out the larger chunks in the grossly colored bile.

He can’t discern what it is right away and Cecelia encourages him to use his hands, which has him looking at her ludicrously and muttering how gross this shit is in Spanish before doing as suggested.

Poking his latex clad fingers in the mess, Javi analyzes the contents and that’s when he sees a symbol marked in ink on one of the scraps.

“It’s flesh. Human flesh.”

Shit. He sees it now, the mark is a tattoo and he quickly barks out an order to have one of the lingering deputies come take pictures of it.

“Son of a bitch is feedin’ people… people. Would explain Nina Thorton’s missin’ leg. What the fuck is goin’ on here?” The sheriff sounds defeated and Javier just remains silent as he mulls over all this new information that’s been revealed.

Kidnapped, held hostage, fed human flesh, murdered, dumped.

All the other victims up until now have only been taken then killed. None of them held captive for long. Not all of them consuming flesh.

But then there’s Nina and her postmortem severed leg.

Fuck, the answer is right there, interwoven in the intricacies and lack of details in the cases.

No more fucking around, no more helping girls sneak back inside their homes, no more distractions. He has to focus on doing his job.

He will catch who did this, he will prove himself to be qualified to do what he was brought here to do.

Javier remains kneeled and deep in thought as Romeo and Cecelia continue on with their observations. He looks around to study their surroundings, wondering if there is anything else that is right in front of him that he cannot see.

“Three outta five have been brunettes around the same age. I think that’s something worth considering now,” Javier breaks up the conversation betweens the sheriff and coroner, both of them turning to look at him as he stands from his kneeled position and begins to take off the gloves,” Seems like they found their type. There’s got to be a purpose for the consistent victimology.”

They’ve migrated over to Jessica’s body now, both men doing last minute look overs before she is transported back to her hometown for her parents to identify and for Cecelia to preform the autopsy.

When a deputy comes over to take the last bits of photo evidence, he looks sickly but Javier ignores it. It’s not until her body is turned upright, exposing her mauled chest, that has the younger officer hurling over and throwing up, some of it landing on Romeo.

“God fuckin’ damn it, Andrews, spew that shit elsewhere. Fuck, not only are you contaminatin’ the crime scene but you got it all over my damn pants.”

The sheriff goes on a tangent, chewing the officer out and threatening to suspend him for two weeks with no pay. It’s harsh, Javier will admit, but he doesn’t say anything, remaining stoic with his arms crossed against his chest as he watches it unfold.

Eventually, everyone trickles out. Even the nosey reporters and townies. Javier wants to stay, walk around the area to see if anything else was left behind. Maybe something was dropped or buried nearby, and while they had assured him that others have already done a thorough search–– he’d feel more comfortable if he did it himself.

“Ya mind stoppin’ by my place so I can change? Kid ruined these.” Romeo’s gruff voice has Javier losing his train of thought, too engrossed in looking out into the vast area of the woods as the sun slowly begins to set.

Right, they arrived together, driving from the station in Javier’s cruiser.

“Sure.” He replies plainly. His plans for the evening now include getting Romeo situated so that he can come back here and investigate all on his own. He might even drive to Fayette to retrieve the autopsy from Cecelia as soon as she completes it.

With the Leighton home being on the other side of town, this gives the two men time to talk the case over; going over all that they know and all that they’ve discovered. Romeo confides in Javier about feeling inadequate about the way he’s doing his job and, in a turn of events, Javier does the same. In his own way.

The mutual understanding is a relief, though the guilt of his kiss with Paloma is palpable and it makes Javi feel like a fraud.

Across from him is a man who has extended nothing but kindness and trust, offering camaraderie and a sense of belonging. Yet, despite this, Javier found himself drawn to his daughter in a way that was both exhilarating and forbidden.

It feels wrong, achingly so. A bitter realization that despite their mutual longing, their connection can never be fully realized. It’s a harsh wake up call: if he truly wants to better himself, he must shed his bad habit of losing himself in women and distance himself from her.

What a discomforting prospect, the inevitable separation. But he knows it’s the only way forward. He understands that in time, they will both resign themselves to the reality of their infatuation.

It’s a familiar ache, this sense of inevitability that haunts his romantic endeavors like a relentless specter. Javier knows the drill all too well; it’s not his first rodeo in navigating the treacherous terrain of severing emotional ties.

His love life feels like a series of missteps, a cursed labyrinth from which there’s no escape. Despite the initial allure of each new romance, he’s come to anticipate the eventual descent into disappointment. No matter how promising the beginning, the journey always seems to lead to the same desolate destination.

With him hurting them beyond measure.

Fuck the idea of reinventing himself here. He can find peace and monotony anywhere else.

Javier will follow through with his responsibilities, and the second he’s able to peel out of Seminary–– he will, leaving her behind as a bittersweet memory. A beautiful yet unattainable dream that he will carry with him for years to come.

As they pull in to the Leighton residence, he sees the woman that lives in his head perched up on the fence that surrounds the immediate area. Her baggy jeans are hanging low, exposing the sheer fabric of her underwear. She turns as she hears the sound of a car approaching, and her lips pull into a smile once she sees who it is.

Paloma fully expected to wake up the following day filled with regret and plagued by a hangover. The only thing she experienced was the latter, but it had quickly been nursed by a greasy breakfast and some yard work.

Javier had kissed her back, that was enough to feed into her delusions that he does want her. All inhibitions have been dropped, she’s prepared to lay herself out for him–– to tell him that she’s wanted him since the moment they met.

It might seem premature, an impulsive plunge into the uncertainty of his reaction to her feelings, but the tender memory of their shared kiss eclipses all rational thought. She finds herself irresistibly drawn to the possibility of something more, unable to resist the pull of her emotions.

His touch still lingers on her skin. His hands tracing the curves of her body with a hunger that left her breathless. She can still feel the way he had grabbed her ass then gripped onto her hips, pulling her closer to him.

But it was his mouth that left the strongest impression. His tongue had explored the depths of hers, tasting and teasing her with a ferocity that made her feel alive.

In that moment, she had felt desired, cherished, and wanted. It was a feeling that she hadn’t realized she craved so badly until last night. She knew that she would never be able to forget that kiss and the way it had made her feel.

She’s giddy, her excitement bubbling up like fizzy soda, reminiscent of the first time she ever kissed a boy. Except Javier isn’t a boy–– he’s a man. A man whose expertise and skill are a potent aphrodisiac, heightening her arousal to levels she never thought possible.

She’s been hot for him all day, even touched herself to the memory of his soft lips, the tickle of his mustache, against hers then imagining them everywhere else. The mere thought of it is enough to send her heart racing, and she knows that nothing will satisfy her until she has him in her arms again.

Romeo gets out the car, muttering that he’d be right back and Javi opts to stay put. He does not want to speak to her, knowing that the second he gazes into those beautiful brown eyes–– he’d buckle. He needs to build animosity between them; it’s the only way for them to definitively be able to separate from one another.

But she doesn’t make it easy, of course. Because the second her father is inside, she’s practically skipping over to the driver’s side of the cruiser.

“Hello officer. Here to bring me in for all those crimes I committed last night?” She teases as she leans her forearms against the rolled down window, the cowgirl hat perched on her head complimenting her so well.

Javier swallows thickly, taking a lengthy drag of the familiar cigarette between his lips. He can’t outright ignore her so he decides to be short instead.

“M’not here for games, Paloma.”

She’s taken aback by his tone, her smile faltering.

“Well excuse me for tryin’ to make conversation. Wasn’t aware that you’re in a mood today.”

There’s a pause despite her attempt to add a teasing tone to her words to lighten him up. It falls flat.

“And I’m not looking to have a conversation. You can go.”

Her brows cinch together at his dismissal, this is not how she was expecting for this to go.

“What’s goin on’? Is this because we… because of the kiss last night?” She lowers her voice towards the end, red blooming across her cheeks but she keeps her composure.

“Jesus,” Javier chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head. It sends a sharp pang through her heart.” Why do you always think that’s the fuckin’ problem whenever I don’t want to talk to you? For someone who claims to be a grown woman all the time, you sure as shit don’t act like it.”

She stills, the buoyant confidence that had propelled her toward him evaporating in an instant, replaced by a wave of hurt at his unexpected chilliness. What has gotten into him?

“Drop it and move on, Paloma. We just found Jessica Valdez’s body dumped out in a ditch. S’not the time to be hung up on a damn kiss.”

The sound of the screen door shutting close breaks her away from him and the trance she’d seemingly gone into. Another victim, another tragedy to confront… and here she is acting like a smitten teenaged girl.

The urge to cower and crawl into herself, to surrender to the overwhelming embarrassment and sorrow, threatens to engulf her entirely. She remains silent, fighting back the surge of frustrated, angry tears as she pushes off the car and trudges back toward the house.

Javier exhales heavily once she strides away without a word, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders. He had braced himself for a snide remark or some form of verbal retaliation, but her silent departure was far more impactful.

“I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.” Her father murmurs as he passes her, planting a tender kiss atop her head. He lingers there for a moment but she doesn’t question it, knowing it’s because of what they found today and she doesn’t even mind that he hasn’t told her about it.

As he breaks away, she conjures up a semblance of a genuine smile, masking her turmoil, and nods before he affectionately pinches her nose and continues on his way.

She doesn’t look back, she doesn’t cry or go inside–– instead she picks up her discarded gardening gloves and proceeds to channel her energy into the simple act of mowing the grass.

She finds herself alone at the open bar as the party continues in full swing. It’s been days since Jessica’s death, and the tense conversation she had with Javier still lingers in her mind.

“Drop it and move on, Paloma.”

Unlike the last time they went without speaking, there is much more tension between them now. The worst part about it is having to act as if nothing is wrong in the presence of her father.

No daddy, everything’s fine! It’s not like I threw myself at your co-worker not once, but twice and both times he made me feel like a fucking idiot!

She lets out a disdainful sigh, her fingers curling around the glass containing her coveted cherry root beer since she’s decided to part ways with alcohol and any other substance for the time being.

The two men are busy mingling with other guests and have been since the moment they arrived. Despite her efforts to divert her gaze elsewhere, her eyes keep involuntarily drifting towards Javier’s broad figure.

The event had called for formal attire, so when he strode in wearing a meticulously tailored all-black suit, her breath caught in her throat. The sharp lines of his outfit, coupled with the crispness of his button-down and the matching tie, made her momentarily forget why she was so upset with him. He looked too damn handsome.

It’s brutal how the things we desire most often seem to radiate the brightest when they’re just out of reach.

Observing him mingle effortlessly with others is entertaining. Contrary to her expectations, he appears completely at ease in this bustling social setting, a far cry from the disdain he expressed for large gatherings that morning in his kitchen.

He’s acting a lot more extroverted and… smile-y. It pisses her off as much as it melts her heart.

They make their way over to her and she makes a point to not even look in his direction. Though now she’s caught between her father and Javier as they order another round of drinks.

It really doesn’t help that they’re shoulder to shoulder. The heady aroma of his cologne, laced with the familiar tang of cigarette smoke and the faint hint of whiskey, infiltrates her senses, making it impossible to outright ignore him.

Javier Peña is like a blazing beacon and she’s the foolish moth drawn inexplicably closer to his flame. But she knows all too well the danger of getting too close, like a moth singed by the heat, the allure of his brightness can be killer.

Javier had assumed that with news of Jessica being found dead, their attendance to this party wouldn’t be mandatory.

Well, he thought wrong. It is a cruel reminder of how life goes on, even when tragedy strikes.

Another dead girl, another over-the-top party.

Which is why he’ll give it an hour–– tops–– to shake whoever’s hand and meet whoever else, then he’d leave. It’s a simple plan, the only thing making it difficult for him is his proximity to the woman he’s desperately trying to cut ties with.

She looks so beautiful tonight, donning a calf length simple black dress that hugs all her curves just right.

“There they are! My Law and Order! Y’all keepin’ the townsfolk in line?” The boastful voice of Mayor Jonah Abbott draws near and Javier suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

Foolish of him to think he wouldn’t have to interact with the titular birthday boy tonight.

He greets both men with a firm handshake, and when his attention turns to her; Javier has to drown the subtle spark of frustration with his drink at the way his eyes rake over her body.

“And of course, Miss. Paloma. They say a smile is worth a thousand words, but yours? It’s worth a million dreams.” He brings her hand up to his lips to plant a kiss against her knuckles and all she does is offer him a polite smile. Here we go…

“Mr. Abbott—”

“Jonah, sweetheart. Been tellin’ you to call me that for years now.”

Her smile threatens to twitch out of annoyance, “Jonah. Happy Birthday. Thank you for invitin’ us to your home.”

“Always a pleasure to have you ’round. I heard about your performance up in Dallas. Shame I missed it. Woulda loved to hear that beautiful voice of yours and seen you up on that stage.”

Javier can’t help the subtle grunt he emits at the mayor’s overt flirtation, causing for her to just briefly glance up at him with a bemused flash crossing her stare.

The familiarity of Jonah’s behavior strikes a chord within him. Once upon a time, Javier was just like this–– an arrogant charmer with a penchant for flirting with anything in a skirt. Standing here amidst the other man’s smooth talk, he sees through the facade with clarity born of experience.

It’s a performance, an act to charm his way in between Paloma’s legs, though Javi can clearly see that she’s not falling for it. Does Romeo notice it too, he wonders? Or is he blinded by the mayor’s charisma, unable to see that this man clearly wants to sleep with his daughter.

Then again, Javier’s opinion on this is irrelevant and invalid since he too has been in the same predicament since meeting her. At least he didn’t do it blatantly in front of the sheriff’s face.

Or, in a turn of events, perhaps Romeo doesn’t give a damn. Jonah Abbott presents himself as a viable candidate to be with his daughter; a young politician with deep pockets and a keen interest in her.

Javier can’t shake off the mental picture of the man’s wedding ring adorning her finger, of her transforming into the perfect, submissive wife, tending to the household and filling this place with snot nosed kids. But such a scenario doesn’t align with her fiery and headstrong nature. She’s far too independent and spirited to succumb to the confines of domesticity, particularly for a man like Jonah.

Then again, why the fuck does he care?

“Well as you know, I do two shows every weekend at The Whiskey Fox. Could always stop by and see me and the band.”

“A busy man like myself always has a full schedule. Though I reckon I should make some time to be out in the community. Wouldn’t hurt to stop by for dinner and a show.”

He winks at her and of course he does it when her father turns to order himself another drink. Javier’s jaw flinches.

“Now Romeo, why have you been keepin’ this badass motherfucker hidden from me? I knew we had someone new joinin’ the force but I didn’t think it’d be the Javier Peña. A goddamn American hero— right here in Seminary, Texas!”

As Jonah begins his praises, pairing them with a harsh slap to his shoulder, Javier remains cool and calculating. He refuses to be swayed by empty compliments.

Meanwhile, she breathes a silent sigh of relief as the spotlight shifts away from her, and she finds it amusing at how everyone seems to talk about Javier.

A hero. A true patriot. Such a brave soul for fightin’ the war on drugs on Uncle Sam’s behalf.

If only they knew the truth––if they had even a glimpse of the darkness he’s had to face, they wouldn’t be so quick to idolize him.

The label of hero, bestowed upon him since the demise of Escobar, sits uneasily on his shoulders. The adulation feels like a burden he never asked for, a title he never wanted. It’s a reminder of the complexities of his past, the mistakes he’s made, and the ghosts that continue to haunt him. Javi despises the word, resenting the way it overshadows his true self and the countless sins he harbors in silence.

“Gotta keep ’em humble. Keeps the head on straight.” Romeo banters back, pulling one of those haughty, rich men laughs from the mayor.

She cringes at the pretentiousness echoing in the air.

The men break out into small talk leaving her feeling awkward as she swirls the almost fully melted ice around the empty cup. It’s not until Jonah is getting ready to move on to a new set of guests that the attention is turned back to her.

“And you, pretty girl, owe me a song. Specifically that one Linda Ronstadt song from the Fourth of July barbecue last year. Remember? S’only fair… consider it a birthday gift from you to me.”

Despite her inner discomfort, she maintains a face of cheerfulness, though her stomach sinks with apprehension at his request. Memories of the barbecue flood her mind, vivid recollections of his relentless pursuit despite her repeated, albeit polite, refusals.

The word ’no’ is on the tip of her tongue, but knowing all too well the persistence he’s exhibited before; she succumbs to the weight of the occasion—his birthday—and the anticipation in his eyes.

“Blue Bayou, I remember. Does the band know it?” She inquires, her gaze flickering towards the live band stationed near the open area of the dance floor where a throng of people sway to the music.

She’s secretly hoping that they don’t, but the song is very popular so her hope dwindles.

“If they don’t, they will. I’ll introduce you when it’s time.”

With a tight and forced smile gracing her lips, she simply replies, “Okay,” accompanied by a subtle nod. His wicked grin spreads larger, almost daring Javier to react by punching him square in the jaw.

Regardless of how he feels towards her and their situation, it irks him to no end how this man blatantly disregards her boundaries.

Her body language screams apprehension, evident to anyone observant enough. However, Mayor Abbott is too fixated on persuading her to comply with his wishes to take notice. It’s apparent that he’s not accustomed to hearing the word ’no’.

Javi just holds his tongue, an insult threatening to slip out, as he finishes his drink with a practiced air of nonchalance.

The mayor finally says his goodbyes before walking away and her shoulders drop instantly.

“Guess I owe ya twenty bucks.” Romeo mutters, digging into his suit pocket for his wallet.

The laugh she gives, though slight, simultaneously soothes and torments his heart.

Damn it all— this is going to be torture but he must endure.

“She bet that he was gonna pull somethin’ like this before leavin’ the house. I was dumb enough to think he wouldn’t.” He explains to Javier as he slips his daughter the twenty dollar bill which she slyly stuffs under the fabric of her dress by her chest.

The action, seemingly simple, is so hot to him.

“How many times do I have to say m’not a damn show pony that does tricks whenever it’s asked? He’s so lucky that I’m polite and that it’s his birthday— If not I woulda told him to shove it—-” She doesn’t finish her sentence as they’re approached by a group of people that she doesn’t recognize nor care for.

She feels like an afterthought as they bombard the men with questions about the recent cases and other related topics, so she takes that as her cue to leave, ordering another mocktail before slipping away towards the dance floor.

She is fully prepared to turn her brain off to enjoy some semblance of normalcy before she’s thrown back in to the confusing pit that is her current status with the former DEA agent.

Attempting to convince herself that she’s enjoying the moment, she sways to the lively rhythm of the music, lost in her own solitary dance. A few partygoers approach her asking to join her which she declines; peeved by all the unwanted attention she’s getting.

This isn’t even her party. She holds no merit here.

Javier only catches glimpses of her from his peripheral, engrossed in a conversation with a man who remembers him from his sheriff days in Laredo, before he left for Colombia. The discourse drones on, punctuated by forced laughter and idle pleasantries. Each word falls flat, devoid of substance, yet Javier remains steadfast. Anything to keep him and his mind away from her.

Suddenly, the screeching sound of microphone feedback reverberates off the opulent walls of the ballroom-style space and she winces at noise.

“Excuse me, sorry–– I’m not very good with these things.” The man of the hour apologizes, his voice crackling through the speakers. She inwardly curses, anticipating what’s to come next. Setting her now-empty glass down on one of the nearby tables, she smooths her hands along the velvety fabric of her dress, ironing out any wrinkles, and hastily fixes her hair as best as she can without a mirror.

With a deep breath, she pushes down her nerves, summoning a smile to face the adversity when he introduces her. She steps onto the stage, the room erupting into scattered applause as she approaches the microphone.

♫

Midway through the song, to her surprise, Jonah joins her on stage, transforming the solo performance into an unexpected duet. Despite her inner discomfort, Paloma maintains a composed expression and tries to conceal any hint of surprise in her body language as he draws nearer.

Her unease heightens when he pulls her close against him, the heat of his body against hers as they sway to the rhythm of the music during the instrumental interlude of the country song. She reluctantly complies, her compliance more a result of avoidance of potential consequences than genuine willingness to dance with him.

The sight of his possessive grip on her waist, pulling her into an unwelcome dance, ignites a surge of vexation within Javier. He feels the tension in his muscles coil tighter with each step they take, their bodies moving in sync to the rhythm of the music. It’s unbearable to watch, the image of Paloma in Jonah’s arms twisting like a knife in his gut.

Without a word, Javier makes his escape, his strides purposeful as he navigates through the crowded room. He mutters a vague excuse to Romeo, the urgency in his voice betraying his need to flee from the suffocating scene unfolding before him.

Finally stepping out into the cooler night air, Javier takes a deep breath to soothe his frazzled nerves. He makes his way towards a gazebo that’s right by the large pond, putting as much distance as he can between himself and the party inside.

Leaning against the railing of the structure, he retrieves his trusty pack of cigarettes from his pocket, hands trembling slightly as he lights one. Each drag offers a fleeting moment of respite from the turmoil brewing inside him.

Inside, the song ends and she wastes no time in descending the stage, a sense of urgency propelling her movements. She refuses to linger, her mind consumed with the dread of another unwanted encounter with the mayor. Surveying the crowded room, she searches in vain for her father or Javier, but they’re nowhere to be found amidst the sea of faces.

Determined to escape the party atmosphere, Paloma makes a beeline for the exit, craving the solace of the summer night air. Stepping out onto the back porch, she inhales deeply, the breeze offering a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of the event.

The night is alive with subtle sounds—toads croaking in the distance, the distant murmur of conversation—but it’s the solitary figure in the distance that captures her attention. With a sense of inevitability, Paloma finds herself drawn towards the silhouette, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as she descends the steps leading to the gazebo.

When she approaches, Javier remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the tranquil expanse of water before him. The rhythmic puff of his cigarette punctuates the silence, a tangible barrier between them. Despite the tension hanging in the air, Paloma presses forward, her resolve unyielding as she closes the distance between them.

“We need to talk.”

He stands like a statue, the weight of her words are heavy, yet he remains resolute in his silence, hoping that she’ll simply give up and leave him be. But Paloma is nothing if not persistent, her frustration bubbling over as she confronts him.

“Fuck, Javier will you at least look at me?! Acknowledge that I’m standin’ here tryin’ to speak with you?!” Her voice crackles with pent-up emotion, her southern accent thick as each word is laden with an intensity that he can’t ignore.

Reluctantly, he turns his head slightly, his gaze skimming over her figure with resignation. It’s a small concession, but it’s enough to stoke the fire of her frustration to new heights.

“I dunno why you’ve decided to be such a jerk to me all of the sudden,” she continues, her tone laced with a raw edge of hurt and confusion. “You’re tellin’ me that I’m bein’ childish a-and that I need to move on from the kiss but we both know it’s so much bigger than that. We’ve been dancin’ around it since the moment we met and I’m tired of pretendin’ like I don’t want you.”

His eyes close briefly, a fleeting moment of vulnerability before he retreats behind his stoic facade once more. His fingers find their way to the bridge of his nose, pinching tightly as he struggles to find the right words to respond. But before he can form a coherent thought, she presses on, her voice trembling with the weight of her confession.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care if you didn’t feel the same way,” She admits, her voice growing softer now, tinged with a hint of desperation. “But that was before I got to know you. Before you somehow wriggled your way into my heart and overtook my mind entirely. We became friends, and I-I didn’t want to screw that up. But then we kissed, and in that moment, I knew you wanted me just as badly…”

She draws closer, her hand reaching out tentatively to rest on his shoulder, the touch sending a jolt of tension through his body. It’s a silent plea, a manifestation of her vulnerability, and it’s all he can do to keep his composure still as her words wash over him like a hurricane.

“Every time I see you I don’t want to behave, Javi. I’m tired of being patient, so let’s pick up the pace and finally give in.”

He flicks his finished cigarette out into the water, the ember trailing like a shooting star before disappearing into the dark abyss below.

Slowly, he turns to face her fully, the summer air crackling with tension as he takes in her determined stance. His hand shoots out, grabbing hold of the wrist that had just been resting on him, his dark eyes boring into hers in an act of intimidation.

But Paloma doesn’t back down, her gaze unwavering as she meets his stare head-on. Instead, she brings her free hand up to rest against his chest, the heat of her touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt as she steps closer, closing the gap between them until his dress shoes are toe-to-toe with her pointed heels.

He doesn’t make an effort to step away or decline her advances, his resolve crumbling in the face of her determination. Her words have jumbled him up completely, the sudden revelation of her feelings catching him off guard and leaving him reeling. The direct mention of what they’ve been indulging in for the past few months digs into his achilles’ heel—his tendency to fall in love in the damndest of times.

He stares down into her eyes, a storm of conflicting emotions raging wildly. The lust swirling in her gaze stirs something primal and raw within him. Any rational part of his brain seems to shut down in that moment, his thoughts consumed by the overwhelming desire to kiss her again, to lose himself in the exhilarating whirlwind of emotions that she evokes from him.

“It’s obviously insane, m’not a fucking idiot I understand the repercussions…. but we both know what we want, so why don’t we…” She whispers, tilting her head up until their lips brush against one another.

“Why don’t we fall in love?”

It’s not clear who makes the first move, but their lips are interlocked in a passionate kiss—a fierce collision of desire and pent-up longing that surpasses the one they had previously shared. Paloma’s hand on his chest clenches the fabric of his shirt while Javier relinquishes his grip on her wrist, his own hands rising to cradle her jaw in his palms.

The taste of the lingering cigarette smoke mingles with the faint bitterness of alcohol on his breath, a heady combination that heightens her desire. She moans softly into his mouth, her tongue intertwining with his in a desperate attempt to savor every fleeting moment before it inevitably slips away.

Javier, consumed by the intoxicating sensation, slowly walks her back until her back is against the sturdy pillar of the gazebo, his movements now possessive and urgent. He deepens the kiss, molding his body against hers as if to merge their souls into one.

Her touch is addicting, a bittersweet symphony that resonates in the depths of his bones. Despite the warnings screaming in the recesses of his mind, urging him to stop and pull away, he finds himself unable to resist the magnetic pull she exerts over him.

Breaking the kiss, Javier’s lips trail down the side of her mouth, blazing a trail of heated kisses along her jawline before descending to her neck. His teeth graze her delicate skin, resisting the urge to leave a trail of marks in their wake as his tongue traces a path along her neck and up to her earlobe, where he bites down gently.

“Is this what you wanted, nena? For me to shower you in my fucking attention?” He husks, his voice thick with desire and a hint of frustration. His words swim between them, a question laced with layers of longing and palpable need, as he continues to lavish attention upon her neck, each kiss and caress fueling the flames of their mutual desire.

Paloma just whines, arching herself into him as her thighs rub together to relieve the tension of arousal that is assaulting her core.

“Yes, Javi, that’s all I want. I want you to talk to me, to touch me, to make me feel good.”

Her hands are now against his broad shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit jacket as she feels the muscles beneath tense at her touch. A low, guttural groan escapes his lips in response to her words, a primal sound that sends shivers down her spine.

“I can make you feel good, hermosa. Better than any fucking culero (asshole) in this town.” He murmurs, his voice dripping with possessiveness. With deliberate intent, Javi begins to hike up her long dress, the fabric yielding easily to his touch until it’s gathered at the top of her thighs, exposing her black, lacey panties. His hands roam lower, trailing a path of electricity along her skin until they find purchase behind her thighs, gripping the soft skin firmly as he effortlessly lifts her into his arms.

She wraps her legs around his waist, anchoring herself to him as he hoists her up against the solid pillar of the gazebo. She feels his hardness pressing up against her clothed cunt and it has a sharp pang of pleasure sprouting at her core, igniting a fierce heat to course through her entirely. His touch is addicting, sending waves of ecstasy rippling through her body as she surrenders to the intrinsic urgency of their shared horniness.

The pure conviction in his tone only adds to the intensity of the moment. She wants nothing more than to be completely ruined by this man. She wants to be his, and his alone.

Javier grinds his hips up, the friction between them firing up every nerve ending. Her pussy throbs with need, aching for more of his touch. She can feel every inch of him pressing against her, his hard cock straining against his pants, begging to be released.

As their bodies move in perfect harmony, she wraps her fingers in his hair, tugging at it lightly. His lips move from her neck and crash against hers, a wild, passionate kiss that leaves them both panting for air. It grows more frenzied, their teeth clashing together in a desperate and selfish need for more. She moans into his mouth, the sound sending a jolt of electric arousal straight to his cock. He grinds harder against her, his hips moving in rhythm with hers.

She can feel her orgasm building, a fierce heat blossoming at her pussy. Her whimpers turn to animated moans as she writhes against him. The last time she dry humped someone to completion had been way back in high school and that had been an overall embarrassment so it’s never something she revisited.

Not until now, with Javier who is making her feel like she’s the only girl in the fucking world.

His fingers expertly cup her breast, teasing her hardened nipple through the fabric of her dress. She arches her back, pressing her chest into his hand, silently begging for more. He takes the hint, groping her and squeezing it gently, relishing in the way she shudders.

Her eyes close in ecstasy as he continues to knead her tit. His other hand trails along her inner thigh, inching closer and closer to the heat between her legs. When he finally reaches her core, she gasps, her body trembling with need. He doesn’t touch her, instead he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her thigh.

“If this is what you wanted so fucking bad then go ahead and take it, needy girl. Go on, make yourself cum by grinding that wet pussy all over me.”

She mewls, throwing her head back as she feels her orgasm building. She’s such a sight to bear witness to, how her swollen lips part and his name slips from her tongue like a hymn, making his cock twitch.

Her wetness seeps through her flimsy thong, leaving a damp spot on the fabric of his dress pants. He can feel it seeping through the material and it drives him mad. He needs to be inside her, to feel her walls fluttering around his cock as they finally give in to each other…

But first, he wants to watch her unravel just like this.

“I’m close, Javi…” His lips hungrily devour the tender flesh of her neck again, making her eyes roll back as their hips continue to move at a sensual pace. The metallic zipper of his pants brushes against her sensitive clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body. She can’t help but cry out in sweet surrender, her voice louder than before.

His large hand clamps over her mouth, preventing her screams from echoing out.

“Don’t get us caught, chiquita. Wouldn’t want your daddy comin’ out here and findin’ you like this–– all cockdrunk and begging to be fucked.”

His dirty and abrasive words are like fuel to the flames of her impending climax, sending her spiraling out of control. Her rhythm stutters, her body writhing uncontrollably as she bites down on the skin of his palm as the orgasm overtakes her entirely.

All that can be heard is their heavy, shared pants. His hand falls from her mouth as she falls limp in his arms, her body jolting every now and again with the aftershock of her intense orgasm.

She peppers tender kisses along the bare expanse of his jaw, silently berating him for having his shirt buttoned up for once and the pesky tie restricting her from licking and biting against the tantalizing skin of his neck and collarbone.

“Need… need to feel you, Javi, please.” She whines against his ear, her hands trailing down from his broad shoulders, over his chest, then down to his belt buckle. She can still feel the swell of him pressed up against her sopping cunt and despite just coming hard; she’s craving to feel all of him.

This is the pivotal moment where he knows he should exercise restraint, where the noble path of virtue beckons him to rise above the consuming tide of desire. To explain to her that they can and never will be anything but an unattainable fantasy.

But he doesn’t, instead Javi lets her untuck his dress shirt from his pants and helps her with unbuckling his belt.

“We shouldn’t do this, Paloma…” Is all he can say in an attempt to keep it from happening but she shushes him, her hand slipping beneath his boxers as she wraps her manicured fingers around his girth and begins to pump him slowly.

“Mierda,” He curses in Spanish, his forehead falling gently against hers as his eyes flutter close at the overwhelming feeling of her softer, smaller hand jerking him off. Her thumb glides over the tip, spreading his excessive precum over the length of his cock.

“But we want to… oh you’re so big Javi. Gonna be feelin’ you for days…” She sounds like something out of a wet dream and he simply can’t hold back any longer.

He instructs her to grab his wallet from his suit pocket and to retrieve the condom he keeps in there, receiving a playful eye roll from her but she doesn’t push her luck–– she needs him badly and she’d go absolutely feral if he decided to deny them both the pleasure of fucking.

His strong hold on her keeps them secure against the pillar, she rips the small package with her teeth then pushes his pants down enough to release his erection, rolling the latex on easily.

There’s a moment where suspension hangs in the air, both of them staring into each other’s lust blown eyes.

“Don’t think about it too much, please. Just fuck me.”

Her insistence is such a turn on, spurring him into reaching down to ball up the thin layer of her panties before he yanks them off, the sound of the fabric tearing apart causing her to gasp. Stuffing the ruined material into his back pocket, he readjusts his hips so that the thick head of his cock presses up against her exposed and puffy folds.

“Such an impatient little thing, hermosa. I shouldn’t even give you what you want. Should just walk away and leave you here a desperate and wet mess.”

Gripping onto the base of his cock with his free hand, Javier nudges it between her slit and teases her, the head repeatedly brushing against the pearl of her clit.

Her breath hitches, rolling her hips to entice him into entering her, “Please, Javi, I’ll do whatever you want just plea–– oh f-fuck!”

He sinks into her pussy, leaning forward to bite down on her shoulder to keep his own sounds of pleasure at bay as he feels the way her fleshy walls contract around his cock, stretching her with how thick he is.

Her fingers return to intertwine themselves in his hair as he begins to set a delicious pace, fucking into her with a passion that’s making her see stars. The feeling of his teeth digging into her skin is an added stimulant to the already immense pleasure.

“Damn it you’re so tight. Feel so good wrapped around my cock, pretty girl. You satisfied now that I’m giving you what you want, huh?” He grunts out, nipping at her jawline as all she does is keen and moan, too overwhelmed with how good he’s making her feel. “Spoiled little thing, gonna fuck that right out of this tight little body. So you can learn, fuck, learn how not to be such a fucking pain in my ass.”

She’s too wrapped up in the feeling of him brushing up against her cervix to fully process what he is saying against her skin. Their lips slant over each other as they kiss messily, the way he fucks her making her brain melt.

There’s no thoughts up there, just the feeling of him as he continues to break her open with his delicious cock.

His hands fall down to her waist, holding on tightly as he goes from languid thrusts to a quicker, more brutal pace as they chase their orgasms.

She’s glad that they’re far away enough to where no one can interrupt this moment, though the idea of there being an onlooker does entice her more than she’d ever admit.

Her legs tighten around his waist, the pointed heel of her shoes digging into his backside as she feels a knot forming at the pit of her stomach, indicating that she isn’t far from coming undone.

“C’mon nena, be a good girl and let go,” His thumb finds itself being pressed against her soft lips and immediately she opens her mouth, licking around then sucking the digit and maintaining eye contact through it all. It has Javier grunting out a few expletives before letting his saliva coated thumb drop between them, rubbing tight circles against her clit.

This has her clenching around him and crying out, which causes a smirk to tug at his lips as he puts more pressure onto her clit.” Tan bonita así, toda lista para mi. (So pretty like this, all ready for me)”

She tugs harshly at his hair at the sound of his Spanish, her arousal topples over and her second orgasm hits her like toppling bricks. She squeezes his cock tightly inside her, her legs an iron grip on his waist as she bites down harshly on her bottom lip, almost drawing blood, to keep her intense whimpers and moans from spilling out and drawing attention to them.

Satisfied that he’s made her unravel on him, Javier fucks her through her orgasm relentlessly until he’s spilling into the condom, burying his face in her neck, right where he can feel her pulse, and grazing the skin with his teeth. He wants to leave a mark, for her to walk around with evidence of him on her body but that’d be a wrong move atop of all the other wrong moves he’s made tonight.

Paloma breathes heavily, mind hazy as she tries to recollect herself from the throes of passion bestowed upon her by Javier Peña. They stay there, embraced in one another before he pulls out of her with a grunt and she whines at the loss of him.

Her legs unwrap from his waist as he tentatively sets her down, discarding of the condom into the water as he tucks himself back into his pants and she pulls her dress down, not even bothered by the fact that he ripped her underwear right off of her.

“That was a mistake.”

His statement cuts through the night air and she’s already struggling to catch her footing on wobbly legs, the effect of being fucked hard and good.

“Javi––”

“No, Paloma, I’m fucking serious.” He asserts, his voice taking on a sharp edge, landing like a heavy blow on her already rattled nerves.

“All that sentimental bullshit you were saying before… it means nothing to me. You’re just a distraction–– a pretty face that’s been keeping me from doing my damn job. Now, there’s another life lost, and instead of finding answers, I’m too busy babysitting you.”

“Don’t you dare pin your incompetence on me, Javier,” She shoots back, her tone tinged with anger and frustration,” I’ve seen my father struggle with this bullshit for months now–– it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. S’not my fault you’re not as clever as everyone thinks you are. All the praise you get for being such a fuckin’ hero and yet… look at you. Unable to meet the expectations.”

She adjusts the thin straps of her dress back up her shoulder, wincing slightly as she brushes against the bite mark he accidentally left against her skin, knowing that she’s going to feel that atop of the soreness between her legs after this.

She braces herself for the inevitable discomfort that will follow, both physically and emotionally.

Javier’s jaw tightens, muscles rippling beneath his skin as he fights to maintain his composure. He knows better than to let her words get to him the way that they are.

This is exactly what they need, some intense fight to fully shatter the illusion of their involvement.

“Look at you, Paloma,” He sneers, his words dripping with contempt as he levels a scornful gaze at her. “Throwing yourself at me every chance you get like a whore. I used to pay for shit like this, but you? Oh, I didn’t spare a fucking dime. Giving it all up for free.”

Her jaw drops, a surge of anger and indignation flooding her senses as his words cut through her like a knife. She raises her hand instinctively, intent on delivering a stinging rebuke in the form of a slap across his jaw. But before she can make contact, his grip tightens around her wrist, arresting her movement with an iron grip.

“Don’t be stupid, querida,” He mocks her, his voice laced with disdain as he delivers each word like a venomous dagger. “Now that I fucked you one good time: Leave. Me. Alone. How ’bout you go back inside and fraternize with the mayor. I’m sure he’s eager to give you all the male validation you’re clearly chasing after.” He tilts his head, glaring at her in contempt. “Better yet, run off to your junkie, criminal boyfriend; won’t be long before he knocks you up and you’re stuck living in a run down trailer park in this shitty fucking town.”

Paloma’s heart shatters at his callous words, tears welling up in her eyes and streaming down her cheeks unchecked. She gazes up at Javier, but the man before her is no longer the sweet, charming figure she thought she knew. His eyes, once warm and inviting, now glint with coldness and malice, rendering him unrecognizable to her.

“Fuck you,” She spits, wrenching her hand free from his grip with a mixture of anger and hurt flashing in her eyes. Despite the tears welling up, she summons every ounce of defiance to shoot him a disdainful glare. “You’re a piece of shit, Javier Peña.”

With those final words, ones he’s heard a plethora of times before, she whirls around, her footsteps echoing loudly on the wooden stairs as she races to the nearest bathroom.

Ignoring the throbbing ache between her legs, she finds solace in the confines of the lavish restroom, allowing herself to unleash the torrent of tears pent up inside. Feeling foolish and utterly used, she wonders how she could have ever fallen for a man like him.

Meanwhile, Javier is left grappling with the sight of her heartbreak now etched into his memory. Pushing aside his own conflicted emotions, he knows he can’t afford to let their tangled affair distract him any longer.

This is what you both needed. He reminds himself, looking out into the water as the silver moonlight reflects off of the surface. Harsh, but she’ll get over it.

With a resigned sigh, he retrieves another cigarette, the familiar ritual offering a fleeting sense of calm amidst the storm raging about.

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